‘Sorry about that …’ Jim points to the rip.
‘It’s okay. I’ve got a little sewing kit somewhere in one of my bags.’
‘And a broomstick,’ Jim adds, looking at the sunroof.
‘It’s a mop.’
‘I won’t ask.’
‘Good.’
A passing stranger might even believe we’re friends.
‘Jim,’ I say. ‘I know you’ve had a shock, so have I. The crash was frightening, horrible, and I wouldn’t wish this situation upon my worst enemy. Not that I have a habit of making enemies, and if I do, I don’t ever mean to. But, what I’m trying to say is, Jim, I need you to give me some money.’
‘Y’what?’
It’s the perfect solution. Jim’s recklessness caused the crash and I don’t have time to waste sorting out my car. I’ll just leave it right here, pile all of my belongings into a taxi and get to London. Courtesy of Jim. Then Jim can get on with his day however he wants. Buy a new car. Whatever.
‘I can’t take all that stuff on a bus or a train, it’s too much. I’ll have to take a taxi.’
‘And you’re expecting me to pay?’
I nod.
‘And you’re just gonna abandon your car and do a runner?’
‘Guess so.’
‘That’s illegal.’
‘I’m leaving the country. What does it matter?’
My plan had been to just dump the car at the airport, deal with any minor consequences of that another time, another day.
‘I haven’t got any cash on me,’ Jim says, reaching into his pockets.
‘Come on. Would you honestly rather I get the police involved? Tell them you’ve been drink driving?’
Jim growls and tugs at his hair. He takes a step back and looks at his BMW, walking the length of it and back again. With caution, he inspects the trunk, hovering his fingertips over the damage. Then, he bends down to look at the wheels. He repeats the same on the other side. Then he sits himself behind the wheel. What is he doing?
‘Come back,’ I cry, ‘or I’ll have to call the police.’
Jim starts the engine and an aggressive crunch emanates as metal separates from metal. Now all I can do is wait for him to leave me behind.
Not the most unfamiliar sensation.
Like that time I missed the boat back to Dubrovnik. I was the only single friend amongst couples, and at the harbor, I realised I’d left my backpack by the rocks where we’d all set up camp for the day. Thinking I had time, I ran back. The boat left without me and I had to pay an unimpressed guard a small fortune to take me back on a speedboat. The other couples thought it was so cute, so Zara. I thought they’d just left me behind. Then there was the whole family thing. My mom getting that new husband, and of course, that new daughter. And my papa getting that new wife, who gave him what he’d always wanted. That son. That takes being left behind to a whole new level.
And now, in Liverpool, the rain feels like vicious ice chips, spitting upon my frizzing head. I fish out my army jacket, not that it provides me with much warmth.
Jim is sitting, stationary, revving away.
Leaning against the undamaged trunk of my otherwise wrecked car, I scroll through the numbers on my phone. There must be someone I know who can help me out. Or is calling the police my only option? What would I say to them? ‘Oh, a drunk guy ahead of me halted and I drove into him …’
Papa.
My finger lingers over his number. Other than transfer a loan into my account, what could my papa do aside from be disappointed in me? On the other hand, I don’t even have an overdraft. What will happen when I reach zero? Perhaps a bit of extra emergency cash from my papa wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
When I was a kid, he made me pay for snacks from the kitchen cupboard with my pocket money. ‘You can’t always get what you want for nothing,’ he would say as I handed over a few coins from my little beaded zip purse in exchange for a bag of Cheetos.
No. I cannot ask him.
Self-loathing rises in me, and I begin writing a text. I use different language for every contact in my phone; some get xxxxx at the end, some get a crude one liner that displays friendship more than a string of hearts. I can swap numbers with a new buddy in a bar and get the messaging banter perfect the next day. Yet, having known my father for thirty whole years, I still don’t know how to message him. It’s the simplest of requests; call me asap.
Hovering around Hi there, Papa, I hear my name.
‘I was testing it out,’ Jim shouts over, his window sliding down, referring to his car.
‘What for?’
‘To see how the engine runs.’
‘Is it okay?’
‘It’s boss. Except for the fuckup called the boot.’
Jim gets out and opens all the doors of the BMW except for the crumpled-up trunk. He’s right. It is a fuckup. What used to be a slick behind is now an ugly mess. The once smooth, shining edges are now dull, jagged and scratched, and although my bonnet got a bashing, the dint doesn’t look that out of place, unlike the angry dints on Jim’s car.
Despite the bitter weather, Jim is sweating. He lifts the bottom edge of his t-shirt up to dab his brow. There isn’t an ounce of fat hiding beneath his skin. No sculpted ab muscles either. I bet he eats like a king and works out like a sloth. He cups his hands to his mouth and breathes into them, following with an unpleasant sniff.
‘Delightful,’ I mutter.
Jim sighs. ‘I stink.’
‘Again. Delightful.’
‘You’re right. I’m wasted.’
The urge to do a little victory dance is almost too much, but I don’t budge.
‘Please don’t call the police,’ he says.
‘But—’
‘Not today. Please, not today.’
Then, Jim opens the trunk of my Peugeot and begins to unload. With minimal effort, he lifts both suitcases and wheels them over to his car. Returning, he collects more of my things, slinging my canvas tote bag over his shoulder and struggling with the broken holdall.
‘Christ, what the hell’s in here?’ he asks.
‘Toiletries, electronics – you know, laptop, charger—’
‘I don’t actually wanna know.’
‘So why did you ask?’
‘Are you gonna stand there and watch, or give us a hand?’
One of my sketches flutters from the bag and I manage to catch it with both hands. It’s a personal favourite, of the mop wearing shades and dancing on a disco floor, a glitterball spinning above its ‘head’, with a little white cat dancing beside it, arms outstretched in the ‘Night Fever’ pose. I scrunch the sketch up into a little ball, embarrassed for having even bothered to sharpen the damn pencil in the first place. I’m totally stumped. My entire life is slung on some random British roadside.
‘Grab the rest of whatever you need,’ Jim says. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘A lift? You mean a ride?’
He doesn’t respond. He’s rotating a suitcase and angling it on the back seat. I heave the holdall up, sliding it behind the passenger seat. Jim won’t take me all the way to London, will he? He’s drunk. He’s a stranger. There’s no way this can end well. A luggage tag falls from a suitcase handle and he picks it up.