am officially broke. What had I been thinking? Blowing such an obscene amount of money in just one night? Yeah, I’m sitting on the edge of fifty grand, but it’s not in my hand – or my bank – yet.
I must be way over the limit. Yet driving feels acceptable because some amount of sleep has occurred between the bender and now. However, if the police pull me over …
It’s almost noon. I’m going to have to swerve my Big Mac, which makes me want to weep. Griffo’s dad lives on the Wirral next to a golf course, meaning that to get there, I have to pass through work; the Mersey Tunnel. God, I really need some sunnies. Even the darkest cloud in the sky is too bright for me today: my bed is calling my name; my curtains eager to be closed. How fantastic it’ll be to wake up tomorrow, rested, sober and fifty grand in credit.
Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ is playing on the radio. The urge comes over me to take a deep breath and sing. It distracts me from the stale alcohol fizzling along my veins, saves me from throwing up. My voice is huskier than usual, more effort required to get the notes and words out, but it feels good.
The entrance to the tunnel is fast approaching.
How strange to be doing this, driving my own car towards it, into it.
Immersed within the tunnel, the radio crackles, signal lost beneath the River Mersey. I stop singing and decide to concentrate. The darkness of the tunnel and its artificial lights are adding to the intensity of my hangover and I have to prepare myself for the daylight that’ll hit me any moment.
Boom.
I glide towards the toll booth, the very one where I answered the unknown number yesterday morning. Gayle Freeman is on the booth. It’s not until I throw my change into the bucket that she recognises me, her eyes and mouth resembling bright marbles in my rear-view mirror.
The Wirral seems sunnier than Liverpool. Patches of grass in the centre of the oncoming roundabout greener, tarmac smoother. Traffic is sparse, tranquility on the other side of the water. The radio signal is clear again, Elbow’s serenade returning, their epic ending going on and on, sounding divine through the nine speakers.
‘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