The Road Trip That Never Was

Of all the places my subconscious could drag me, it’s spat me out at a petrol station. A nowhere place. A pause button. A held breath. A suspended moment. A shrine to journeys the world has decided are not for me — roads that wind beyond my reach, destinations I can only watch from the curb. Haha. Very funny. It knows full well I can’t drive. Well — I can. But my driving licence has been suspended. No, I haven’t upended a Royal Mail van, despite the wild rumours circulating the office. It’s for health reasons. Invisible reasons. Fragile reasons. The kind that don’t leave dents — just limits. The smell of petrol and revving engines hangs heavy in the air, taunting me, mocking me with memories of better times behind the wheel. Music blasting. Windows down. Wind in my hair. Just me and the open road, going somewhere because I decided to. Motion unbound. I walk into the kiosk. There are perks to being a non-driver — at least I don’t have to exchange organs for fuel. I pick up snacks anyway, out of habit: chocolates, crisps, sugar for a journey I’m forbidden to take. My hands remember what my life no longer does. The chap behind the counter leans towards me, lowering his voice. “You do realise you’re being stalked?” I stare at him. His desk is fortified with empty energy drink cans — a jittery citadel of caffeine and sleepless nights. “I think you’ve had too many of those.’ I say, gesturing to the Monster mountain. “Seriously,” he adds. “I’ve been watching on the CCTV.” He points. Out on the forecourt, a man’s head is poking out from behind one of the fuel pumps. Just his head. Waiting. Patient. Still. “Oh wow,” I say, because what else can you say when a stalker is running loose and you’re his prime target. “Where’s a rape alarm when you need one?” “Mind how you go,” the cashier mutters. “He’s unhinged. Always hanging around. Pouncing on victims.” The words stick to me like diesel after a full tank. Outside, the man blocks my path. “Amanda,” he says, grinning. “I was hoping to bump into you.” Something in my body stiffens. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. His face is half-hidden under a baseball cap, hands buried deep into his jean pockets, like he’s ready to pull out a — “Wanna biscuit?” he asks, producing a limp, decrepit packet. Its edges are soft with age. Like it’s been waiting too long. “I think I’ll pass,” I say, already making a beeline. “I’d best get on.” I walk up the road, quickening my pace, keeping what I consider a safe distance. Still, I can feel his gaze drilling into my spine. Measuring. Logging. Remembering. I turn back. He’s hiding behind a lamppost, trying — failing spectacularly — to look stealthy. It’s almost comical. Almost. I walk faster. My feet slap the pavement. A bush rustles. I turn again. His eyes stare back at me from the foliage — unblinking, manic — like some deranged green man. Camouflage as performance art. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, and I start running. My breath turns jagged. My heart feels like it’s beating outside my chest, trying to escape first. “Amanda!” I nearly jump out of my skin — convinced the psycho killer has finally caught me — but it’s Kylie. Of course it is. Curly hair whipping wildly in the wind. She waves from across the road like this is all perfectly normal. “Thank God you’re here,” I pant. “There’s a guy following me.” She looks around, confused. “I can’t see anyone.” Then her face lights up. “Road trip?” She gestures to an open-top convertible idling at the curb. Engine ticking. Waiting. “You can drive now?” I ask. She laughs. “Oh God no.” Kylie is a non-driver. Always has been. She took one lesson — just one — reversed straight into a wheelie bin, panicked, wept, and never got behind the wheel again. A clean break. Sensible. Final. “Mum’s driving,” she says. “Your mum can drive now?” This is somehow worse. Her mum has never driven a day in her life. Too nervous. Too clueless. One of those people best kept away from heavy machinery. I didn’t plan to die today — certainly not by stalker or vehicular incompetence — but I’m a devil for danger and fear is a persuasive bitch. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s road trip.” Kylie’s mum materialises from nowhere. Big bug-eyed sunglasses. A shawl tied round her head like a walking Thelma and Louise cliché. I’m here for it. “Come on then, girlies,” she beams. “Let’s get this party started.” We pile in. I yank my seatbelt tight like a tourniquet. Bat Out of Hell blares from the radio — cruelly on the nose — and we pull away. The Three Amigos. For five seconds. “Girls… I don’t know how to drive,” Kylie’s mum shrieks, slamming the brakes and bringing us to an abrupt halt. “Maybe… another time?” Deflated, we climb back out. “I can drive,” a voice calls from behind. The stalker. Smirking beneath his cap. My eyes widen. Kylie reads them like a book. RUN. We pound the streets like two runaway strays. Ahead, a familiar sight — a broken-down Royal Mail van, half on the road, half on an embankment. Frozen mid-failure. Charlotte. My princess of perishable parking. She’s sobbing on the curb, face buried in hands. “It’s been the day from hell,” she weeps. “Everything is going wrong.” “Deep breaths,” I say. “We’ll get this bad boy back on the road in no time.” On second glance, smoke curls from the bonnet. Red metal hugs a lamppost like it’s made a friend for life. A violent intimacy. “It’s only a small bump,” I lie. “Nothing a wet wipe can’t fix.” She smiles. Our private joke. Charlotte is the embodiment of organisation. Her black bag — printed with dinosaurs — contains everything: first aid kit, painkillers, heat pads, torches, spare clothes, a four-course meal, and enough wet wipes to extinguish a small inferno. Prepared for every eventuality. Except this one. “I forgot my bag,” she says, and breaks again. She’s drowning in an ocean of her own tears, and I’m useless — until my eyes land on the open-top convertible. “Think you can cram the parcels in there?” I ask. “Hm, might be doable.” I hand her the keys, wish her great luck, and watch her drive off into the sunset — minus the big sunnies and flapping headscarf. The tarmac turns sticky. I’m at the pub. Bodies packed tight. Drunk on booze, high on noise. The party is in full swing. My husband stands alone in the corner. I make a beeline for him — my lone beacon of light. We stand awkwardly together, unsure how to exist in this sweaty, breathing organism masquerading as joy. “Drink?” a man asks. My cardiologist. The man who broke my heart and is trying to fix it. “Sparkling rosé?” he guesses. “That would be lovely.” When he returns, the party has thinned. I check the clock. 5 a.m. This is wrong. I’m an early bird. Lights out. Bed by nine. This hour belongs to people running or hiding. Ash sits cross-legged in the corner, demolishing a curry like it’s the last supper. “Oh Mand, best curry I’ve ever had,” she says, shovelling it in like a ravenous raccoon — greasy, sticky, dripping down her face. She never goes out. She has seven children. And here she is, at five in the morning, in a pub, eating curry like the world might end before breakfast. “Get out of my pub!” the landlord roars. Not Peggy Mitchel. The Pub owner, rag in hand, shooing away the last of the stragglers. We spill outside. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m alone. A bush rustles. I know before I see him. He steps into the light. My body locks. He reaches into his pocket. This is it, I think. A knife. Something sharp. Something final. I close my eyes. There’s a soft tearing sound. Paper. He pulls out a packet of wet wipes. “You look like you need one,” he says. He’s closer now. Too close. He holds it out gently — absurdly. That’s when I see the strap over his shoulder. Black. Scuffed. Printed with dinosaurs. Charlotte’s bag. My throat tightens. “Where’s Charlotte?” I ask, my voice unsteady. He tilts his head, smiling. “You don’t remember?”