There’s blood on my windscreen.
It’s in the corner, a few speckled spots and then a thicker pool towards the bottom.
This is definitely a dream; there can’t be any question about that. There’s a hazy grey around the edges of my vision; that blinking, fuzzy sense that everything in front of me is a bewildering construct of my imagination.
The only thing that tells me it’s not is when I yawn. It’s a big one: head back, neck cricked, jaw dislocating, eyes streaming – the works. The type of thing that grips a person and doesn’t let go until there have been multiple follow-ups and apologies, combined with the rapid flapping of hands.
Sorry, I’m not bored of you – I’m yawning because I was up early this morning. It’s been a long day.
That sort of thing.
People don’t yawn in dreams. I don’t think I ever have. Dreaming is for flying and fantasising; reality is the mundanity of yawning.
Then there’s the unflinching stare of the clock. The greeny-grey LED figures beam through the fog of darkness, relentlessly insisting it is 02:41. Then, unexpectedly, 02:42.
That’s another sign. Dreams don’t pass in individual minutes, they move with dizzying speed; jumping from place to place, time to time. They’re everything and nothing all at the same time.
They don’t tick by minute to minute.
But if I’m not dreaming, then how to explain what I am seeing?
There’s a steering wheel, the digital clock, a windscreen. The inside of a car, obviously. An air freshener is jammed into the vent by the window with a grubby chamois stuffed into the well of the driver’s door.
My car – although it takes me a few seconds to figure that out. Everything feels a bit slow, even my thoughts. Like a phone call from a far-flung country in the old days where someone would speak and the voice would sound a few seconds later.
It’s definitely my car, though. A third-hand Kia that has a dent in the rear bumper from where I mistook a concrete pillar for a parking space.
Easy mistake to make.
I’m in my car at 02:42 and it’s dark. Of course it is. I can’t see much beyond the windscreen. The glass is misty and damp with a thin sheen of condensation tickling the outside.
When I try to sit up straighter, I realise the seat belt is across me and I’m strapped in. The overhead light is on.
It’s such a familiar scene and yet so unclear. I get into my car day after day without thinking. Press the button on the fob, driver’s door open, bag behind the driver’s seat, slide inside, key in the ignition, handbrake down, and go. Like a reflex.
This is wrong. Everything’s in place physically: from the half-eaten bag of M&Ms by the handbrake to the sunglasses tossed haphazardly into the space between the gearstick and the cigarette lighter.
The problem is that I have no idea why I’m in my car at what is now 02:43, let alone where I am. It hurts when I try to think, as if there’s something inside my head fighting against me.
I’m not sure if it’s that thought or the actual cold that brings goosebumps to my arms.
The key is in the ignition. It’s when I go to turn it that I realise the condensation towards the bottom of the windscreen isn’t water at all. It’s darker and thicker.
It was the first thing I saw when I woke up but I’d somehow forgotten.
Blood.
Before I know it, I’ve opened the door and I’m leaning over the bonnet to get a better look. So many things occur to me at the same time that it’s difficult to take it all in. The ground is mushy and soft: a field with a slight peppering of grass or plant. I can see that because of the light from the moon. It’s far from full, a sort of apologetic excuse for a crescent, but it’s bright enough to spill white across the field, even through the speckling of clouds. There’s a hedge shrouded in darkness behind me, with an obvious gap of flattened space where the car has come through.
Then there’s the blood.
There are a few splashes on the windscreen but much more spotted across the silver bonnet. It is a shiny black in the moonlight, slick and smooth like oil. The merest hint of crimson gives away the truth. There’s more on the front of the car, spattered across the paintwork and drizzled onto the grill.
Trying to force the memory only creates a fizzing stab of pain near my temple. The familiar prickle from my age-old scar is there when I run my fingers across it. There’s something hypnotic about the sensation and I don’t dare to think of the number of hours I’ve spent absent-mindedly running my fingers along the raised zigzag of flesh. I barely remember a time when it wasn’t there.
At first I wonder if it’s my blood. I pat my chest and abdomen, dig my fingers into my hair – but there’s nothing. I’m not in any particular pain, either. Only that dull, thumping confusion.
