Chapter Eight Shenanigans #4
Jack opens a second bottle of champagne, pours himself a glass, and does the same for Leo. I get nothing. Which is to be expected.
I knock on the partition window, and the limo driver – who has sensibly kept himself out of all this stupidity – pulls away, and drives back in the direction of the nearest main road.
He knows what his job is. He was given pretty specific instructions, just like the Fellowship, and he’s following them to the letter. Good man.
A rather uncomfortable hush descends.
Jack and Leo are both taking sips of their champagne when, from the car’s very competent audio system comes the ear-splitting sound of ‘My Humps’ by the Black Eyed Peas.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Jack exclaims for the second time today, spilling champagne down himself.
Leo squeals like someone’s just inserted something.
Oh God.
I’d forgotten all about this bit.
In all the misery of being savaged by a poodle and having my best-laid plans go completely sideways, the last part of my desensitisation therapy had completely slipped my mind.
My part.
Because what better way to confront my personal trauma than to sit in a car and listen to the bloody song that sparked the whole thing off in the first place?
It seemed – as did everything I’ve done today – like a good idea at the time.
‘My humps! My humps! My lovely lovely lumps!’
As the hideous, annoying, brain-melting song ramps up, the driver guns the limo’s engine and we pick up speed as we hit the main road. Inside the cabin, I can’t see anything of the world outside. And all I can hear is Fergie telling me about her bloody humps again for the millionth time.
‘Shut that shit off!’ Jack wails, banging on the glass partition, and spilling even more champagne.
Hearing the song again is definitely having the desired effect on me. I am now facing (and possibly even reliving) the crash that sent me down the path to eventual poodle savagery – to an extent that I wasn’t really prepared for.
Of all the stupid decisions I have made today, this could possibly be the worst one of the lot. Which is saying something.
I should never have done this.
What the hell was I thinking??
My hands fly up to cover my ears. My eyes squeeze tightly closed.
I can’t cope with this! I can’t handle this!
‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ I wheeze at my friends as the world starts to swim.
I can’t even say what it is that I can’t do now – which is breathe.
I’m having another panic attack. This one completely and utterly self-inflicted.
What the bloody hell was I thinking???
Gasping, I slam my hand on the button that unwinds the limo’s window, and stick my entire head out of the side of the vehicle, once the glass is low enough for me to do so. This gives me an excellent and terrifying view of the passing scenery.
My hair is whipped away from my sweaty forehead, and the tears are stolen from my eyes by the roaring wind.
But the fast, fresh air is like a slap to the face. It’s a little hard to continue a full-blown panic attack when your face is going at fifty miles an hour.
‘Charlie! Get back in here!’ Jack demands – but I don’t capitulate. I’m still on the edge of panic, and I don’t think that’s going to be helped by confronting the two people I’ve just put through a load of unnecessary misery to prove a point I’m not so sure even exists.
No. I think I’ll just stay out here, thanks. With my head in the slipstream, and pretty much all thought driven from my head by the roaring wind. It’s nowhere near as calming as being at the top of the pole, but it might be even more effective.
However, I then see another car coming straight towards me, and the panic strikes me again like a hammer.
This is too damned much!
That car is going to hit the limo, and the world is going to turn into an explosion of sound and fury – before we come to a final rest, with a teenage driver looking out at us, a small cut on his head and a dazed expression on his face.
But the elderly man will be gasping for breath and clutching his chest in agony.
The two cars
three cars
will be in a mangled heap in the middle of the B road.
It’ll take the recovery services quite some time to clear the two cars
three cars
so others can move on with their journeys.
But at least me and the teenager are okay, and will only need a cursory examination by the paramedics.
They work on the old man at the side of the road, but it’s obvious it’ll do no good. I even hear his sternum crack when they start CPR on him. They are desperate. I am desperate. Everyone is desperate.
And even though the crash was quite horrible, I will go home feeling pretty okay about the whole thing, other than the annoyance of having to find another car for work, of course.
But that’s okay. I never did like that stupid MG.
It could have all been a lot worse.
I cannot bear it. I cannot think about it. He died right in front of me. He died because I crashed into him. I cannot bear it. I cannot deal with it. It cannot be part of me. It cannot. It cannot.
I can’t.
