it off, falling asleep in complete darkness, which means Jim must be in there. I sit bolt upright in bed, my ears sharp to welcome the shuffle of a towel, the flush of a toilet, the dripping of a tap, but I hear nothing. His pillows are on the carpet, a few bath towels discarded at their side. The room is etched with stillness, not a human sound other than my own breath.
The clock tells me it’s nine forty-three. Wrapping the duvet around myself to keep warm, I get up and circle the room. Jim wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. But there isn’t a sock or a shoe or a pair of jeans here that belongs to anybody other than me.
Jim Glover has gone.
And I’m back to being where I should be, on my way to the airport.
PART THREE
26
Jim
The luxury of choice wasn’t available. There was no deciding whether to stay, whether to go. I could only go. And Christ, I didn’t want to wake Zara up. She’d slow me down.
It’s nine in the morning. I’ve passed Birmingham, the Saturday-morning quiet giving me a much-owed favour. The minibus is hanging in there, pushing seventy, hitting eighty with a rattle. And so what? I’d take another busted vehicle into my responsibility if it means getting back to Liverpool in record time.
‘Come on,’ I will the accelerator.
Of course, Zara wouldn’t mean to slow me down. She’d only ask questions because she cares, probably would’ve poured me a glass of water, held out my fleece to help me into it, and, well, get smack bang in the middle of me having to make a swift exit. All of this would’ve taken time. Time which I don’t have.
Why am I so far away from Liverpool? Why? Of all nights to be away from home, why this one? I’m never away from home, never. The motorway’s beginning to feel like quicksand, dragging me under. If only I could see its ending.
Hurry, hurry, please.
And God, how my neck aches when I move it slightly to the right. Ouch. A never-ending ripple of creaks and crunches patters down my spine as I twist, stretch, trying to iron out the stiffness engulfing me. I slept on the floor last night. It was only fair that Zara got the bed to herself. She’d paid for the bloody thing.
Sixty-nine miles to Liverpool.
Come on, hurry.
When I finally got Helen off the phone – not an easy task since she was a) crying and b) pissed as a fart – Zara was fast asleep, tucked up in the bed beneath the duvet. I stood for a moment, watching her, that sweet face cuddled into a pillow, her pink lips slightly parted, her breath light. Her scar was hidden behind a curtain of her hair and I felt the urge to sweep it out of the way, stroke her cheek, but I didn’t want to frighten her. Bloody hell, we’d almost got off with each other. What’s more, I wanted to. I think. Maybe it would’ve been the final piece to the mind-boggling puzzle that was yesterday, but I’ll never know now.
Helen had called me from her mate’s house, an unknown number. She’d been fighting with Snowy – again – and wanted me to pick her up in my BMW.
‘That’s impossible, Hels.’
‘Nothings i-poss-ble, Jimbo.’
‘Me car’s in the pound.’
‘Liar.’
‘I’m not even in Liverpool, love.’
‘Fucking LIAR.’
And so on.
If Helen had used her own phone, would I have answered? Or would I have let it ring out? Would I have kissed Zara? I recall my stance, how I’d bowed my head, angled it to the left a bit, leant in. My lips were a second away from touching hers, maybe less.
But the moment was missed.
Gone.
All that remained was the floor, beckoning me to sleep. I woke up around six, nature calling. On instinct, I checked my phone, on silent after Helen’s call. There were four missed calls, all from an unknown number, and thank God, a text message from Snowy.
Jimbo. Pick up your phone. Your ma’s in the ozzy.
I wanted to tell Zara I had to go. I did, honestly.
I’m going to be honest, right. I hated her at first, for obvious reasons. Then I resisted liking her until, hand on heart, it became completely impossible. But the rush of pleasure she’d made me feel smacked me in the face like a harsh, cold gust of wind. I’m needed at home. Urgently. Yet this morning, I was more than two hundred miles from home, from my