The car – my car – must have hit a deer, something like that. I remember it happening to the woman who lived across the road until a few years ago. Sophie or Sonia. One of those shorter names. She was heading home from her weekly big shop. One minute she was driving along the dual carriageway, the next a deer had hurtled out from the bushes. There was only going to be one winner – and it wasn’t the poor animal. There was a thud and a squeal, then Sophie or Sonia’s car slalomed across the highway before slamming into a crash barrier. She woke up in hospital. I suppose Sophie or Sonia wasn’t a winner, either. It took her almost six months to get behind the wheel again. I once found her sitting in the driver’s seat on her own driveway, too frightened to turn the engine on.
That must have been what happened here. I was driving… somewhere… hit a deer and careered through the hedge into this field. That explains the blood. What it doesn’t explain is the gaping hole in my memory.
Holes.
I remember bits and pieces. There was the hotel bed. It was harder than I’m used to, like sleeping on the floor. The sheets were tucked tightly, like they always are in hotels, as if they’re trying to stop people from getting inside.
I was in bed and now I’m here. From there to this.
I do a lap of the car and feel groggy, like the morning after a night on the razz. My mouth is dry but I don’t remember drinking that much. I used to pride myself on not getting hangovers when I was in my twenties, but now, at forty-one, it’s all too much. Not only are hangovers barely a couple of drinks away, but they last entire weekends. It’s not worth it any longer. I wouldn’t have had more than a glass or two. That’s not me.
Once around the car and there’s no sign of a deer.
I do a second lap just in case I missed something and then head unsteadily towards the hedge.
I’m in my work uniform: smart skirt, blouse, jacket – and the flat shoes I keep in my bag that I switch out with my heels as and when I’m meeting a client. It’s what I would have been wearing at the hotel before going to bed.
My shoes are thin, more for comfort than practicality. They slurp and slide across the soft marshland. At least I’m not sinking into the ground.
A road is on the other side of the hedge. It’s crumbling and narrow, barely wide enough for two cars – a typical country lane. I could be pretty much anywhere in rural Britain. I navigate a shallow ditch and then walk up and down the road, looking for any trace of a deer.
Nothing.
No skid marks, no trail of blood, no anything.
There’s not even the hum of night-time traffic in the background, let alone street lights. It feels like I’m, well… nowhere.
After a few fruitless minutes, I walk back to the gap in the hedge – which is the only spot where I can see tyre marks. There’s a slim bump of a ditch with dents in the soil from where the car left the road. From there is a direct trail to the car in the field.
No deer though. No badger or fox. Not even a rabbit.
Even if the car had hit an animal that had survived and run off, there would surely be blood – but the only place I can see it is on the windscreen and bonnet.
I stand at the side of the driver’s door turning in a circle, trying to figure it out. It’s cool but not cold, a gentle breeze licking across the seemingly endless field. All I can see in the distance is the dark.
Back in the car and I find my bag behind the driver’s seat. It’s where I always leave it. Everything is as it should be. Except that the car is covered in blood and in a field, obviously.
There was a time when I was scared of driving. I wasn’t as bad as Sophie or Sonia across the road, but, for a while, I’d avoid motorways, preferring quieter roads with slower speed limits. I always gave way, stopped at amber lights, never broke the speed limits. It was such a long time ago that I’d largely forgotten that feeling of fear when it came to cars.
The two things went together whenever I got into the driver’s seat.
A key in the ignition meant a fleeting tingle of anxiety. That was when I was a teenager – another time, another person – but it’s there again now, niggling at the back of my mind.
I blink the sensation away – and find my phone in my bag, where it should be. I’m ready to use the maps app to figure out where I am, but there are already notifications waiting for me. The bright white of the screen burns through the gloom and it takes me a few seconds to take in the words.
There’s a missed call from Dan, which is strange, as he never usually calls. My husband isn’t a big talker, not when it comes to me. Texts are another thing – and he’s sent one of those.
Olivia didn’t come home tonight. Did she text you? Call if you want. Don’t worry about the time. I won’t silence my phone.
It’s typical Dan. Complete sentences and full stops, even in texts. There’s the passive aggression as well – ‘if you want’ – as if our daughter not coming home is something that wouldn’t concern me.
He sent it a little before eleven, by which time Olivia should have definitely been home from work. She’s eighteen, so old enough to stay out for the night – but she does usually let us know if she’s not coming home.
I read the text again, focusing on the ‘if you want’. I can imagine him saying it in that casual, off-the-cuff way that he does, as if it means nothing – even though he’ll throw it back in my face if we argue. When we argue.
If you want.
Yeah, I bloody do want, actually.
Let’s see if you want to be called at three in the morning.
