I slip it into the palm of my hand. If I could throw it out of the car I would, but that’s not going to work. I’ll have to hide it where I am. It slips into the crack between the seats. It may never be found, but it’s possible that it might in years to come be discovered by some mechanic, and then someone’ll know. Someone’ll know exactly why what happened to us happened. Whether they find the bodies or not…
Pinhead pulls into a layby next to a spewing rubbish bin. “OK then, time for a chat,” he says, looking in his mirror.
Wesson turns around and glares at us over the back of the seat. “Let’s have the phone for starters,” she says. “What’ve you done with Trevor’s phone?”
“In the bag,” I say, nodding at Ned’s bag lying on the seat between us. The phone’s sticking out of the top.
“Pass it over,” says Pinhead.
Sophia reaches into the bag and hands the phone over the seat. “Here,” she says quietly.
“And the money?” he says over his shoulder.
For a moment I think she’s going to pretend that we never saw the money. But she rummages in her pocket and sprinkles a confetti of mangled bank notes over the seats. “There,” she says.
“Thank you,” says Pinhead. His voice is crisp with fury. He rescues the money and jams it in his jacket pocket. “And while we’re about it, we’ll have the bag – hand it over and Maria can check through it.”
Sophia sighs and heaves the bag up on to the seat back. It’s got all the photocopied entries from the diary. I catch her eye and try to smile, but she doesn’t seem to see me.
I want to tell her that I’ve left a legacy, that the flash drive will survive us. That I’ve had a good idea from a book and actually carried it through. But she’s not looking.
Wesson searches the bag and pulls out all the photocopies. “This is – this is what?” She waves the papers under Pinhead’s nose.
Pinhead sits back, looking through the windscreen. “Give those here. Actually, I think you’d better search the girls, Maria. Check their pockets. I’ll just take a look at the oil and the tyres.”
Something crosses his face; a flicker of irritation that suggests that he didn’t want her to know about the papers. And she looks worried, just for an instant. It’s the first time I’ve seen them anything other than united.
He climbs out of the car, opens the boot, takes out a small tool box and crouches down by the front wheel. Things clunk against the side of the car and I hear the sound of a pressure gauge. Somehow I didn’t have him down as the pressure-gauge type. I imagined he handed a car over to a garage or a hotel and got it back in perfect shape.
Perhaps he’s avoiding her.
Maybe he likes her less than she likes him. In Gold Under the Aspidistra, Dana Scour gives up everything for Denzil Johnson who turns out to be a complete scoundrel. The only difference is that I like Dana Scour.
Wesson clambers in with us. Anchored as we are by the cable ties, there’s no point in struggling. Although she looks as if she dislikes it as much as we do she enters into the squirmy business of searching us with her usual speed and efficiency. She starts with me, checking the pockets of my hoodie, my skirt, inside my shoes, and comes up with some chips and a load of hairbands. She’s far too close, and she smells of aftershave, Pinhead’s aftershave. After she’s given up on me, she crawls across the back seat to Sophia, and I hold my breath as her hand rests briefly on the gap between the seats, but the flash drive must be nice and deep because she doesn’t find it. Sophia pouts her mouth as if she’s going to spit at Wesson; she doesn’t.
Through the window I watch Pinhead take the papers to the verge. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and lights the corner of the first sheet. He burns each one, corner to corner, then stamps the ashes into the grass. Then he climbs back into the car.
Poo.
“Nix, nada,” says Wesson, opening my door and going round to the front of the car.
“Thanks, darling.” Pinhead leans across and plants a cold peck on her cheek.
Wesson turns and kisses him back. Properly. I glance at Sophia. She’s turned to stare out of the window.
“Good,” he says, starting the engine, and the car glides out of the layby. “Swap over at the station?” he says to Wesson.
“Yeah.” She looks at her mobile, and plugs it into the little stand by the radio. “You should make the 9.15. I’ll take the cargo to the warehouse and meet up with the boys. Are you sure you’ll be all right, Trevor?”
