‘THROW THOSE CURTAINS WI-IDE …’
I approach the roundabout and cruise around it, another coming up ahead.
A silver people carrier whizzes past, coming so fast out of nowhere that I’m relieved to brake in time at the junction. Pangs of dehydration shoot through my skull. I want water – no, a Coke – so, so bad.
Then, just as I manoeuvre into first gear, I feel an outrageous force.
The shock jolts me forward and I stall. What the fuck?
My knees empty, a hollow sensation. Attempting to gather myself, I feel my palms become sweaty, yet my hands are cold, shaking. Adrenaline is shooting through my whole body, the panic pounding in my already aching head. It’s cushioned by the sudden appearance of the inflatable airbag. I raise my eyes to glance in my rear-view mirror.
I can’t work out the make of the car.
Small, perhaps a hatchback, maroon.
Some sort of wooden pole is sticking out of the sunroof and the whole bonnet is too close to the boot of my car. Far, far, far too fucking close. The driver is still inside, but the driver’s head is planted down onto the steering wheel.
No. Please, please, NO!
I have crashed.
Just moments away from Griffo’s dad’s house.
PART TWO
11
Zara
I hear a crass swear word or two.
‘What have I done?’ I whisper to myself, repeating the words over and over.
I lift my head upright, open my eyes wide. A mist floats between where I’m sitting and the car in front. The driver’s door is swung open and I realise the swearing must be coming from the driver himself.
Thank God he’s alright.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asks, knocking on the windscreen.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What’s your name, love?’
I wind down the window.
‘Zara Khoury.’ Why I give my whole name, I’ve no clue. If anything, I should have given a fake name.
‘Zara? Can you feel your legs?’
‘My legs?’
‘Yeah, can you feel your legs?’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Why are you asking me if I can feel my legs?’
‘That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘Who’s they?’
‘The paramedics.’
I can feel my legs. Unless I’m hallucinating? That’s what happens in Grey’s Anatomy, isn’t it? The crash victim is lucid, talking, laughing, lucky to be alive. But the reality is the opposite; they are actually moments away from going into cardiac arrest, or the victim looks down and sees that her legs aren’t even attached to her body any longer, they’ve been sliced off in the crash and are lying in the middle of the road.
No. I’m okay. Shaken, yes. But definitely okay.
The other driver is bending towards me, his arm through the open window as he reaches down and opens my door. I take a deep breath. This guy is being kind, he is rescuing me even though this is my mistake, my fault.
I know I should say sorry.
But I don’t.
Why can’t I just admit to being wrong, apologise and calmly try to sort this mess out like any other adult? I’m lucky. My Peugeot, already in a sorry state, doesn’t look much worse than before the crash, but a collision like that could have easily sent me flying through the windscreen. A scar already sits beneath my right eye, burnt into my cheekbone, doesn’t it? Worse things can happen than admitting to your mistakes.
‘Give me your hand, love,’ the guy says. What he’s saying is helpful, but he doesn’t sound helpful. His hand is reaching out to me. ‘Come on. Zara? You need to get out of this car.’
‘Why?’ Of course I have to get out of the car.
‘’Cause it’s dangerous.’ He has a very strong Scouse accent, stronger than Nick’s. Each word is meaty, full of flavour. ‘And unless you can’t move, Zara, and I need to somehow call an ambulance, then you need to get out in case – I dunno – the cars burst into flames or something.’
‘What?’
I leap out of the car and run to the other side of the road, watching our smashed-up vehicles through splayed fingers. My car does not explode into flames. Nor does the guy’s. I allow a moment to self-check. No pain. Good. The guy also seems completely unharmed. Pissed off, but unharmed.
‘Christ, I thought you were seriously injured,’ he says.
‘I’m okay,’ I manage.
He isn’t coming near me; rather he’s backing away. It’s hard to make out how old he is, or what he really looks like, his brown shaggy hair masking his face as he sits down on the sidewalk a good distance away from me. His legs are long, his knees pointing to the sky like arrows through his ripped jeans. He’s staring ahead at his car through strands of hair, motionless.
I really want to say sorry. I mean, this guy has fallen victim to my personal mess, hasn’t he? I was unfocused, too emotional to be driving. I straighten up and decide to break the silence, to apologise.
But. Panic rises. Fear takes its hold.
‘You slammed on your brakes,’ I find myself saying, accusing. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘It was your fucking fault!’ the guy cries out.
‘No, it wasn’t. It was an accident,’ I attempt.
‘So it was MY fault three seconds ago, but now it was an accident?’
‘Don’t speak to me like this. You don’t know me.’
‘No, I don’t. Thank fuck.’ The guy pauses, then spits. How appalling.
Then, he lifts his hand, his finger now pointing right at me, like the tip of a knife.
‘And actually,’ he scowls, ‘I do know you.’
‘What? How?’
‘I know that you’re the fucking idiot who smashed up me car.’
‘You slammed on your brakes.’
‘Girl. That’s a lie. An outrageous lie.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘How did you not see me? Are you gonna tell me you’re blind now?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m not stupid. I’m livid.’
‘God, stop shouting!’
‘I don’t normally shout, you know. I never raise me voice.’
‘Well, you’re certainly raising it now.’
‘I don’t care.’ And the guy releases some sort of feral howl, lifts his fist and punches it hard into his other hand, repeatedly. ‘You’ve fucked everything up.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like none of your fucking business.’
I dare to smile. ‘Don’t worry. Your insurance will cover all this.’
‘No. Your insurance will cover all this.’
‘Your face is so red.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve never had a stranger speak to me like this before,’ I cry.
‘Well, it must be fucking wonderful being you.’
‘You’re horrible. You’re actually horrible.’
‘No, you’re horrible,’ he snarls. ‘For ruining … everything.’
‘Please stop shouting. You’re gonna lose your voice.’