The Road Trip(16)

‘Where do you get off talking about Addie like you know a thing about my sister, you—’

‘Oh, I know about your sister.’

‘Marcus, shut the fuck up,’ Dylan shouts, and I jump. I’m holding the steering wheel so tight it hurts.

‘I will not shut up! I’m sick of you treating me like some fucking basket case you need to fix when—’

‘Umm, Addie?’ Rodney interrupts in a small voice.

‘You’re lucky to have Dylan,’ Deb tells Marcus. ‘You’re lucky to have anyone, frankly.’

‘And what’s your problem?’ Marcus yells at her.

‘Addie,’ says Rodney, with rising urgency. ‘Addie . . .’

‘I know. I know,’ I gasp. ‘Oh my God . . .’

‘What’s my problem?’ Deb snaps, as Dylan says,

‘Marcus, you said you’d try, you said—’

And Rodney keeps saying my name, louder and louder, and—

‘Everyone, shut up,’ I scream.

The car is drifting. I thought it was me at first – my head’s all over the place – but it’s definitely the car. What does it mean if the car’s pulling left? My first thought is ice, and something about steering into the swerve, but it’s hot enough that the sun is shimmering above the tarmac. It’s definitely not ice.

I move into the left lane. I’m swerving, pulling the wheel too far right to compensate, crossing the white lines. I try to slow down. For a mad second I think my foot is on the wrong pedal. The car doesn’t react properly when I brake. It feels like trying to shout but not getting any sound out. I push down harder and the car slows a bit, still dragging me left and I let out a sound, a frustrated, frightened guhh—

‘There’s a hard shoulder, Addie, get on it,’ says Deb behind me. Everyone else is quiet. I can hear them breathing.

I work my way down the gears: third, second, first. I hope this hard shoulder isn’t going to end. There’s a ringing in my ears like the world’s muffled. My neck still hurts from the whiplash, I notice absently. From the last time we crashed.

‘Hold on,’ I say grimly.

We’re not going faster than ten miles an hour, now, but as I ease the parking brake on everyone still jolts forward. The car groans. We sit in silence, and then, very slowly, I lower my forehead against the steering wheel.

As I wait for my heart to stop trying to claw its way up my throat, Dylan slowly reaches across and hits the button to put our hazards on. We all unfreeze.

‘Fuck,’ Marcus says behind me.

‘Goodness me,’ says Rodney.

‘Everyone all right?’ Deb asks.

I twist, forehead still on the steering wheel, and look at Dylan. His face is slack with shock. For a sharp second it reminds me of his expression when he stood in the doorway to our flat as I beat his chest with my fists and told him no, he couldn’t leave me.

Marcus gives a shrill laugh from the back seat. ‘Fuck me, Addie Gilbert, you just saved our lives.’

My breathing still isn’t slowing. I wonder if near-death experiences get more or less scary each time. Like, should I be calmer because I’ve already had one car crash today? Or panicking more, because I’ve still got all that leftover terror in my system?

There is a knock at the car window, passenger side. I shriek. My hand flies to my chest. Behind me, everyone screams. But Dylan’s reaction is the most surprising – he throws an arm out in front of me, as though we’re still moving and we’re about to hit something.

‘Hello? You all right in there?’

I squint. The sun’s behind the man at the window – I can only just make him out. He’s big and tough-looking, in his fifties maybe. He has peppery stubble across his sagging jaw. Beneath the white vest he’s wearing I can just see half the text of a tattoo: unconditio—

‘Do you need help?’ he asks.

Dylan drops his arm and winds down the window.

‘Hi,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘We’ve broken down. I suppose you gathered that much.’

The man makes a sympathetic sort of grimace. ‘I saw you,’ he says, gesturing upwards. We’ve stopped just shy of a big concrete bridge running over the motorway. There’s a set of steps running down the bank to our left. He must have come down when he saw us. What a nice man. Assuming he’s not an opportunistic murderer.

‘Do we need to, you know . . . call the AA?’ Rodney asks.

‘We should get out. Right?’ I direct this at the stocky Good Samaritan currently eyeing us through the car window.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, nodding. ‘Yeah, but get out this way.’ He points behind him.

Dylan clambers out first, then Deb, Rodney and Marcus. I climb out last, over the gearstick, which is a pretty technical manoeuvre.

By the time I emerge from the car our burly Good Samaritan’s eyes have settled on Deb and widened with delight.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he says.

Deb gives him a cursory look and I suppress the urge to eye-roll. We don’t have time for this shit.

‘I need to call our breakdown cover,’ I say, looking down at my phone. ‘Can someone walk to the nearest one of those post-thingies that tells them where we are?’

‘I’ll go,’ Dylan says. He clears his throat, embarrassed – his voice came out all squeaky.