The sensible side of me knows that I should get out right now, apologise, take my binbags and slope off likeI’mthe one of us who ruined this relationship, and in any other circumstances, on any other day, that’s what I’d do. But today, the sensible side of me has gone quiet and the chaotic gremlin side has taken over.
There’s a gear stick beside me and I move it into God-only-knows what position and restart the engine, and it rumbles into life again. Jared’s caught up with me. He’s hammering on the door, trying to pull it open, screaming at me.
‘Oh, sod off, you natterjack toad!’ I shout at him through the window.
I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now. I press my foot down and the engine revs hard enough to make him jump away from the van, and I release the handbrake and spin the steering wheel too fast so the van turns sharply, facing the right way now, towards the end of the street, and I push the pedal down and drive.
I’m not sure who screams the loudest – me, the tyres, or Mrs Henshaw’s cat as it dives down behind the wall and out of harm’s way.
Jared stands in the middle of the road, shaking a fist after me. His phone is to his ear; he’s probably calling the police, but I don’t stop. I don’t even slow down.
I just drive, with no idea where I’m going and no plan beyond getting as far away as possible.
‘Well, Gran,’ I say out loud, panting from the adrenaline rush as the campervan weaves down the pretty little street, threatening to take out neighbours’ cars and garden walls. ‘If there are any ghosts watching me right now, I hope they’re bloody well entertained.’
4
Entertaining ghosts is one thing, but if I don’t slow this van down and get myself under control, I’m going to be joining them on the other side.
Adrenaline is coursing through my body. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles have gone white, and I’m panting for breath so hard that I’m definitely veering into hyperventilation territory. The van lurches as I accidentally hit the accelerator instead of the brake, and from the back, there’s the sound of my binbags crashing into each other.
This is not how I thought today would go. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Five minutes. I’ve been driving for exactly five minutes. Who knew that someone could go from a perfectly normal, respectable member of society to being a fugitive on the run in a stolen vehicle in less than five minutes? Never, in all my thirty-eight years, did I imagine my descent into criminality would start with Grand Theft Campervan, and yet, here I am, watching quaint streets flash past in a blur of semi-detached houses and perfectly trimmed hedges, like a singular version of Thelma and Louise. Except it’s just me. No glamorous accomplice, no tragic love story, and hopefully not ending in quite the same way.
Any moment now, I expect to see police cars racing up behind me, sirens screaming, men in unforms waving around warrants for my arrest. Jared would have called the police immediately. Of all the things I could have stolen from him, this campervan is by far his most beloved. I could’ve walked into the house and filled my bags with all his electronics and gadgets and he would’ve let me go, but stealing his campervan is like driving a knife into his heart.
He will stop atnothingto get it back.
What have I done? Why did I ever evenlookat his beloved Genevieve, never mind climb into it and actually drive off? I’ve never done anything wrong in my life before now. The most trouble I’ve ever been in was when I got caught skiving off school with a couple of classmates. I’m not a criminal, and yet, here I am, doing something that’s likely to end in a prison sentence and an appearance in a Channel 5 documentary about small-time crime.
I can’t go to prison. The thought of being in prison with murderers and armed robbers terrifies me. I’d never survive in there. And what about a criminal record? I’ll never get a job again if I’ve got a criminal record. I’d never even be able to pay a fine. What was I thinking?
I should stop. Pull over, call Jared, apologise profusely, and drive the van back to his house like a sensible adult before this goes any further. That would be the mature thing to do. The responsible thing. That’s who I am – a sensible and mature responsible adult.
And for the first time, I wish I wasn’t. I don’twantto take the van back with my tail between my legs. He doesn’tdeserveit back after the way he’s behaved. And my situation hasn’t changed. I still have nowhere to live, nowhere to go, and no way of even transporting my binbags. With this campervan, I won’t have to worry about where to sleep tonight because there’s a bed in the back.
Ialwaysdo the mature and responsible thing, and look where it got me. Stealing this van is the most unhinged thing I’ve ever done, and it feels… surprisingly good. Apart from the weird noise the engine’s making because I’m probably in the wrong gear.
I’ve come this far. If I turn back now, I’ll go back to being me, and being me doesn’t feel like it’s been a good thing lately.
It’ll just be temporary while I figure out what to do and find somewhere to stay, and then I’ll return the van to Jared, no worse for wear, with a full tank of petrol as an apology.
The van pitches forwards as I stall at a roundabout – again – and the car behind me toots impatiently. I’ve listened to Jared talk about cars long enough to know that engines are supposed to purr, but this one gives me nothing but a displeased growl. The clutch has got a mind of its own and only chooses to work when it fancies it, and the gear stick fights back every time I touch it. It’s more than twice the size of anything I’ve ever driven before. It’s too high up, the seat’s in the wrong position, and the view from the window is not what I’m used to in the passenger seat of a car, and the fact that I haven’t yet taken out someone’s wing mirror is nothing short of a miracle.
My phone buzzes from the passenger seat, again and again. I risk taking my eyes off the road for long enough to see Jared’s name flashing on the screen, followed by Vickie’s, then Jared’s again. I don’t need to read the messages to guess what they say.
The traffic’s getting heavier and I can see signs for the M25 looming ahead. That frightening ring road around London where lorry drivers go to lose their temper and normal people go to lose half their day to being stuck in traffic. Even as a passenger, it’sterrifying.
But where else can I go? I can’t exactly drive around suburban streets all day while I wait for the police to find me. I need to get out of London, somewhere Jared won’t think to look for me. Somewhere no one can track me down. Or I could just drive until I run out of petrol and then join a travelling circus. That also sounds like a good plan.
The van stalls again as we crawl towards the motorway junction, and this time the car behind me doesn’t just toot – it gives me a proper angry stream of beeping that says its driver hasopinionsabout my driving skills and would like to share them with me.
My phone’s buzzing constantly, like an angry wasp with a glass over it. I can’t bring myself to look at it, but I can imagine the messages piling up. Jared’s definitely called the police. They’re probably already scouring the neighbourhood looking for me.
The traffic is moving fast, although the campervan seems to be stuck at twenty-two miles per hour, which honestly, feels too fast to me. I’m on the motorway with lorries thundering past that make the van shake and my heart rate spike even higher.
Where am I going? I can’t drive around aimlessly forever – I’ll run out of petrol eventually, assuming I don’t cause a catastrophe first. I need a destination.
In what is more of an accident than a decision, I merge into a different lane. There’s a moment of terror when I realise I’m not surehowto merge in a vehicle this size and nearly clip a BMW, and I spend a few moments imagining what my funeral will be like.
