Survivorship Bias

CW: Car accident / Fire / Infant death

We were just outside Birmingham when I decided to get more comfortable. We had a Peugeot 505, a big boxy beast of a thing, with eight seats and a heavy-eyebrowed glare on the front. More than enough room for five people – well, six, if you count Alice, who wasn’t really much of a person. I sprawled myself across the back row of seats. I’d managed to nab a couple of beach towels for a blanket. I could just about lie flat if I tucked my knees up a bit. But it wasn’t going to be easy to relax. I was no good at relaxing in cars even before all of this happened. It was always tense in the car, even when we’d all had enough sleep. On this day we’d all been up since 5am, the tension was building in the air like the gas frothing from a 

- Soda Stream -

and I was waiting for that violent blast of sound that told you to pull away before the bottle shattered.

We had to get to Heathrow for 8, to get on a plane at 11, and all for a holiday I’m not sure any of us really wanted to take. One time I asked why we were going, and Mum said it was because it was August, and we could afford it, and I should just shut up and be grateful for both of those things. So I tried, but all I really managed to do was never mention my misgivings again.

The two rows of seats in front of me held a grumpy hum of low-level anger. Mum and Dad, both chain-smoking, sat arguing in sotto voce, as though it would somehow hide the tension from us. Nathan was holding Alice and unhappy about it. Stephanie, on the other side, had eaten an entire family-sized bag of 

- Opal Fruits -

and started to feel sick. This meant the inevitable argument in which Mum said it was the sugar that was making Stephanie feel sick, and Stephanie said it was all the smoke, and Dad wanted to know who the hell cared whether it was the sugar or the smoke, we’d already stopped twice, and he paid an insane amount for air conditioning in this car, and he wasn’t about to go opening windows and letting the cold out. And that would be it. Stephanie would pipe down. We’d all have to hope she didn’t throw up, or if she did, she gave us enough warning for Dad to pull onto the hard shoulder.

Nathan was angry that Alice had to sit on his lap, when Stephanie was right there, and she was older and everything. But it was His Turn, and if you knew anything about my parents, you knew that you never could argue about it being Your Turn. But Nathan did get to slouch and wriggle around over two seats. He was holding the baby, and that gave him certain rights, as long as he managed not to wake her up.

I was just about to fall asleep, when another argument started because Stephanie wanted to put some music on. It was a

- plastic cassette tape -

which she’d managed to sneak out of the house, somehow, without our parents noticing. She’d recorded all the tracks from the radio using her ancient 

- Fisher Price cassette player  –

and that wouldn’t have been so bad except that Stephanie only really liked 

- Kylie Minogue -

and was constantly demanding that the tape be fast forwarded to the next of her songs, which took an age of stops and starts and rewinds. Stephanie knew what she wanted to be when she grew up, and that was Kylie Minogue. She had the

- bright pink legwarmers -

And she was always pestering Mum to let her get a perm, but Mum wouldn’t have it. Mum always said Stephanie wasn’t Kylie Minogue, and she’d have to be some other damn thing by the time she grew up, because by then nobody would care about Kylie Bloody Minogue anymore. Then she asked the two of us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and said it better be more sensible. I said I wanted to be a zookeeper. Nathan said he wanted to be a teacher, which surprised me because I’d never heard him say it before. Mum looked at the two of us, back and forth, pursed her lips and said, “We’ll see.”

So I can’t say anyone encouraged Stephanie for a moment, but she was always set on being a musician one day, and drove us all to distraction “practising” on her

- Casio keyboard -

though in truth she never did much more than press the demonstration button and plonk about on the keys with one finger. 

Mum and Dad never liked having music on in the car. Maybe it was because it meant they couldn’t hear their own arguments. They always said it was because they preferred the sound of 

- Vinyl records - 

They used to put those on like it was some kind of ceremony, Mum sitting down with her glass of wine, and Dad with his beer, listening and smoking. One time Dad fell asleep in his chair to some particularly soothing Elgar, and the cigarette fell on the armrest and the whole thing went up in flames like it was soaked in paraffin. I can remember the fumes to this day. That was the biggest fight Mum and Dad ever had.

The service station had the new “super unleaded” petrol which all the adverts insisted was just as good as leaded. Dad said it was just an excuse to drive up the overall cost of petrol, and our car would never take it anyway. Not a damn thing wrong with lead in petrol. Been like that for decades, and he was still alive, right? So he filled up with four-star as he always had, and as he went to pay, he called over his shoulder that we didn’t have time to get out of the car and stretch our legs. But then Alice started to cry, so Mum grabbed her and went off to get her changed, and we all made a break for it. We hurtled towards the brightly-lit building ahead like we’d been released from a cage. Which, I suppose, we had.

