Free Book of Lost Threads by Tess Evans

girl lying grotesquely on the road where she’d been flung like an old coat. Random details from the chaos still lay in wait for him. He felt the sweat running down his back. Heard the strangely unsynchronised sirens. Smelt the heat rising from the bitumen. Grieved for the abandoned shoe. Most persistent of all, he saw a sheet and, encroaching on its whiteness, a red anemone, a monstrous, spreading bloom; life leaking away on a suburban street on an ordinary Tuesday night.
    He took a folder from his desk drawer and turned it over in his hands. It contained some newspaper cuttings and a copy of the coroner’s finding. Moss could read these. It would be easier for both of them. No-one had blamed him, but he knew that he wasn’t fully in control that night. His alcohol test was just below the legal limit, and they couldn’t test for drugs in those days, so he escaped the serious offence of culpable driving. The police had considered the lesser charge of dangerous driving causing death, but all the witnesses agreed that he couldn’t have seen her in time to stop, even though there was some speculation (but no evidence) that he may have been speeding. He was speeding. He knew that. Not much over the limit, but enough to affect his braking time. He was also drug-affected, but no-one knew that either. In the end, he walked free. Shamefully free.
    Finn looked again at the coroner’s finding. Because the dead girl could not be identified, there had been a full inquest. There was evidence from the police officer in charge, the doctor who pronounced life extinct, a social worker, a street prostitute called Brenda, and several eye witnesses. There was no-one representing the dead girl’s family. Her face was too badly injured for photographs to be of any use and, despite the best facial recognition techniques, no-one came forward to claim her. There was no-one to mourn, no-one to be outraged on her behalf.
    The deceased was known as Amber-Lee but her surname is unknown. A local prostitute, Brenda Watson, was accompanying her at the time of the accident , Finn read. Although he could have recited it by heart.
    ‘She called herself Amber-Lee,’ Brenda had told the inquest. ‘I don’t think it was her real name—just a street name. She thought it sounded, you know, sexy. Like a film star or something.’
    ‘I couldn’t stop,’ the truck driver had said, his face stricken. ‘She just landed in front of me. There was nothing I could do.’
    ‘I remember the name Amber-Lee. She came to the Ward Street Shelter once,’ said the social worker. ‘We knew she was on the game and probably underage, but we can’t keep track of them all. We just don’t have the resources.’ She shrugged. ‘We can only help those willing to be helped.’
    All this had been translated into the dispassionate language of the coroner’s office. Now its very blandness accused Finn anew.
    There had been photographs. They were not in the folder, but were fatally imprinted on his memory. The cause of death was recorded as catastrophic head injuries. The post-mortem also found traces of old bruises and a partially healed broken rib. There are needle tracks evident on her left arm , the medical report continued. She was injecting, probably heroin, although there is no evidence of this in the toxicology report. Her veins were still viable. There is evidence of early stage gonorrhoea. Her estimated age is between fourteen and sixteen.
    Michael cried as he gave evidence. But no-one 67 asked if he’d been taking drugs so no-one ever knew. After the accident, his family and friends had drawn a circle around him, offering help and advice. His first reaction had been to accept his culpability and take whatever punishment was his due. On hearing this, his mother was distraught.
    ‘Why on earth would you want to do that? It won’t bring the girl back. You always react so extravagantly when something goes wrong. Vic, speak to him.’
    His father leaned forward.