Walking in Darkness

‘No! You can’t do anything for them now!’ The voice beside her made her start violently and look round, eyes dilated and full of the horror of what she had just watched.

By the orange blaze of the fire Sophie saw her, a dark-haired woman a little older than herself, in ash-grey trousers, a sweater in a paler shade of grey and a short jersey wool jacket in a warm russet shade.

When Sophie just stared, she went on, ‘Are you OK? What on earth was going on? It looked to me as if that car was driving straight at you.’

Sophie’s heart was beating so hard she felt sick. Even in that awful light she knew that face, those eyes. She had brought with her all the enlarged photos Steve had had made of the photocopied portraits of her family, to show her sister, but she did not need to consult them to recognize the likeness. She was looking at a younger version of her mother.

‘Anya,’ she said, smiling shakily, tears rising to her eyes.

Cathy Brougham let go of her and stepped back, startled, face pale. ‘You? It was you who rang me this morning, wasn’t it? Who are you? And who on earth is Anya?’

Sophie only heard the first few words. Shock and weariness finally engulfed her. She slumped forward in a dead faint, and Cathy caught her in her arms.

8

People came running from across the green, from up and down the village high street, shouting, their voices carrying over the roar of the burning car. Some of them tried to get closer, one man dodged in to see if whoever was inside the car could be helped, but the searing heat drove them all back.

‘I rang the police and fire brigade.’ The landlady of the Green Man was out of breath, her chest heaving after running across the village green. ‘They should be here soon.’

‘Can you help me? I’m going to put her in my car. She can’t just lie here in the road.’ Cathy Brougham was holding Sophie’s dead weight under the arms, supporting her with her own body.

‘Sure. I’ll take her feet. Here we go.’

‘Is she OK? That car didn’t knock her down, did it?’

‘I don’t know what happened. She doesn’t seem to be injured.’

‘There’s blood on her face,’ said the landlady, peering closer, then she turned and stared at the burning car. ‘I heard the crash – thought it was the end of the world. Terrible noise, wasn’t it? I dropped the pint of beer I was pulling, all over the counter it went, glass and beer everywhere. I didn’t have to go to the window to see what had happened; it lit up the windows. Lit up the sky, too, I dare say, for miles.’

‘Like the Blitz,’ an old man said, standing beside them, staring at the blaze like a little boy on Bonfire Night, his rheumy eyes glistening in the light. ‘Reminds me of fire-watching. Terrible heat, fire has. Look at the glass melting. Won’t be much left of them inside.’

‘That’s enough, Albert! You’ll make us all ill.’ The landlady slid a look at Cathy Brougham’s appalled expression.

Sophie lay with firelight shining on her lids and didn’t dare to open her eyes. Her teeth were chattering, she was trembling violently and was icy cold. Why was she so cold? Where was she? What had happened? She heard the voices as if from far away, foreign, bewildering. What were they talking about?

Across the green she heard the rush and roar of the flames, branches crashing from the tree which was now on fire, too, and her memory came back. The black car driving straight at her . . . the crash . . . the explosion. Oh, God, that noise!

‘Your friend’s shaking like a leaf. She’s staying in my front bedroom, by the way,’ the landlady told Cathy. ‘She didn’t cause the accident, did she? She just walked out of the pub a few minutes ago, coming over here to see you, she said.’

‘I think the car must have hit her, but she got up. She didn’t seem seriously injured.’ Cathy bent to look at Sophie. ‘You’re right, she’s shaking badly, she must be in shock. Did you ring the doctor?’

‘The police said they would be sending an ambulance.’ The landlady turned to stare as a small police car drove up with siren wailing. ‘What’s he making that racket for? Give a man a horn and he’ll blow it.’

Without answering, Cathy moved to meet the policeman. Sophie heard her voice talking quietly, heard a man’s voice asking questions, then Cathy came back. ‘He says it’s OK for me to go back to my house and take this lady with me. There’s an ambulance on the way, and he rang Dr Waring, but the doctor was out on a call. He’ll be along later and can look at her then. She’ll be better off lying down somewhere warm.’

Sophie could feel tears trickling down her face. She was dizzy and disorientated. Her mind kept drifting off into confused visions: cars screamed towards her, headlights blinding, tyres spun on the road, the car slewed round and rushed towards the oak tree, she heard the crash again, endlessly echoing, the explosion with which the petrol tanks blew, saw the fireball go up into the bare black branches of the oak, orange flames climbing into the night sky.

Cathy Brougham got behind the wheel and closed her door, starting the engine. The silver car moved off through the open iron gates, drove back along the drive, over gravel, under trees which sent a strange flickering over Sophie’s face, the shadows of the leaves reflected in the headlights. Her eyes opened and stared up, hypnotized.

They approached a house; she saw the black bulk of it, a front door opened and sent yellow light towards them, the car stopped outside and there were raised, startled voices.

Somebody opened the

door of the car beside her and she was helped out, supported by two people, one on each side, while she staggered towards the square of light which was a door.

‘In here . . .’

The light dazzled her. She swayed, and was held, was half-carried into a room and laid down on a couch. She stayed still, her eyes shut again, heard footsteps clicking on wood floors, a door somewhere near by open and close quietly.