The small silver car coming the other way is moving far too fast, and as it takes the bend, the driver loses control and veers over on to the wrong side of the road.
Everything happens so quickly: there’s no time for it to slow down or to even mount the kerb.
There is a hard, muted thud as the car hits the motorbike in front of me. The rider flies up into the air, sort of half-turns and lands face down in the road. As the metal bends and twists it whines like an injured animal, and my hand flies to my face, trying in vain to stem the acrid stench of burning rubber that starts to fill my lungs.
My foot slams down on to the brake, and I jump out, leaving the driver’s door wide open and the car in the middle of the road. I stand there, swallowing down the sickly taste that floods my mouth.
Everything seems to freeze in time, and a silence descends. It has a deafening quality all of its own and, for a moment, I am lost in the empty roar that surrounds me.
Then the spell is broken as the door of the silver car opens and a woman of about forty, dressed in jeans and a short pink coat, staggers out and vomits onto the side of the road. She holds her hair away from her face as if it’s somehow important to keep it clean.
And it is in that split second that I recognise her.
There is no mistaking that face.
I remind myself to breathe. My throat feels tight and dry, and my heart squeezes in so hard on itself I can almost sense it hanging in my chest like a dried-out apricot stone.
Twelve years ago, when I got out of hospital, even though I had met her only briefly on just a couple of occasions, I spent every spare minute I had trying to trace her again.
I was so young, desperate and naïve back then. With nobody to help me I hit a complete brick wall: she had simply vanished into thin air.
Eventually I was forced to acknowledge I’d lost her. Then all I could do was pray that karma really did exist and that she’d get what was coming to her for what she did to us.
And now she is here, right in front of me. Ruining yet another life.
I watch as the silver-haired driver from the black Mercedes that stopped behind me shrugs off his expensive-looking jacket and drapes it around her shoulders. He comforts her with a protective arm, murmuring reassuring words into her ear.
Something about her draws people in, gives them the impression she is a decent person.
So ironic.
Knots of people start to appear, seemingly from nowhere.
I think about getting back in my car, leaving the scene. Part of me is pulling to get away from her, but, of course, that’s not going to happen.
I could never just let go of her again.
Amid the chaos my eyes are drawn to the long, broken shape lying in the road. Pieces of motorbike are scattered all around him like fragments of jagged chrome confetti.
I ignore the rapidly growing crowd on the other side of the street and crouch down beside him, feeling for a pulse. My hand shakes as I press his wrist gently and, for a moment, I think she’s done it again, because I can’t feel any movement at all under my fingers. No sign of life.
Then his eyes flicker, and I release my breath.
People pour out of the small, terraced houses lining Green Road, fingers pointing and mouths all frozen wide.
I look down at him again.
He is hanging on to life by a thread; I can sense it. If he slips away now, I will never be able to forgive myself.
That terrified young girl who didn’t know what to do for the best is long gone now.
Maybe, this time, I can make a difference.
The rider has landed face down on his left-hand side. A thick pool, like ruby molasses, blossoms out from the underside of his head.
I reach down to stroke his face but I don’t let go of his hand.
He looks about my age: early to mid-thirties, I’d say. His skin is smooth, lashes long and dark and twitching as if he is caught in a dream.
Over the other side of the road, where all the attention is, she is howling.
There is barely a scratch on her but then she was always so good at playing the victim, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
I try to stop staring in case I give myself away, but I’ve no need to worry – she’s oblivious to anyone but herself.
She hasn’t got a clue who I am or what she did to me all that time ago.
Granted, I look very different now. It’s been a long thirteen years; I’m much darker-haired and carry nearly four stones of extra weight. There is no trace of the naïve, slender girl who gave up her trust so easily.
See, people like her never really notice the insignificant people around them.
They go through life making their selfish decisions, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, and never giving it a second thought.
Until it all comes back with a vengeance, that is.
Then they have to suck it up good.
I hear someone call: ‘The ambulance is on its way.’
There are hordes of people standing around now, rubbernecking.
Their eyes are trained on the motorbike rider but I don’t see much compassion, more a thinly disguised hunger for the gory details that might be revealed if they hang around long enough.
I move stiffly from my knees to my haunches and prepare to stand up, to walk away before the ambulance arrives.
I know I’ll be able to keep tabs on her now through the local newspaper reports about the accident, and I can identify myself later to the police as a witness.
A big part of me wants to stay but I learned a lot from my therapist. Like how to stand back from my thoughts and evaluate a situation calmly and logically so I make the best decision.
If I stay, I don’t think I can trust myself not to cause a scene. This time I need to make sure that every action, every step I take, is carefully planned and considered.
So that there are no mistakes.
I feel something brush over my hand and I glance down as the injured rider’s fingers close around mine.
His slate-blue eyes are bloodshot and wide open now but he seems oblivious to all the people standing around, as if he can’t see past my face.
A sharp intake of breath and he looks right at me.
‘Help me,’ he whispers.