by Nikki Owen
‘What music do you like?’
I look up. ‘Why are you asking me that?’ I close my notebook and slip it into my rucksack.
‘Just thought it’d be nice to talk, you know.’ He shrugs. ‘Break up the journey.’
I stare at him. ‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What sort of music do you like?’
I hesitate. Is this a trick question? There was no intonation in his voice that I traced, but I am never entirely certain. ‘Classical,’ I finally say. ‘I like classical music.’
‘Oh yeah? Cool. You like Mozart?’
‘Mozart died on 5th December, 1791. I never knew Mozart, therefore I cannot say whether I like him or not. I do, however, appreciate his music.’
Chris’s mouth is hanging open. I take my gaze to the mountains shooting past, satisfied that I have given a sufficiently social answer and the conversation is closed.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what music I like?’
So we are doing this. I clench my jaw. ‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what people do.’
I face him and try very hard to make an effort. ‘Christopher, what sort of music do you like?’
‘It’s Chris. Just Chris.’ He smiles and for some reason I think of Goofy in the Disney movies my brother used to put on for me the year Papa died. ‘Grunge,’ he says. ‘Nirvana, that kind of thing, you know, Kurt Cobain.’
He looks at me. Is he awaiting a response? ‘Okay,’ I decide to say.
It must satisfy him, possibly, because he keeps talking. ‘And don’t tell anyone, but I rather like Taylor Swift.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘What?
He says what a lot.
‘No.’ He laughs, eyes flitting between me and the road. ‘No. I mean, I like her music. You know, Red, Twenty-Two, Shake It Off. You’ve … you’ve heard of them, the songs, right?’
‘No.’
‘What? You must be, like, the only person on the planet who hasn’t heard of her. What, you don’t even know Shake It Off?.’
‘No.’ I can feel my irritation rising and start to tap my foot when Chris does something unexpected and strange: he sings.
‘This is Shake It Off,’ he says, in between relaying to me what I assume is the musical song he refers to. I watch him closely. He appears to be enjoying himself, I think, smiling, his head shaking and bobbing so much that I am surprised he can keep track of the road at all.
‘Your singing and movement is endangering the car and therefore us,’ I say.
He ceases singing and I think that is the end of it, but he simply continues to talk. A vague tiredness at the effort required of me in order to cope with the interaction starts to form in the base of my body and work its way to my head.
‘See,’ he says now, shifting down a gear as we swerve round a sharp bend that ascends us further up the mountain and into the looming clouds. ‘What I love about Taylor is that she’s a country singer at heart. I love a bit of country. I mean sure—’ another gear drop as we rise ‘—I like grunge and stuff, but country?’ He whistles. ‘That’s where it’s at. Like, it gets to your heart and soul, you know?’
I don’t—at all—but, unsure why, I reply yes.
‘My mama loved country.’ He trails off and, for a moment, I think I can see tears in his eyes. I think of my own mama back in Madrid and wonder if she is safe.
Chris drives for twenty perhaps thirty seconds more and we sit in silence. For me, it helps. The exhaustion that was before bubbling from having to converse is subsiding slightly now and the headache at the front of my forehead is slowly fading away. I keep the window down and let the air fan my face, all the while keeping my eyes directed not just to the front of the car, but also to the back so if anyone is following us, I will know.
‘I told you I was from Idaho,’ Chris suddenly says after he negotiates a sharp left bend.
I don’t reply. Initially, I am unsure what reaction he expects me to give, but then, after a second, he talks on and I begin to realise, with relief, that when Chris chats, he doesn’t always expect a response.
‘Ma and Pa are from Idaho, too. Pa still lives there. Remarried.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s why I got into computers, you know? I hated his new wife. I was young and they had a new baby, and so—’ he swallows, pushes back a stray hair ‘—I threw myself into the tech world and voilà!’ He smiles. ‘You got yours truly: a word class hacker.’
His knuckles are white on the steering wheel and when I observe him in more detail, I see his cheeks are streaked with rogue tears that leave dirty tracks on his sun-washed skin, and his hair slaps on his skull with sweat that trickles down his temples at anarchic angles.
‘What is your mother’s name?’ I ask.
‘Huh?’ He turns the car to the right. ‘It’s … It was Janet.’
‘Janet. The name Janet is the feminine form of John. It means God has been gracious.’
‘Okay …’
‘You father’s name—what is that?’
‘What?’
‘You said what again.’
‘Oh, right, yeah, sorry. It’s …’ He clears his throat. ‘Jack. My pa’s name is Jack.’
‘The meaning of the name Jack originates from Jakin, which is a medieval diminutive of the name John. In the middle ages, it was a slang name that meant man. Jack is considered now an American baby name. Do you have siblings?’
‘Hey?
‘Do you have siblings?’
‘Er, yeah. Sister …’
‘Name?’
He lets out a small trickle of a laugh. ‘Sarah. Her name’s Sarah.’
‘Sarah means princess. In the bible, she was the wife of Abraham. What are your hobbies?’
He laughs again. ‘What is this? An interview?’
‘Yes.’
The laugh drops. ‘Oh. Oh, right.’
