voice stressed that police were not releasing any details. Anyone concerned for a relative was urged to stay by the telephone. Emergency information lines would be operational soon. Slowly each car came forward, and each time the camera froze. And there, a few seconds after a black four-wheel drive and in front of a white van, was my car, the silver Vauxhall. It edged its way on and out of the picture.
My telephone blinked with another message:
Come if u want. Jewel of Raj in F. Aug. Feet soaked bring other sneakers ok?
I listened again to the voice from the television saying emergency lines would be open soon. Another message came through.
No transport back l8r unless u come with car.
I switched off the television and sat in the dark. I didn’t move at all. I didn’t dare move, for fear the least flutter of my hand or blink of an eye would alert someone to my continued presence in the world. I ought not to be here. It was through some error of fate I was still here; it was a mistake. Someone else instead of me had driven my car onto the breaking bridge and straight into the force that had twisted the road away from under its wheels and flung it into the river. I tried to control my shaking. It was essential I remain still. I ought not to be here.
I switched on the television again. In silence, the bridge camera video ran once more. The numbers for emergency information lines flashed on the screen between the cars crawling sporadically up the approach road. Again, my car passed under the arch and on toward the bridge. Along the flat lower edge of the muzzy rectangle of the back window, I saw the merest soft, dark curve: the dome of Anna’s head.
The next pictures were from a village hall on the north side of the bridge where a shelter had been set up for casualties. A pale, young, shivering face peered from the hood of a blanket and spoke to the camera.
“Suddenly there’s no road, there’s nothing in front of me and then I’m going down and I’m thinking this is it I’m going to die, but I got myself out I don’t know how, next thing I’m in the water, it’s cold it’s really freezing but I get to the surface and then I’m trying to swim and I’m just thinking keep going, keep going. I saw people in the water, there was all this wreckage and cars and stuff, then I couldn’t see them anymore. You just keep swimming and keep your head above water and hope for the best and I hope they made it.” His face crumpled; he looked five years old. “I’m lucky to be alive.”
I scanned the people in the background of a sight for Stefan. They must be there. He and Anna could not have died that way. What was the use of it, love like that, unless it achieved at least the keeping alive of the beloved? I thought of them in the car together and of the money in my bag and why it was there, and I felt sick. Could it be that I had bought my own child’s life at the cost of theirs? I thought of my mother and the price she believed had been extracted from her, and paid. Did nothing change?
Another text message came.
Heard it on news re bridge. Weird u were there y’day! Raj ok? Call me when u get here. Don’t 4get sneakers
The light from the television flickered across the leg of the dressing table and over one of Col’s sneakers lying against it with the laces tied and a wad of dead leaves trapped in the sole. On the chair in the corner I could make out the outline of his heap of clothes, big overstitched things with copious pockets and zippers and gadgety little clips and features to meet a couple of dozen Boy-Scoutishly anticipated variants of weather and carrying requirements. On his bedside table were a baseball cap, his phone charger, and a book of word puzzles.
Tonight, sooner or later, he would come back here and look around and see that this room contained everything he needed. Sooner or later, maybe not until tomorrow if he collapsed in bed too drunk to find out where I was, he would learn that our rental car had been on the bridge. If I had died in the river, this room would still contain everything he needed. If I got up now and just left, this room would still contain everything he needed.
He would probably spend some time feeling numb, even sad. He would spend some time (to his private surprise, rather little) adjusting his expectations back to those of a single man, gaining a touch of celebrity among people who knew him for the improbably lurid bad luck of losing his bride in a freak accident. He would let them describe it as tragic. He would allow them to think he minded that there couldn’t be a proper funeral; he’d go along with a modest memorial service of some kind. He would never tell a soul that I had been pregnant, and soon he would not mention me at all. Within a few months he would look back on being married as a botched experiment in becoming somebody else. Relieved, mildly ashamed, he would go back to the chat room on the Internet, but he’d be very careful never to get caught out that way again.
I straightened the bed so it looked untouched, emptied the kettle, and switched off the television. I deleted all my text messages and voice mails and turned my phone off. I put it in the shoulder bag I had left with that morning and walked from the room. I slipped downstairs. Everyone was in the bar or the restaurant. I let myself out by the door into the garden and made my way toward the road.
I walked away not just from Col but from my failure to become a wife he wanted to keep. I walked away from having to justify wanting my baby. And for my baby’s sake as well as mine, I walked away from the humiliation of counting out money to its father as if this or that sum were an opening offer in a haggle for its life. I wasn’t just walking away; I was also bearing my baby, hidden in the warm, fleshy pod of my body, to safety. I was saving both our lives, and we were together.
Nearly a mile out from the collapsed bridge, men in fluorescent jackets milled around the Road Closed signs, directing cars back to the bridge at Netherloch. Ron moved quietly among the stricken, displaced little bands of people roaming around on the sides of the road and among the trees, like mourners or refugees. A bright moon in a silky, deep violet sky shone above the road, but in the distance arc lights lit the river ominously, as if illuminating a stage for more spectacle and greater violence; the limbs of the bridge, jagged and black against flashing orange and blue emergency lights, jutted out above the water. Helicopters roamed overhead, sending down vapory cones of light, hovering low enough for gusts of air from the rotors to blow trembling circles of flecks across the impenetrable, mercury-dark river.
The drift of people carried Ron along into a denser crowd at the forest’s edge, where spectators stood facing a television crew and a spotlight under which a reporter was shouting into a microphone. An exhausted-looking man in a safety helmet was led forward to be interviewed. The crowd began solemnly to applaud him, and as he started to speak, Ron stepped away from the throng and slipped under the barrier tape. Expecting to be stopped at any moment, he passed quickly into the pines that covered the sloping land between the river and the road. There was no path so close to the forest edge; keeping within the darkness of the trees, he scrambled down through a prickly mesh of branches until he was almost at the water.
When he emerged from the trees, he saw that crowd barriers now separated the forest from the site of the collapse. He could have climbed them quite easily, but he remained outside, watching. There seemed surprisingly few people at work on the riverbank; about a dozen who looked like paramedics and rescue workers came and went around a tent that had been set up, as far as Ron could tell, as a first aid station for casualties; he saw two men carry a stretcher from the tent and up the uneven bank toward a helicopter standing on the last strip of the bridge approach road. Ron had learned first aid when he became a driver, but he did not dare go forward and present himself. He would be ejected at once as
As the night wore on, the rescue settled into a regular rhythm, determined and unspectacular. Under the arc lights, boats and helicopters made their forays to the river in droning, dogged circles. Ron hunkered against a damp tree trunk and grew drowsy. He dozed until the cold woke him. Then he got up and moved back farther into the trees, where the wind did not cut so keenly. He didn’t want to spend the night in the open, but he was reluctant to walk the seven miles back to the Land Rover; without knowing where he was going, he slipped deeper still into the forest’s shelter. He was afraid of losing his way, and remembering that the road above him followed its path, he kept the river always in sight on his left, shining through the fringe of pine branches. He was cold. After a while he came upon an area where trees had been felled, but not recently; years of hard weather on the rutted ground had left it almost impassable with dank troughs and exposed, torn-up roots. From here the bank rose steeply to his right; there was no clear route up to the road. So he made his way instead down to the gleaming river, and when he reached it he saw he must be almost a mile from the bridge. The sharp arc lights had softened to a glow in the night sky. That was when, almost at the water’s edge, he came across the derelict
