‘Well, yeah, that’s one thing. Or an issue with the gearbox. Spark plugs. Electrical failure. Sometimes even something as simple as the wrong oil.’
‘The wrong oil?’
‘Yeah, if you put oil in that’s the wrong gauge, it can make the engine seize up.’
‘How would you know if that was happening?’ Anna says, her voice as casual as she can make it. Idle chitchat, that’s all.
‘Burning smell as the engine overheats, banging. That kind of shit. Before it grinds to a halt. I mean, it wouldn’t stop immediately – it would be like being in neutral. The car would still have forward momentum, at least for a little. Depend how fast it was going in the first place!’ He guffaws at the end, clearly enjoying the vision he’s conjured up of a speeding car suddenly losing its power.
Anna isn’t laughing, though. The hairs on the back of her head tingle.
She shakes it off. She’s being paranoid. It’s no wonder, either. So much has happened in such a short time. It was an accident, and it’s down to this stupid motorway system that she can’t even begin to understand.
The miles pass slowly. Anna shifts from side to side in her seat, desperate now to get to her destination. The situation is out of control. There’s a trail of destruction behind her, from the dead woman in the cell onwards: the fire, the crash, that strange attic full of screens. None of it makes sense. The only solid fact she can grasp on to is that of death, pain, the grave of a woman unvisited by anyone from one year to the next. The scent of lilies dying in the night air.
The driver turns up the radio, talked out for the time being. Anna will achieve nothing by staying awake. She shuts her eyes and lets sleep in.
Anna wakes with a start as they pass a turn-off to Glasgow. It’s early afternoon now, the truck trundling along in the slow lane as it eats up the miles. The crash is far behind them, the pain of her confession, too. She feels better for having aired it, lighter. She knows there’s no easy remedy to the situation, but perhaps when this is all over, when she’s navigated her way out of this mad situation in which she’s found herself, she might contact her family, even if just to be rebuffed by them once more.
Anna’s glad she’s slept – she’s going to need to stay alert for the latter part of the journey. From Inverness to Gairloch is still a fair distance, and she’s already had all the luck she could hope for in finding this lorry that’s taken her so much of the way.
‘Is there a bus that goes to Gairloch? From Inverness, I mean?’ she says.
‘Aye, yes, there is one. Is that where you’re off to, then?’
‘Yes. I’m visiting a friend. All a bit last minute,’ Anna says, suddenly aware that an explanation might be required. He’s not interested, though.
‘I’ll drop you at the coach station,’ he says. ‘Not far from my work. You should be able to find something all right. Public transport system’s shit, right enough, but I think you’ll be able to get there.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
There’s no more conversation for the rest of the journey. Anna’s desperate to go to the loo, but she doesn’t want to ask the driver to stop. It’s more important she gets there – the sooner she arrives, the sooner she can return south, get back on with her life.
She watches the cars passing in the opposite direction, the rhythm of it hypnotic. The further north they go, the more beautiful the countryside becomes. The height of the lorry’s cab gives her a perspective she doesn’t normally have, an opening up of vistas that would be closed to her from the vantage point of a car. Not all bad then, this turn of events. She shakes away the thought. Not the time nor the place to be looking for silver linings.
They pull in at the coach station in Inverness. Anna thanks the driver and clambers out into air colder by far than it was in Oxford. She pulls her scrappy jacket tight round her.
She’s in luck with the coach; there’s one leaving in only an hour. Only four a week. Anna offers up thanks to the ether. Someone is taking care of her today, that’s for sure, smoothing her passage like this.
She wanders round the vicinity, locating first the loo, basic but clean, and then a sandwich shop, which is about to close. She persuades the owner to make her some food with what he’s about to throw out. The lettuce especially has seen better days.
Anna’s seen better days, too. It’s been four days since she left prison. To her surprise, a part of her is missing the routine, the warmth. She may never have got that close to anyone, but there was still a feeling of companionship from the other women, a sense that they were all in it together.
She’d felt that companionship with Lucy, too, but that poor girl is out for the count now. The impact of the crash must still be reverberating through her. Anna hopes she’s not in too much pain, that Rachel has been able to get to her and bring her home.
It’s time to get on the coach. Anna finds a seat and leans back against the grubby upholstery, exhausted. She can’t sleep, though, her mind too full of what might happen next.
The countryside rolls past the window, the purple heather blurring dark as the light falls. Despite everything, Anna wouldn’t swap places with anyone right now, looking out at the long view after all those years of concrete walls and shortened vistas. She gazes out until the light fails entirely, and only then does she sleep.
It’s dark by the time she arrives in Gairloch. She walks straight from the bus station to the shop address that Rachel had written down for her, a small, independent supermarket, but it’s already closed for the night. She’ll need to find somewhere to sleep. Before they left, Rachel had pressed some money into her hand, which with the cash she has left from leaving prison means Anna still has enough for a bed and breakfast.
She paces around the town for a while, discounting one for looking too flash, another for being too rundown. Goldilocks. She knows she needs not to be so damn picky. At last she spots one that’s just right, a bungalow on the outskirts of town with a sign for vacancies.
Within a short time, she’s tucked up in a comfortable room, pink counterpanes and flowery cushions abounding. The proprietor even rustles her up a round of sandwiches, much nicer than the one she had earlier. The woman asks her no questions other than how long she’s planning to stay, happy with the cash payment she’s proffered.
Peace. For the first time in years. In the eye of the storm, a moment of calm. She’s grabbing the opportunity with both hands.
Pouring a large slug of bath oil into the bath in the en-suite bathroom, she perches on the edge and inhales the vapour, fragrant with lavender. Maybe the nicest scent she’s smelled in years, not a million miles from the bath oil she used to use, before. Stripping off her travel-stained clothes, she slips under the bubbles, holding her head in the water, her hair streaming around her. With her eyes shut, the steam and the soothing scent playing round her face, she could almost be back in her old bath, in her old life, cleansed of it all.
