I'll never forget that day as long as I live. I'm a middle ranking civil servant at the Department of Health in Whitehall, and I was in a policy meeting with several high-ups and a junior minister when my mobile phone rang. Withering under the glares of everyone else in the room I mumbled an apology and scuttled into the corridor. Dragging the phone from my pocket I snapped "What?"
There was nothing but static at the other end of the line. I was just about to tell the stupid bugger who'd fucked up my day what to do with their phone when a strangled female voice said "Dan? It's Steve – he's had an accident."
I barely recognised my sister-in-law's strained tones. Momentarily confused I said, "Cathy? Is that you? What sort of accident? Is he okay?"
She barely whispered, "No, he isn't. Sorry, I've got to go, there's a nurse saying I've got to switch off my mobile."
Starting to feel a sense of dread I snapped, "Fuck her. Where are you?"
Cathy just had time to say "The Royal Surrey" then the line went dead. I stared dumbly at my phone, feeling the blood drain from my face. At that moment my boss Barry, a no-nonsense Glaswegian, emerged from the conference room and stalked towards me. "Danny, for Christ's sake..." He stopped when he saw the look on my face.
Feeling as if I was hearing someone else speaking, I said, "My brother's in hospital. It sounds bad. I've got to go."
Barry can be a hard bastard to work for but I've never known him not to come through for his people. He nodded. "Aye, course you have son. I hope everything's okay."
As my taxi splashed its way through the wet London streets I thought about Stevie. My big brother – eight years older than me. He and Cathy had been childhood sweethearts, married at 21, and now with a six-year old son called Josh. At 27 I was still footloose and fancy free, more or less. Steve and I looked a lot alike – a fraction over six feet tall, a mop of brown hair, angular faces with high cheekbones. I'm slimmer than him these days; I used to wind him up about the onset of middle-age spread, like it was some sort of degenerative illness. I felt the acid burn of tears in my eyes as I wondered if I'd ever do that again. What a prat, I thought angrily – the sill sod's probably just broken his arm or something.
When I got to the hospital it took me ten minutes to find Accident and Emergency. The moment Cathy saw me she flew into my arms and buried her head in my chest, sobbing. She was too upset to tell me what had happened. After a few minutes I gently sat her down and an exhausted looking young doctor took me to one side. "Mr Preston's had a fall and he's unconscious. He's got multiple fractures and internal haemorrhaging. It's his head injury that worries us most though. His skull's severely fractured and there's little sign of brain activity. Of course, it's early days but I'm afraid Mrs Preston may need to steel herself for the outcome."
The doctor didn't know the full details of the accident, but just then Steve's colleague Charlie Wheeler showed up with two plastic cups of grey coloured tea for himself and Cathy, and he explained to me what had happened. They work in a paper mill, and Steve had gone head over heels down a steep metal staircase outside his office, which is suspended on the wall of the building like a swallow's nest. He'd landed on the narrow walkway below the steps, suspended from the rafters, but had somehow slipped under the guard rails and had smacked into the concrete floor 30 feet below. I felt physically sick just thinking about it. The works had closed down for the day, and two women who'd been near Steve when he landed had been treated for shock.
When Charlie and I rejoined Cathy she'd recovered some of her composure. She hadn't been able to bring herself to call my parents, so I broke the news to them. They were with us within a half-hour. For the next six hours we sat there, none of us talking, Dad and Charlie going outside for a smoke occasionally, till a nurse told us that there was unlikely to be any immediate change to Steve's condition. We were all dog tired and emotional, and Dad drove each of us home, then took Mum to pack a bag so she could stay with Cathy for a while. For the next three days there were no developments. I was like a zombie at work but Barry, bless him, watched my back for me. On the fourth day my phone rang before five in the morning. I was immediately awake, instinctively knowing it couldn't be good news.
"He's gone, love." Mum's voice sounded faraway and dreamy - I wondered if she'd taken some sort of medication. "The hospital just phoned. Stevie passed away about half an hour ago. A heart attack apparently. There was nothing they could do." Then the tears started. It was too early for public transport so I rushed down to Streatham High Road and took a cab. When I got to Cathy's home Mum greeted me at the door and the three of us just sat and hugged and cried for a while. The next couple of weeks were hard. Dad and I sorted out the funeral arrangements and Cathy's death benefits from Steve's pension, and I talked to a compensation lawyer for Cathy. At the same time I had three big projects at work all coming to a head. Every night I got home shattered yet unable to sleep properly.
