The Sister(66)

‘I don’t thanks.’

The state of the back of the car was like nothing she’d seen before. It was worse than Strawberry’s caravan at the farm.

She decided to come forward from the back seat, slipping between the seats quickly.

‘Need some help, yeah?’ He put his hand under her backside as she squeezed through; although he didn’t touch her, she pushed it away.

‘Thanks.’ She frowned. In the front, black cigarette boxes were crammed into every available nook and cranny, in the parcel shelves, door storage compartments, everywhere; not one of them crushed, they looked like new, and there were dozens of them. There was a layer of dust on the dashboard so old in places; it had thickened into a semi solid state, disturbed only by the tracks left by fingers pulling cigarettes from the box on the dashboard, which was currently open, revealing three cigarettes.

She remarked dryly, ‘Worried about running out?’

His thoughts – evidently on something else – jumped back into the present with a jolt. ‘Huh?’

‘I said are you worried about running out?’

‘Got three left,’ he said, fingering the box as he reached for another one.

‘I was talking about all those,’ she pointed them out with a broad sweep of her hand.

‘No, they’re all empty!’ he said without humour. Lighting it, he drew on the smoke as if his life depended on it.

She sat quietly, looking out of the window, listening to the hiss of wet tyres and swishing wiper blades above the drone of the engine. The set of his face was grim; he seemed to be deep in thought. Finding the lengthy silence uncomfortable, she volunteered, ‘I’m from Nottingham.’

‘You could have fooled me; you talk like a Londoner,’ he said, and then not wanting to give away that he knew her identity, he asked, ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t,’ she decided to choose another name. ‘My name’s Ellen.’

‘Eliza, I like that name.’

Is he for real? ‘It’s not Eliza, it’s Ellen!’

‘Is that right?’

After that, he continued calling her Eliza. Even after she corrected him, he carried on doing it and because he had one of those deadpan faces, she couldn’t tell if he was having a joke at her expense.

‘What did you say your name was?’

When he didn’t answer, it prompted her to guess. She was renowned among friends for the accuracy of her guessing.

‘William,’ she whispered to herself.

Although her whisper was barely audible, he heard her. And even though it was a name he never used, the mention of it sparked paranoia in him. His fists tightened on the steering wheel, causing the knuckles to whiten. They reminded her of the fists of an old fairground boxer, back at the camp, who must have been in his seventies; his hands were gnarled and misshapen. One day when he caught her looking, he examined the front and back of them in a kind of awe at his own limbs. ‘I used to pickle 'em in vinegar, I could still knock a nail in with 'em!’ After that, whenever he saw her, he’d grin toothlessly at her.

The driver pulled the car over abruptly. He looked angry. She was scared of him. For the first time, she had an inkling she could be in danger. She was fascinated at the way his moustache grew down over his lips. There was a boy at school with a cleft palate, who spoke with a dull clunk in the enunciation of his words; she saw him just a few months back and he had the same type of moustache. This guy has a harelip. She just knew it.

‘How did you know my name, Eliza?’

‘Whoa, just a lucky guess, that’s all,’ she assured him.

‘Is that right? Oooh, just a lucky guess?’ His mimicry was faultless, but cruel.

A familiar hurt rose inside her; she moved to get out, but the onslaught of the continuing rain made her hesitate.

The man examined her expression and not wanting her to leave; he softened the tone of his voice. She did a double take, to see if it was the same man talking.

‘Out of all the names you could have guessed, you get it right, unbelievable.’

Before she had the chance to reconsider her decision, he pulled out quickly without looking properly, into the path of another car. The other driver blasted his horn. William put two fingers up to the rear view mirror and spat curses at him.

The coffee cleared her head a little and it occurred to her he never asked where she was going. Maybe he thought she’d no place to go. A fragment of a song Strawberry was always playing drifted into her mind.

Like a memory in motion,

You were only passing through...

That’s all you’ve ever known of life,

That’s all you’ll ever do.

The first time she heard the song, she asked Strawberry the name of the band.

‘It’s Concrete Blonde,’ he said.

It could have been composed especially for her, so strongly did she identify with it, but this time she was headed somewhere. Should she tell him where she was going? She decided she wouldn’t.

Cold right through; she stared out at the grey streets passing by; glad to be out of the wind and water.

‘Where you going, Eliza?’ This time he sounded genuinely interested.

‘I’ve got friends in Romford, they’re expecting me.’ It was a lie, but she wanted him to believe someone, somewhere expected her. It made her feel safer.