Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  During week seven of the collection, I went to Snowy’s after school for tea. Snowy was allowed out on his bike before mealtimes and gave me a ‘seater’ as we rode through the estate. Snowy pulled up outside the off-licence. We both went inside, Snowy scratching his skinny ribs and complaining about being ravenous.

  ‘But your ma’s got the tea on,’ I said.

  ‘Me ma’s stingy with the potatoes,’ Snowy said. And he bought a Toffee Crisp and two cans of 7Up. ‘You should get some fodder, mate, or you’ll be starving.’

  I had my two quid, all ready to buy my magazine the following day. A packet of crisps wasn’t going to break the bank. I could ask my dad for it when he got home. So, I chose some beef Space Raiders.

  ‘10p, love,’ the girl on the till said.

  I handed over a quid, got ninety pence change.

  That night, after Snowy’s ma dropped me off, I found my ma and my dad in the kitchen arguing. My dad told me to go up to my room. I took the glass from my sock drawer, and turning it upside down on the carpet, ear to the glass, I listened through the floorboards. They weren’t arguing. They were talking about Maggie bloody Thatcher. My dad had lost his job, again.

  The extra 10p was never asked for.

  At the newsagents, I picked up the seventh edition of the magazine, took it to the counter. Keeping my fingers crossed behind my back, I handed over my money. I believed that a stroke of luck, or kindness, might just be on my side.

  ‘You’re 10p short,’ the lady said.

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I bought some Space Raiders. Yesterday.’

  ‘Well, you’d better choose something else,’ she said. ‘Something you can afford.’

  So, I chose a comic. And a can of Coke. And enough penny sweets in a paper bag to take me up to the exact amount I had to spend; one pound and ninety pence. I sat beside the radiator and read the comic, ignoring the dot-to-dot and feeling sick from all the sugar.

  The following week, the newsagents were only selling the eighth edition. I’d never get the seventh piece to my globe. So I gave up collecting the magazines and started reading paperbacks instead. I kept my globe – just over half of it, unable to spin on its axis – on my shelf, most countries visible, the Pacific Ocean entirely missing.

  The dancing lessons paid off for my sisters. When Lisa landed the job dancing on a cruise ship, Emma followed a year later. Both girls sailed all four corners of the globe before settling in the port they started in; Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

  And it sounds soft, but I’ve felt forever 10p short.

  Now, Zara’s picking at her nails, little flecks wafting about my car like fucking dandruff.

  I swear, if any of that touches the interior, falls onto the leather—

  BEEP!

  ‘What the fuck’s your problem?’ I shout at the driver behind, scowling at him through my rear-view mirror.

  ‘You can go,’ Zara tells me.

  ‘Y’what?’

  She points to the traffic light. It’s green. She was right. I can go.

  Shit.

  I give a wave to the driver behind. My bad.

  15

  Zara

  Jim’s breath is heavy as he drives, regular huffing going on and the odd sigh, the scratching of his stubble. I’m trying to remove my pale blue nail polish. It started by peeling off both thumbs, but I can’t handle the inconsistency of my nails not matching. It makes me feel off balance. With care, I drop the bits of dried polish into my lap, for despite the battered trunk, the inside of Jim’s car looks – and smells – as good as brand new.

  The Electric Light Orchestra sings through the speakers about Mr Blue Sky. A few songs follow that I’ve never heard before and as much as I want to listen, I’m restless.

  ‘So, are you from Liverpool?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you live around here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, you live closer to the city than the suburbs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is my first trip to Liverpool.’

  Jim doesn’t reply. It could be my paranoia, but I think the music has become a little louder. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, playing along with the beat of the song. I press the button to open the window and with care, throw my bits of nail polish out into the passing air. Once the window shuts again, the tension magnifies.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Jim asks, with a pained expression as if he’s yanking out his front teeth.

  ‘The States. Originally.’

  Jim raises his eyebrows and continues to tap the wheel.

  ‘So, what is it you do?’ I ask, running my fingertips lightly across the shiny buttons on the inbuilt stereo, the swanky navigation system.

  ‘Do you have to touch that?’

  ‘I’m guessing you run your own business. Or you work for your dad.’

  ‘Right. Yeah.’

  ‘So come on, are you some mysterious entrepreneur?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m a professional people-watcher. I’ve spent a lot of time in airports and living with people I barely know. So, what’s your success story? Is it something to do with IT? Or selling data on the internet? Not that I know anything about that sort of shit. But that’s how most dudes I know make their dollar and drive around in cars like this.’

  Jim shrugs, elaboration clearly not his strong point. A barrier of ice forms between us again and I can’t bear the ache swelling in my forehead. I’d rather talk to anyone than be left with my own thoughts; I’m just not good with them. And now, I’ve got the chance to have an actual conversation with somebody, after the emptiness of yesterday, of last night.

  ‘So, you probably invented some kind of adhesive picture hook and made a small – or large – fortune,’ I muse. ‘Or you’re a drug dealer.’

  Jim continues to tap the wheel in time to the song on the radio, some Nineties hit that’s all intense drums and angry vocals. I can’t remember the name of the singer or the song. The lyrics keep repeating over and over.