Pinhead stares straight ahead as we drive out of the woods and the view opens up towards the sea. A long way off, a squall scurries over the water, changing the silver to grey and back again.
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “Don’t you worry. I’ll sort it out at the other end – and I’ll meet you on Wednesday.
“What about her?” says Wesson.
Again, Pinhead stays quiet. Eventually, he says, “Don’t you worry – there’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s sorted.”
We drop Pinhead at a set of traffic lights in a wet town.
He takes a small bag and waves goodbye to Wesson before diving into the railway station. He doesn’t look back at us.
Wesson swings the car into a U-turn and we head out of town, slightly too fast.
“Where are we going?” Sophia asks.
“Never mind – you’ll find out soon enough.”
We seem to be going south, but I’m not sure any more. I’m not sure about anything any more. I hope this isn’t really happening. I hope it’s happening to someone else called Lottie Green in a book and that the fictional Lottie Green is going to be able to think of a way out of the situation.
But the doors are locked and my hand’s attached to the seat in front of me. What can this Lottie Green do?
Wesson pulls on to the motorway and we turn north again.
Irene must have felt this way when she was flying through the fog: no idea where she was or where she was going, but prepared for any eventuality. Perhaps she too looked to books for inspiration. Perhaps she too looked to the story of Richard Standfast in Calm Before the Storm for hope and guidance, remembering how he crash-landed his plane in the desert sands just as she thumped hers down on to a Scottish hillside.
We pass lorries and vans and cars, Wesson driving faster than I would imagine was safe, and then at the next exit, she pulls off the motorway again. The car leaps as she slams her foot on the brake and then the accelerator. It throws me across my seat, from left to right and back again.
I brace myself for the next bend but it arrives too soon, shooting Ned’s bag along the seat and on to the floor.
The dog whimpers and tries to stand.
Wesson hunches closer to the steering wheel as she wrenches it from one side to the other.
It’s a very big, very powerful car, and it slows and speeds on this little road impressively. I can’t help feeling that she’s only just in control of it.
The phone rings and, taking one hand from the steering wheel, Wesson grabs it. “Hello, love. Yes. I’ve got that,” she says.
There’s a train, a long intercity train crossing underneath us.
“Can you see us? We’re crossing the bridge now,” says Wesson. “You’re near the front? I can’t see you.” She peers out over the bridge, concentrating more on the train than the road. “And you will be there? As arranged?”
The car swings out and back, narrowly missing a cyclist, and only just making it round a big bend in the road. The train runs parallel with us and I look across to see if I can see Pinhead. I somehow doubt he’d wave at us, but Wesson might wave at him. Her one hand is white on the steering wheel, the other still holding the phone, and I can see that every muscle in her back is tense. “…my swimsuit’s packed. I’m missing you already.”
This is not good.
The train’s gliding through trees, splitting away from us. And it’s faster than we are.
“I can still see you,” says Wesson.
I bring m
y knees up in front of me and slip my bum down so that I’m curled up and can’t really see out of the window. I wish I could bring my hand close and wrap myself in my arms, but it’s still tethered to the back of the front seat.
“Love you, miss you – can’t wait.” Wesson makes a long sucky kissing sound. “Bye,” she says, looking at the phone.
“Sophia,” I say. But I don’t get any further because the tyres judder and we’re flung from one side to the other.
GREEEEEEAAAAAAAACH!
I whack into the window, my cheekbone striking the glass, but before I’ve even rubbed it, the world turns upside down.
GREEEEEEAAAAAAAACH!
It all happens in slow motion – clothing flying across the car, a dog lead, a bar of chocolate – and the screech of metal.
GREEEEEEAAAAAAAACH!
