My mother’s eyes flick between me and the motorway. I remain frozen, the phone clamped to my ear. Murray Mackenzie is still talking, but I’m not taking anything in. Mum moves into the fast lane again and we overtake the same couple in the beat-up Astra. Still happy, still singing.
“Miss Johnson? Anna?”
I’m too scared to answer. I’m wondering if there’s any chance my mother might not have heard what Murray had to say—might not have guessed from my expression what I’ve heard—but the look in my mother’s eyes tells me it’s all over.
“Give me the phone.” Her voice shakes.
I do nothing. Tell him, a voice inside screams. Tell him you’re on the M25 in a Volkswagen Polo. They have cameras, motorway patrols, response officers. They’ll get to you.
But my mother speeds up. Cuts back into the lane sharply and without warning, the driver behind us pressing violently on the horn. The volume of traffic that had earlier felt comforting now feels terrifying; every car is a potential collision target. Ella’s car seat, once so robust, now appears flimsy and insecure. I tighten the seat belt around it; pull on my own. Murray’s no longer talking. Either the line’s dropped out or he’s ended the call; assumed I’ve hung up on him again.
“Who was that in the Mitsubishi?”
Nothing.
“Who was that chasing us?” I scream it, and she takes a breath but ignores my question.
“Give me the phone, Anna.”
She’s as terrified as I am. Her knuckles are white with fear, not anger; her voice shakes with panic, not rage. The knowledge should make me feel safer—stronger—but it doesn’t.
Because she’s in the driver’s seat.
I give her the phone.