by Hayley Doyle
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 into cardiac arrest, or the victim looks down and sees that her legs aren’t even attached to her body any longer, they’ve been sliced off in the crash and are lying in the middle of the road.
No. I’m okay. Shaken, yes. But definitely okay.
The other driver is bending towards me, his arm through the open window as he reaches down and opens my door. I take a deep breath. This guy is being kind, he is rescuing me even though this is my mistake, my fault.
I know I should say sorry.
But I don’t.
Why can’t I just admit to being wrong, apologise and calmly try to sort this mess out like any other adult? I’m lucky. My Peugeot, already in a sorry state, doesn’t look much worse than before the crash, but a collision like that could have easily sent me flying through the windscreen. A scar already sits beneath my right eye, burnt into my cheekbone, doesn’t it? Worse things can happen than admitting to your mistakes.
‘Give me your hand, love,’ the guy says. What he’s saying is helpful, but he doesn’t sound helpful. His hand is reaching out to me. ‘Come on. Zara? You need to get out of this car.’
‘Why?’ Of course I have to get out of the car.
‘’Cause it’s dangerous.’ He has a very strong Scouse accent, stronger than Nick’s. Each word is meaty, full of flavour. ‘And unless you can’t move, Zara, and I need to somehow call an ambulance, then you need to get out in case – I dunno – the cars burst into flames or something.’
‘What?’
I leap out of the car and run to the other side of the road, watching our smashed-up vehicles through splayed fingers. My car does not explode into flames. Nor does the guy’s. I allow a moment to self-check. No pain. Good. The guy also seems completely unharmed. Pissed off, but unharmed.
‘Christ, I thought you were seriously injured,’ he says.
‘I’m okay,’ I manage.
He isn’t coming near me; rather he’s backing away. It’s hard to make out how old he is, or what he really looks like, his brown shaggy hair masking his face as he sits down on the sidewalk a good distance away from me. His legs are long, his knees pointing to the sky like arrows through his ripped jeans. He’s staring ahead at his car through strands of hair, motionless.
I really want to say sorry. I mean, this guy has fallen victim to my personal mess, hasn’t he? I was unfocused, too emotional to be driving. I straighten up and decide to break the silence, to apologise.
But. Panic rises. Fear takes its hold.
‘You slammed on your brakes,’ I find myself saying, accusing. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘It was your fucking fault!’ the guy cries out.
‘No, it wasn’t. It was an accident,’ I attempt.
‘So it was MY fault three seconds ago, but now it was an accident?’
‘Don’t speak to me like this. You don’t know me.’
‘No, I don’t. Thank fuck.’ The guy pauses, then spits. How appalling.
Then, he lifts his hand, his finger now pointing right at me, like the tip of a knife.
‘And actually,’ he scowls, ‘I do know you.’
‘What? How?’
‘I know that you’re the fucking idiot who smashed up me car.’
‘You slammed on your brakes.’
‘Girl. That’s a lie. An outrageous lie.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘How did you not see me? Are you gonna tell me you’re blind now?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m not stupid. I’m livid.’
‘God, stop shouting!’
‘I don’t normally shout, you know. I never raise me voice.’
‘Well, you’re certainly raising it now.’
‘I don’t care.’ And the guy releases some sort of feral howl, lifts his fist and punches it hard into his other hand, repeatedly. ‘You’ve fucked everything up.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like none of your fucking business.’
I dare to smile. ‘Don’t worry. Your insurance will cover all this.’
‘No. Your insurance will cover all this.’
‘Your face is so red.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve never had a stranger speak to me like this before,’ I cry.
‘Well, it must be fucking wonderful being you.’
‘You’re horrible. You’re actually horrible.’
‘No, you’re horrible,’ he snarls. ‘For ruining … everything.’
‘Please stop shouting. You’re gonna lose your voice.’
The guy turns his back to me. ‘I can’t even look at you.’
‘Why? Because I’ve made you late for some sort of lucrative business meeting?’
