better, because … well, I didn’t want to feel alone in my car. How stupid is that? I thought that by singing – and crying – that I would somehow feel, well, not alone. Anyway, I’m sorry.’
The guy turns, looks at me. For a sharp moment, his gaze slips and falls upon my scar, silently asking – as most strangers do – How did that happen? Then, our eyes meet again. His, pale grey, have a tinge of blue; a contrast to my oversized brown ones. He doesn’t quite have a beard, but there’s more than just stubble, as if he always has the look of needing to shave.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
‘I guess we all make mistakes,’ he says, a faint smile appearing from one side of his mouth, less strange than before. Quite pleasing, actually.
I hold out my hand. The guy takes a step closer, accepts.
‘We should contact my insurance company,’ I sigh. ‘My phone’s in the car, unless, could we use your phone? Sorry.’
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
‘Dead.’
I’ll have to get my phone from my car, but as I inhale, my hand stays gripped to the guy’s. Our eyes lock tight, and I can see a red rawness surrounding his, so I squeeze his hand further. As if the wind has just changed, my heartbeat picks up its pace.
The guy tries to pull away, but I keep my grip.
‘Say something else,’ I say.
‘Y’what?’
‘Say something else. Keep talking. What’s your name?’
‘Jim. Why?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘Let go of me hand!’
A realisation dawns on me. I release Jim’s hand and pull away.
‘Jim?’ I say. ‘You’re drunk.’
I know too many guys like Jim.
Of course this Jim guy has been drink-driving. With a flashy car like that, wow, he must believe he’s invincible. No harm could ever touch darling Jim, could it? If Jim wants to get all boozed up and spin his wheels, let him. Jim makes up his own rules.
Like every other fucker.
I don’t want to look at Jim a moment longer. But, I have to hold his gaze. I have to win this one.
‘I’m not drunk.’
‘You are. You’re wasted. I feel like I’ve just inhaled an entire shot of whiskey.’
‘Look, love. I’m not drunk. I’m just a bit hungover.’
‘A bit hungover? Oh, come on. And after I apologised like that. It was your fault. You slammed on your brakes.’
‘Don’t start all this again.’
‘I’m calling the police.’
‘And tell them what? A drunk guy reversed into your car at a quiet junction?’
‘Awesome idea, yes. I think I’ll say exactly that.’
Jim’s eyes shrink, hatred boring through his pupils. His pale skin must squeal at the sort of sun I’m used to, thousands and thousands of miles away from this spot of tarmac. The bitter air between us hangs still.
‘You know what?’ Jim says, breaking the silence. ‘Go ’ead. Phone the bizzies.’
And he bends over, catching his hands on his knees, and bows his head. I wonder whether he’s going to be sick, but there’s no retching, no coughing. Instead, just a man defeated. He’s admitting his mistake, taking responsibility. How noble. Giving him a hug suddenly feels like the most natural thing to do. I edge closer, reach out my hand and hover it over his back.
‘Please,’ he says, his head still low. ‘Let’s just get this over with. I’m done.’
I’m done.
What does he mean, he’s done?
Then again, there’s no point in trying to work out the logic of a drunk person. Perhaps he, too, had a bad night. Probably lost a heap of cash at some casino. Or maybe his wife has kicked him out. He’s not wearing a wedding ring.
Focus, Zara.
I turn my attention to the small mountain of mess so carelessly thrown into the smashed-up little Peugeot. How am I going to get all of that stuff back to Heathrow without a car?
I could dump the mop. That would help.
No.
I open the driver’s door and slip into the seat. Turning the key, I try to start the engine, but it cuts out, again and again. I honk the horn by accident, then lay my head onto the wheel, a dead weight.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jim flings my door open and grabs my arms, ripping the strap of my denim pinafore, dragging me out. He starts yelling something about the dangers of trying to start a vehicle in the state it’s in. ‘One minute you wanna get me done for drink driving and now you wanna fuck off and pretend nothing’s happened? You’re a mental