TWENTY

Poppy is delighted when the car stops.

That’s one more drink she can buy with the money she’s going to save on the bus fare. Callum has a part-time job and she knows he’ll be happy enough putting his hand in his pocket, but she can’t let him pay for everything. She knows there are plenty of girls willing to do that, sit there all night downing free rum and cokes, but there are lads who take that the wrong way. Who think it means they’re owed something at the end of the night.

It’s cold too, and it looks like there’s rain coming, so getting a lift is a double bonus.

‘Where you off to, Pops?’ he asks.

‘Tamworth,’ she says. ‘The All Bar One near the station?’

He thinks about it for a few seconds, like he’s trying to get his bearings, then tells her he can probably take her all the way, that he’s got to meet someone to talk about some business thing.

‘You’re in luck,’ he says as he leans across to open the door for her.

It’s warm in his car, and he tells her she can change the station on the radio, find something she likes. He’s been listening to some rubbish with endless guitar solos, so she starts searching through the stations.

‘You look nice,’ he tells her. ‘I like your boots.’

‘They’re new,’ she says. She looks down at her shiny red DMs, wiggles her feet around. ‘Birthday present.’

‘You on a date?’

She laughs, tells him that nobody says ‘date’ any more, that he sounds like he’s a hundred years old or something. He doesn’t seem to mind her taking the piss, says he feels that old sometimes, that he’s used to teenagers reminding him that he’s out of touch. ‘What’s the right word then?’ he asks.

The road crosses the M42 and she looks down at the traffic, the necklace of red lights in one direction, white in the other. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, laughing. ‘I’m just meeting a friend, that’s all.’

‘Probably have a few drinks though,’ he says.

‘Probably have more than a few,’ she says.

She finally finds something decent on the radio and he laughs when he glances across, sees her nodding her head in time.

‘I don’t get this stuff,’ he tells her.

‘You’re not supposed to, are you?’ she says.

‘I know, I’m too old.’ Keeping one eye on the road, he stretches an arm into the back and drags a plastic bag across. ‘Here you go,’ he says. ‘Take this with you, put it in your bag or something.’

She reaches in and takes half a bottle of vodka from the bag. It looks like it’s been opened already, but it’s more or less full. ‘Serious?’ she asks.

‘Prices they charge in these bars,’ he says. ‘Bloody extortionate, it is.’

‘You sure?’

‘Just buy some cranberry juice or whatever, then you can mix it.’

‘Thanks,’ she says. She leans down to get her handbag from the footwell.

‘Have a drink now if you like,’ he says. ‘There’s plenty.’

The road narrows on the outskirts of Glascote and begins to twist where the streetlights get further apart. He flicks the headlights to full beam.

‘You want some?’ She holds the bottle towards him.

‘I’m driving,’ he says. ‘Besides, I can’t turn up to my meeting pissed.’

She takes the top off the bottle and has a swig. It tastes a bit funny, warm because it’s probably been sitting in the back of the car for a while, but she enjoys the burn at the back of her throat. She takes another, then screws the top back on.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’

‘I’ll have some more in a minute,’ she says.

A car comes up fast behind them. It flashes its lights and overtakes. He switches off the full beam until it has disappeared around a corner. There are a few houses just beyond the trees on her side of the car, windows lit, but suddenly they’re gone.

‘How long until we’re there?’ she asks.

‘Ten minutes?’

She looks at the time on her phone. ‘Great, thanks.’

‘I’m sure your boyfriend won’t mind if you’re a bit late,’ he says. ‘Treat ’em mean and all that . . . ’

Poppy closes her eyes, just for a second or two, enjoying the music. The bottle is wedged between her legs and she thinks she can hear the vodka inside, sloshing around in time to the drumbeat, like the sea on a shingle beach.

She feels herself lean to the left as the car turns suddenly and she opens her eyes.

‘This isn’t the right way,’ she says. She knows it’s not, she’s taken the bus loads of times and it never turns off, not until it gets into the town centre, the one-way system.

‘Traffic can get bad at the big roundabout,’ he says. ‘There’s temporary lights.’ He’s turned on to a narrow lane and she can’t see anything but bushes on either side; darkness beyond and mud and stones creeping beneath the headlights. ‘This is a good short cut, trust me.’

He looks at her and smiles and tells her not to worry. He tells her to help herself to another drink if she wants.

He says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.’