"I remember enough," he said, "enough to know I was desperate for sleep, biting my own fists, counting backwards from a thousand-"

"You don't ... you don't remember this other person being there with you? It's not ... not clearing at all?"

"No," he said, his voice bitter. "If anything it's going farther away. I'm beginning to think it was some kind of hallucination, wishful thinking ..." He reached for a tissue, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. "How are the boys?"

"They're fine. They want to come and see you so much. Callum has done you a fine picture, look, and Liam says I have to give you fifty kisses-shall I bring them in tomorrow, Patrick? Mum says she'll drive us all down."

"I don't want to see them," he said. "I want them to forget about me."

"Forget about you? And what sort of a child will forget his own father? As fine a one as you? And why should he?"

"If the father is a killer, if he's been responsible for the deaths of many people, he's better forgotten, Maeve. I wish only one thing now: that I had been killed myself, that I had died in that cab-"

"Patrick Connell, will you just shut up now?"

The seemingly endless strain and exhaustion finally defeated Maeve; she felt angry with him, angry not for what he had done-or not done-but for his willingness to give in, to turn his back on the children.

"How dare you talk like that, how dare you, when the finest doctors in this hospital have worked so hard to save you, when your own children cry every night, they want to see you so much, when I feel so tired I could just lie down on that floor and sleep for all eternity myself. But I can't, Patrick, because someone has to keep going. Someone has to see after the children, and visit you every day, and work so hard to cheer you, and-"

He turned his head to look at her, and his expression was quite blank, his eyes dull and disinterested.

"You don't have to come," he said. "It would be much better if you didn't."

Maeve straightened up, looked at him very briefly, and then picked up her bag and walked out of the room.

Russell's letter had been to tell Mary that she wasn't to worry about him; they had the rest of their lives together, after all, but to concentrate her efforts on making her peace with her daughter.

"That really is the most important thing right now. How extraordinary this all is! I've started to worry about my children's reactions as well. Maybe we should run away together to Gretna Green and get married with just a couple of witnesses. But it's not what I want, of course: I want all our friends and family there; I want everyone to watch us being married, you becoming Mary Mackenzie. After all these years."

But Mary could see that both their families might find this a little difficult. And she was sure Russell's rather grand family would look down on her. What had seemed incredibly romantic and exciting suddenly was turning into a depressing mess.

When Toby went down to the theatre, Barney headed in the direction of Cirencester. He parked in the centre of the town, sat down on a seat, and smoked a couple of cigarettes, and suddenly found himself consumed with anxiety, a fear that was so physical he actually shook, over what might be happening to Toby right this minute. How would he manage with only half a leg? What would he do when he couldn't swim or run or play tennis or ski? How would he be able to cope with the social life of work, the rowdy drinking, the late-night dining, the clubbing, when he had to be helped in and out of places, relying on friends, on kindness, permanently grateful, always different from the rest. Of course, they would give him prostheses-people managed wonderfully well with such things, and Toby would try with all the courage he had to do the same. But at the end of the day, he would no longer be the Toby he had been, impatiently fit and fast; he would be a different, less independent creature, robbed of being physically confident, and-Barney knew-slightly ashamed, literally, of himself. And what of Tamara; what would she make of him, no longer her perfect, wonderfully handsome fiance, but someone she would certainly see as second-rate, second choice? Give her six months, present her with a different and perfect young man, and it was horrible to contemplate how quickly she would back off, making ugly, feeble excuses ...

Barney wrenched his mind off Tamara and looked at his watch, which had advanced terrifyingly far, and drove very fast back to the hospital.

He was in such a state of terror as he parked his car that he misjudged the size of the space available to him and hit the wing mirror of a horribly new-looking Audi TT in the next bay. Barney knew about those Audis; fixing it would cost several hundred pounds. Well, it hardly compared with a shattered leg. He scribbled a note and left it on the windscreen.

He looked at his watch: one fifteen. Shit Shit. Toby would probably be out of the theatre now. Conscious and needing him. Fine friend he'd turned out. He ran across the car park, and then, unable to contemplate hearing the bad news on his own, made for A&E and Emma. It was deserted, apart from a woman with a wailing baby and an elderly man with an arm in a sling. He looked over at the reception desk; there was only one woman on duty, and she was chatting to a nurse about some event in the department that had taken place earlier in the day. He walked over and waited politely for what felt like ten minutes; then, driven beyond endurance, said, "Excuse me ..."

"Yes?" said the woman coldly.

"I wondered if I could see Dr. King. Dr. Emma King?"