Dan answers his phone before it can ring a second time. I wasn’t expecting that. He sounds awake and alert, no hint of a yawn, despite the time. He doesn’t bother with a ‘hi’, going straight in with, ‘I wondered if you’d call.’
‘Only just got your message,’ I reply – which is more or less true.
‘Let me check her room. Hang on.’
There’s a muffled thump and then a stunted silence. I press back into the driver’s seat and hug an arm across myself. It’s starting to feel cold. I check myself in the mirror but there are no scrapes or scuffs on my face. A minute or so later and Dan is back.
‘Liv’s not home,’ he says. ‘Did she text you?’
‘Nothing. Did she go to work as normal?’
‘I guess so. I was at work and then the gym. I’ve not seen her since this morning. Rahul would’ve called if she hadn’t made it, though.’
That’s true enough. Olivia’s boss has called in the past when she didn’t show up. That was back in the old days – three months ago – when Liv wasn’t as reliable as she has been recently. A few months can feel like ice ages when it comes to living with teenagers.
‘She seemed fine this morning,’ I reply, knowing that ‘fine’ involved her hardly saying anything and then grunting her way back to her bedroom with a bottle of water.
Perhaps it’s because I’m in a field in the middle of the night but it doesn’t feel as if I should be too concerned about Olivia. She’s at that age where a drink with friends can turn into more than one, which then becomes sleeping on someone’s sofa. Slightly concerned parents can easily be forgotten. I was the same at her age – worse – and we didn’t have mobile phones back then.
Dan hums to himself, thinking it over. ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ he concludes.
‘I’m sure, too.’
‘I thought you’d want to know.’
‘That’s very considerate. Thank you for telling me.’
There’s a silence as we each think over the forced politeness. We can do this when we want. We’re actually pretty good at it.
Dan continues to say nothing, which, in itself, says plenty.
‘Is there something else?’ I ask.
‘No… well, perhaps. Did you move my gym fob? I couldn’t find it earlier. I had to get a temporary one.’
It’s typical really. I’m away for the night, our daughter is AWOL, and Dan’s worried about the gym.
‘I don’t remember seeing it around,’ I reply. ‘Did you try the kitchen drawer?’
I’m good sometimes. He’s not the only one that can do passive aggression. The kitchen drawer is where we keep all those types of things. Old and new keys, emergency money, receipts, coupons, lottery tickets. It’s an emporium of everything. It’s exactly where his gym fob would have been; the first place he would have looked.
I can sense the annoyance in his voice when he replies. ‘I tried there,’ he says. ‘Checked my pockets, my car…’
He tails off but I’ve had my moment of satisfaction.
‘Hopefully I’ll find it in the morning,’ he concludes. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Without waiting for a goodbye, let alone offering one of his own, he’s gone. I stab the phone screen twice to make sure it’s not that I’ve lost reception. It’s not – it’s that he’d had enough of talking to me. It occurs to me that the only reason he called and texted was because of his misplaced fob, nothing to do with Olivia at all.
I drop the phone into the well on the side of the door and, from nowhere, have a moment of clarity, grabbing the chamois from the driver’s door and heading back into the night air. I wipe as much of the blood as I can from the windscreen and bonnet but, even in the grim light, it’s a poor job. I’ve done more smearing than I have cleaning. It’ll have to do for now.
It’s only when I’m back inside the car, fingers touching the key, that I realise the one thing that should have been obvious.
If the blood doesn’t belong to an animal, then maybe it belongs to a person.
The ripple of doubt makes me shiver. It can’t be a person. It just can’t. Besides, I walked around the car, I checked the verges and the road. It’s not simply that there’s no sign of a wounded or dead animal, there’s no sign of anything – or anyone.
The car starts first time, the headlights switching on automatically and flaring deep into the distance, only to be swallowed by the murky shadows. I clip in my seat belt once more and then press gently on the accelerator, listening to the engine rev as it fights against the handbrake. It sounds as if everything’s working. Not that I know anything about cars. ‘It sounds fine’, or ‘it looks fine’ generally does me.
I let the car idle for a moment, then softly release the handbrake while whispering a quiet, ‘Come on.’
The ground is soft but not overly muddy, though I’m sure there’s a chance the car could get stuck. I have no idea if someone’s supposed to go quickly or slowly in order to avoid being marooned. I opt for slow, easing the car backwards.
