Run, Mummy, Run

by Cathy Glass

  Aisha steadied her breathing and concentrated on the tail lights in front, then without looking down, delved into her cardigan pocket for a tissue and wiped her nose.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked the children in the back. They were so low in their seats she could only see the top of their heads in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yes, are you?’ Sarah’s little voice faltered.

  Aisha nodded, then she braked lightly as the traffic slowed to join the High Street. Gradually her pulse settled. It was still very busy with late-night Friday opening and she continued up and down the gears, and past the shops. She was getting the hang of the gear changes now; it was astonishing what you could remember when you had to. The wipers were still going full tilt and she felt for the wiper arm and turned it down a notch so that they settled into a slower, more steady rhythm.

  ‘We’re going on the motorway to the monks’ house,’ she said. She hardly dared believe the words herself.

  ‘I’m cold,’ James murmured.

  Aisha glanced down at the dashboard, saw what she thought was the heating dial and turned it on. Warm air began to circulate round their feet.

  The High Street ran out and the first sign for the M25 appeared. The interchange was about a mile away and Aisha knew she wanted to head west. The road widened and the traffic began to gain speed and she changed up into fourth gear. She wasn’t sure where fifth gear was, but she didn’t need it now, she would worry about that later.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ James said.

  ‘Sshh, quiet,’ Sarah pacified.

  Aisha stared through the windscreen and concentrated on the road ahead, while her thoughts coursed between anger, astonishment and exhilaration at having got away. How dare he? How could he? How dare he lure her into the garage like that, make her believe in him and then attack her! What a fool she’d been, what an idiot, and not just now, but in all the years gone by. But somehow, miraculously, with the monk’s encouragement, she had got away – not only that but she was driving his car! His bloody precious car which she’d never been allowed to touch, let alone drive; a family car which had only ever left the garage with him in it. She bet he was angry, furious, pacing the garage and probably trashing the house. Just as well she wasn’t there to see it, she knew what he would do to her. But that was past now, history, and would never happen again. That she’d had to leave all their possessions behind, and the children and she only had the clothes they stood up in, didn’t matter. At the retreat she could telephone her parents, and once she’d explained what had been going on she was sure they’d help her. Now she’d escaped and was away from Mark she was already finding her thoughts were beginning to clear: thoughts, plans, and actions. Who knew what the future could hold, for now she’d made the decision to get away, all things were possible. Mark could have his car back later, when he was calmer and less likely to kill her.

  A large illuminated signboard appeared and the traffic began to slow. Aisha changed down into third gear, then second, and it didn’t jolt this time. She saw the roundabout ahead and remembered it from years ago when she used to drive – left to Heathrow and right to the Dartford Tunnel; she flicked the indicator to left. She had to concentrate hard now, to get onto the roundabout and then the motorway. She watched the red brake lights of the car in front, and the traffic coming from the right. The queue of cars gradually moved forwards, filtering onto the roundabout, and then it was her turn. She pulled onto the roundabout and then immediately turned down the first exit and onto the slip road to the motorway.

  They were gaining speed, the cars in front and behind, going down the slip road to join the fast-moving traffic on the motorway. With the indicator flashing and in third gear, Aisha glanced through her side window at the cars coming along the motorway to her right. They were going fast, very fast, and she couldn’t see a space on the motorway. One set of headlights seemed to follow another, but she kept the speed going – she knew she couldn’t slow or stop, but had to filter in. She felt a moment’s panic as the end of the slip road approached and there was still no sign of a space, then a van flashed and held back, letting her in. ‘Thank you,’ she said out loud, and gave herself a mental pat on the back – I’m doing well, she thought.

  The windows were misting up, but she’d no idea how to direct the air onto the windscreen, and she was going too fast to search for the dial now. Leaning forwards, she rubbed the glass with the sleeve of her cardigan and then glanced at the speedometer. The needle hovered on sixty, but it seemed much faster with all the cars and lorries, and the three lanes moving in parallel. She checked the mirrors, then somehow managed to find fifth gear. It was where it had been on her old car – the one she’d had before her marriage, a lifetime ago. Aisha touched her nose; she could still taste blood, but it had finally stopped bleeding. The front of her cardigan must be covered in blood and she probably looked a right state. But who cared? They had escaped, and she was driving, and when they arrived at the monks’ she would be able to wash it; everything was going to be all right.

  ‘OK?’ she asked the children, her voice nervously light. ‘You didn’t know Mummy could drive, did you?’

  ‘No,’ they chorused together.

  ‘Is there a radio?’ James asked, recovering slightly and hoisting himself up in his seat.

  Aisha felt for the radio dial and pressed the knob. It was preset to Magic, a popular London radio station, and the DJ was announcing the next song. An unexpected chart success, he said, which had gone straight to number one. An upbeat religious reggae tune settled beneath the rain and wind as Aisha concentrated on the car in front and those to the right of her in the middle lane. She remembered to check her mirrors every so often to see what the vehicles behind were doing. The conscious thought she was giving to this was like taking a driving test before driving became second nature.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the children after a moment. ‘I’m sorry for everything. You shouldn’t have suffered as you have. I promise I’ll make it up to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘You didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I should have acted sooner. All these years. What’s it done to you two?’