"What would it be concerning?"

"A patient," he said. "Toby Weston."

"Well, there's no one of that name here."

"No," said Barney, slightly desperately, "no, he's on Men's Surgical. He's in-been to-the theatre this morning."

"Well, that's nothing to do with Dr. King. Who told you to ask for her?"

"She did," said Barney firmly. "When I saw her earlier today." As Toby was being taken down to the theatre ...

"Well, I can't think why."

"I could explain," said Barney, "but ..." He looked at the clock. Shit Shit. One twenty-five. "Look," he said, "couldn't you just page Dr. King or something, tell her I'm here? She is expecting me. Please. It really is very important."

The woman sighed and started tapping at her computer keys.

"Barney! Hi!" It was Emma. Barney had never seen her without a lift of his heart; at that moment he felt he could have taken off through the hospital roof. "I wondered where you were. Come with me. It's fine, Pat; he's a friend."

Emma led him through the doors at the back of the waiting area, and then along a corridor into a small office.

"I'll ring up to the theatre now."

Emma dialled a number; waited. And waited. Hours seemed to pass. Barney felt he was about to throw up.

"They're obviously frantic," she said, "just not answering. Look-let's go up there. Come on."

She led the way on what seemed to Barney an endless journey: into lifts, along corridors, through doors, through more doors. Looking at his watch as she stopped in front of a door marked, Medical Personnel Only, he was amazed to see it was only five minutes since she'd appeared in A&E.

"Wait there," she said, and knocked on the door. A nurse dressed in scrubs appeared; she looked rather coldly at Emma.

"Yes?" she said.

"Sorry," said Emma, "Dr. King, from A and E. I'm ... well, I wondered if you had any news of a patient. Toby Weston."

"Oh, him. Not yet, no," said the nurse. "He's only just out of the theatre. Still under. Shouldn't be long. Wait out there." She glared at Barney. "I'll give you a shout."

That was it, then: nearly three hours in surgery. Emma had said that if the news was good he'd be back in an hour or so. It must have gone horribly wrong. There could be no other explanation. Toby had lost his leg. And his old life with it. And if Barney'd got him onto that road just a bit earlier, none of it would have happened; they'd never have got into that bloody accident; it was his fault. Tamara had been right in that, at least ...

He looked at Emma; she had blurred, and he realised he was crying. Stop it, Fraser, not for you to blub. Get a grip Stop it, Fraser, not for you to blub. Get a grip.

He turned away; he felt a hand slide into his. A cool, small hand.

"Barney. Don't give up yet. They've been terribly busy; they might have had to delay it. Or-"

"Or they didn't. Or his leg's gone. How could it take this long, Emma, how could it possibly ...?"

"I ... don't know. But ... well, this isn't an exact science; they're not building a car."

They were both silent; he realised he was still holding her hand. He looked down at it, and then at her, smiled slightly awkwardly.

"Thank you for doing all this, Emma. It's very good of you."

"It's my pleasure. Honestly. Well ..." She smiled suddenly, that brilliant, light-the-day-up smile. "Well, I hope it is. I mean, I hope it will be."

"If ... that is ... if they do ... you know-"

"Amputate?" she said gently. It was somehow good hearing it spoken, confronted like that.

"Yeah. If they do, who'll tell him? The doctor, the nurses-"

"They will tell him very carefully. They're quite ... gentle these days. The surgeon in charge is a friend of mine. He's-"

"What, you know the guy who's doing this?"

"Well, yes."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." For some reason this had made him angry. "Why the fuck won't he tell you, at least? That is so arrogant. What sort of rules do you people live by?"

She stared at him; she flushed.

"Barney, you don't quite understand. It's-"

"You're too damn right I don't. Here we are sweating our guts out, no one having the decency to come out of that door and tell us what's happening, and you say the person doing this to Toby is a friend of yours. Rum sort of friend, that's all I can say."

She shrugged, turned away; he had clearly upset her. Well, that was fine. She-The door opened suddenly, and the nurse came out.

"Dr. King," she said, "can you come in a minute?"

Well, that was definitely it. He knew now. It was the worst. He felt sick, then as if he might cry again; he turned away from the door, stared down the corridor, wondering how ... what- "Barney."

He turned. Emma was standing looking at him; she was flushed, looked close to tears herself.

"Yeah?" he said, aware he sounded hostile still.

And then he realised she was smiling and, yes, almost crying at the same time, and then she said, in a voice that was clearly struggling not to shake, "Barney, Toby's fine. The leg's good; it's beginning to heal. He's ... well, he's only just coming round properly now. Mark-that's the surgeon-says you can see him, just for a moment. Want to come in?"