‘That’s it,’ I say quietly, urging the vehicle on. ‘Just like that.’
The engine purrs smoothly as the tyres grip. The car bumps up, then down, as it carefully manoeuvres over the uneven ground. I’m closing in on the flattened hedge in the rear-view mirror when there’s a gurgle from somewhere underneath. It feels as if I’m moving sideways and there’s a gloopy glug, then the car jolts upwards, shooting over a bump and creaking before I ease off the accelerator.
‘C’mon,’ I whisper. ‘Do it for me. I’ll give you a nice clean in the morning.’
I try again, a little more forceful on the accelerator this time, and the car shunts up and down like an old wooden roller-coaster cart. I’m momentarily bounced around in my seat and then the car slaloms into an abrupt descent. The verge is shallow and there’s a fleeting, fearful second where I’m convinced I’m going to be trapped. It only lasts for a blink. The moment the rear wheels touch the tarmac of the road, the car zips back, temporarily out of control until I spin the steering wheel and find myself staring down the shadowed country road, out of breath. The headlights beam into the distance but all I can see is tarmac and the leafy, silhouettes of hedges on either side.
And, breathe…
The maps app really has got me in the middle of nowhere. There’s green on either side for miles, no sign of anything even close to civilisation until I zoom out. I was in the Grand Ol’ Royal hotel south of Birmingham, not far from Royal Leamington Spa. Now, somehow, I’m around twenty miles closer to my home in Lincolnshire. Depending on the speed limits and route, that’s at least thirty minutes lost. I suppose I was driving – who else could have been – but all I have is one gaping dark hole.
I spend a few seconds zooming in and out of the map, looking around the local villages, wondering if I’ve ever been in the area. It’s easy to conclude that this spot is so far out of the way that, unless someone lives here, no one would voluntarily be in these parts. Not unless there are some rural pubs serving mountainous Sunday roasts, of course. That’s about the only reason anyone I know ever visits the countryside.
The engine is quietly idling and I wonder if I should call the AA. The membership card is in my bag, the number stored on my phone. They’d get me home safely, but what about the questions? How could I explain away the smeared blood, or the gap in the hedge? They’d probably call the police. I’d be breathalysed at the very least, possibly charged with careless or dangerous driving. They’d ask question after question and I don’t know the answers myself.
As I pull away carefully, I keep an eye on the verges, hoping there’s something that might explain at least part of what has happened. As before, there is no sign of an animal, or anything even close. The most interesting thing is an abandoned traffic cone, caked with muck, that’s been dumped further along the hedge.
If I had hit something, it’s hidden by the night.
If, I tell myself. If I hit something. Something, not someone.
Ignoring the obvious is the only thing I can do for now. It’s not like there was a freak rain-storm of blood; the splashes must have come from somewhere.
After a mile or so, I decide that the car’s fine and there’s no point in driving so slowly. Whenever I reach a junction – which isn’t often – I check the phone in my lap to make sure I’m going the right way. It’s after fifteen minutes or so when I realise that ‘right’ way is the route home, not the way back to the hotel. I’m on autopilot, searching for some sense of normality among this madness.
Concentrating on anything feels like hard work. The road blurs and it’s only the frequent bumps of potholes that keep me even close to alert. My reactions remain sluggish and it’s almost as if I’m watching myself drive, rather than being the actual driver. Perhaps this was the problem in the first place? I left the hotel for some reason, started driving home, got lost, and fell asleep at the wheel.
There are stories like that in the news all the time. A lorry driver swerves off the motorway after falling asleep. That would explain waking up in the field, even if it doesn’t clarify why I left the hotel or why there is blood on the windscreen.
Perhaps I bumped my head at some point, which explains the amnesia.
Or, I assume it does. When it comes to memory loss, my only knowledge – if it can be called that – comes from ludicrous soap plots and stupid movies. Amnesia is a staple.
It hurts every time I try to force the memory – and there are only flashes. I remember the beech wood of the hotel bar, the row of wine glasses above my head. There’s the carpeted, wide staircase that felt so illustrious. The hard bed, the tightly tucked covers.