‘I like you,’ I say. ‘I am interviewing you to see if we are compatible.’
‘Compatible?’ There is a curve in the road up ahead that creates a blind spot in the rear-view mirror.
I look to Chris. ‘Compatible. Yes. That is what I said.’
‘I know, I know, but …’ He shrugs. ‘Okay. You want to know my hobbies? I like computer games. Dungeons and Dragons. That’s my hobby. As well as hacking.’
‘And listening to Taylor Swift.’
He laughs out loud now. Shards of spit from his mouth pepper the window, but there are tears in his eyes.
I become concerned. ‘You are crying. Are you sad? Have I upset you?’
‘Wh-No. No, you’re just …’ He sighs, slaps back into his seat. ‘You’re just so funny.’
‘I am?’
He nods. ‘With a capital F.’
We sit in silence and I am suddenly very aware of the heat from his body. It is warm, hot like coals on a fire and I begin to wonder if I have said the right thing, if I have talked as I should. If I have been adequately friendly.
‘Okay,’ Chris says after several seconds have passed, ‘since you got to interview me, how about you?’ He shifts to face me. ‘I like you, so what can you tell me about you? You got family?’
‘Yes. Everyone does.’
‘Brothers? Sisters?’
I pause. ‘I have a brother.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘Cool.’ I try the word out as if it were a hat or a new jacket. ‘Yes. Cool.’
The road behind us goes straight, restoring my view of the rear road where dark clouds bulge with rain.
‘And are you close, you and your brother?’ he asks.
‘Close?’
‘You know, do you love each other?’
‘He loves me very much,’ I say. I stop, not wanting to continue, unsure what to say, then remember Balthus’s advice to me and so I carry on.
‘When my papa died I was ten. My brother’s name is Ramon, which means protector. He looked after me after the death of my papa.’
>
‘Your papa was … he was nice?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He was nice. And when I was eight and I wet my pants in my bedroom because I wouldn’t stop writing about composers and medical procedures, Papa cleaned me up and hid all the dirty linen from my mama and the housekeeper. My brother Ramon often had to do the same for me. Sometimes, because the girls at school wouldn’t talk to me, my brother used to put on Disney movies and dress up as Mickey Mouse. I used to get depressed—at least twice a month—because no one would talk to me and because I couldn’t understand how to talk to them. Sometimes I would forget moments of time entirely. I recorded two hundred episodes of complete memory lapse between the ages of eleven and twenty-one alone.’ I stop, satisfied that Chris now has information to process, facts for his interview of friendship.
But Chris just stares at me. Not just glances, but stares straight out, eyes not on the road at all, but fixed on me as if he were blinking into a pool or a lake.
‘I want you to stop looking at me now,’ I say, suddenly nervous. ‘Please.’
‘Huh? What? Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Sorry.’
We take another blind bend and the car swerves, and I slide in the seat. I dart upwards, check the mirrors. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Just a rock on the road. I think.’ He scratches his scalp. ‘Sorry, I should have been watching, but you …’
As he trails off, I crane my head backwards and scan the tracks behind. The rock is there, the one Chris mentioned, about sixty centimetres in diameter, but there is something else too. ‘Slow down.’
‘What? Why?’
There is a black van and it’s getting nearer. Adrenaline shoots straight through me, head to toe. I slip back into my seat. ‘Someone is following us.’
Chris leans in to the rear-view mirror. ‘Where?’
‘Is there another route to where we’re travelling?’
‘Shit. Yes. No. I think so.’
I glance behind us. The van is approaching faster now. ‘Quick. Do you know another route?’
‘What? Fuck. Yes, yes.’ He jerks the steering wheel to the left and we veer down a side road, dirt flying through the air like shrapnel.
He slams his foot on the gas pedal and the car screeches away. The van starts to disappear, slow at first then faster until it is barely there at all. My fingers grip the seat as the air whips in through the open windows sending Chris’s hair flapping in the wind.
I allow my shoulders to soften a little. ‘This road will take us to Balthus still, yes?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ He gulps and when he grips the wheel, the veins in his forearms bulge. ‘Jesus, that was scary.’ Sweat steams from his brow. ‘Who in the hell are you?’
‘I told you. I am Dr Maria Martinez. I know the governor—’
‘Okay! Please. It’s just that I’m not used to this and you are so calm and …’ There is a loud crack. ‘Fuck!’
A small hole has appeared in the rear windscreen and I jerk my head towards it.
Chris has been shot.
Chapter 17
Montserrat mountain road, nr. Barcelona.
25 hours and 45 minutes to confinement
‘Oh, God. It hurts, it hurts. It fucking hurts!’
I check the mirror. There are no vehicles in the background, there are no other cars on the road and, even though I scour the viewpoint for any sign of the black vehicle, there is still no evidence of it anywhere.
Chris cries out. I whip round to him now and crane my head to get a view of his injury. He is bleeding from his right shoulder.
‘Stop the car.’
‘What? No.’ His hand slips from the wheel and we slide across the road. The car skids, twirling round and round and at first I think we will stop, Chris screaming, but then, on the final turn, the vehicle veers to the right and the car lurches forward and the entire bonnet nose dives forward and we skid to a halt.
