‘Stop telling me to calm down,’ I say through gritted teeth. I am absolutely distraught about everything that has happened and my behaviour last night has only made me feel worse. The fact he’s enjoying my suffering is really starting to get to me, but I can’t let it. ‘You know what, I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the trip,’ I tell him childishly. ‘You’re nothing but trouble.’
‘It’s going to be a boring trip if you carry on like that,’ he warns me.
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘I’d rather have a boring trip than endure the “fun” of speaking to you.’
‘Fine,’ he replies. ‘I don’t want to speak to you either.’
He’s putting on this stupid, childish tone – at least I think he’s putting it on.
‘Fine,’ I repeat, determined to have the last word. Danny is happy to leave it at that, climbing back into his car and shutting the door.
I walk towards the hotel. I just need to grab my stuff and then we can go for the ferry – which I’m dreading, but with a hangover like this, I’m not sure I could feel any worse.
Chapter 17
Liverpool is in our sights. Pretty soon I will be back on dry land, safe in the knowledge I never need set foot on a boat again. I haven’t spoken a word to Danny since our argument and, like he threatened, he hasn’t said a thing to me either.
I’ve had a lot of time to sit and think, and while I was tempted to call the whole trip off and have Danny take me home, I don’t want to give Will the satisfaction. He still hasn’t texted me back – I just checked again – but he’s bound to be thinking about me and about what I’m getting up to with Danny. If I go home now, I’ll just prove to him what a sad cow I am. At least while I’m away, he can think I’m having fun without him – even if that isn’t true.
Thankfully my seasickness isn’t as bad this time. I’m not sure if this is because my current hangover is so much worse than anything I was feeling on the way over here, or whether it’s because I’ve been following the advice Danny gave me before. Either way, I’m just grateful to not be feeling so dreadful.
I stroll along the deck of the boat towards Danny. I have no intention of speaking to him, but we’re about to dock so I can at least follow him to his car in silence. I can see that he’s surrounded by a gang of teenage boys with skateboards, but as I get closer I realise they don’t appear to be getting along.
‘Your mum is so fat, her belly button has an echo,’ a kid with long greasy hair poking out from under a beanie hat says to Danny. The kid has a skateboard in one hand, his other is met with a high five from one of his friends, for that zinger he just delivered.
‘I can’t believe you’re making mum jokes.’ Danny laughs. ‘I like you, kid. You remind me of me when I was a teen – an absolute twat.’
The skater frowns. ‘Fuck, I hope I don’t grow into you,’ he replies, looking Danny up and down. ‘You sad bastard, look at your hair. You look like a fucking joystick.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been called that before,’ Danny says. ‘By your mum! That’s how you do a mum joke.’
I stifle a laugh, amused but not about to let Danny see as much.
A quick count of heads tells me that there are eight members of this particular gang of skaters. I’m pretty sure they’re still school age, but it’s the weekend, so they’re free to heckle strangers on public transport. They’re like robots, each moving around on their wheels, all with the same blank, emotionless, gormless look on their faces, with their greasy hair, beanie hats, baggy jeans and sharp, spiked wristbands that looks like they would guarantee them a little YouTube fame if they came off their boards while wearing them, most likely puncturing whichever organ landed on one the wrong way.
‘Topknot wanker,’ the kid snaps, but Danny just stares at him, narrowing his eyes. ‘What are you looking at, paedo?’ the kid asks.
‘I’m just imagining what you’d look like with duct tape around your mouth,’ Danny tells him calmly. ‘Before I throw you overboard. You’ve got one of those faces that’d look great on a missing poster.’
‘Wait, let me get my phone and you can say that again, dude, see what the police have to say about it.’
The kid takes his phone from his pocket and squares up to Danny. What I’m sure most would file under ‘bantering’ is starting to get heated now, and as sick as I am of Danny, seeing him get arrested for throwing a teenager in the sea (no matter how horrid or greasy said teenager might be) isn’t going to help my cause.
‘Bring it on, you little cun – ’
‘Danny,’ I interrupt him. ‘Time to go.’
