case. Of all people on this earth I could’ve had a car crash with … Jesus Christ!’
‘Please stop shouting.’
‘I’m not shouting.’
‘You are!’
And something unexpected occurs. Jim laughs. His whole face looks so different when he cracks a smile; less pale. I catch onto his infectious tickle and here we are, together, laughing until I get a stitch and Jim chokes, coughing up part of what he describes as a ‘hangover’. We sigh, long and hard, my high pitch against his low. I pull my stripy top over my hands and wipe my cheeks, dirty mascara marks smudging the white cuffs. I remember the rip in my pinafore and touch it.
‘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.