We knew we’d be in trouble, but the call of freedom overwhelmed all three of us. The air around us was almost fresh, with just the slight heaviness of sun-baked tarmac. The shops inside sat bright and fresh in the glare of gently-humming strip lights. For one fleeting moment the wild hope of luring Dad to buy us all milkshakes at the 

- Little Chef -

took over. It would never happen. Sometimes you know not to push your luck by even suggesting it.

Stephanie stood at the entrance to a WHSmith, looking longingly at the rows of

- slap bracelets -

although I’d never seen the point of them myself. They’d always seemed to be one of those inherently disappointing gifts, like the 

- space hopper -

which I’d been given for Christmas, and dutifully bounced on a couple of times before falling headfirst into the mud. I’d thrown it in the top of my wardrobe and left it there to deflate sadly.

Nathan was eyeing up the games arcade, as if there was ever going to be 

- Pac Man -

But even back then, it was mostly fruit machines. If Nathan went near those, he’d be in trouble, and no amount of “but all the other kids were playing on them” would work. He’d once taken Mum’s purse and steadily fed £10 in 20p pieces into fruit machines at an arcade in Blackpool. He was convinced he would hit the jackpot. Didn’t get a penny. By the end of this little binge, he’d been surrounded by a load of sleazy-looking old men trying to give him tips on their own techniques for winning, while he stood there with tears splattered down his face.

Mum came back through the service station, holding Alice, and saw us one by one. We knew when to cut our losses. Nathan tried to claim he’d suddenly realised he needed to pee, and we all cursed ourselves for forgetting to say that before.

We were bundled back into the car. I pulled the stiff lever and dragged Nathan’s seat forward to clamber into the back row. The ancient crisp crumbs ground into the back of my sweaty thighs as I dragged them over the grey-green tweed cushions. Everything inside the car felt grey and stale. There was more to the greyness and staleness than the smoke in the air and perpetual powdering of ash on every last damn thing, but I don’t know what. It was as if a gloomy filter was cast over the world. Or at least, that is how I remember it now.

Dad gave us all a lecture, which none of us listened to, finishing up with, “And they’ve got seatbelts in the back seats over there, and you’re all going to wear them or you’ll get me in trouble, you hear?”

Mum was trying to argue with Stephanie about who would be sitting with whom on the plane,  and Stephanie was saying she was practically an adult now, and should be able to sit in the non-smoking section away from Mum and Dad, since the smoke made her sick anyway. She went as far as claiming she had asthma, but she never did. I think she’d learned about that one from a boy at school. For some reason, every kid was claiming to have asthma at the time. Primary schools have the weirdest fads.

I couldn’t think of anything much besides how boring the plane would be. I had my

- Etch-a-sketch -

with me, but I was already bored with it, and we weren’t even on the plane yet. A long car journey, followed by a long plane journey, followed by another long car journey. A constant grumbling that we should be grateful, because this holiday had cost a lot of money and it was all for us. As if holidays were more fun than staying at home, in my own room, with the door closed, with books and toys and

- The Legend of Zelda -

on the NES. The three of us had saved all of our pocket money for a whole year to buy that machine. It was the only thing we’d ever worked together on.

Mum and Stephanie were still arguing when Alice started to cry again. Dad started yelling at Nathan to just calm her down. Hold her properly. There’s a bottle in the bag somewhere, forget it, give her to your mother, I said give her to your mother-

I felt the car wrench off course, and when I peeked over the top of the seats in front of me I caught a glimpse of Dad’s elbow trying and failing to turn the rigid steering wheel to correct it. A hideous, gasping crunch of metal fighting metal. The wheels locked, juddered, locked again, a great slamming stop-start. The tyres screamed. The acrid stench of burning rubber hit me like a physical blow. 

More smoke.

Different smoke.

So much smoke.

Time became too fast for anything to change, and too slow to pretend it wasn’t happening. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. Perhaps that’s because I was only seven years old and didn’t yet have enough of it to flash. It did occur to me that I might die, and never become a zookeeper after all, but I was strangely calm about it. Oh well, I gave this whole life thing a go, anyway. No need to make a fuss.

I saw the glint of colours as cars shot around us, avoiding our car by inches. I saw the barrier hurtling towards us. I couldn’t judge the distance, except to know that there wasn’t enough of it. Without even knowing why, I curled up in an upright ball, elbows on knees, hands on the back of my head, and I waited that interminable half a second.