‘I’m not taking shit from the fucking Lollipop Guild,’ he replies.
‘Better run along, your mum wants you,’ the kid teases Danny. To give Danny his due, as the skaters celebrate victoriously, slapping high fives and bumping chests, Danny does walk away like the bigger man, but not before he reaches forward and grabs something from one of the tatty, black backpacks on the floor while they’re not looking. Whatever he’s taken, he stuffs into his pocket and we head for the car.
‘I’m still not speaking to you,’ I tell him.
‘I’m still not speaking to you either.’ He laughs as we get in the car. Soon enough we’ll be able to drive off the ferry and get on our not so merry way to Newcastle, which is the next stop on this road trip to hell. I feel almost at a disadvantage, being on Danny’s home turf, but hopefully I’ll be able to suggest he goes to see his friends, thus leaving me alone, in peace and unharmed.
We don’t get to sit in awkward silence for long before the skater boys are back, and they’re circling the car, banging on the windows and yelling. The boy Danny was arguing with is the most vocal.
‘Give it back,’ he yells, his face pressed up menacingly against the glass.
‘Give what back?’ Danny asks coyly.
‘You know what,’ the kid replies, wiping the window clear of his breath. ‘Give it back, or you’ll be sorry.’
Danny seems unfazed by his threats.
‘What are you going to do? Beat me up?’
Before the kid has a chance to reply, a member of staff spies what is going on and calls out, ‘Oi! Back up the stairs, you lot.’
‘Better yet,’ Danny says, mischief in his eyes, ‘why don’t you tell that bloke what you want back? I’m sure he’ll smooth it all out.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ the kid shouts, before the whole team start beating on Danny’s car. When it was just Danny – or even me – that might’ve been in danger of a violent attack, he didn’t seem fussed. Now that the Love Bug is being roughed up, Danny suddenly cares.
‘Watch the fucking car, you little pricks,’ he yells, but he can’t get out to do anything about it. Luckily this reign of terror doesn’t get to go on for too long before members of staff come over and put a stop to things, escorting the teens away.
As the doors open for us to drive off I see Danny check his wing mirrors.
‘It’s clear,’ I tell him when he doesn’t seem to be making a move.
‘I know that,’ he replies. ‘Just making sure the car is OK.’
‘Well, if you will steal dinner money from children,’ I snap.
‘Have you ever seen teenagers get so upset over a couple of quid?’ he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
‘I really don’t give a shit,’ I reply. ‘Still not speaking to you.’
‘Still not speaking to you either.’ He laughs, finally moving the car.
I shuffle in my seat, my Mr Wright tattoo still causing me discomfort. My Isis tattoo isn’t so bad – in terms of pain, that is. In terms of tattoos it’s still a fucking Isis tattoo.
I exhale deeply, unable to believe just how badly this trip is going. It was supposed to be this amazing, life-changing holiday from my shitty real life that would ultimately become my real life. Every day would be a holiday, and I would finally be happy. But no, things just had to go tits up, didn’t they? As least now I’m down at rock bottom, things can’t get any worse. I mean, where
else is there to go? Other than Newcastle…
Chapter 18
Remind me never to think anything again – ever. I’m jinxed. Whenever I think things are going to get better, they get worse. Whenever I dare to think things can’t possibly get any worse, the universe is hell-bent on proving me oh-so wrong.
Every time Danny utters the term ‘YOLO’ I fantasise about punching him in the face repeatedly, but I’ve just learned a valuable lesson. I’ve spent pretty much every second of this trip thinking about how shit my life is – right up until now, when I realised just how precious my life is.
We were flying along the motorway (well, as fast as the Love Bug would allow) when Danny (who isn’t talking to me) told me that the steering felt heavy. I had no sooner mused out loud that this was probably because his car was old enough to be his dad when things got worse. Even I could feel the car pulling to one side – that’s when it started violently shuddering, so much my iPad flew out of my hands and disappeared under the seat. As terrifying as it was, it was all over quite quickly. Somehow Danny managed to safely manoeuvre us out of the traffic and to the side of the road. We’re in a sort of lay-by, but Danny advises me that it’s still dangerous and that we need to get out of the car.
