Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘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 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.

  When I was a kid, he made me pay for snacks from the kitchen cupboard with my pocket money. ‘You can’t always get what you want for nothing,’ he would say as I handed over a few coins from my little beaded zip purse in exchange for a bag of Cheetos.

  No. I cannot ask him.

  Self-loathing rises in me, and I begin writing a text. I use different language for every contact in my phone; some get xxxxx at the end, some get a crude one liner that displays friendship more than a string of hearts. I can swap numbers with a new buddy in a bar and get the messaging banter perfect the next day. Yet, having known my father for thirty whole years, I still don’t know how to message him. It’s the simplest of requests; call me asap.

  Hovering around Hi there, Papa, I hear my name.

  ‘I was testing it out,’ Jim shouts over, his window sliding down, referring to his car.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To see how the engine runs.’

  ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘It’s boss. Except for the fuckup called the boot.’

  Jim gets out and opens all the doors of the BMW except for the crumpled-up trunk. He’s right. It is a fuckup. What used to be a slick behind is now an ugly mess. The once smooth, shining edges are now dull, jagged and scratched, and although my bonnet got a bashing, the dint doesn’t look that out of place, unlike the angry dints on Jim’s car.

  Despite the bitter weather, Jim is sweating. He lifts the bottom edge of his t-shirt up to dab his brow. There isn’t an ounce of fat hiding beneath his s
kin. No sculpted ab muscles either. I bet he eats like a king and works out like a sloth. He cups his hands to his mouth and breathes into them, following with an unpleasant sniff.

  ‘Delightful,’ I mutter.

  Jim sighs. ‘I stink.’

  ‘Again. Delightful.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m wasted.’

  The urge to do a little victory dance is almost too much, but I don’t budge.

  ‘Please don’t call the police,’ he says.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Not today. Please, not today.’

  Then, Jim opens the trunk of my Peugeot and begins to unload. With minimal effort, he lifts both suitcases and wheels them over to his car. Returning, he collects more of my things, slinging my canvas tote bag over his shoulder and struggling with the broken holdall.

  ‘Christ, what the hell’s in here?’ he asks.

  ‘Toiletries, electronics – you know, laptop, charger—’

  ‘I don’t actually wanna know.’

  ‘So why did you ask?’

  ‘Are you gonna stand there and watch, or give us a hand?’

  One of my sketches flutters from the bag and I manage to catch it with both hands. It’s a personal favourite, of the mop wearing shades and dancing on a disco floor, a glitterball spinning above its ‘head’, with a little white cat dancing beside it, arms outstretched in the ‘Night Fever’ pose. I scrunch the sketch up into a little ball, embarrassed for having even bothered to sharpen the damn pencil in the first place. I’m totally stumped. My entire life is slung on some random British roadside.

  ‘Grab the rest of whatever you need,’ Jim says. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘A lift? You mean a ride?’

  He doesn’t respond. He’s rotating a suitcase and angling it on the back seat. I heave the holdall up, sliding it behind the passenger seat. Jim won’t take me all the way to London, will he? He’s drunk. He’s a stranger. There’s no way this can end well. A luggage tag falls from a suitcase handle and he picks it up.

  ‘I presume you’re going the airport?’ he asks.

  I nod. This is highly irresponsible of me.

  ‘John Lennon or Manchester?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Which airport?’

  ‘Oh …’ It hadn’t occurred to me to book a flight from anywhere other than Heathrow.

  Jim slots the second suitcase into the back seat, rocks it to test its stability, then shuts the door.

  ‘Is that everything?’ he asks.

  ‘Not quite,’ I say, making one more trip over to my car, my attention on the last remaining item. It’s still sticking out of the sunroof. I should leave the mop with the Peugeot – it’s redundant. Then again, I could have easily left the mop behind at the hostel. So why didn’t I?

  Well. To leave it here is accepting that it’s over.

  And I can’t.

  Crouching, I remove the mop. The aviators clatter to the ground and I bend down, picking them up and placing them on the mop’s head to bring it to life once again. In the shades, I see my own double reflection. My scar. The damp weather makes my hair look so dull, so dark. That damn balayage such a waste. Why did I fork out on a blend of expensive colours for nobody to care?

  Unless he does care.

  I never gave Nick a chance … I just presumed …

  Oh, God! I’ve presumed so much since yesterday and that’s all it is, a presumption. What if I’ve somehow been mistaken? There’s a reasonable explanation for everything, isn’t there? My interpretation of the situation could be completely wrong. And if there’s one thing I have, it’s time. My flight doesn’t leave until tonight. This mop will not be left stranded on a roadside with the blood-coloured car. It’s going to come with me and demand an explanation. I haven’t come more than four thousand miles with a heart filled with good intentions to have a door slammed in my face. This isn’t the end, it can’t be. There are answers to be found and there’s only one way to find them.

  I carry the mop to Jim’s car. To my surprise, he’s already opened the sunroof in preparation for its arrival.

  ‘I don’t want that mop marking the interiors,’ he says.

  This makes me smile, and the weight pressing me down since last night lifts a little. My hopeful heart is returning to its regular beat.

  ‘So, where do you need a lift to?’ Jim asks.

