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.
‘I presume you’re going the airport?’ he asks.
I nod. This is highly irresponsible of me.
‘John Lennon or Manchester?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Which airport?’
‘Oh …’ It hadn’t occurred to me to book a flight from anywhere other than Heathrow.
Jim slots the second suitcase into the back seat, rocks it to test its stability, then shuts the door.
‘Is that everything?’ he asks.
‘Not quite,’ I say, making one more trip over to my car, my attention on the last remaining item. It’s still sticking out of the sunroof. I should leave the mop with the Peugeot – it’s redundant. Then again, I could have easily left the mop behind at the hostel. So why didn’t I?
Well. To leave it here is accepting that it’s over.
And I can’t.
Crouching, I remove the mop. The aviators clatter to the ground and I bend down, picking them up and placing them on the mop’s head to bring it to life once again. In the shades, I see my own double reflection. My scar. The damp weather makes my hair look so dull, so dark.