I Can’t.
I
The other car – a large white BMW – speeds past the limousine safely, but there is a car crash going on in my head, nevertheless.
I know I’m crying, and I know my friends are desperately trying to get my attention. I know I have also slumped back into the limo seat, and am shaking in a manner that’s probably causing the both of them great concern.
But I can do nothing to alleviate this, because I am . . . detached.
The world as it exists has been driven away for the moment, because the world as it actually was the day of the crash is enveloping my entire conscious mind.
The horror of it.
The reason I haven’t been sleeping. The reason I’ve been having panic attacks. The reason I haven’t been able to let go of this obsession with fixing my friends’ problems.
Now I understand – and oh, my God, I truly wish that I did not.
And with the horror of the truth comes the grotesque shock of how my own brain could have lied to me for so damned long.
How can that even happen?
How could I have lied to myself like that?
My memories are coming back thick and fast, but it feels like my mind is splintering. Because there are two Charlie Kings. The one who’s been struggling with his life for months and months, and the one buried deep down. The one who remembers.
Remembers it all. Every brutal, hideous second of it.
And now he is in the ascendency, and I think I might need some sort of hospital treatment very soon, because I feel like my heart is about to explode.
‘Charlie!’ Jack screams, shaking me. ‘Charlie!’
‘What’s wrong?!’ Leo adds, his voice filled with terror.
Somewhere off across the depths of time and space, my body feels the limousine coming to a halt. Unlike what’s happening in my tortured mind.
They won’t stop.
The flood of memories.
They
‘My humps, my humps, my humpy lady—’
Everything explodes.
I am thrust violently forward in my seat as my momentum is arrested by something very hard and very solid.
There’s not much of the next few seconds I can truly grasp, but it involves the cacophony of breaking glass and crumpling metal, the hideous sensation of skidding, uncontrolled movement, and the world outside rushing by in a blur of blue and green.
I think I scream. I can’t be 100 per cent sure, but my throat will be hoarse later that evening, so I think I do.
As fast as the whirlwind begins, it is over.
The car comes to a rest askew on the road, and with my heart thudding out of my chest, I look out of the driver’s side window to see that there is one car right across the road from me .
. . and another further down the road. The one closest to me is being driven by a young lad.
He has a cut on his forehead and looks dazed, but is otherwise okay.
I look further around to my right and see
I Don’t Want To.
Look.
I Said I Don’t Want To! Don’t Make Me!
Look, Damn You.
I see the crumpled wreck of another car, a much older one.
I think it’s a Datsun Cherry, probably built before I was even born.
The entire right-hand side at the front of the car is staved in, as is the entire rear of the vehicle.
It’s clear that the front damage was caused by my car, and the rear by the teenager’s car slamming into it.
That’s what drove it so far forward and out of my immediate line of sight.
My hand shakes violently as I press the window button, fully expecting it not to work.
But it does. Whatever damage has been done to my poor car does not extend to the driver’s side door.
‘Are you okay?’ I shout to the teenager as the window fully winds itself down.
His window is smashed, so he can hear me just fine. ‘Yeah, I think so,’ he says, blinking a few times.
‘Alright . . . just don’t get out of the car,’ I tell him. ‘It might not be safe.’
And I don’t get out of the car, either, taking my own advice.
Yes, You Do.
No. I stay safely in the car, call the police and await their arrival.
No.
Yes, yes. That’s what I do. I stay in the car and watch the other cars coming to a halt before they reach the scene of the accident.
No. You Get Out.
No, I don’t. I call the police and
Get Out.
No. Please. I don’t want
Get Out.
My car door opens, shrieking in metallic pain as it rubs against the crumpled front panel. My legs feel ten times shakier than my hands, but I have to go and see if the other driver is alright. I have to check.
I have to know.
It’s very, very obvious almost immediately that he is not.
He’s an old man. In his seventies at least. And he’s gasping. His chest is hitching up and down at a rapid pace. His face has gone as white as a sheet, but there are huge dark rings around his eyes.
As I approach the car, he looks at me, agony etched across his face.
‘Oh God! Are you okay?!’ I exclaim, knowing full well that he most certainly is not. He tries to raise one hand, and small shards of shattered windscreen glass cascade off it as he does.