  ‘I guess that was pretty offensive, huh?’ I admit.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me accusing you of being some sort of drug dealer?’

  He laughs. Not exactly from his belly, or even as if he’s been tickled. Still, a jovial flash. He checks his mirrors, he indicates, changes lanes. The ice has melted just a little.

  ‘I don’t have a job,’ I tell him, whether or not he wants to listen. ‘Currently.’

  He nods once.

  Out of the passenger window, rows of semi-detached brick houses pass us by, all identical in shape, in size, the front doors and front gardens presenting a glimpse of individuality. Life here would certainly be different to anything I’ve ever been used to, but what does that matter if I’m happy? If I’m loved?

  ‘I’ve had loads, though,’ I go on. ‘Jobs.’

  ‘Boss,’ Jim says.

  ‘Once I had to dress as a cheerleader to promote these new overpriced hot dogs and guess what?’

  ‘You never got a free hot dog?’

  ‘I never got a free hot dog.’

  Jim returns to his tap-tap-tapping.

  ‘Would you mind not doing that, Jim?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘That tapping.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s making me really anxious.’

  He stops.

  ‘Thanks. I’m just nervous.’

  He doesn’t ask why.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve had the most awful twenty-four hours … well, twenty hours, to be precise. God, it hasn’t even been a whole day since everything fell apart. It’s funny how time plays tricks on you, isn’t it? Like how some days just go by in a flash, and some drag on forever, like everything you thought can change in the space of just a few hours, minutes even. Do you know what I mean, or am I just chatting shit?’

  �
�I know what you mean.’

  ‘I can shut up if you want. It just feels better to talk. Makes me less nervous.’

  Jim still doesn’t pry.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s worth trying to get answers though, rather than spend your life wondering? I do. I’d rather just know. I’d rather get the facts. Move on. Otherwise there’ll always be a niggle, a sort of unsettling buzz in my brain. And also, there’s two sides to every story, right? I like to think that most people in the world are good people, that there’s always an explanation for their actions. I might seem like a terrible person to some people – like to you, I’m sure you think I’m a terrible person – but, despite my faults, I’m not. I never mean to hurt anyone, or annoy anyone, it just seems to come across the wrong way. Like when my friend Katie threw a baby shower for her sister. All the girls were cooing over the bump and Katie said to me, ‘What do you think, Zara?’ and I said, ‘Wow, it’s huge!’ Which was the absolute worst thing to say, apparently, except I’d worked with a woman once who got upset whenever people told her that her bump was tiny, she was so anxious that she’d have an abnormally small baby. Okay, that’s a really bad example, but—’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t what?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a terrible person.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  The city sights are long behind us and the rundown independent shops and warehouses have disappeared, replaced by more appealing rows of houses with an almost quaint cottage look about them.

  ‘You familiar with around here?’ I ask.

  Jim shakes his head in disapproval, as if he’s just sniffed a fart.

  What’s his problem? This place seems pretty nice; there are even horses in the field we’ve just passed. I bet he lives in a huge apartment, ultra modern and gleaming with sharp greys and blacks and whites. A real bachelor pad.

  We stop at the traffic signal. A red light. If only Jim would talk to me, engage with me, keep things moving.

  ‘I guess we’re both just having a bad day, huh?’ I say, in an attempt to sound upbeat.

  It sort of works. Jim laughs.

  ‘Can you remember your worst bad day?’ I ask.

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘It helps.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because, Jim, it reminds you that things aren’t as bad as they seem right now.’

  ‘Quite the philosopher, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mine’s when my parents split. I mean, it was so obvious for months, but, God. The news hit me like … whoa. I can’t even imagine them being together now, but that day sticks in my mind as being fucking awful. I knew I was about to lose a lot more than just a set of parents. And I was right. Gut instincts, eh? Are your parents still together?’

  Jim’s eyes glance across at me and back to the road ahead.

  ‘Oh, Jim. Forgive me. Please. That was not appropriate.’

  ‘Me dad died.’

  I close my eyes, try to disappear.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper.

  ‘It was a while ago. But it doesn’t feel like a while ago.’

  I tell myself to shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Now.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask. Why? Why did I just ask that? What’s wrong with me? ‘Actually, no, you don’t have to answer that—’

  ‘Just keeled over.’

  ‘Oh, my.’

  ‘He was going the pub, couple of mid-week pints, the usual. Never made it as far as the pub. He said, “Ta-ra, see you later”, picked up his keys from the little dish on the mantlepiece, took his coat, even though it was July. And that was it. The end.’

  I don’t respond.

  ‘His heart was beating, then it wasn’t,’ Jim goes on, quite matter-of-fact. ‘Just walking to the pub. That’s all. Fuck me, there’s nothing like finding out that’s happened to make you sort your shit out. Accept your responsibilities.’

  Well, maybe that explains the expensive car, Jim having to take over his dad’s business. I hate how quickly I judged him. I should apologise, but it doesn’t feel right to do so, or to say anything, really, so I reach out to place my hand gently on Jim’s forearm, his hand resting on the gearstick. But I don’t get the chance to fulfill my intention as Jim moves to indicate left. I doubt he even noticed what I did, and to save myself possible embarrassment, I tap the gearstick in pretend admiration and then clasp both of my hands together to prevent any future urges.

