The rain drummed urgently on the roof of the bus, threatening to puncture it at any moment.
We hadn’t moved for ten minutes and the impatient vibrating of the engine buzzed through me, heightening my anxiety.
I had no idea how close Dad was to school by now. I’d hared after him as he sprinted from the cinema, but by the time I reached the car park he was already out of sight.
I knew he’d head straight for Mr Hobson, but had no idea how I was going to get there before him. I didn’t have enough cash for a taxi and the heavens had opened, delivering the storm that the radio had promised.
It took the bus fifteen minutes to arrive and an awkward few more to leave as I rummaged in my bag for enough change to pay my way.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that the mixture of heavy rain and some delay up ahead was going to scupper my chances even more, and so I sat and fretted about arriving at school as Hobson’s body was lifted into an ambulance, with Dad being led, handcuffed, into a riot van.
I pinched at the skin on my wrist, the sharp twinges calming my heart, which was banging out of control. Why was it taking so long? When was the rain going to stop?
Craning my neck to look through the front window, I could see endless rows of cars, their windscreen wipers flicking irritably at the rain. We were going nowhere, and I could only hope that Dad was held up in it too.
At that moment I made a decision to get out and run for a while. If Dad was stuck, then there was a chance I could get to him and talk him down. It was worth a go, it had to be, so, turning the collar of his shirt up, I begged the driver to let me off before the next stop.
It was muggy and humid despite the rain, and it didn’t take long for my lungs to feel starved of air, but I had no option other than to push on. The guilt I was feeling, in every part of my body, meant that I couldn’t give up, not without trying my best.
My feet were sodden by the time I reached the edge of the bypass, and the blood-stained right sleeve of my shirt had been dyed a soggy pink. I saw the frustration of the drivers as they sat in their cars, hands wiping at their windows as they tried to work out what sort of idiot had caused such a tailback.
I’d been running for about ten minutes when I saw the glow ahead. I knew instantly it was the lights of a police car and I picked up the pace, fearing as I approached the root of the problem that my chances of finding Dad were fading. But as I got closer, my heart leapt as I clocked the back of Dad’s car sat alongside the flashing light. I thudded on, desperate to reach him before he got past the crash.
This was the one chance I needed to put it all straight. If my legs carried me there, I promised myself, I wouldn’t waste it.
I didn’t notice anything strange about the car until I felt two arms wrap around my chest. Didn’t see the strange angle it had stopped at, or the smoke rising from the bonnet, until the same arms lifted me off my feet, stopping my progress.
I wanted to turn round and see who had grabbed me, to scream and hit them and hurt them until they let me go. But I couldn’t take my eyes off Dad’s car, or what was left of it. As the arms carried me to the side of the road, I saw the wing of the car crumpled and buckled. I could see the space where the bonnet and windscreen should have been. But they weren’t there any more. There was just a twisted mess of tyre marks, metal and shattered glass, joining seamlessly with the barrier in the central reservation.
I think I screamed at that point. At the policeman holding on to me, at the people that littered the scene – coppers, firemen, paramedics. I have no idea what I managed to say.
My eyes scanned the road, desperate for a sight of Dad, head bowed, smoking a fag, but there was nothing other than smoke and chaos.
It wasn’t until a squad car to the right of the crash moved that I knew where Dad was. As it pulled away, I saw a gaggle of uniformed people huddled over a body, grabbing for equipment. I saw their hands pummel at his chest, their mouths cup his and their lips move, encouraging him to stay with them.
I fought and fought, but my captor held on, long enough for me to see the crouching men by my father finally climb to their feet, shaking their heads.
One of them checked his watch, another scribbled something on a pad before walking away.
It was all I needed to know for sure.
I’d done it again. Just as I had with Mum.
Leaving me no option but to give in.
To the arms that were holding me and the darkness that offered some blessed relief.