We hop out, Danny first, and then I clamber over the driver’s seat as quickly as possible, which I don’t imagine looks too graceful. As we make our way to safety, Danny notices what is wrong. One of his tyres is completely flat, and on the car itself, above the wheel, someone has hastily scratched the word ‘twat’ into the paintwork.
‘Those little pricks,’ Danny shouts. ‘They punctured my tyre. They could’ve killed us!’
I grab Danny by the arm and pull him as far away from the road as possible, stepping over a little fence into a field. Hopefully we’re safe here, but as I hold my phone in the air I realise there’s nothing I can do to get any signal.
I glance at the road. It’s quite busy but, of course, no one is stopping to help us. I’d accept help from anyone right now, even the Zodiac killer.
‘Do you have a spare tyre and a jack or whatever?’ I ask.
Danny shakes his head.
‘Your car doesn’t have a spare tyre?’
‘My car doesn’t even have a functioning passenger door.’ He laughs.
‘Can’t we drive it now it’s deflated?’ I ask genuinely.
‘They’re not run-flat tyres. Classic car, Candy,’ he reminds me.
So the fact that this problem cannot be solved is partially because of his old banger of a car, and partly because of his incompetence in not carrying a spare tyre. Not forgetting that this is all his fault in the first place.
‘This is what happens when you steal from kids,’ I tell him, angrily.
‘Speaking of which,’ Danny says, cheering up a little as he takes something from his pocket. ‘If we’re stuck here, may as well make it more bearable.’
I watch him fidget around with something for a while, before bringing it up to his mouth and lighting it.
I lean closer, unable to believe my eyes.
‘Is that weed?’ I ask in a voice so much higher in pitch than it usually is.
‘Yep, you want a hit?’ he asks as he exhales.
‘You’re getting high on stolen weed while you’re on a business trip? Oh, and with a company-branded lighter, no less.’
‘Cool, huh? I got it a couple of days ago. If they didn’t want me to smoke, they shouldn’t have given me a lighter.’
‘It was for lighting Charlie’s cake, wasn’t it?’
Danny laughs.
I pace back and forth, trying to get some signal for a while. Danny is growing increasingly giggly and it’s pissing me off.
‘We’re stranded at the side of the motorway with no way of getting any help – all your fault, by the way – and all you can do is get high?’
‘YOLO!’ he yells, annoying me even more.
‘You can’t just call YOLO every time you do something stupid,’ I tell him. ‘The clue is in the fucking acronym: you only live once. Meaning life is delicate. Meaning don’t do stuff that is going to fucking kill you.’
Danny admires what is left of his joint thoughtfully.
‘It’s better to look back and say: “I can’t believe I did that” than it is to look back and say: “I wish I did that”.’
‘It’s better to not die, you high fucking idiot,’ I say under my breath. There’s no reasoning with him right now.
As I spy a van pull up behind Danny’s car, for a split second, a wave of relief washes over me. Why is it that I never think things can get any worse? Because they always do. I take back what I said about accepting help from anyone – I think I’d rather brave being stuck at the side of the road a little longer.
‘We’re saved,’ Danny mumbles, his joint in his mouth, as he waves his arms in the air.
‘We’re screwed,’ I correct him, panic in my voice. ‘That’s a police van.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ Danny says, looking around in panic. He takes the joint and the little bag he stole from the teenagers and legs it over to the stream running alongside the field, then throws them in. He runs back over and stands next to me, as though we’re the von Trapp kids reporting for duty. Despite our predicament, Danny cannot suppress his giggles.
‘You stay here,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll go talk to them.’
I walk over towards the van as two police officers hop out.
‘Car trouble?’ the first asks with a friendly smile.
‘A flat tyre,’ I tell him, smiling back, trying to be cool.
‘We’ll get you sorted, no worries,’ the second policeman tells me. ‘Are you the driver?’