You might have expected a bang, or perhaps a crunch, and I’m sure they happened. But forgive me. My memory from here on is snippets, like freeze frames. At times it’s closer, brighter, realer, than you sitting there now. Between those snippets, though, there is nothing. I don’t remember the sound of the impact. What I remember was a scream that curled around it, clutching, squeezing. The tyres, the brakes, the steering, all failing at once with a great impotent howl. Mum screamed too. Alice hadn’t stopped screaming.

As we hit the barrier, the suitcases laid flat behind me slammed into the back of my seat. I lurched forward and my face smashed into the squishy head of the

- Rainbow Brite -

doll which I had shoved into the pocket on the back of Stephanie’s seat.

I felt the momentum of Alice flying out of Nathan’s arms and into the windscreen, heard the crash and crunch of glass breaking.  I can’t have seen the impact from where I was, and yet, I am certain I remember seeing it. Our memories are duplicitous swines when it hurts us the most. She was wearing a pale pink babygrow with 

- Care Bears -

on it. Or maybe that’s just what my mind filled into the gaps, when it tells me I remember. 

Do I remember?

I don’t know.

I don’t want to remember.

And then the screams stopped. Mum was silent. The car was silent. Alice’s scream fell into a quiet keening cry, and then nothing.

And then Dad yelled, “Get out! Get out of the fucking car!”

Stephanie threw open the door, and Nathan sat there, frozen, blinking at what was in front of him. She turned and grabbed his arm, yanked so roughly that he clutched at his shoulder in pain. But it jerked him out of his reverie and he scrambled after her. Holding hands for the first time I could remember, they ran. I fumbled with the lever, tilted the seat, rammed it forward as hard as I could and sprang over and out the door, running towards my brother and sister. 

I got no more than thirty feet before I turned and looked back.

The Peugeot’s snarling face was like crumpled paper against the barrier, its rear end wide across the hard shoulder and into the left lane. I felt desperately sad for it, even as the rest of my emotions failed to register at all.

It took less than a minute for another distracted driver to slam into the back of the Peugeot, and that was when the smoke really took hold. Moments later, a small wispy flame rose from the ground beneath the car. Slowly but inexorably, it snaked its way up and around the doors in a horrifying embrace.

It’s a myth that crashed cars explode. If a fire starts, it starts small. But it builds fast, taking the flesh and sinew off the car, until only a steel skeleton is left. 

I didn’t see the car fully engulfed. 

I don’t think I did. 

I don’t know. 

The start of the fire is where my memory ends. 

There was only smoke in my mind from then on. Smoke followed me into the ambulance, and sat with me in the hospital while I was examined. Smoke lay in the creases of my grandparents’ faces when they came to collect us. I don’t remember getting in their car, or arriving at their home; it was smoke that took me there, and put me to bed, and left me to sleep in, and brought me new, hastily-bought clothes I didn’t like. I don’t remember any of it.

I don’t really remember them telling me what had happened. I only remember that when gaps in the smoke finally appeared, I had already been told.

Fuelled by adrenaline and desperation, Dad had crawled twenty feet along the hard shoulder with two broken legs. He was in hospital for six weeks. He had four reconstructive surgeries on his face, which had been brutally smashed when it rammed into the steering wheel. The surgeon did a good job, but Dad never looked the same again, even after the surgeries.

I had a few bruises but I was otherwise uninjured. 

Stephanie broke a wrist when she held out her hand to brace herself against the seat in front. 

Nathan was physically unhurt, but it was another six months before he spoke again.

Our grandparents told us Alice would have been dead before the fire started, and if Mum had been alive, she was unconscious by then. They didn’t burn. They didn’t suffer. I believed this because I wanted to. It was good to have the option. Alice and Mum were buried together. Grandad said that would be nice for them, and I said I didn’t think they’d care very much, because they were dead, and all in all it would be better for both of them if they weren’t. Then Grandad said that they were with the angels. I told him I’d heard the arguments between Mum and Dad, and I knew Grandad never wanted Mum to marry his son, and now he didn’t have to worry about it anymore, because they weren’t married anymore, because she was dead. 

He said nothing more about angels.

Dad came to the funeral, and Uncle Dave wheeled him around. He said nothing, and his face was concealed beneath a shattered mess of bruises and bandages. He might as well have been a mannequin. When it was done, he went back to the hospital. We went back to Grandma and Grandad’s house, and Grandma placed a dinner in front of us which nobody ate. 

And because it had been a difficult day, we got to have dessert, which Grandma had picked up specially for us. I haven’t looked at

- Viennetta -

since then. Do they still sell it?