  ‘Ha!’ Jim laughs, a cynical burst that startles me. ‘Christ, I don’t know why I just told you all that, love. Ignore me, I’m probably still a bit bollocksed. Spouting shit. Sorry, like.’

  Fleetwood Mac perks up through the speakers.

  ‘You can go your own way …’

  ‘Oh, I love this song,’ I smile.

  It might only be from one side of his mouth, but I’m sure that Jim’s smiling, too.

  ‘Me too,’ he says.

  ‘Wait!’ I see the edge of Clifton Crescent. ‘Pull over.’

  Jim complies, the roads of this suburban neighbourhood quiet, plenty of space to park.

  ‘I just need a minute,’ I say.

  Pulling the mirror down from above the passenger seat, I check my tired complexion, my teeth for misplaced lip gloss. I’m actually trembling. Yesterday afternoon I’d felt like a kid unable to sleep the night before her birthday. Now, my spirit is darting all over the damn place. Jim turns the engine off and blows his lips out. Leaning back in his seat, he folds his arms and closes his eyes.

  I check the clock. Lunchtime. At least those little girls will be in school.

  ‘Do you wanna hand?’ Jim asks, his eyelids remaining shut.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘All your stuff.’

  All my stuff. Of course, I need to take all of my belongings out of Jim’s car so he can drop me off and get on with his life. Maybe there was a huge misunderstanding yesterday. I’ll see Nick and everything will work out exactly how I planned. He might have been trying to call my Dubai number, which won’t be working because I’m here. Trying again might be the best decision I ever make.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. I’m ready.

  Jim springs out of the car. With the same energy, he opens the back doors and heaves out one of my suitcases.

  ‘Jim, stop!’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Can you leave everything where it is please? For a few minutes more?’

  Folding his arms again, his hair hanging over his narrowing eyes, he lets out a tired sigh.

  ‘I’m just collecting something from a friend’s house,’ I lie.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Shit. If Nick’s answers aren’t the ones I’m hoping to hear, I’ll have to ask Jim to take me to a train station, or a pub, or any place where I can figure out how to get to London in time for my flight.

  ‘Listen, love,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You seem to be having some sort of personal crisis. I don’t wanna judge, but please, don’t drag me into it. You’re asking me to do you favours, but, Zara, you’ve gotta admit that this is all a bit weird. I’m a total stranger. You seem like a nice girl, so I wish you all the best. What happened to us today sucks arse, but look, I’ll have to leave you here. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.’

  I know that he’s only trying to be nice. The anger in his voice has gone. He’s speaking complete sense. Yet, with Nick’s house behind me and Jim’s smashed-up car before me, I feel like I’m lost in the woods, stuck in a place I’ve been warned not to explore. Nick’s forthcoming explanation isn’t something I can predict, but Jim, so far, is an element of safety. He’s brought me this far without any serious trouble.

  And Jim’s also wrong. He’s not a total stranger, not anymore. He removes the last of my things from his car and returns to the driver’s seat. I run to the driver’s side and press my hands against the window. It rolls down.

  ‘Jim? Before you go, please tell me what you see when you look at my face.’

  Jim’s
face falls with an apology.

  ‘I know you see it,’ I say. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  He looks right at it. ‘A scar. A ciggie burn. A pretty bad one.’

  ‘It’s six months old and it knocked the fucking wind out of me. But, I was helped by a kind stranger, who became a kind friend, and more. He gave me the confidence to get out of the hole I was in, to get on a plane and come here—’

  ‘Why are you telling me this, love?’

  ‘Because the man who helped me lives in that house over there. And I’m scared that he isn’t who he said he was. I need to believe that the last six months of my life haven’t been a complete lie. And you were wrong, Jim.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You said you don’t know me. Well, you do. Honestly, there isn’t much more to me than what you already know. And I know more about you than anybody else in Liverpool, so call it weird, call me fucking psycho or whatever, but I’m asking you to wait with my things, just for a little while longer.’

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Can I get back in the car?’

  Jim flicks his head as if to say, go on then.

  ‘I’m not gonna lie,’ I tell him, getting into the passenger side. ‘I’m totally freaking out. Oh, God.’

  ‘Okay, just breathe.’

  I obey, but not without a struggle. The panic is unreal. I close my eyes, knowing that I’ll have to retrace my steps from yesterday. The breathing is helping; Jim’s advice is sound.

  ‘I just need another minute or two,’ I whisper.

  ‘Well, I’m also gonna close me eyes then,’ Jim says. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  16

  Jim

  She’s quiet.

  I don’t want to blame Zara for the headache I’ve got, but Christ. Every time she speaks, she might as well take a little hammer out and batter my brain. Every passing second is like I’m standing on an escalator, walking up the one that’s moving downwards. If I run, it only speeds up. I’m stuck; I can’t get off.

  So, this moment of calm, this miniature window of tranquility, I’m all in.