Lambert slipped in and out of consciousness, his eyes unable to focus long enough on his predicament before he was dragged back under. The airbag had been deployed. His face was crushed up against it, his body pulled to his right as if the car had tilted over.
Unconscious, he was back in the car with Chloe. It was two years ago and he was driving her late at night to her grandparents, Sophie’s parents. Like now, he hadn’t slept properly for weeks. In his dream, Chloe sat next to him, nine years old and full of life, full of a future she would never see.
She was sulking. He’d wanted to wait until the morning to drive her but she’d insisted. It was that memory he’d never been able to shake. His beautiful, happy-go-lucky girl forever smiling, forever full of mischief and all he was left with was that one prominent memory. Of her sitting in the passenger seat, arms folded, her head turned away from him, a comical pout sketched onto her face.
He awoke with a shudder. Confused, he called out Chloe’s name. His right leg ached, a sense of pressure building within him as if the weight of the whole car was pinning him down. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again.
They’d hardly talked on that journey. He’d made a few light-hearted attempts to get her back onside but she hadn’t even cracked a smile.
The dream transformed him to the hospital bed where he’d lain in an enforced coma. His first words on waking had been, ‘Chloe.’ The look on Sophie’s mother’s face, sitting on the seat next to his bed, haunted him to this day. It was as if he’d stabbed her in the heart.
‘What?’ he mouthed, no sound leaving his throat.
She’d dropped a few chipped ice cubes into his mouth, the liquid coating his mouth and throat for a second. ‘What?’ he repeated.
She looked away and he understood.
The dream took him to the funeral, the day a morphine dream. Scores of well-meaning condolences. Sophie’s parents unable to look him in the eye.
Then he was back in their living room, Sophie sitting on the sofa, crying as videos of Chloe played out on the TV screen before her. He pictured his dream self in the doorway, too cowardly to look at the pictures, too selfish to comfort his wife.
The memories continued.
He sat in conversation with Glenn Tillman, being told he was on forced absence of leave. Back at the house, Sophie suggesting spare bedrooms. Her body tensing as he moved to touch her.
Lambert knew he had to escape. He tried to open his eyes, to picture reality, but another image flashed before him.
He was back in the car with Chloe, on a narrow country lane. Dark, no street lights. As soon as the first flicker appeared in his vision he’d slammed on the brakes. He’d been going too fast. The car careered into an SUV travelling in the other direction.
The coroner’s verdict was accidental death. Chloe had died instantly. Her body crushed from the impact. He’d never had to identify her, had never seen her again. That sullen, comical pout the last thing he saw of her.
He awoke again with a shudder, reality returning like a blow to the head. The dreams of Chloe lingered. He had to subdue them before he continued, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to continue.
It was Sarah May who needed him now.
His eyes struggled to acclimatise to the darkness. He sat in the driver’s seat trying to get his bearings. The windshield was cracked but not broken. His body was being pulled to the right so he presumed the car had been spun onto its side. He held tight onto the steering wheel with one hand, the deployed airbag pushed against his chest. With his left hand he unclicked the seatbelt, fighting the pull of gravity as his body fell to the right. He was scrunched up on his side, his face pushed against the cold glass of the driver’s door window. He tested all of his limbs in turn, everything in working order. It was going to take a while. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but knew rushing would be a false economy. Every part of him ached.
He grabbed hold of the steering wheel and tried to wrench his legs free from their position beneath the dashboard. A sharp pain cut through his left shoulder and vibrated upwards causing a dense ache in his head. He fell back into the car. His left shoulder was tender to touch. Lambert reached beneath his coat with his right hand and searched for a wound. He couldn’t feel anything significant but his hand was laced with blood when he took it away. He placed his left hand beneath the driver’s chair and reclined it as far as it would go. He hoisted first his right, then his left leg onto the chair so his knees were facing the driver’s side door. Then he clenched his legs together with his hands and swivelled himself around so his back was against the door, his legs pointing upwards, the back of his knees resting on the gearbox.
It was a strain to hold the position. He inched backwards so he was more or less lying on his back. He lay there exhausted. It was possible he could stand up and try to open the passenger side door but it would be difficult to hoist his body upwards without the door slamming down on him. The other option was smashing the windscreen. It was cracked already so a few good kicks should destroy it completely.
He swivelled around again so he was in position. With his back against the driver’s chair he kicked at the windscreen. It broke on first impact, cracking into safety glass which he cleared with a second kick.
With rapid breath, he cleared away as much glass as possible. He rested for a couple of minutes then clambered out into the night air, collapsing onto the ground next to the car. He reached into his jacket, thankful the gun was still in its holster.
He was about to get to his feet when he heard movement behind him, the sound of feet crunching on hard ground. As he withdrew the gun, someone attacked him from behind, pinning him to the ground.
It was a smart, economical move. Whoever held him had ferocious strength. Lambert tried to swing his elbow back but his arms were locked tight. From the shadows he heard the sound of a second person moving towards them. He jerked as something sharp stung his neck and the night, once more, went out of focus.