Everything She Forgot Read Free

and break it, so sit well back.”
    She turned toward the passenger seat and covered her face. There was a dull sound and when Margaret raised her head, the man’s bloody fist was inside the car. He had punched the glass in, taking the skin from his hand.
    The cold air reached in and the stench of gasoline became stronger. The man was pulling the broken glass from the window with his bare hands.
    â€œI’ll pull you through,” he said to her.
    â€œI won’t fit.”
    â€œGive me your hands!” As he spoke this time, desperate, authoritative, the scarf he was wearing fell away from his face.
    The sight of him was enough to cause her to draw breath, but she did not pull away. It was as if a squid had landed on his face: tentacles grew over his cheeks, forehead, and skull and right down his neck. One of the man’s eyes was pulled out of shape, to make way for the tentacle’s path. His skin shone in the oily, fiery light, pale and poreless.
    Margaret placed her hands in his. He pulled her through fast, although her hips got caught and she landed on top of him.
    She lay breathing on the man’s chest, feeling the chill of the snow on her cheeks and scalp and grateful for it. Margaret lifted her face up and saw the gnarled skin of his neck.
    He strained to get up, and she could see that he was in pain. He helped her to her feet.
    â€œHurry, we need to—”
    When they were nearly at the embankment, the car blew up. The explosion reverberated through Margaret, expelling all the air from her lungs. Her mind was bright with the horror of it, but the man pulled her into him and back down onto the road, rolling her over and over as debris fell around them. Margaret felt the great weight of his body above her, and then nothing, then the weight again, pinning her down and rolling her forward, a gravitational momentum. She felt safe there, grateful.
    Half of Margaret’s face was in the snow. The stranger raised himself from her and brushed the snow from his body. He was bleeding badly from his forehead. He knelt, watching the blaze, holding his bloody hand in the other. Margaret rolled over and stood up. Her shoes were gone and the icy snow wet the soles of her feet. She could see paramedics in green rushing toward them. She could hear nothing but her own heartbeats and the roar of the fire.
    Her car was engulfed in flames and she saw now that the whole of the M11 was a carnage of crashed cars. The motorway was like a scrapyard: upended vehicles and the stench of burning rubber. The blue lights were so far away because even the emergency services couldn’t get close.
    Relief flooded into her, warm as a shower. Margaret looked down to the man who had saved her.
    â€œWere you in the crash too?” she asked him. “You’re hurt. Your hand must be broken and your head . . .”
    â€œFine” was all he said, turning his eyes from her, trying to pull his scarf over his face with his bloodied hand.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Margaret said, putting a hand on his neck. “Thank you. I would have died. Now we must get you some help.”
    â€œI’m fine,” he said again, then staggered to his feet and walked away from her, down the lane of concertinaed cars, into the smoke and fire and snow.
    â€œWait,” Margaret called to him, “please?”
    Paramedics swarmed over the scene. She was wrapped in a space blanket, her pulse was taken, and then she was given a tag and instructed where to wait; that she was going to be OK. She gave her details and was told that Ben would be informed.
    Margaret shivered on the side of the motorway, clutching the foil blanket around her, looking for the burned man who had saved her. She asked the paramedic who tended to her, but he shook his head. “I’m not sure I’ve seen him. There’s too many injured. You need to rest now. Just take a break and let us look after you.”
    She remembered the heat