  For sitting here in the car and driving, a sense of normality had begun to return: an objectivity which was allowing her to view the past and see it for what it was. All that time, she thought, how could she have let them suffer? Yet it had taken a monk, and another brutal attack, to finally spur her into action. She had become petrified into acceptance and compliance. If someone had said to her a day ago, ‘Get in the car and drive,’ she would have said, ‘No, I can’t possibly; I’m useless, I’ve forgotten how.’ Yet here she was after all this time, driving as competently as everyone else. And if she’d got this far, and re-mastered this skill, who could say what else she was capable of? It was amazing what you could do when you had to; she had amazed herself, the children and probably Mark too.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ James said again.

  ‘It’s not too far,’ she said. ‘Only about twenty minutes. Once we’re at the retreat the monks will look after us. I’ll ask them for something to eat.’

  Aisha was almost certain which turn off the motorway she wanted and Radwood, the nearest town to the retreat, was sure to be signposted. But she couldn’t visualize the country lane the house was in. The bus would have approached it from a different direction, and in the dark and rain it would look very different anyway. There was no rush, she told herself, she could take her time and drive around if necessary, and if she still couldn’t find it, then she would stop and ask for directions – that would be the sensible thing to do. There couldn’t be many Buddhist retreats in the area, she thought. In fact when she’d looked in the phone directory, there’d only been two listed. She relaxed a little, and took comfort in her newfound ability to make rational, objective decisions and act on them, and her new ability to keep the children safe.

  The radio was playing S Club 7 now and their
old hit ‘Reach for the Stars’. It rang out, up-tempo in beat and uplifting in lyrics, and the words were inspiring and ironic. Sarah was absent-mindedly mouthing the chorus and Aisha was reminded that here was another thing they’d been deprived of: music. Theirs had been a house without cassettes, CDs, radio, MP3s, DVDs; the list was endless. And, she thought sadly, without laughter too. She and the children had been trapped in a barren dessert, not only cut off from other people, but happiness. You bastard, she thought. I really hate you for what you’ve done – not just to me but the children.

  Aisha rubbed the windscreen again and remembered to check the mirrors. She returned her gaze to the front and then checked the mirrors again. Further back, four or five cars behind, a bright headlight was visible on the outer edge of the inside lane. The driver was trying to pull out and overtake. Idiot, she thought, he’ll have an accident or, worse, cause one, trying to overtake in this weather.

  ‘Reach for the Stars’ had been replaced by a more downbeat Jennifer Lopez song – this was more her type of music. Aisha had forgotten how much she used to like music, in the days when she’d had likes and dislikes. She remembered she’d always had music playing in her car and in her bedroom at home – while working at the desk her father had made. Mozart and Tchaikovsky had been two of her favourites, they’d been Mark’s favourites too, she thought bitterly, remembering their first conversation all those years ago.

  She glanced at the speedometer, the needle was still hovering above 60 mph which was fine. The middle and outside lanes weren’t travelling any faster, the whole of the M25 was moving as one in the Friday evening exodus from London. She glanced at the children: James was snuggled into Sarah and she was watching the cars through her window. They both appeared more relaxed now.

  Aisha looked to the front again and thought of the monk who was waiting for them with a room prepared, and the life from which she had so incredibly managed to escape. A roar of an engine sounded from behind and she glanced in her wing mirror. She saw the bright headlamp – the one that had been trying to overtake before – move out again, still trying to overtake. An uncomfortable tightness settled in her chest as she realized it was the single headlamp of a motorbike and not one of a pair from a car. Don’t be silly, she told herself, there will be any number of motorbikes on the motorway, of course it’s not him.

  She kept glancing in the mirror, watching the bike as it forced a gap between the inside and middle lane. Then it accelerated out and round the car in front, until it was behind her, hovering at her rear offside wing. She looked in her wing mirror but the driver was hidden behind the bright light of the headlamp. Then the bike began to move out again, ready to overtake her. Her heart clenched and her mouth went dry. Could it be? Was it possible? Another roar of engine and the bike was beside them outside her window, hovering between the lanes at 65 mph. She looked, saw it, and knew – the white luminous flash running down the side of the biker’s red suit. ‘My God! It’s him!’ she cried, and she had to fight her panic to keep the car straight.

  The children screamed and clung to each other. Aisha looked frantically between her side window and the road ahead. He was directly next to her, riding parallel, the white luminous flash glowing against the dark red of his leather suit. His elongated helmeted head turned slightly towards her like some giant insect, looming in the night. Aisha clutched the wheel to keep the car on course and, feeling for her door, pressed the central locking.