‘Oh, Jesus!’
I ignore Chris and peer over through the windscreen and stop dead.
The entire car is dipping forward and below it is a sharp dip of more than one thousand metres into the valley below.
‘Fuck!’ Chris shouts. ‘Fuck!’
‘Shouting will not help,’ I say. I inch my torso forwards, instinctively checking for the angle and pivot point of the car as it rests on the road’s edge, while outside starlings flit and fly and goats watch from a hilltop ahead.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice is high, screeching.
I turn to him. ‘We are currently stuck on what is—’ I glance through the window to confirm my suspicion ‘—a metal barrier. That is the only thing preventing us from falling down the mountain.’
‘What? Oh, fucking great.’
‘You said what again, and no, this is not fucking great. This is a difficult situation. So, I want you to lean forwards.’
‘What? Are you crazy?’
‘No. I am not. I simply have Asperger’s. Lean forward.’
Rocks trickle past the car and topple by the tyres, clattering down the mountainside and into the valley far below.
Chris begins to hyperventilate.
‘You are panicking,’ I say. ‘You need to inhale big, deep breaths.’
His eyes go wide at me, but he does it, he starts to gulp at a steadier rate.
‘Good. Now—’ I look at the barrier; it is stable but buckled ‘—I am going to count to three. On three I want you to lean forwards then, when I say so, I want you to lean back in your seat as hard as you can.’ I look at him. ‘Do you understand?’
He nods, breathing hard. Satisfied he comprehends what is required of him, I unbuckle my belt and begin to clamber over my seat and into the back of the car. It lurches. A loud crack echoes in the air and by the side rubble and dust tumble over into the sky.
‘Shit,’ Chris says. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
I make it into the back and slide round so I am facing forwards. My heart rockets but I feel calm and in control, training from the past kicking in now to the present. I check the front screen—the bonnet is teetering now, the barrier bent outwards by a few more degrees, causing the trajectory of the car to shift.
‘We’re going to fall!’
‘Negative,’ I say. ‘By initial calculation, we will not fall immediately. If we remain as we are it will be one, perhaps two minutes before we completely slide over the mountain.’
‘Oh holy crap!’
I scan every corner of the car and do my final sums. It can work—but only if Chris complies. ‘I am going to count now—are you ready?’
He nods. ‘Uh-huh. Mmmmm.’
I glance to his arm. It is bleeding rather a lot, red staining his T-shirt and the cloth of the car seat. I look forward. The sun strains up from behind black clouds, a weak orange glow spotlighting our crisis.
‘I am going to count now.’
He nods and grits his teeth.
‘One.’
The car lurches. Chris swears.
‘Two.’ A bird of prey sweeps in the sky, passing a long shadow over us.
‘Three! Lean back!’
Chris cries out, slamming himself as hard as he can into his seat, the force of it juddering the vehicle. As he does, I throw the whole weight of my body into the very rear crease of the car where the back screen sits cracked and broken, ramming my arms and hips and legs into the area so every single ounce of me is weighted in one point.
The car begins to rock.
‘Do … do I stay back?’ Chris yells.
‘Yes. Remain where you are putting on as much pressure as you can.’
‘Okay!’
The car keeps moving. I glance outwards to the side and see the barrier begin to bend more, collapsing slightly outwards.
‘Is it working?’
I shove my shoulder into the corner. ‘Yes. Stay in the seat.’
Manoeuvring my elbow now, I start to sway, to rock my body in the small space. At first, nothing really moves, the entire metal casing of the vehicle suspended,
creaking and groaning as it seesaws between the wide open air beyond and the road below. I do the calculation in my head—if we remain like this, we will begin to tip back over the edge, but we need momentum.
‘I want you to lean forward again then back once more.’
‘What?’
‘You said what again—’
‘I know what I said!’
I go quiet at Chris’s raised voice, the sound ringing in my brain and mixing with the creaking and clattering of the car.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ he says, exhaling. ‘I … Sorry. I’m just … I’m just scared.’
I look up at him and press my lips together. ‘I don’t like it when people shout at me.’
‘I’m sorry. Just … just tell me what to do. You want me to lean forwards again, right?’
‘Yes,’ I say after a second, regaining my composure. ‘I need you to do exactly as we did before so the car will tip back to the road.’
He gulps. ‘Got it.’
I look forwards. ‘One. Two.’ The car swings a little.
‘Three!’
Slam! This time it works. Chris’s back rams into the seat and my body and arms are raised a little higher than last time as, between us, we topple the car backwards, tipping, swaying until there is an almighty slam as the boot and back wheels hit the road.
‘Whooo!’ Chris smiles for the first time. ‘Fuck!’
‘Put the car in gear,’ I say, ‘manoeuvre it round, back to the road.’
‘Okay!’
He does as I ask, gear in place as his hands grip the wheel now and, holding it hard, spins it through his fingers round and round until, gradually, the car veers to the left then right and, finally, to a safe position on the road.
‘Holy fucking Jesus!’
