February 16th
The dashboard says 1.48 a.m. when I hear you moan. You’re awake! I drive off the road and park beside a couple of trees for camouflage, although there’s no need to worry in this empty darkness.
‘Wha…? What’s going…? Where…?’
I lean between the seats, place my hand on your shoulder. ‘You’re okay,’ I say. ‘I’m taking you somewhere safe. It’s going to be fine.’
Saying it out loud, it seems so easy, so obvious. Maybe revenge is overrated.
I give you more water. Give myself some too.
Sleep.
I jolt awake in my seat to a loud screeching, a commotion in the back seat. You’re shouting, arms flailing. Something small and fast is scurrying around. The fox!
Shit.
I look for the other towel to throw over it, but grab the rug instead. You grapple with the door handle, but I switched on the child-safety lock, so you can’t escape. You bash at the window.
‘Wait!’ I scream.
The fox goes wild again, thrashes out from under the rug and scratches your leg. Your shouts turn hysterical. The fox leaps into the front passenger seat, cowering, shaking, and pisses on the seat, next to the pills.
I unlock the doors and you and I tumble out. I trap the fox and then get away from her stench. When I turn back to you, you’re stumbling towards a tree. You steady yourself and piss long and hard, before collapsing against the trunk.
‘Better?’ I say.
You shake your head, blinking.
We sit against the car in the dark. I attempt a smile, but things aren’t right—you’renot right. You told me before that you’d find me, that we’d meet again, and things would be better. But I found you, and here you are, and nothing feels better.
‘You okay?’ I whisper.
You crash backwards onto the ground, your eyes open, as if you’re looking up at the stars. The gash on your head is bleeding again. I pass you more of your water, and you drink it down. It’s not long before you’re asleep beside me. I retrieve the rug from the car; it’s colder under the clear dark sky. I tuck you up, pushing the yellow tassels beneath your chin. It stinks like fox, but everything stinks now.
Carefully avoiding the shaking fox in the footwell, I also retrieve the tube of antiseptic, a new water bottle and the ceramic bowl, which I fill with water and place next to your head. I scooch my legs under your shoulders and pull your head up until it rests in my lap.
I watch you as you sleep, note the wrinkles on your forehead, around your eyes and mouth, your longer, thinner hair.How did you get so old? Did you look so much older to me when I was sixteen, too? You’re sleeping deeply, evenly, Mum’s tablets working a treat. It wouldn’t be hard to hold my hand across your mouth, use the fingers on my other hand to pinch your nose shut. Or I could get the pile of towels, bundle them and press. Why shouldn’t I, after all you’ve done? But there’s something else. I’m thinking about what you promised when I was sixteen. How you said we’d return.
I use one of the towels to dab your head wound, wipe away the dried blood, then I smear on antiseptic cream. I must keep the wound clean, can’t let the flies get in. They’ll be back in force when the sun comes up. Your head in my lap, I study you, my fingertips grazing your scar as lightly as a butterfly. You’re not frowning now. No longer a kidnapper or a jailbird. Almost beautiful. Almost.
The fox bares her teeth when she sees me, crouching and shaking under the front passenger seat. She’s made the car smell so putrid I gag. I pour water into an empty takeaway coffee cup and hold it out for her. I want to touch her, help her, but as I get closer, she lunges at me.
‘You’re not really like my Sal, are you?’ I whisper. ‘C’mon, just drink and rest.’
When she finally starts to drink, I pour a little of your tainted water into her cup. Soon enough, it’s easy to wrap her up and lay her in the boot.
The sun’s already hot when your eyes open. I’ve been sleeping too, beside you, my head resting near yours. I don’t know for how long.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We better get going.’
You let me pull you to your feet, calling me by another name. Marie. Your sister’s. You must be delirious. You follow me, murmuring something about your dad, how he won’t be home for another hour, and I take the opportunity to force some trail mix into your mouth. You look at me, clear-eyed for a moment, as you chew.
‘Where we going?’ you mumble.
‘Somewhere safer.’
Perhaps I’m delirious too. This is a dream. I’m not doing this at all. I’m in my hot flat above the Barkingside bakery, about to wake up. Or I’m sleeping on a beach in Greece.