Remind me never to think anything again – ever. I’m jinxed. Whenever I think things are going to get better, they get worse. Whenever I dare to think things can’t possibly get any worse, the universe is hell-bent on proving me oh-so wrong.
Every time Danny utters the term ‘YOLO’ I fantasise about punching him in the face repeatedly, but I’ve just learned a valuable lesson. I’ve spent pretty much every second of this trip thinking about how shit my life is – right up until now, when I realised just how precious my life is.
We were flying along the motorway (well, as fast as the Love Bug would allow) when Danny (who isn’t talking to me) told me that the steering felt heavy. I had no sooner mused out loud that this was probably because his car was old enough to be his dad when things got worse. Even I could feel the car pulling to one side – that’s when it started violently shuddering, so much my iPad flew out of my hands and disappeared under the seat. As terrifying as it was, it was all over quite quickly. Somehow Danny managed to safely manoeuvre us out of the traffic and to the side of the road. We’re in a sort of lay-by, but Danny advises me that it’s still dangerous and that we need to get out of the car.
We hop out, Danny first, and then I clamber over the driver’s seat as quickly as possible, which I don’t imagine looks too graceful. As we make our way to safety, Danny notices what is wrong. One of his tyres is completely flat, and on the car itself, above the wheel, someone has hastily scratched the word ‘twat’ into the paintwork.
‘Those little pricks,’ Danny shouts. ‘They punctured my tyre. They could’ve killed us!’
I grab Danny by the arm and pull him as far away from the road as possible, stepping over a little fence into a field. Hopefully we’re safe here, but as I hold my phone in the air I realise there’s nothing I can do to get any signal.
I glance at the road. It’s quite busy but, of course, no one is stopping to help us. I’d accept help from anyone right now, even the Zodiac killer.
‘Do you have a spare tyre and a jack or whatever?’ I ask.
Danny shakes his head.
‘Your car doesn’t have a spare tyre?’
‘My car doesn’t even have a functioning passenger door.’ He laughs.
‘Can’t we drive it now it’s deflated?’ I ask genuinely.
‘They’re not run-flat tyres. Classic car, Candy,’ he reminds me.
So the fact that this problem cannot be solved is partially because of his old banger of a car, and partly because of his incompetence in not carrying a spare tyre. Not forgetting that this is all his fault in the first place.
‘This is what happens when you steal from kids,’ I tell him, angrily.
‘Speaking of which,’ Danny says, cheering up a little as he takes something from his pocket. ‘If we’re stuck here, may as well make it more bearable.’
I watch him fidget around with something for a while, before bringing it up to his mouth and lighting it.
I lean closer, unable to believe my eyes.
‘Is that weed?’ I ask in a voice so much higher in pitch than it usually is.
‘Yep, you want a hit?’ he asks as he exhales.
‘You’re getting high on stolen weed while you’re on a business trip? Oh, and with a company-branded lighter, no less.’
‘Cool, huh? I got it a couple of days ago. If they didn’t want me to smoke, they shouldn’t have given me a lighter.’
‘It was for lighting Charlie’s cake, wasn’t it?’
Danny laughs.
I pace back and forth, trying to get some signal for a while. Danny is growing increasingly giggly and it’s pissing me off.
‘We’re stranded at the side of the motorway with no way of getting any help – all your fault, by the way – and all you can do is get high?’
‘YOLO!’ he yells, annoying me even more.
‘You can’t just call YOLO every time you do something stupid,’ I tell him. ‘The clue is in the fucking acronym: you only live once. Meaning life is delicate. Meaning don’t do stuff that is going to fucking kill you.’
Danny admires what is left of his joint thoughtfully.
‘It’s better to look back and say: “I can’t believe I did that” than it is to look back and say: “I wish I did that”.’
‘It’s better to not die, you high fucking idiot,’ I say under my breath. There’s no reasoning with him right now.
As I spy a van pull up behind Danny’s car, for a split second, a wave of relief washes over me. Why is it that I never think things can get any worse? Because they always do. I take back what I said about accepting help from anyone – I think I’d rather brave being stuck at the side of the road a little longer.
‘We’re saved,’ Danny mumbles, his joint in his mouth, as he waves his arms in the air.
‘We’re screwed,’ I correct him, panic in my voice. ‘That’s a police van.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ Danny says, looking around in panic. He takes the joint and the little bag he stole from the teenagers and legs it over to the stream running alongside the field, then throws them in. He runs back over and stands next to me, as though we’re the von Trapp kids reporting for duty. Despite our predicament, Danny cannot suppress his giggles.
‘You stay here,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll go talk to them.’
I walk over towards the van as two police officers hop out.
‘Car trouble?’ the first asks with a friendly smile.
‘A flat tyre,’ I tell him, smiling back, trying to be cool.
‘We’ll get you sorted, no worries,’ the second policeman tells me. ‘Are you the driver?’
‘Erm, no, he is,’ I say, nodding towards Danny who gives the policemen a big, moronic smile and a wave.
The first policeman beckons him over with a hand gesture before speaking into his radio.
‘If you guys are busy, don’t worry about us. If we can just use your phone quickly or whatever…’
‘It’s fine,’ the second policeman tells me as he opens the door at the back of the van. ‘We needed to stop to let the dog out anyway.’
That’s when I realise this is a dog unit van – right as my high colleague rocks up next to me, and as the policeman lets the big, scary-looking Alsatian out of the van. Only a few feet away from us, the dog stares at us for a second. It narrows its eyes, like it knows what we’re up to. I give it a friendly smile and make kissy noises at it, almost pleading with it to keep quiet but it’s no use. The dog starts making a low, rumbling noise. This can’t be good.
Danny stares at the dog in amazement. Still, I try my hardest to get us out of this steadily worsening situation.
‘He must be able to smell my cat,’ I reason.
Danny falls about laughing at this, right about the time the dog starts barking at him fiercely.
The policeman, now suspicious, walks closer to Danny. His dog gets angrier.
‘My dog says you’re on drugs,’ the policeman says to us. ‘What do you have to say to that?’
Now is the time to keep quiet, but this does not occur to Danny the high fucking idiot.
‘I’m on drugs?’ he repeats. ‘You’re the one with the talking dog, mate.’
Both policemen are staring at us now, and neither looks amused. Before I know what’s going on, the dog is swiftly put back in the van and Danny and I are being apprehended.
As they search us, the policeman searching me notices the cling film poking out of my sleeve.
‘What’s up your sleeve?’ he asks.
‘I had a tattoo,’ I explain, removing it to prove as much. The plan is to be as forthcoming as possible, because I haven’t done anything wrong. Stupid, stupid idea, because the policeman’s eyes widen with horror as he checks out my ink.
‘You have an Isis tattoo?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘Yes, but, Isis is a goddess – see, it’s pronounced differently,’ I explain, but it falls on deaf ears. Clearly he thinks he’s got a terrorist as well as a pothead.
‘I think we need to discuss all this down town, don’t you?’ he says.