‘Erm, no, he is,’ I say, nodding towards Danny who gives the policemen a big, moronic smile and a wave.
The first policeman beckons him over with a hand gesture before speaking into his radio.
‘If you guys are busy, don’t worry about us. If we can just use your phone quickly or whatever…’
‘It’s fine,’ the second policeman tells me as he opens the door at the back of the van. ‘We needed to stop to let the dog out anyway.’
That’s when I realise this is a dog unit van – right as my high colleague rocks up next to me, and as the policeman lets the big, scary-looking Alsatian out of the van. Only a few feet away from us, the dog stares at us for a second. It narrows its eyes, like it knows what we’re up to. I give it a friendly smile and make kissy noises at it, almost pleading with it to keep quiet but it’s no use. The dog starts making a low, rumbling noise. This can’t be good.
Danny stares at the dog in amazement. Still, I try my hardest to get us out of this steadily worsening situation.
‘He must be able to smell my cat,’ I reason.
Danny falls about laughing at this, right about the time the dog starts barking at him fiercely.
The policeman, now suspicious, walks closer to Danny. His dog gets angrier.
‘My dog says you’re on drugs,’ the policeman says to us. ‘What do you have to say to that?’
Now is the time to keep quiet, but this does not occur to Danny the high fucking idiot.
‘I’m on drugs?’ he repeats. ‘You’re the one with the talking dog, mate.’
Both policemen are staring at us now, and neither looks amused. Before I know what’s going on, the dog is swiftly put back in the van and Danny and I are being apprehended.
As they search us, the policeman searching me notices the cling film poking out of my sleeve.
‘What’s up your sleeve?’ he asks.
‘I had a tattoo,’ I explain, removing it to prove as much. The plan is to be as forthcoming as possible, because I haven’t done anything wrong. Stupid, stupid idea, because the policeman’s eyes widen with horror as he checks out my ink.
‘You have an Isis tattoo?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘Yes, but, Isis is a goddess – see, it’s pronounced differently,’ I explain, but it falls on deaf ears. Clearly he thinks he’s g
ot a terrorist as well as a pothead.
‘I think we need to discuss all this down town, don’t you?’ he says.
Chapter 19
After leaving the police station with – thankfully – no more than a slap on the wrist, Danny and I catch a taxi to the hotel in perfect silence.
The car drops us at the side of the road outside the hotel, and we stand there with our luggage for a moment. I stare at a spot on the pavement, thinking about everything that just happened.
‘You OK?’ Danny asks, cautiously. ‘No one tried to make you their bitch, did they?’
A joke? Seriously? He thinks a joke might be what I need to feel better about being bundled into the back of a van and taken to a police station?
I shoot him a death stare. ‘This is not funny, Danny,’ I yell. ‘We could’ve been in big trouble.’
‘For cheeking a copper and being a bit high? No one gets a criminal record for that. Chill out.’
I puff air out of my cheeks furiously. ‘Let’s just get inside,’ I say. ‘I’m exhausted and I feel dirty – I just want to get a bath and have a lie-down.’
‘Do we have to check in at the office?’ he asks.
‘Fuck that,’ I reply. ‘After the day I’ve had and all that time wasted at the police station?’
‘Rebel,’ he chuckles.
‘Let’s just go inside.’
From the outside, The Tyne Towers is simply breathtaking. Despite its location in the city centre, the castle-looking, red-brick building is like something fresh out of a utopian novel with all the rich, leafy ivy growing up the sides and creeping in around the windows. Inside, the place is just as stunning, with shiny marble floors and big pillars supporting the weight of the rooms above – that I have no doubt will be beautiful too.
As we try to check in, surprise surprise, there’s a problem.
‘Sorry, we don’t appear to have any reservations under that name,’ the receptionist politely tells us.
I stare at her, both in puzzlement and disbelief that this trip can possibly get worse.
‘Are you certain you’re at the right hotel?’ she asks. ‘It’s just that, just a ten-minute walk down the road, you’ll find Tyne Tower. It’s a guest house. You’d be surprised how often people confuse the two thanks to their similar names.’
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