Let Me Lie(91)

I snatch back my hand.

My mother has a gun.

She turns the wheel like she’s at the dodgems. My head slams against the car door. Ella screams. I swallow, tasting vomit in the back of my throat.

‘A gun?’ I’m not touching it.

‘I got it from the man I rented a flat from.’ The effort of keeping the car on the road forces her words out as though each follows a full stop. ‘It’s loaded. Take it. Protect yourself. Protect Ella.’

There’s a squeal of brakes as she takes a bend too fast. The car spins out – skids left, then right – before she takes back control. I close my eyes. Hear the gearstick, the pedals, the engine.

A sharp left. The top of my head jammed against the door, the handle of Ella’s car seat pressed into my chest.

The car slides to a juddering stop.

And there’s silence.

I hear my mother’s breathing, tense and ragged. I move my face until my lips are touching my daughter’s, and swear silently to her I will die before I let her come to harm.

I will die.

Would I use the gun? Slowly, I reach for it. I feel the weight of the grip in my hand, but I don’t lift it.

Protect yourself. Protect Ella.

Would I kill my own father, to save my daughter? To save myself?

I would.

I screw my eyes shut, listening for a car door. For the sound of Dad’s voice.

We wait.

‘We’ve lost him.’

I hear my mother’s words, but they don’t register. My body is still rigid, my nerve-endings still jangling.

‘That last bend.’ She’s out of breath. ‘We turned off before he rounded the corner. He didn’t see.’ She bursts into noisy tears. ‘He didn’t see us turn off.’

Slowly I sit up and look around. We are on a farm track, half a mile or so away from where a parting between hedges shows where the road is. There are no other cars.

I unclip the fastenings on Ella’s seat and pull her to me, kissing the top of her head and holding her so tightly she wriggles to be let free. I lift my T-shirt and unclip my bra, and she feeds thirstily. We relax into each other and I realise my body has been craving this as much as hers has.

‘A gun?’ It doesn’t sound real. ‘A fucking gun?’ I pick up the bag and place it on the front seat next to her. It was less than three feet from Ella’s head. I don’t let myself think what might have happened if it had gone off; if I’d picked up the bag the wrong way, stepped on it …

Mum says nothing. Her hands are still gripping the steering wheel. If she’s having some kind of breakdown, I need to get her into the passenger seat. I wonder if we should abandon the plan and drive to a police station. Whatever we do, we need to go soon; we’re sitting ducks here, in open countryside. Dad’ll realise we turned off; he’ll double back.

‘I told you. It was insurance. I don’t even know how the bloody thing works.’

I pull Ella gently off my breast and feel under the seats for my phone. There’s a text from Mark.

No sign of the ex yet. Have texted everyone to cancel the party. Police are on their way. They need Angela’s date of birth and address. Call me!





I avoid answering.

Black Shogun followed us but we managed to lose him. Will call when we get to the flat. Love you x





A deep breath heads off the tears. ‘Let’s go. We should use the back roads till we hit the motorway.’ I strap Ella back in, and put on my own seatbelt. We drive – more carefully now, although with no less urgency – on winding B roads within spitting distance of the A23. The twists and turns – and the frequency with which I turn around to check on the cars behind us – make me nauseous, and the journey seems to go on for ever.

We don’t talk. I try, twice, but Mum’s in no fit state to make plans. I just need her to get us to Mark’s flat in one piece.

I feel better once we’re on the M23. The motorway is busy; we are one of thousands of cars on their way to London. The chances of my father finding us here are tiny, and if he did, what would he do, with so many witnesses? So many cameras? I catch my mother’s eye and give her a small smile. She doesn’t return it, and I feel my anxiety well up in response. I scan the surrounding cars for the Shogun.

We join the M25. I look into the cars either side of us. Most are packed with families heading home after Christmas, or to friends for New Year, the seats piled high with presents and spare duvets. A couple in a beat-up Astra are singing enthusiastically, and I picture the CD of classic hits in the car stereo.

My phone rings; an unfamiliar number on the screen.

‘Miss Johnson?’

Murray Mackenzie. I curse myself for answering; contemplate hanging up and blaming a bad line.

‘I’ve got something to tell you. Something … unexpected. Is someone with you?’

I glance at my mother. ‘Yes, I’m in the car. My … a friend’s driving, it’s okay.’ In the rearview mirror my mother looks quizzical and I shake my head to tell her it’s nothing to worry about. She moves into the fast lane, seeking speed again now we’re so close to safety.

Murray Mackenzie seems to be struggling to find the right words. He starts several sentences, none of them making sense.

‘What on earth has happened?’ I say eventually. My mother’s eyes watch me in the mirror, flicking between me and the road. Anxious on my behalf.