"Oh, shit," said Barney, "oh, for fuck's sake. Oh, Emma. Emma, I'm so sorry; I didn't mean anything I just said. Here ..."

And suddenly, he was hugging her, and she was smiling up at him and hugging him back, and then she took his hand again and led him through the door and into a small room where Toby lay on a high, hard bed, struggling to smile through the confusion of his anaesthetic.

"Hello, you old fucker," said Barney. "You really put us through it this morning, didn't you?" And then he couldn't say any more, because he really did start to cry, tears running down his face; and he realised both Emma and the nurse were smiling at him, and he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose very hard and said, "Well done, mate. Bloody well done."

CHAPTER 27

Freeman and Rowe had been to interview Mary Bristow that day; expecting a dotty old lady they had found themselves confronted by a razor-clear mind, and an extremely lucid account of what she had seen of the accident and, indeed, the road that day.

"Some terrible driving. Two or three lorries cutting in and out of the slow lane, moving in front of people. I have to say they were all foreign number plates. I found that reassuring, in a way. At least our drivers seem to know how to behave."

"Any more particular cases of bad driving that you recall?"

"Well, I did notice several white vans; they're supposed to be the worst, aren't they? Anyway, one did particularly strike me; he'd been sitting very close behind us, and then shot past, and I noticed that he didn't even have his back doors properly fastened. They were just held together with a bit of rope; it seemed very unwise."

"Indeed. Did you notice any writing or anything like that on his van?"

"There were three letters on one of the back doors, obviously part of a name, but not in sequence. If you see what I mean. That is to say, not a complete word or name. The rest had come off. It wasn't at all a well-looked-after vehicle."

"And can you remember what the letters were?"

"I can, as a matter of fact."

These old parties: amazing, thought Freeman. He supposed it was surviving the blitz or something ...

"Yes," she said, "they were W-D-T. In that order. I remember because we used to play a game with the children, making up words from car number plates. I'm sure you know the sort of thing. I mean B and T and W would obviously be Bristow. Although proper names were not allowed, of course."

"Of course," said Freeman. He was beginning to feel rather confused himself.

"So, yes, I still do it rather automatically. Ah, WDT, I thought-War Department. We used to get countless letters from them, or rather my husband did; they figured rather large in our lives at the time. I don't suppose it's much help, but-"

"It could be a help, Mrs. Bristow. I don't suppose you were playing the same game with the number plate?"

"Oh-no. I'm so sorry. Not his. Some of the others, but-"

"Well, never mind. And at what point in the journey did you see this van? Shortly before the crash, or-"

"It was a good fifteen minutes before. And he was going very fast. He would have been well ahead-unless he stopped, of course, but it was after the service station; I do know that."

"So you stopped at the service station-that would have been what time?"

"Oh, about three fifteen. We moved off in less than ten minutes. My driver-and I would like to stress that he drove quite beautifully, in the inside lane at my request, all the way-needed some chewing gum and I offered to buy it for him, as I needed to ... well, to go to the ladies'. I ..." She hesitated. "I feel a little guilty now. About something I did."

"Oh, yes? I'm sure it wasn't too bad."

"Well, I hope not. A young man-who I now know was the poor bridegroom, and of course he was wearing the striped trousers and so on, although not his tailcoat-he was in a terrible hurry, and he asked if he could go ahead of everyone in the queue. I'm afraid I ... well, I wouldn't let him. I said he should wait his turn, that we were all in a hurry for various reasons. I do hope that didn't affect the course of events at all. It must have delayed him, perhaps made him drive too fast. One is so aware of how tiny things can lead to greater ones. What is that called, something about butterflies ..."

"The butterfly effect," said Rowe. "Apparently a butterfly can flap its wings in the jungle somewhere and cause a hurricane three days later ..."

"Perhaps we should move on," said Sergeant Freeman. "Can you give us your account of what you saw of the collision?"

"Well, this is where I really am going to disappoint you. I fell asleep, you see, and woke up as we stopped and the car behind drove into us. It was very shocking, and of course if we hadn't been in the inside lane, it could have been very much more serious ..."

She was silent for a moment; her eyes filled with tears.

"Take your time," Freeman said gently. "Just tell us what you remember."

She proceeded to describe with great lucidity the position of her car related to all the others near her, and to the lorry, and what she had observed.

"Pity all our witnesses aren't that clear in their accounts," said Rowe, as they drove away.