  I don’t mention anything about London or Heathrow airport. I don’t want to run away anymore. The crash has allowed me to stop, to pause, to gain clarity. There’s always good to come from bad. I follow enough influencers on social media to know they can’t all be wrong, they can’t all be telling lies about their balanced lives or simply pretending to be happy. Maybe they really are happy. And if they are, I can be, too. I refuse to be beaten. I’ll stay in Liverpool as planned, get the facts straight.

  Nick’s postcode is stored in my memory. Jim enters it into the BMW’s built-in navigation system. And back we go through the Tunnel.

  12

  Jim

  If you think I’ve got anything to say about this fucking mess, you’re wrong.

  I have no words.

  None.

  13

  Zara

  The journey through the tunnel is about as enjoyable as peeling my big toenail off. The radio signal crackles and fizzes, but Jim doesn’t bother to switch it off. His odour has become more apparent. The mop’s positioning isn’t tight, so it rocks from side to side creating an irritating tick. Jim shows no sign of wanting to strike up a conversation. And to top it all off, I really need to use the bathroom.

  When daylight hits us again, Jim stretches his long arm behind and grabs the aviators from the head of the mop. Confusing. I don’t know why he needs shades on the most miserable day of the year, but each to their own, eh? Why doesn’t he have his own designer pair? These aviators are super cheap rip-offs from Patpong night market in Bangkok, bought about four years ago and very obviously fake. It’s a miracle they’re still in use.

  ‘Got any change?’ he asks, holding his palm out to me.

  Taken aback, I fumble through my army jacket pockets and find a few pound coins. Jim snatches them from me and throws them into the basin, overpaying the tunnel fare. Then, he removes the aviators, tosses them into my lap and speeds off.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask, digging my nails into my seat.

  He doesn’t bother answering.

  ‘Jim?’

  I spot a cafe, demand he stops.

  ‘You need a double espresso,’ I say.

  ‘I won’t argue with that.’

  The cafe is more of a sandwich shop, in an industrial block of factories and offices. Jim sits down on one of two wooden chairs at the single table for customers, making it clear that I’m buying. Fair enough. I mean, he is giving me a ride. Most people are ordering meaty baguettes dripping with thick mayonnaise. I get one for Jim – bacon and egg – then plonk myself down onto an empty chair, placing two polystyrene cups of coffee on the table. I push the paper bag, leaking with grease, towards him.

  ‘For me?’ he asks, his eyes lighting up.

  ‘I couldn’t eat a thing.’

  He thanks me. Twice. He looks much nicer when he smiles. Although I’m horrified when he opens the baguette and drowns the contents with thin, brown sauce, squeezed from a brown plastic bottle that looks as though it’s been sitting on this table since 1972.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, taking myself off to the single bathroom.

  My hands are shaking. Yes, it’s cold, but my nerves are shot. There’s no mirror in here either, so I put the lid of the toilet seat down, sit and touch up my mascara, eyeliner, concealer and lip gloss using a compact. The frizz in my hair will just have to remain. There’s no winning against this drizzle.

  Jim hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Sure, he asked for an address, but hadn’t he presumed I was going to the airport? Maybe he thinks I’m going on vacation, that he’s giving me a ride to a friend’s house. It’s kind
of him not to ask about the mop – what bizarre excuse would I invent? That I’m going on a bachelorette weekend and the mop is part of a game? Or I guess I could pretend that I’m an actress and the mop is a prop for my one-woman show. One that I’ve written, of course. These musings are a damn good distraction for what lies ahead. It won’t be long until I see Nick again, perhaps within the next thirty minutes.

  I allow his full name to settle in my mind for the first time since last night. Nick Gregory. I recall his voice from our previous chats, smooth and drawn out, never in a rush to get anywhere. It’s different to Jim’s accent, only tickled Scouse around the edges of certain words. I need to give him the chance to explain. How unfair that I bolted off. He’s never seen me behave like that before. I wonder how I seemed? Angry? Disappointed? Childish? Any of those reactions would be enough to make him step back, give me space. If he’s done nothing wrong then I’ll struggle to forgive myself for spoiling what should have been a wonderful surprise. Not to mention what a bad judge of character I’ve been.

  Adding an extra coat of mascara, I pinch my cheekbones, an old-fashioned trick, but worthwhile. Answers are imminent. I might as well look my best – or as good as possible within the circumstances – when I get them.

  Jim is already waiting for me in his car outside by the time I emerge from the bathroom.

  ‘How do I look?’ I ask, pulling at my seatbelt.

  Jim shrugs.

  ‘Do I look different than before?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not better? Even slightly?’

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘You’re just saying that.’

  Jim says nothing.

  ‘Are you not wondering where I’m going?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Even though I told you I was going to the airport? And where we’re going isn’t an airport?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Glad to see the coffee has perked you up, Jim.’

  Six months ago, I was at a ladies’ night in Dubai with a group of girls for Katie’s birthday.

  Sixty-eight floors high, the rooftop bar – aptly named Sky High 68 – was a current hotspot for midweek partying. Large cushioned sofas created sociable L-shapes amongst small infinity fountains, changeable neon colours zooming from the one long bar. The music was more a series of calm, futuristic sounds playing alongside a monotonous beat, the zesty smell of shisha sprinkled through the hot night air like sweet sherbet, doing a fine job of masking the copious amount of cigarette smoke. Pink cocktails flowed, all free for ladies, of course. The place was a meat market.