Push Me, Pull You

Chapter 1

Berkshire, Friday 4 November

Swipe.

Swipe.

Swipe.

His eyes follow the magnetic pull of the windscreen wipers until a piercing squeak breaks the rhythm, releasing him from his trance. He shouldn’t have had that last gin. Hell, he shouldn’t have had any, but it had been too good an opportunity to miss.

The wind is wild, whipping trees, bending branches and unhooking them to strew across the narrow lane. They come from nowhere in the darkness. There is no light from the moon tonight, thanks to the black clouds that have been gathering all day.

Rain batters the car. There were no taxis at the rank, no drivers available anywhere. They’ll have looked at the forecast and gone home to their wives. Like he should have done. The morning conversation repeated itself in his head.

“You’ll be home for dinner, won’t you?”

‘Yes. I’ll get away on time.’

But then the Friday night crowd called to him as they walked past his office door, throwing out a casual invitation. He opened his mouth to say no but found himself grabbing his coat and following them, guilt tugging at him as he thought of Anne waiting for him, home alone. Not strongly enough, though, to counter the lure of feeling part of the team. It’s been a long time since they thought to include him, and he needs all the friends he can find ahead of his upcoming review meeting. He can’t imagine it will go well.

He’d promised though, and he knows they need to talk. He’s been pre-occupied with his worries about work, distant at times, not to mention drinking too much again and she’s been increasingly irritable. A gulf has opened up between them and she’s right. They need to address it. Shit. Why did he go?

A crash of thunder startles him.

Focus.

A pair of greenish beacons gleam in the road ahead. He slams his foot on the brake and a fox shoots into the hedge. He almost follows it.

Not much further now, though. There are never many cars on these roads. He can do it. He slaps his cheeks and opens the window to let the rain streak in.

As he turns the tight bend by the derelict pub, the sky fills with lightning, its zigzags blinding him. The sound of the engine is deafening as the back of the car drifts from side to side. His knuckles clutch white on the steering wheel. The car feels strangely light, no longer connected to its wheels. Spray drenches its sides as it skates over a deep puddle. He fights to bring it under control, heart hammering, and nearly manages it.

   A shape in front of the car. A shadow looming out of the darkness. It appears so suddenly. No time to think. Fuck.

A flash of white.

A thud. Something heavy ricochets against the bonnet and into the ditch.

He swerves instinctively, but too late. The wheels skid along the wet road, back tyres spinning out. Adrenaline surges so strongly through him that he thinks his heart might explode. He pushes down on the accelerator – miraculously the car rights itself – and keeps driving, eyes fixed to the front and hands quivering on the wheel. He should stop. He should turn back. But his foot increases its pressure, as if of its own accord, and the car picks up speed.

What the hell was it? He’s shaking. A deer, most likely. Bob from the garage was telling him only last week how he’d hit one and smashed the front of his car. Sodding great beasts, he said. They can do a lot of damage. That doesn’t feel right, though. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem that big or heavy. Bigger than a fox or a badger, though, more like a large dog. Or maybe a branch of a tree.

But that glimpse of white – what was that?

Dread hits him like a blow to the chest.

A face. He’s sure it was a face. He’s hit someone, not something. Shit.

And he’s driven off. He must be half a mile down the road by now. He needs to think. That’s a joke - his brain is a fuzz. He is lightheaded, maybe about to faint. He pulls off into a farm entrance and stops the car. Focussing on the rain coursing down the windscreen, he tries to steady his breathing.

He can’t be sure it was a person. There are perhaps two, three cottages, no more, along here. He drives this way home every day, and he’s never seen anyone walking. Cyclists, yes, but there’s no pavement, no lighting. Why the fuck would anyone think it was a good idea to wander in the dark along a narrow, winding lane to nowhere? And in the middle of a bloody storm.

It can’t have been a person. It must have been a branch. Yes. That’s what it must have been. He can carry on home. But it didn’t sound like a branch. Or feel like one. No, it had been too weighty. Too fleshy. He swallows hard, trying not to vomit.

He has to go back.

If someone’s there, he’ll pretend he was driving past and spotted something odd. And when there’s nobody there, at least he’ll be able to sleep easy. He turns the key in the ignition and turns the car.

Driving at a crawl, he scours the side of the road, headlights on full beam. A suitcase on its side, balanced precariously on the top of the bank brings him to a halt. He puts on his emergency flashers. Fuck. It was a face he’d seen. He wasn’t imagining it.