After a while, the B-roads link onto the A-roads – and then it’s not long until I start to recognise landmarks. There’s a petrol station I’ve stopped at a couple of times. The interior lights are off, though the price board is lit up like a capitalistic Christmas tree. Another mile and there’s the pub where Dan and I once came for lunch many years ago. It’s boarded up now, left for the rats or the developers, whichever gets to it first. There are two skips in the car park and the only indication of its previous life is the faded name board facing the road. It was packed when we stopped. There used to be a carvery and even the walls smelled of meaty gravy. I wonder why we never returned, then it occurs to me that I’m still thirty miles or so from home and it was probably a decade ago anyway. Perhaps longer. It’s passed in a blink. Olivia would have been young but I don’t remember her being with us. She might have been at hockey practice, or at a dance show. That was back when she had hobbies. It’s hard to remember specifics and a long time since Dan and I used to drive aimlessly, looking for somewhere new to eat.
Perhaps it was my naïvety but the world felt simpler then.
The rows of street lights have taken hold now, eating away at my sluggishness. The A-roads are now the suburbs, with sprinkled red-brick housing estates. I slow for a zebra crossing, even though there’s nobody waiting. I’m stabbed by the thought that perhaps I shouldn’t be driving. There’s a play park off to the side, a multicoloured climbing frame plonked on that soft black matting they have nowadays. There are swings and a roundabout and imagining the children who might play here during the day is straightforward enough. What if I have that thing where people fall asleep for no reason? I could be a danger to those kids, a danger to myself.
I wonder why I’m only thinking of this now.
If other people found themselves in that field, would they have acted differently?
I let the window down a centimetre or two for a token bit of fresh air. Something to keep me awake.
The housing estates have become rows of shops, though nothing is open. The shutters are down across the front of the betting holes but lights are on inside the giant Lidl. I keep going, sticking to the speed limit, though edging through a nonsensical red light that’s giving priority to traffic that isn’t there at this time of the morning.
My heart rate quickens when I see the first car since I hit the street lights. A battered dark blue Vauxhall cruises towards me on the other side of the road and I feel sure the driver knows I’m guilty of something. My fingers are trembling on the steering wheel as my gaze drifts towards the other driver. It’s a young woman, twenty or so. I’m guessing she’ll be on her way home after a late shift in a factory or something similar. I feel sure she’ll notice a patch of blood on my car but her eyes are fixed on the road ahead.
Probably where mine should be.
Ten minutes more and I’m pulling into our street. There’s not much I can say for it, other than it’s normal. Cars are parked intermittently and there are rows of semi-detacheds on either side. There are small patches of green outside each house, with tarmacked driveways leading to individual garages. It could be any street in any part of the country. When people think of Britain, they usually think of cobbles and red postboxes – but, for most, this is the United Kingdom. We’re cookie-cutter houses, with plastic wheelie bins and recycling boxes on the pavement outside.
The clock reads 04:39 when I pull onto the driveway. Dan has set up a gadget in each of our cars that makes the garage door open automatically when we approach. The gears grind and boom as I wait, like a jet liner taking off. I’m convinced it’ll wake the neighbours but, when I’m parked safely inside, I instantly forget about anyone else. My fingers throb from where I’ve been gripping the steering wheel so firmly and my shoulders are tight and sore.
Despite the madness of circumstance, I’m home.
The car looks far worse in the bright overhead light of the garage.
In the bluey-white glow from the moon, I knew I’d done a poor job of cleaning away the blood from the bonnet – and can now see how I’ve only succeeded in smearing the red into the silver paint. There are spots where it looks like a faded tie-dye job. It’s almost hypnotic. It could be some sort of Turner Prize nonsense, some abstract image of gore – except I did this.
For the first time, I wonder why there’s no damage. In my confused, flustered state, I’d somehow missed it. If I did hit something, then why is the car unaffected? There are no dents in the front bumper, nothing other than blood swirls on the bonnet – and the windscreen is not cracked. Would it be possible to hit something and cause that much blood loss, and yet not damage the car?
I have little time to dwell because, as I’m about to dig out a bucket and sponge, the door that leads into the house opens with a resounding click.
The route from house to garage involves a double door, with a slim one-step porch in between. It’s instinct, perhaps self-preservation, but I lunge for the garage light switch and plunge the room into darkness. At the same moment, Dan’s silhouette appears in the doorway. He’s haloed by the light behind; his slim waist and wide, muscled shoulders striking in their athleticism. I’m not used to his new physique.
‘Rose?’ he says, unsure of himself.
I step towards him, stopping him coming down the stairs into the garage. He takes the hint, shifting back into the light of the porch. He’s wearing lounge pants and a loose shirt but they’re uncrumpled and it doesn’t look like he’. . .
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