The tyres squeal, someone screams, it could be Sophia. Glass explodes inwards from the windscreen, bushes bang against my side window then Sophia’s window, then mine again and each time I feel as if my head’s going to fall off. We settle upside down and my hand dangles underneath me, my legs apparently attached to the ceiling of the car thanks to the super-efficient seatbelts. Grass thumps over the roof, mud flies in where the windscreen should be. There’s more tearing, screaming, revving.
And then silence.
Huge ordinary empty countryside silence.
Birdsong.
Rain falling on leaves.
The train horn sounding in the distance.
I move my head.
Below me, on the ceiling, the dog whimpers. He’s standing on three paws, deep in the glass that must have been the windscreen. His eyes are wide and dark. He’s holding the fourth leg up to me.
“S’OK, Buster,” I say. But my voice wobbles; I can barely hold it together.
He wags his tail and licks the fourth paw. I can’t see anything wrong but he’s holding it like he’s hurt.
“Sophia?” I ask, looking across. She’s hanging in an awkward position, her body seems to have folded. “Sophia?” But she doesn’t move.
Buster moans, and rolls over to lie on his side. My head feels as if it’s going to explode. I really need to get myself the right way up.
I reach over and unclick my seatbelt that drops me down towards the ceiling of the car, crunching into the glass and just missing poor Buster. I give him a stroke and I crouch, rubbing my elbow where the cable ties still hold me to the seat back. “Don’t worry, fella…” I start, but I can’t speak properly. I can hear the fear in my voice.
I unclip Sophia’s seatbelt and she slides to the ceiling, held upright by the cable tie joined to the door. She moans as she moves, so at least I know she’s alive. There’s no blood.
Wesson’s another matter. She’s crumpled. Her seatbelt has come undone and she’s wrapped in the tatters of the air bag. She looks like she might be dead. I can’t reach her because of the cable ties.
I listen, expecting the sound of sirens, but it’s all quiet. The only noise is some distant crows. From my memory of the road, there was no one else around, although in the end, the cyclist would catch up with us. Surely.
Something drips at the front of the car. Although I don’t think it’s petrol it still makes me feel nervous. I don’t know much about cars, but I don’t think anything that comes out of an engine is good for you. Now we’re upside down, everything that normally relies on gravity to stay put must be free to escape.
I sniff the air. Now I can smell petrol. And I remember that above my head is an enormous petrol tank just waiting to leak all over us.
I swallow and try to think about Irene, in an aeroplane, crashed in the fog.
She did it.
So can I.
I can’t reach Wesson’s mobile. It’s clipped to a stand in the front of the car about a foot further than my arm goes.
“Excuse me – Miss Wesson!” I shout but she doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. “Maria!”
Still no response.
I lean down to look out of the windows. It’s not easy to see anything because they’re smeared in mud. I expect the whole car’s covered in the stuff and it seems to be surrounded by brambles. I try for the millionth time to pull my hand out of the plastic tie, but I can’t move it. Dad says they’re unbreakable.
I look around for anything that might let me reach the phone and my eyes fall on Buster. He’s picking at his paw.
“Have you got a piece of glass in there?” I ask, scooping him up and holding the damaged foot. There’s no blood, but I can see a fragment of the square windscreen glass caught between his toes. I flick at it with my fingernail and it pings out across the car.
“There – now let’s see if you can stand.” I drop him on to my legs and he tries all four feet before licking my chin and slobbering over my neck.
“Thanks, Buster. Now, do you think you could be useful and get me that mobile phone?”
He clambers off my leg and tiptoes through the glass to Sophia. She groans as he licks her hand.
“Buster?” she says feebly.
He pants and wags his tail.
“Sophia – are you all right?” I ask. She looks very uncomfortable, jammed against the door.
“I’m – OK – I think,” she says. Her legs stretch out over the glass and she tries to pull her arm underneath her. “Ow – this hurts.” Her ties, just like mine, have stayed firmly whole.
Buster wanders over to the front of the car. Using his mouth, he grabs Ned’s bag and pulls it open, rummaging inside. He pulls back, Ned’s survival blanket pinched delicately between his teeth.