He bangs his head against the steering wheel. Once, twice, three times. What has he done? What if they’re dead? He never drives when he’s had a drink – what was he thinking? He has to open the car door to find out what lies outside, but he hesitates.

He can still drive off.

He… can still… drive… off.

No. No, he can’t.

His hands are hurting. He looks down and sees them clasped together, his nails digging in. He spreads his fingers out and counts to ten before opening the door and climbing out.

The force of the wind hits him, and he leans back against the car to steady himself. He’s drenched already, the rain slashing at his face and soaking his jacket.

What the hell is he doing? He should go home. Nobody would ever know.

He would know. How could he live with himself?

A gash of lightning knifes the air, its blaze illuminating the blackness, and he scans the scene. The road glistens and ripples under the deluge, raindrops peppering it like gunshots. Along its edges, the bank is mud and debris. The return to darkness leaves him blind. There’s no sign of anyone. But a suitcase hasn’t arrived on its own. Where is its owner? He swipes his phone to turn on its torch and peers down the bank. He stares at the tangle of bushes and branches, writhing and thrashing in the wind, and sees a patch where the undergrowth has been flattened. He inches forward and sees more crushed shrubs.

He needs to call 999. He peers at his phone. No signal.

Scrambling down the slope, he slips and skids, only coming to a stop when he hits something as the ground levels out. A rucksack. Bile rises in his throat again. He’s killed someone. He’s actually fucking killed someone. Somehow, he’s kept hold of his phone – still no bloody bar showing – and he turns the flashlight to see more clearly.

And wishes he hadn’t.

#

Anne looks in the oven; dark brown is not a good colour for a lasagne, black round the edges is even worse. She folds the tea towel and takes the dish out.

“Bugger.” Heat sears through the fabric, burning her fingers. She almost throws the sorry offering on to the worktop.

Where the hell is Michael? She checks her watch as she holds her hand under the cold water tap. What’s taking him so long? It’s three quarters of an hour since he messaged to say he was setting off.

If he stayed on for another drink after saying he was on his way… No, surely he wouldn’t.

A crash of thunder cracks the air. What was a rumble half an hour ago is now a full on rifle range. The lightning must be close. The sky outside the window fills with white forks of light and a second snap of thunder almost deafens her. The rain is so heavy she can barely see outside. Michael is out somewhere in this. A niggle of fear creeps into her head. Anything could happen. What if a tree’s come down on him? Or he’s skidded off the road?

Or what if he’s dead? The thought drifts into her brain and she pictures herself at his funeral. A brave widow in an elegant black trouser suit, a small veil over her eyes. Shedding a few tears of course but stoic.

And it would mean her marriage wasn’t a failure. It would have come to the ultimate sad end and people would feel sorry for her, not look at her and wonder why she couldn’t keep her husband happy.

She shivers. Who is she kidding? She’d fall apart, be nothing without him. Please don’t let her have tempted fate with those thoughts. She wishes she were religious, could offer up a prayer to counter them.

Tonight was supposed to be the night. She wants, needs, to talk to him, to try to work out how they can close the gap that has developed in their relationship. And he promised he’d be home, said he understood how important it was that they talk. He seemed to mean it.

She gets why he went for a drink. He’s struggling at work, his billings are down and he’s scared he’ll be busted down from equity partnership. It makes sense to be sociable. Of course it does. But he didn’t need to stay so long. Surely one would have been enough. People would understand that he was due somewhere. But maybe, despite what he said this morning, she was wrong and he doesn’t care enough about her. Or their marriage. The memory of how he made such a prat of himself last summer at her work drinks flashes through her brain, yet again. She shudders at the memory of her colleagues’ pitying glances. She believed him when he said there was nothing in it, he hadn’t been making a pass at Jackie, just grabbed on to her to stop himself falling. But what if she was wrong? Wouldn’t it be classic behaviour for a middle-aged man trying to recapture his youthful allure? What if he is having an affair? That would be almost worse than if he were dead.

No. she’s sure he isn’t. It’s work pressures – and her own issues – that make it feel as though they are running on parallel tracks. Which is why they need to talk. And he bloody well said he’d be home and he isn’t here. She’s psyched herself up for this conversation, and she’ll lose her nerve if she has to wait much longer. Her back’s not been bad today, but she can feel the knots forming as her tension grows. And when he turns up, she’ll need to hold back her irritation, which would be much easier with a little something to calm her. If she’s honest with herself, she knows how tetchy she’s been recently. How she snaps at him for no apparent reason. She can’t afford to do that tonight. So maybe she should take a little something, just as a precaution. The thought of that glorious warmth spreading through her veins is seductive. No. Not a good idea. She slaps the thought down. The pain’s not bad enough to justify it.