Well, that’s shut him up. The guy falters, takes a step back.
‘How did you know?’ he asks, still unwilling to face me.
‘The car.’
‘What about the car?’
‘Only flashy businessmen drive cars like yours.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah,’ I sigh. It’s so obvious. ‘And you’re really scruffy.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
A cold breeze circles around us and I fold my arms across my chest. The guy is scratching his shaggy head, perhaps impressed, or taken aback, by my sharp intuition. At least that’s one thing I can be proud of.
‘So how does me being scruffy make you think I’m a flashy businessman?’ he asks. ‘Don’t I need a suit? A poncey briefcase?’
I tut, roll my eyes. ‘No, they’re fake businessmen.’
‘Y’what?’
‘The ones with the real money go to meetings in their scruff.’ I start to walk towards him, but the guy flings out his arms signalling for me to keep my distance. ‘They’re the owners of the companies – or their dads are – which is most likely your scenario. Am I right?’
‘Spot on.’
‘You’ve got so much money you don’t need to care about your image. But you want to be seen driving an awesome car, because you can.’
He twists around to look me right in the eye. He has pale grey eyes, like unpolished dia
monds. There’s a flicker, a glint. ‘You’re some sort of expert in this field, are you?’
‘I know a thing or two.’ I shrug.
‘Can you stop talking now?’
‘Because I’m right?’
‘Because you’re giving me a fucking headache.’
I know a thing or two about businessmen. My papa is one.
The kind who wears the smart suit and carries the briefcase and always wants a better car: he’s somebody else’s bitch. He spends his time complaining about how many hours he’s worked compared to the CEO who drives around in his BMW and never shows up on time to meetings; never dresses appropriately.
‘Why don’t you just quit?’ I once asked. I was about sixteen. The newly shaped Khoury family were out eating dinner together – a rare event – whilst on a long weekend in Sri Lanka, a short flight away from our residence in Dubai.
‘He can’t quit, Zara-Baby,’ Marina, my papa’s wife, said.
No matter how many times I asked politely for the hyphenated ‘Baby’ to be dropped from my name, Marina, a six-foot-tall Russian blend of beauty and severity, chose to ignore me. So I just died a little inside every time I heard it. Thank God I didn’t spend much time with Marina or I would’ve been fully dead by the time I was seventeen.
‘He has responsibility. He has family now.’
‘He’s always had family,’ I said.
I could never bring myself to think of Marina as my stepmom. Still can’t. It’s not because of anything tragic. My own mom is alive and well, living in the States, busy painting watercolour landscapes of lighthouses and baking cookies. No, the real drama is more excruciating, more soap opera. Marina is only seven years older than me.
‘Can’t you just get another job, Papa?’ I asked.
He sipped his beer, sucked on a marinated prawn.
‘Zara-Baby, life is not easy,’ Marina said, just as Sammy started to throw a tantrum. I stood up, on instinct wanting to take my baby brother into my arms, cuddle him and give him his bottle, sing the song about the dog called Bingo. But before I could get to him, my papa told me to sit back down and clicked at Lulu, our Filipino maid, who was eating dinner at the table behind us. Marina took Sammy from his highchair, his chubby legs kicking away, and kissed his forehead before passing him to Lulu.
‘Goodnight my precious Sammy-Baby,’ Marina said.
‘Night, Sammy Bear,’ I said. ‘Night, Lulu.’
‘Listen, Zara,’ my papa said, wiping his mouth with the napkin. ‘You don’t understand because you haven’t had to work hard for anything. You’re going to have to find a good man to marry who will take care of you. And if you don’t manage that, what are you going to do?’
‘I’ll take care of myself.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll get a job.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’ll try different things, see what makes me happy.’
‘Wrong.’
‘Okay, well, maybe I could illustrate books, you know, for kids?’
Marina laughed, sipped her wine.
‘And I’d like to eat croissants and sit on the cobbles of Montmartre writing my memoirs, but hey, I live in the real world,’ my papa snapped. ‘Zara, some people are born into money. Some have to work for it. Now, you might think you were born into money—’
‘I don’t.’