“Brilliant, Buster. Great start – not a phone, but bring it here.” He pads around to me, and wrapping the blanket around my hand, I sweep the glass to one side. I stroke his head and give him a cold chip from my pocket.
He chews on the chip and shuffles back to the front of the car. After a little rootling, he brings me an umbrella, followed by a glove, a road atlas, a pair of Ned’s pants and a packet of mints.
“Can you smell petrol?” says Sophia, suddenly wide awake.
“I can,” I say calmly, offering her a mint. “But I’m hoping Buster can help to get us out of here. Have another look, Buster, see what else you can bring me.”
He brings me the other glove, Pinky and Perky in their box, the egg in a cup, and a car jack.
“Not a mobile, but that’s still fantastic, Buster,” I say, handing him another chip. I weigh the car jack in my hand. It’s very heavy. It must be good for something. I swing it round and smash the rear window. With my foot, I push out the remaining glass. Buster wriggles out, peers at the brambles and comes back in again. It doesn’t do any good, just makes the smell of petrol stronger in the car.
I breathe slowly, and wonder whether petrol is less dangerous when it has more air. Probably not.
Buster smiles at me hopefully as if I might take him for a walk.
“What are we going to do, Lottie? The car’ll blow up.”
“Don’t worry – we’ll find a way out,” I say.
Buster picks up his lead.
“I’d love to take you for a walk, Buster, but I’m stuck.” My voice goes up at the end. I’m trying very hard not to cry, but it’s going to happen soon, and then I know I won’t be any use. I pull at my wrist and he wags his tail and stands on his hind legs. He picks up the car jack and hands it to me again.
I run my finger along the metal edge and rest it against the tie. It’s rough, but not really sharp. I rub it back and forth pressing it against the plastic of the tie, but after five minutes the cable tie looks untouched while my wrist looks sore.
“It’s not going to work, fella. I need some scissors or a knife.”
“Pinhead has a penknife,” says Sophia. Her voice trembles. “And he’s on the train. Ned’s got one too.”
“Are you sure?” I glance at her, hopefully.
She shakes her head. “It’s not in the bag. I checked, he must have had it on him when we left.”
Buster y
ips and raises himself on to his back legs to lick the plastic ties. He bites at them, nibbling around my hand. His tooth catches but the plastic’s too tight against my skin, and really tough. I’m sure he could chew through it eventually, but not soon enough. I pat his head and he drops back down.
“Thank you, Buster – but I don’t think it’ll do any good.”
He nuzzles my leg. We sit listening to whatever it is that’s dripping, the smell of petrol getting stronger.
I wonder how easy it was for Irene to get out of her crashed aircraft, aviation fuel all around her. She didn’t give up; she made it out.
Sophia sobs, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I’m sorry, Lottie, I am, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise how––”
“Don’t worry – I’m going to get us out of here.”
I really wish I could believe myself but I’ve got to be like Irene. I’ve got to behave like her. I mustn’t give up.
I look again at the head rest. It has two long stainless steel posts that go into the seat. Perhaps it pulls out? I push as hard as I can; it doesn’t move but it looks as if it ought to. And then I remember the car jack.
Wedging the car jack between the seat and the seat back, I try to turn the wheel on the end to make it open, but it’s fiddly and it’s really supposed to be done with a metal hook. I know; I’ve seen Mum do it on our car.
I look around. The umbrella has a hook – but it’s too big.
“Hold this,” I say to Sophia, handing her the umbrella. “Hold it really tight.” Using Sophia as a clamp, I tug the large plastic hook from the skinny metal rod inside. It almost fits in the wheel at the end of the jack. I turn it, and the jack opens out, filling the space. Although the rod keeps on pinging out of the jack, after a few minutes I can see that the head rest is pulling away from the seat. I add my foot, jamming it into the space and try to stand on the head rest.
Saving Sophia Page 11