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Back Day of the Accident
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. What readers are saying about
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. Part Two
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. Part Three
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. 55
  65. 56
  66. 57
  67. 58
  68. Epilogue
  69. Acknowledgements
  70. THE NEXT THRILLER BY NUALA ELLWOOD
  71. THE BEGINNING

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says as she leans forward and pushes the needle into my skin.

I look at her blankly. Then I let my head drop back on the pillow. As the door closes I feel something snap inside me. I put my hand to my heart. It is still beating steadily though it has broken into a thousand pieces.

4

Saturday 22 July

The room is quiet save for the soft beeping noise of the bedside monitor where my blood pressure is displayed in stark green letters. Outside the door I can hear the nurses chatting at their station. One of them lets out a shriek of laughter and the noise cuts through me like a blade.

It has been twelve hours since I received the news. Twelve hours of lying on my back, unable to move. I want to scream and yell but my body is numb and when I try to talk the words won’t come. Claire came in earlier and administered more pain relief. It’s so strong it feels like I’m floating above myself.

A moment ago Dr Elms came and sat by my bed and told me about my injuries. I sustained some lung damage while in the river. Most likely it was my attempts to call for help while submerged in water that did it. He talked about the risks of developing inflammation of the lungs and how they are monitoring me for this; he spoke of his relief that the CT scans, taken when I was in the coma, showed healthy brain activity; no sign of damage.

Yet all the while he sat there, talking, as doctors do, in that cold, matter-of-fact way, about recovery and rehabilitation and physiotherapy sessions, I could only think of Elspeth, my beautiful ten-year-old girl.

I can’t accept what they are telling me. I would know if she were dead. I would feel it in my bones. There would be a sense of finality, a full stop. No, they are wrong. Elspeth got out of that car. She wandered off and now she is out there somewhere, lost and afraid. I can feel it.

It’s the same feeling I used to get if I lost sight of her in the supermarket, a raw, knee-buckling panic. But she would always reappear; I can see her little face now, peeking out from behind the shelves. ‘Did I scare you, Mummy?’

She would always reappear.

That is why I know she is still alive, and that, wherever she is, she needs me. She needs her mummy.

5