  A car horn blared angrily at him from behind for blocking the lanes. The bike engine revved; then it moved forwards, alongside her bonnet and out into the middle lane. Another roar and it had disappeared between the cars, into the rain and dark ahead.

  ‘He’s gone!’ Aisha cried to the children. ‘Calm down, please. He’s gone!’ Her heart thumped wildly and her hands sweated as she clenched the wheel and stared straight ahead. ‘Please! Calm down!’ she cried again. ‘I can’t drive.’

  Dear God! Now what? she thought. He was on the motorway! But how? Had he followed them from the house, so far behind she hadn’t seen? She remembered the white van drawing up behind them as she’d waited to turn out of their road. Had he been behind the van and followed them all this way? It was possible; she’d been so busy concentrating on driving and on the road ahead she wouldn’t have necessarily noticed. Had he followed them or did he know where they were going? Did he know about the monk? Was it possible he’d found out somehow? It would explain why he’d chosen today to collect the bike and come home early.

  ‘Sarah,’ she pleaded, ‘please stop James from crying; I can’t think.’

  Aisha swallowed hard, peered ahead – up the lanes of traffic – and tried to think. There was no sign of a motorbike’s single red tail light in among the pairs of car lights. If he did know where they were heading he could be going ahead to lie in wait at the retreat for when they arrived. She shivered, every muscle in her body tensing in fear as it had done in the garage. There was no way she could park the car on the driveway at the retreat and make it to the front door if Mark was already there and lying in wait. Even if she and the children ran across the driveway, they wouldn’t be able to make it. She thought of the secluded drive with its hedges and trees, and the bell she would have to ring, and then be answered before they were safe. No, it wasn’t possible, Mark would grab them as soon as they stepped from the car. Her stomach contracted and she felt sick with fear. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

  ‘Mum, what are we going to do?’ Sarah asked, her small voice breaking.

  ‘I don’t know. Please, just look after James, will you. I’m trying to think.’

  James was still sobbing uncontrollably and it was making driving very difficult. What with the dark, the rain, her terror, looking at the tail lights in front, and all these cars and lorries, her head was spinning. If only she had a mobile, she could have phoned the monk or even called the police. She could have pulled off, stayed locked in the car and phoned 999. But there’d been no credit on her mobile for years and she didn’t even know where her phone was now. No money for a mobile, clothes, or even food, only a brand new motorbike.

  Without a phone, and with no way of contacting anyone for help, something told Aisha it was better to keep going. It felt safer to be moving; he couldn’t get in while they were in the car. But what was she going to do? Spend all night circling the M25 like a motorway equivalent of the Circle Line? And what about petrol? She hadn’t thought of that. She looked down at the dashboard, scanned the array of illuminated green symbols and dials, and found the petrol needle. Dear God, it was already approaching red. Fear gripped her, and she felt as useless as Mark had always said she was.

  ‘Sarah, you must stop James crying, please,’ she repeated, though she could have wept herself.

  You thought you were getting clever, she heard Mark say. Not so clever now, are you? Trapped in the dark and rain and about to run out of petrol. What are you going to do? Panic? I told you you’d never make it without me. And she thought of what would happen if she went back now and knew she couldn’t, for one way or the other – by his hand or her own she would surely die.

  How much petrol had she got left? She glanced again at the dial. Probably no more than half a gallon, which in this big car meant nothing. Probably not enough to get to the retreat, even if she found it first time.

  ‘I’m scared,’ James said, his sobs at last subsiding.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Sarah soothed, sounding older than her years. ‘Don’t worry, he’s gone. We’re safe now.’

  But for how long? Aisha thought. How long could they keep going? She checked all around, but there was no sign of the single headlamp, just endless pairs of lights shimmering through the surface spray and rain. Did she have enough petrol to get them to a service station where she could run in and ask for help? But where was the next service station? None had been signposted and she wasn’t even sure they had them on the M25; she couldn’t ever remember seeing one on this stretch of the motorway. Should
she turn off? Take the next exit and stop at the first house she came to and run in and ask for help? Could you call the police, please. My husband is trying to kill me. Would they believe her? With all the dried blood down her front, and the state she and the children were in, they might. But supposing she turned off and he was following her, and there wasn’t a house or they didn’t answer the door? What then? Perhaps she should pull onto the hard shoulder and wait for a police car to pass. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the police regularly patrolled the motorways? But how often? Ten minutes, twenty, every hour? She’d no idea and it felt safer to keep moving, with the doors locked.

  Then she saw him. He was waiting on the hard shoulder. Terror gripped her. There was no mistaking his large frame, the white stripe of his leather suit glowing luminous in the passing headlights. He was standing astride the bike, one leg raised, ready for the off. His helmeted head flicking back and forth as he scanned the passing cars, looking for them in his car. There wasn’t enough time to pull into the middle lane so cars could shield them, there was too much traffic, moving too fast. Aisha clenched the wheel and looking straight ahead continued steadily past him.

  ‘He’s there!’ Sarah shouted. James shrieked.