Right.
I’m not saying I’m a paragon of virtue myself, but I honestly don’t think I’ve ever broken the speed limit, at least not by more than a mile or two. I mean, we have pedestrians and cyclists to navigate, we have kids in our care; there are traffic lights and crossings every two minutes and most of us have cruise control on our cars: when is the situation ever so frantic that you can disregard all that? And does five miles an hour, ten miles, even twenty, really make such a difference to your arrival time? Is it really worth risking a catastrophic outcome?
But I guess most speeders aren’t thinking about outcomes.
They leave outcomes to other people.
Bram, Word document
No, the catastrophically wrong decision was not to conceal the ban. The catastrophically wrong decision was to ignore it. That’s right, I’m admitting it formally: I defied a court-ordered driving disqualification and continued to drive.
If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be in this position now.
Of course, at first I’d told myself it would be just one journey. It was a Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks after I’d appeared in court, and I was in trouble with Fi for having an especially bad hangover when I was supposed to be fresh for the weekend’s janitorial duties. She was demanding I take the garden waste to the recycling centre and, sod’s law, it was the only time in months there’d been a parking space right outside our door, so I couldn’t just lug the stuff out of sight and ditch it in someone’s skip.
Fi even came out to the car with me, issuing additional instructions. ‘Just swing by Sainsbury’s on the way back and pick up dishwasher tablets and some more milk. Oh, I forgot! Leo needs a gumshield for PE on Monday. They’re starting hockey. Can you go to that sports shop on the South Circular?’ Under her scrutiny, I got into the vehicle I’d been forbidden by law to operate, turned on the ignition and drove down Trinity Avenue to the junction at the Parade. Through muscle memory rather than conscious thought, I drove to the recycling centre and then I drove to Sainsbury’s and then I drove to the sports shop. I held my breath a few times but at no point did the sky fall in.
So I just kept driving. Essential trips only, I hasten to add, unavoidable family chores or work client calls that were impossible to manage by public transport. I hadn’t driven this timidly since I was a seventeen-year-old learner in my neighbour’s Fiesta. Speed limits: check. Red lights: check. Not a bumper over the parking line, not a hazard light flashed, not a cyclist cursed.
Once, when I looked in the rear view, I saw there was a patrol car behind me and I almost went blind with fear. I considered pulling over, just parking in someone’s drive and waiting till the coast was clear, but at the next set of lights, the police car indicated left while I kept going and I was glad I’d held my nerve.
When the bird’s nest scheme was proposed, I knew there was no way I could stop. ‘How is this going to work if we can’t both drive?’ Fi would demand. ‘You know what weekends are like, with swimming and playdates and visits to the grandparents. Maybe we should forget this whole idea.’
No, I had no choice but to brazen it out until the end of the ban.
This is how criminals think, I see now. We tell ourselves other people have backed us into a corner and we’re simply reacting, co-operating, surviving.
And we’re so convincing we believe it.
10
Friday, 13 January 2017
London, 1.30 p.m.
Murder. Assault. Rape. The kidnapping of our infants. They’re real crimes.
Who was it who said that? Alison or Kirsty, perhaps. Whoever it was, Fi remembers there was laughter.
Lucy is touching her arm, cautiously, as if she expects Fi to rear up and hurl her chair through the window. ‘You need to stop crying. I know this is overwhelming, but we have to stay calm and start contacting people who might be able to help. Is there anyone else your husband might have made plans with? Or asked to look after the boys? A relative or a babysitter?’
Her mother. Of course, she had been going to try her before she phoned the school! She snatches up the phone again, selects the number, speaks the moment the ringing ends and before her mother can say hello: ‘Mum, thank God! It’s me.’
‘Fi? Are you crying? What’s—’
‘Bram’s taken the boys out of school and his phone is dead. Are they with you?’
‘Bram’s what? No, they’re not with me, of course they’re not.’ Another smooth, reasonable voice, just like Lucy’s, just like Sarah Bottomley’s. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be away with your new man?’
‘I came back early. Bram’s disappeared and taken the kids.’
‘Don’t be silly, why would he do that? Have you tried Tina? She might know where they are.’
Bram’s mother. Still working full-time but always happy to swap shifts and help out if given enough notice. He spoke to the school ‘a few days ago’; whatever he’s doing with the boys has been planned and he’s more likely to have involved his mother than hers.
She cuts off the call and rings Tina’s mobile, again crying into the phone the moment she connects: ‘Tina? Do you have any idea where Bram is?’
‘Is that you, Fi? Yes, he’s at the house today. I thought you agreed that? Is anything wrong?’
Is anything wrong? The dismay that her obvious ignorance causes is brutal. Useless, Fi wants to scream, you’re all useless! It takes a Herculean effort to keep her voice steady. She doesn’t want Lucy intervening again and speaking for her. ‘He’s not at the house, Tina. I’m at the house.’
‘You’re back from your trip already? Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter why, but I need to find Bram urgently, so if you have any idea where he might have gone, you have to tell me.’ Losing the battle, she begins to sob again, sees Lucy’s grimace of concern. ‘He’s taken the boys out of school and I don’t know where they’ve gone and there’s a—’
‘Fi, shush a moment,’ Tina interrupts. ‘They’re here. The boys are here.’
‘Say that again?’ Did she hear correctly over the roar of her own fear, over the thumps of the removals team on the other side of the door?
‘They’re with me, right here, watching TV. I wasn’t supposed to phone you until later to ask about getting them back to you in the morning.’
‘Oh, thank God. They’re staying with you tonight? Is that what Bram’s arranged?’
‘Yes, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Of course, yes, thank you.’
She’s aware of Lucy’s shoulders going slack with relief. This isn’t going to be that story then, the worst, but can go back to being this one, the one about the house. She stands and reaches for the kettle. Tea making can finally get underway.
Fi wipes her eyes with a square of Lucy’s kitchen roll. In spite of her relief, she remains rigid with anxiety. ‘Why aren’t they in school, Tina? Are they okay?’
‘They’re fine. Bram just thought it would be easier for them not to go in. And I doubt he’s far away, so if I were you I’d get out of the house before he sees you.’
What on earth is she talking about? ‘Tina, please listen to me: there’s a crisis here. The house has been completely emptied and Bram’s phone is out of service and there’s a woman who says . . .’ Fi stops, can’t repeat it, it sounds so absurd: who says she’s bought my house.
‘I know all about that.’ Tina’s patience is exaggerated, a sign of impatience in her. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise, Fi.’
‘What surprise? Will you please tell me what’s going on!’
‘The redecoration. Isn’t it obvious? Poor Bram, he’ll be upset you’ve arrived before it’s finished. Maybe you should go to the flat, ask the decorators not to let on you’ve been there? Or you’re welcome to come over here. Shall I tell the boys you’re home early?’