They knew you from your driving licence. No one else could tell who any was and only one could scream in that crushed wreck. There were five, you are alive, but two are dead. At half-past five a doorbell in the dark: Policeman. Do you have a daughter? Name Elizabeth? We do. The news is bad. Go quickly, it is bad. There were five, she is alive but two are dead. A rag-raid, round the pubs, for charity. Five in a mini in the driving rain. Head-on collision with a heavy lorry. Lucinda screamed and screamed but no one came and four were silent. There were five, three are alive but two are dead. I rinse the blood and vomit from your clothes. Stripped off you, I unroll them to reveal more of the story. Lumps of pizza, bits of soggy crisp, thirty-three p falls into the sink. How glad I am that I can scrub your jeans, not burn them. You are alive, but there were five, and two are dead.