Simon gunned his engine, revving madly as he wove his way through the slower traffic on sleety, dirty, slushy Euston Road, down to Angel.
He’d called Polly, before the meeting, during, after. He’d kept tabs. She’d reassured him Grace was fine. But he was rushing home from the office, and as he did he was shouting at Jenny, down the line. Bluetooth blazing. He had Jenny on Voicemail. He was leaving endless messages.
‘Whatever the fuck you were doing, it has to stop. Make it stop!’
Whoa! He’d nearly crashed. In the nick of time he slammed on the accelerator, and veered around a tootling little Fiat 500.
Jenny’s voicemail beeped. He’d run out of time. Simon’s hands tightened angrily on the wheel. He would obey Jo, and not get physically involved; but there was nothing to stop him making calls. Find out what was going on. And intervene if necessary.
As he shot a light, he shouted at the Bluetooth: Call Jenny. The thought of Jo in danger, of Jo’s mother dying, of all the hurt Jenny had caused: it was all too much. It made him too angry That heartless bitch!
Again he barked his questions into the handless phone: ‘Tell me? Why? Why the campaign, why did you go so far?’
The voicemail was silent. He was talking into space. He didn’t care. The anger boiled. And now his phone rang. Someone was ringing him.
JO?
Vigorously he thumbed the button, taking the call. ‘Jo? Jesus, Jo! What is it? What’s happening?’
‘She’s here.’
Jo was whispering, her voice low and hoarse.
‘Where are you, Jo? Are you safe?’
‘No. I’m not safe. My battery’s about to die, please come over – help me – she’s locked the doors. She’s smashing stuff up.’
Simon was already screeching to halt. Doing a three-point turn, making a taxi driver shout at him, angrily. Fuck it.
‘Jo, where are you in the flat? Exactly?’
‘In the little bathroom. Locked in. But she’s got a knife, Si, she’s really mental – the lights are out, it’s so scary – I think she’s going to kill herself, and maybe me, as well—’
‘Jesus. I’m coming!’
Simon looked at his speedo: 50, 60, 70. Hurtling past buses, nearly killing a Deliveroo guy, he was at the corner. He slowed, turning a hectic right, onto Eversholt Street. Camden half a mile away. Snow turned to crappy slush, he skidded on the wet. Speeding up again. Fast fast fast. Get there now, get there before.
‘Jo, just stay calm, I’ll be there in ten, maybe five – I’m on my way—’
‘Please, Si. Please be quick. This phone’s about to go. Call the police. I may not have juice.’
‘What is she doing now?’
‘I dunno. I can hear her moving around. There’s some—’
The signal cut out. Simon overtook a Prius, the signal returned.
‘—some weird smell in here. What is she doing? Si – please—’
The steering wheel jerked in his hands. The phone call died.
‘Jo,’ he shouted. ‘JO!’
No answer. He ordered Siri to return the call. The line clicked through.
‘Jo! Answer me! JO!’
Nothing. Dead. Simon swore. The car jerked again, bizarrely. He shouted at his Bluetooth.
‘Dial 999. Call the police.’
Bluetooth did not respond. The car veered again, without him steering. Weird. No. No. But it happened again. The wheel was not his. He was no longer in control. The car was doing 80, 90, maybe more, and he was not pressing the accelerator. Someone else, the computer probably, was driving now.
‘Jesus, stop!’ he shouted. At his own car. Skidding wildly, left and right, in the sleety dark. ‘No,’ he said, trying to force the wheel right. ‘Stop, just stop—’
A lorry hooted urgently. He had nearly crashed. Head on. His tyres squealed. Car-lights spun in his eyes. The car jerked left, taking a shadowed corner way too fast, screeching into Barnby Street, and even now it was accelerating.
Simon knew this corner well, this little street. He knew it ended in a vast metal gate. A cul-de-sac. The car was speeding, the brakes lifeless, he was being hurtled towards the gates, faster, ever faster. Simon shut his eyes, he opened his eyes, he tore desperately, finally, at the steering wheel. But it would not budge. He could see pedestrians staring at him in horror, hands over mouths. He was seconds away. The gate seemed to be flying towards him.
Three seconds, two. The car engine roared. He was strapped in. But at this speed? Two seconds, one.
The car rammed into the heavy steel barrier. Simon’s final conscious thoughts took in the scene, as if he was a mere bystander: the glittery noise of shattering glass, a modest fireball billowing out of the engine, the sense of somebody crushing his ribs. And then there was smoke. And silence.
And blood, which slowly dripped onto metal.