Sleep. C.L. Taylor

nurse comes over but I feel as though my stomach muscles have been slashed and the most I can manage is a vague craning of my neck.

      ‘Everything okay?’ Up close I can see that it’s Becca, the nurse who was so kind to me yesterday.

      ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’m going mad here. I need to know what’s happened to my team … the … the people who were in the car with me. I need to know they’re all right.’

      Her eyes cloud as she gazes at me. A shutter’s come down; she doesn’t want me to see what she’s feeling. She glances down at the watch hanging on her uniform.

      ‘Your partner will be here in about half an hour. Maybe it would be best if he were—’

      ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Please just tell me. It’s bad news, isn’t it? You can tell me. I can take it.’

      She looks at me as though she’s not entirely sure that I can, then she sighs and takes a shallow breath.

      ‘One of your colleagues is in a pretty bad way,’ she says softly. ‘He’s broken his back in several places.’

      I press a hand to my mouth but it doesn’t mask my gasp.

      ‘But he’s stable,’ Becca adds. ‘He should pull through.’

      ‘Who is it?’

      She grimaces, like she’s already regretting talking to me. Or perhaps it’s confidential information.

      ‘Please. Please tell me who it is.’

      ‘It’s Mohammed Khan.’

      ‘And the others? Peter Cross? Freddy Laing?’

      As she lowers her gaze, my eyes fill with tears. No. No. Please. Please don’t let them … please …

      She takes my hand and squeezes it tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Anna. We did everything we could.’

       Chapter 4

       Mohammed

      Mohammed’s brain feels dull and woolly, as though it’s not pain-relieving meds that are flowing through his veins and capillaries, but a thick, dark fog. He likes the fog because, as well as anaesthetising the ache in his limbs, it has stupefied his brain. Whenever he tries to latch on to an emotion – anger, regret, fear – it twirls away on a cloud of smoke. As a teenager, wrestling with his hormones and the pressure of exams, Mohammed had looked longingly at his dog, Sonic, curled up on the floor by his desk, and wished he could swap places. What would it be like, he wondered, to be a dog; to find joy in base behaviours – food, play, affection – and not overload your brain thinking about the future, death, the nature of an infinite universe, global warming, war and disease. It didn’t take much to make a dog happy – running around outside, catching a ball, a scratch behind the ears. What made him happy? Hanging out with his mates, staying up late, watching films, his PlayStation. Dogs lived in the moment but he didn’t. He was studying for exams, the outcome of which would shape his future.

      He feels a bit like Sonic now, lying around, not thinking, just waiting, although what he’s waiting for he isn’t entirely sure. Movement in the corner of his eye makes him turn his head. He doesn’t recognise the short, suited, middle-aged man standing in the doorway of the ward but he watches him, vaguely registering the way his eyebrows knit together in frustration, as he scans the supine bodies in their metal beds. He’s obviously a visitor, looking for his loved one. The consultants look much more assured when they enter the ward. Two new emotions appear in the fog of Mohammed’s thoughts, but, instead of disappearing they twist together, travel down to his chest and curl around his heart. Disappointment and regret.

      He turns his head away from the door and closes his eyes, half listening to the slap, clack of leather-soled shoes on the ward floor, so different from the soft pad of the nurses’ shoes. The sound grows louder and louder, then there’s a soft cough.

      ‘Mohammed?’

      He opens his eyes. The short, suited, middle-aged man is standing at the end of his bed, hands in his pockets and an anxious but determined looks on his face. There’s something about his prominent nose, strong jaw and deep-set eyes that looks vaguely familiar but he’s too tired to work out why.

      Instead he says, ‘Yes, I’m Mohammed. Who are you?’

      ‘Mind if I …’ The man gestures at the chair beside the bed and, with no reason to say no, Mohammed nods for him to sit down.

      ‘Steve,’ the man says, pulling at the thick material of his suit trousers as he takes a seat. He’s thickset – muscle rather than fat, Mohammed thinks bitterly as he instinctively glances at the shape of his own legs beneath the tightly tucked hospital bedding. ‘Steve Laing, Freddy’s dad.’

      Mohammed looks back at him, eyes widening in surprise. For a second or two he is lost in confusion. He was told that Freddy had died in the crash. Why would Steve Laing be in the hospital? Unless … he feels a flicker of hope in his heart … unless Freddy isn’t really dead. Could they have made a mistake? Could he have? Maybe he was too out of it to take in what the nurse told him. Maybe …

      His hope evaporates, leaving an empty chasm in his chest. There was no mistake. He cried when he heard. He cried for a very long time. Not just for Freddy and Peter but for himself too.

      ‘I brought you some magazines,’ Steve Laing says, reaching into his bag and plonking a pile of film and music magazines onto Mo’s bedside table along with a bar of Galaxy, a packet of Skittles and some Jelly Babies, ‘and some chocolates and stuff.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      They stare at each other, just long enough for it to become awkward, then Steve looks down at his lap and runs his palms back and forth on his knees.

      ‘It’s good to see you looking so …’ He shakes his head sharply and looks back up at Mo. ‘Nah, I’m sorry, mate. I could give you that sugar-coated shit about you looking well and all that but that’s not who I am. I tell it like it is and I imagine you’ve had quite enough of people tiptoeing around you and telling you to think positive and all that.’ He pauses, but not long enough for Mo to reply. ‘The truth is that what happened to you, what happened to Peter and my Freddy, was a fucking travesty. A tragedy. It never should have happened, Mo. Never should have fucking …’ He turns his head sharply as tears well in his eyes.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Mo says, his throat tightening. ‘About Freddy. He was a really good bloke.’

      ‘Too right.’ Steve Laing drags the back of his hand over his eyes and looks back at him, lips pursed.

      ‘I …’ The words dry up on Mohammed’s tongue. He wants to tell Freddy’s dad how he tries not to think about his son because, each time he imagines Freddy’s death and the fact that he’s gone forever he feels completely disconnected from his body, spinning a thousand miles above the earth, untethered, fearful and out of control. He wants to tell him that but he won’t. Because that’s not the sort of thing you say, especially not to someone you only just met.

      Instead he says, ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you.’

      Steve nods sharply and the pain in his eyes seems to lessen. They’re back on safe ground, social niceties and surface pleasantries.

      ‘The thing is, Mo, the reason I’m here is to ask you what happened. Not details,’ he adds quickly, sensing Mo’s mounting discomfort. ‘I don’t want you to talk me through the crash. No, mate, that would be cruel and I’m not a cruel person. You lived through that once, no need to do it again. Unless …’ He tails off.

      Mo’s heart thunders in his chest. ‘Unless what?’

      ‘Unless you were a witness