‘Are you listening to yourself? For Christ’s sake, Stephen.’
‘I know how it sounds, Gareth, but I’ve been seeing her. I think she’s coming for me.’
‘Okay. Look, I have a few things to do. Let’s hook up later,’ Gareth said.
‘Yeah. I need to sleep. Come over later. See ya, mate.’
Gareth spent the rest of the day indoors. He tried to revise, but struggled to take in the notes and diagrams. After a while, he went to the window and glanced down at the car he’d stolen last night. He had to do something. So he showered and dressed then flicked through the telly channels, scanning one trash programme after another. He contemplated a box set, but his mind was too addled.
He was unable to stop thinking of Marette, the lecturer and what he’d seen. Christ, why did I do it? Why couldn’t I have driven home when I left the class? Minded my own bloody business?
Gareth was too exhausted by stress and fear to take control of his terrified mind and in the end it shut down and he fell into a deep, merciful sleep.
Gareth woke at just gone 4pm. He jumped up and went to the window. The dark blue BMW was still there. For a second, he’d hoped someone had come for it. He took the keys from the kitchen worktop and went down the two flights of stairs to the car park.
Outside, he stopped at the corner of the building, making sure there was no one around. He glanced at the vehicle parked in the bay marked number four, the disabled badge on display on the dashboard. A small scooter in bay three; the elderly owner rarely came out anymore. Gareth remembered his wife had died a few months back and he seldom left his flat. He’d knocked the door a few times to check the elderly widower was coping, but he never answered.
Once he was sure he could get into the car without being seen, Gareth opened the driver’s door and sat inside. Now it was daylight he could see that the car was immaculate, much cleaner and tidier than his. It looked like the owner was a careful person and proud of their car. But it smelt like something had gone off, the slight whiff of rotting meat hung in the air. They’ve dropped a sandwich under the seat, I bet. He didn’t have time to look for it now.
He reversed out of his space and onto the road. Right, let’s get this car back onto its driveway, and I’ll pick up my car and–
As Gareth pulled onto the main road he realised that he had no idea where he had left his car, and no clue which suburban driveway he had taken this car from. The only thing he recalled was the US style mailbox.
The flashy BMW had started immediately and was a smooth, luxurious drive. But he felt a sharp longing for his own blue Volkswagen Golf. It was old and on its way out. Dr Norris had rammed it, so it was probably damaged. But it was his car, and he’d be able to drive it without guilt, without fear.
He turned left and drove towards Stephen’s flat. Stephen, with his background of buying scrap, may know how to get rid of an unwanted car. And he owed Gareth a massive favour.
His mind was distracted. He felt guilty, but he couldn’t remember where he’d snatched the vehicle from, the house, the road, what part of town.
Paranoia had set in, and Gareth worried what he’d say if he was pulled over. The police would have a field day.
He slowed as he drove along the main road, trying not to look conspicuous, edging the brake to let cars out from side turnings and being over-polite. He found himself scrutinising traffic lights, always acutely aware of pedestrians who might step onto the road.
He turned on the radio, hoping the music would soothe his nerves. But he still felt sick – knowing he was driving a stolen car… and that smell was getting worse. He opened the windows. Gareth had to get rid of this car. He turned various plans over in his mind.
Suddenly, he found himself turning into the block of flats where Stephen lived. He struggled to remember how he had got here, like he’d been transported through time.
Stephen lived on the ground floor of a small block of flats, mostly occupied by elderly folk. Gareth pressed the buzzer and waited to be let inside.
‘Whoa. You look like death,’ Stephen announced. He was standing at the front door, wearing tight jeans and a loose black T-shirt.
They hugged, and Stephen stood to the side of the door to make way for his best mate.
‘How are you feeling, if it’s not a dumb question?’ Gareth asked. He sat on the sofa, taking in the small living room with the oversized telly in the corner, photographs neatly aligned on a low shelf and a stack of eighties comic books resting under a coffee table.
‘I’ve had better days.’
‘I need your help, Stephen.’
‘Go on.’
‘Last night was horrible. I don’t know what came over me. So much happened. I’m struggling, mate, and need you to do me a favour.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I want you to get rid of the car I came here in.’
Stephen’s eyes were confused, empty and lacking emotion. ‘Can’t you take it back?’
‘No. I can’t remember where I took it from. I can’t do it, I can’t drive or function at the moment. My head’s so confused with everything that’s happened and I’m struggling to think straight. I need your help. I’m desperate.’
Stephen stood up. He sighed, letting Gareth know he wasn’t happy with the request. ‘You’re suffering with the shock. I get it. Look, rest up here and I’ll drive the car somewhere. I'll call you to come and get me when it’s done. Where are the keys?’
Gareth leant forward, removing the keys from his front pocket and dropped them on the table. ‘Not a word about this to anyone. I need it gone.’
Stephen opened the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. The smell almost knocked him out – a mixture of shit and rotten cabbage. ‘What the hell?’ He opened all the windows, then stood outside.
It felt like his lungs were infected, drowning inside his body. He waited by the car until fresh air washed through it, then sat back inside. He looked over the vehicle, thinking where to dump it. He wondered if this would come back on him. Was Gareth asking a little too much?
By the time the smell had dissipated enough that he could drive the car, he had decided to dump it in the woods.
Jack was pacing the floor. It was gone 11am, and Lydia was still asleep.
In a way, it was a good thing; he still hadn’t thought of anything to tell her about the car. He’d have to play along when she noticed, make out he knew nothing about it being taken. This posed a threat. If she reported it, Jack would have to tell her about the body still being in the boot. He’d have to tell her he didn’t have time to retrieve Chloe and that the grave he’d dug was empty.
His mobile rang, making him jump. Jack looked at the number, realising it was Dana.
Shit. This is all I need.
He answered with a bright, cheerful voice. ‘Hey, Dana. Did she come home?’ Jack already knew the answer.
‘No. That’s why I’m calling. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I’m worried. She’s never done this before. What am I going to do, Jack?’
Like a teacher writing a maths equation on the board at the front of the classroom, asking the pupils to work it out, put their hand up and give the answer when they knew, Jack had the information. He knew what had happened to Chloe, but he didn’t know how to answer Dana. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s not like her. She was fine at work; she never mentioned anything was wrong. Chloe was her usual, ambitious self,’ Jack answered.