‘Get out.’
‘What?’ We’re on the outskirts of Eastbourne.
‘There’s a bus stop, just there. Or you can ring Mark to come and pick you up.’ Her foot rests on the clutch; her hand on the brake. She’s crying now. ‘It was never meant to be like this, Anna. I never meant anyone to get hurt. I never meant for you to be involved.’
I don’t move. ‘I’m not leaving you.’
‘Please, Anna – it’s for your own good.’
‘We’re in this together.’
She waits a full ten seconds. Then, with a sound that is midway between a cry and a moan, she releases the handbrake and carries on driving.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know you are.’ All those years of mopping up my tears and sticking plasters on my knees, and now I am the strong one. It’s Mum who needs me. I wonder if this metamorphosis has taken place only because of the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves, or whether this is the natural progression of women as they move from daughter to mother.
We drive in silence, except for Ella, who has progressed from fractious squawks to full-blown wails.
‘Can we stop again?’
‘We can’t.’ Mum’s checking the rearview mirror again. And again.
‘Just for five minutes. She won’t stop if I don’t feed her.’
Mum’s eyes flick from the mirror to the road and back. She’s seen something.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a black Mitsubishi behind us.’ She presses hard on the accelerator and the burst of speed pushes me against my seat. ‘It’s following us.’
FIFTY-THREE
When you spend your life selling cars, you learn how to handle them.
Foot hard against the floor. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy. Seventy-five …
A sharp corner. One, then the other. We’ve both taken it too wide. I see the terrified look of the oncoming driver, the jerk of his hands as he swerves from our path.
Into the next bend, tapping the brakes but using the gears. Changing down, down, down. Spinning the wheel and then flooring the accelerator till it feels as though the back end of the car is going faster than the front.
The gap narrows.
My pulse races so fast I can hear it above the roar of the engine, and I lean forward as though the movement will make a difference.
Cat and mouse.
Who will win?
Driving fast means thinking fast. Reacting fast. Not skills that an alcoholic has – even a high-functioning one – and it’s just another reason among many that I’m glad I quit drinking.
It was easy, in the end. No AA meetings, no therapy, no intervention from well-meaning friends.
Just you.
The look in your eyes when you fell to the floor that night. It meant nothing at the time; it was just another fight. Another punch, another kick. It was only afterwards, when I remembered your face – saw the disappointment, the pain, the fear – that I finally understood what the drink had made me do to you.
No. What I’d done to you.
I’m sorry. It’s not enough, and it’s too late, but I’m sorry.
I’ve slowed down. I need to focus. I grip the steering wheel; force my foot back down.
How did it come to this?
I want to rewind; undo my mistakes. I’ve messed up. Spent our entire marriage thinking about me, and now look at us.
What am I doing?
I can’t stop. I’m in too deep.
Anna.
She’s there – in the back seat. Ducking down, trying to stay hidden. I catch a glimpse as she peers up to look out of the back window. Trying to see without being seen.
Failing.
I never wanted to hurt her.
It’s too late.
FIFTY-FOUR
ANNA
I twist in my seat. Behind us is a brand-new Mitsubishi Shogun, a steady hundred yards away, but gaining. The windows are tinted – I can’t see the driver.
‘Is it him? Is it Dad?’
I’ve never seen my mother like this. Shaking with barely controlled fear. ‘You should have got out. I tried to make you get out.’ She looks again in the mirror, then yanks the wheel to the right to avoid a discarded piece of bumper lying in the road. My stomach lurches.
‘Concentrate on driving.’
‘Keep down – he might not have seen you. I don’t want him knowing you’re with me.’
I respond automatically to my mother’s instructions, the way I always have, unclipping my seatbelt, pulling my legs to one side and leaning over Ella’s car seat. Mum pulls a sharp left and I brace myself against the car door, sliding across the top of Ella’s seat. She lets out a cry of alarm and I try to soothe her, but my heart feels like it might seize up, and my ‘shhh, shhh’ is more hysterical than her own wails. The backs of my knees are wet with sweat, my palms hot and clammy.
‘It’s still following!’ Gradually, my mother’s air of control is disappearing, cracking to reveal the same blind panic I feel surging inside me. ‘And getting closer!’
Ella’s cries intensify, each scream building in volume and pitch as she tunes in to her grandmother’s hysteria. I have one hand planted on the inside of the door, the other on the back of the driver’s seat. Within the semi-circle of my arms is Ella, screaming inches from my ear. The sound finds my left eardrum and departs with a ringing that offers no let-up as she draws breath for another cry. I pull my phone from my pocket; swipe to unlock it. There is no option left but to call the police.
‘Drive faster!’
Another lurch to the left, swiftly followed by a right turn that loosens my grip around Ella’s car seat and sends me into a painful heap on the floor on the opposite side of the car. My phone shoots under the passenger seat and out of arm’s reach. Mum floors the accelerator and I crawl back up to wrap my arms around Ella’s seat. I move my head up, not wanting to see him, my father, but unable to stop myself from looking.
Mum screams at me. ‘Stay down!’
Ella stops crying, jolted into silence, then draws breath and screams again.
In the rearview mirror I see tears stream down Mum’s face, and like a child who only cries when she sees her mother’s mask slip, I lose it too. This is it. We’re going to die. I wonder if Dad will ram the car, or push us off the road. If he wants to kill us, or keep us alive. I brace myself for impact.
‘Anna.’ Mum’s voice is urgent. ‘In my bag … When I knew I’d been found, I was so scared I …’
Another sharp turn. Squealing brakes.
‘I never planned to use it – it was insurance. In case …’ She stumbles. ‘In case he caught up with me.’
Still half lying across the back seat, my feet braced against the passenger seat and the door, I open the bag by my feet, root around in the clothes I saw her packing just an hour or so ago. It feels like a lifetime.
I snatch back my hand.
My mother has a gun.
She turns the wheel like she’s at the dodgems. My head slams against the car door. Ella screams. I swallow, tasting vomit in the back of my throat.
‘A gun?’ I’m not touching it.
‘I got it from the man I rented a flat from.’ The effort of keeping the car on the road forces her words out as though each follows a full stop. ‘It’s loaded. Take it. Protect yourself. Protect Ella.’
There’s a squeal of brakes as she takes a bend too fast. The car spins out – skids left, then right – before she takes back control. I close my eyes. Hear the gearstick, the pedals, the engine.
A sharp left. The top of my head jammed against the door, the handle of Ella’s car seat pressed into my chest.
The car slides to a juddering stop.
And there’s silence.
I hear my mother’s breathing, tense and ragged. I move my face until my lips are touching my daughter’s, and swear silently to her I will die before I let her come to harm.
I will die.
Would I use the gun? Slowly, I reach for it. I feel the weight of the grip in my hand, but I don’t lift it.
Protect yourself. Protect Ella.
Would I kill my own father, to save my daughter? To save myself?
I would.
I screw my eyes shut, listening for a car door. For the sound of Dad’s voice.
We wait.
‘We’ve lost him.’