‘Don’t interrupt me. People like us, we have to work for it. The nice villa we live in, your school fees – and don’t get me started on what it cost me to send you to that boarding school – it’s my job that pays for all that. Without my job, what would you do?’
I could feel a mosquito tickling my ankle.
‘Papa, I just meant that you always seem unhappy. You’re on a plane more than you’re at home, you work long hours, you hate your superiors. You’re a smart guy, so why can’t you get a different job? Something that makes you happier?’
‘I told you, it pays for everything. End of conversation.’
A gentle breeze whistled through the balcony of the resort restaurant. I gulped my juice.
‘Well, Marina could get a job,’ I said. ‘And that would pay for all her beauty treatments.’
‘I have a baby to look after,’ Marina laughed.
‘No, you don’t. Lulu looks after him.’ I turned to my papa who was now using the napkin to dab his forehead. ‘It’s just a suggestion, Papa. But that would save you some money, wouldn’t it?’
I was more than aware that I should have kept my mouth shut. Within moments, I was alone at the table, my papa and Marina choosing to go for a walk without me. I was told I could order dessert and put it on the room tab. Instead, I swigged the remaining dregs of my papa’s beer, Marina’s wine.
The next and final evening of the trip, our little Khoury family did not eat out together. Marina went to bed early with a headache. My papa met a colleague at a nearby resort for a business dinner. I sat with Lulu as Sammy slept in his cot, doodling on my homework and wondering if I would ever know where I belonged.
At thirty, almost thirty-one, years old, I still don’t know where I belong. It certainly isn’t on the approach of a roundabout somewhere in between towns in the north west of England with this scruffy guy and his pompous car.
We haven’t spoken for a while.
I’m not good with arguments. They never fuel any sort of fire within me, just leave me feeling as though I want to break down into tears. But, I’m holding it together, perhaps still in shock at causing a crash, destroying this guy’s car.
Yes, I did cause it. There’s no escape from that.
It’s time to own up, to get on with the inevitable.
Turning my head, I look across to the guy. Oh my God. He’s quite literally shaking. He didn’t seem like the type to cry, but what do I know? He looks on the verge of a meltdown. Maybe if he was short, overweight, a bit sweaty and spotty, I’d be more comfortable with him being upset, but this man is – in all honesty – handsome. Rugged, even. His clothes are a mess, and yet they hang off his body at all the right angles. I should stop gawping.
Plenty of cars have driven past since we crashed. All drove slowly around and went about their business, leaving the situation between me and this guy firmly between me and this guy.
Another car appears. It slows and the window winds down.
‘Everything alright?’ the woman asks me. The guy’s still staring into the ground. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘We’re fine,’ I find myself saying. ‘Thank you.’
The fewer people involved, the better. It’s going to be a tiring ordeal as it is, having to take responsibility for this mess, no doubt pay for damages. I hate myself for contemplating asking my papa to help. I could call him, now. No. I absolutely will not ask my papa to help. I can fix this on my own.
‘You sure?’ the woman asks.
‘We’re fine,’ the guy says. He gives a strange smile. Just one corner of his mouth moves, the other remains tight with anger. Then his head slowly drops back down and the car drives off.
Here we are, back to where we were.
I shiver. It’s bitterly cold and my pathetic excuse for a coat is still on the passenger seat of the Peugeot. The north of this country is so damn bleak, way more than the south.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I say, walking towards the guy, offering my hand.
But, he doesn’t accept, doesn’t move.
‘It was my fault,’ I go on. ‘Completely. I’m really sorry I tried to blame you. I could make an excuse for myself and say I was scared. I mean, I was. I am. Scared. But, it was so wrong to try and pin any blame on you. I drove into your car because I wasn’t concentrating on the road ahead. In fact, I was crying. I had a terrible day yesterday … and then I tried to sing along with this stupid song on the radio because I thought it might make me feel 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 sor
ry.’
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.’