She checks her watch. Another thirty minutes. It can’t be taking this long. Something must have happened.

Or he has carried on drinking, whispers the gremlin on her shoulder.

Her mother’s voice, gravelly and deep, resonates in her head, a ghost repeating the lines she said so often in life:

“He’s handsome enough to look at, but a pretty picture on the box is not enough, darling. It’s what’s in it that counts.”

Advice she ignored, of course. Who pays any heed to their mother about something like that? And her mother was never going to be able to understand what it was like, turning up somewhere like Cambridge and hearing everyone talking in their posh voices about their gap years or Emily’s party in Ibiza and knowing that you didn’t fit in. That you’re in the wrong place. She’d locked herself in her room for about three days, until her neighbours knocked to check she was okay and she realised there were other people like her there. She could not have imagined that someone so good looking, so out of her league as Michael, would profess love, but he did and by then she was totally besotted, of course she was. She wasn’t going to listen to any naysaying. But maybe there was something in her mother’s comment. Michael is a good man, an honourable one, but where’s the fun gone, the excitement? New words come out of her mother’s phantom mouth before she can stop them:

“He’s a near miss of a man.”

She won’t listen. She didn’t pay heed when her mother was alive and telling her she could do better, so why start now. Life has ground them down and pushed them apart. They need to find some joie de vivre, that’s all.

Her phone vibrates, but it’s only a text about a delivery. She taps out Michael’s number. It rings five times, then goes to voice mail. She tries again. Same thing.

‘Where are you? Call me.’

He’ll know from her voice that she’s worried and surely he’ll call back.

She watches the phone. Nothing.

The lasagne has gone cold. It’s probably inedible anyway. She scrapes it into the bin and pours herself a glass of the rioja; wine will have to do. She clears the table she laid so carefully two hours ago. She was making an effort. Why can’t he?

It’s not as if she’s expecting everything to be perfect. He has his own insecurities and recently she’s not been the best at helping him. But she will do whatever it takes to set things right.

Where the fuck is he?

Chapter 2

Michael stares: it’s a woman, one leg splayed out at a strange angle. She doesn’t notice him, just lies there making that keening noise; a sound both reassuring – she is alive – but also terrifying.

He kneels over her. Her trousers are ripped and there’s a lot of blood. Her shin is covered in it. Is she bleeding anywhere else? There’s no way of telling what’s blood and what’s rain. What if it’s all blood? The taste of vomit hits the back of his mouth again, sour and acidic. His head spins. He swallows hard and turns to sit, head rammed between his knees, until the dizziness passes.

‘Are you okay?’ What kind of stupid question is that? ‘What happened?’

The woman turns her head a fraction. Surely that’s a good sign? It must mean she hasn’t broken her neck. Her face is streaked with blood. He wants to reach out and touch, to investigate, but holds back, not wanting to frighten her. Her eyes open, and he flinches as she stares at him. He has done this.

‘A car came from nowhere. I couldn’t...’ Her voice fades as her head rolls back again. She groans. ‘It hurts so much.’

‘I saw your case.’ He concentrates on articulating his words. ‘Came to, er, see what was what. Found you.’ He tries to run through options in his head. What options? There are none. He stands up, a decision made. ‘We need to get you to hospital. I’m going to have to leave you for a few minutes to get reception.’ He turns his phone to look at the screen, but at that moment it goes dark. ‘Shit. That’s my battery gone. Where’s your phone?’

‘What?’ Her voice is faint. ‘I don’t have one.’

Unbelievable. He’s run over the one person in the world who doesn’t carry a phone. Could the night get any worse?

His head is swimming, and his knees are starting to buckle. He flails out, hoping for something to hold on to. Shock, it must be – he’s not drunk enough to feel like this. There is nothing within reach. He ducks his head, resting his hands on his thighs for support and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. What the hell is he supposed to do without a phone?

‘If we wait here, who knows how long it’ll be before anyone finds us… I’ll have to leave you – but I can’t do that.’ He crouches by the woman, trying to work out what to do. He’s miles from anywhere and over the limit.