Gordon Reece - Mice

I let myself out and wriggled back through the hedge, dropping the notepad and atlas on the grass and putting the heavy trench coat on top to weigh them down. I didn’t want to risk anything blowing away in the wind.

As soon as I was back inside the car Mum tried to start the engine, but her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the key in the ignition. The other keys in the bunch jangled together noisily as she struggled to wriggle the key home. Then I remembered something and gently touched her shoulder. She jumped and glared at me.

‘Mum — Mum, wait . We haven’t looked in the boot!’

She didn’t say anything. She got out of the car and went round to the back. After another age of fumbling with the keys, I heard the boot spring open and a moment later slam shut again. I tried to look for her in the rear-view mirror but I couldn’t see her. It was as if she’d just disappeared, swallowed up by the night. Where is she? I wondered with growing anxiety. Where’s she gone? I heard something heavy crashing through the bushes on the other side of the hedge, in our back garden, and glanced around nervously, feeling my eyes grow enormous with fear. What the hell was that?

Mum’s door was suddenly wrenched open and she slipped back into the driver’s seat.

‘What was that noise?’ I gasped.

‘That was the bag of tools,’ she said, a little out of breath.

‘Tools?’

‘There was a bag of tools in the boot. I threw them over the hedge into our garden. If we have them, then they can’t be of any help to the police. Why take chances?’

‘It sounded like someone—’ but my voice was drowned out by the engine exploding into life. We lurched into motion and bumped off the grassy bank. The gears whined and groaned as Mum struggled to find second, and the engine over-revved deafeningly.

‘Change gear, Mum! Change gear, for Christ’s sake!’

‘I’m trying , Shelley!’

‘Your lights! You haven’t got your lights on!’

We were driving into a darkness as unrelieved as deep space; it was impossible to see where we were going. Mum slapped at the dashboard, searching for the lights, but instead the windscreen wipers began scraping frenetically back and forth across the glass. Mum killed them with a curse and tried again. Now the left indicator came on, flashing impatiently on the dashboard like a nervous tic. I was praying: Please don’t let another car come now, please don’t let another car come now. They’ll plough straight into us!

And then she found them, and a swathe of yellow light illuminated the terrible danger we were in. We’d left the lane altogether and were on the point of going into the ditch that ran along the side of the road. I screamed out, and she jerked the steering wheel round hard. I waited for the front of the car to drop into empty space, but somehow all four wheels stayed on the road. We clipped the opposite bank as Mum counteracted the sharp turn she’d made, and then we were back on the tarmac. She found second gear at last and the anxious moaning of the engine abated, like a starving animal finally thrown some food.

We negotiated the twisting lanes at a crawl, Mum still battling with the unfamiliar gears. Fifteen minutes or so later we emerged onto the B road that eventually joined up with the main road into town. I felt exposed and vulnerable as we left the darkness of the lanes behind us and joined the stream of traffic under the bright glare of the street lights. I sank down in my seat and put a hand up to cover my face. What if a friend of Paul Hannigan’s was in one of the cars behind us and recognized the car? What would he do if he saw two strangers driving his friend’s car? I tried not to think about it. .

‘Can’t you go any faster, Mum?’ I groaned.

‘It’s thirty here, Shelley. The last thing we want is to get pulled over by the police.’

I hunkered lower.

After fifteen agonizing minutes, the garish lights of the Farmer’s Harvest loomed up ahead on our left.

The Farmer’s Harvest was a chain of restaurants with an olde-worlde theme, where the waitresses dressed like characters from a Thomas Hardy novel; the walls were decorated with horse brasses and antique farm implements and the ‘chicken’ came in perfect rectangles, the tomato sauce in little sachets that you had to pay extra for. Yet in spite of its hideousness, the Farmer’s Harvest was always packed. When we passed it Mum often used to say it was ‘the living proof’ of a remark some wit had once made. The public taste? The public taste is awful!

Mum slowed down, indicated left and turned into the Farmer’s Harvest’s car park with all the prissy precision of a learner driver on their test, anxious not to do anything that might attract attention to us. She drove through the rows of parked cars towards the rear where there were bushes and trees and it was less well lit. We went to the very end, but there were no free spaces.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Mum said under her breath. ‘ Don’t tell me! ’

We did an entire circuit of the car park, but there was nothing. Soon we were in front of the brightly lit restaurant again.

‘Go round again, Mum, go round again! Maybe we missed one!’

We had to wait while a large group of diners crossed in front of us. They looked like wedding guests — the women in tight fishtail dresses and high heels, the men in suits, some with carnations in their lapels. In spite of all their finery, there was something rough, something threatening, about them. I noticed the men’s tattooed knuckles, the ponytails, the obligatory earrings. They seemed drunk already, grinning inanely into the car at us.

I thought they were just the sort of people that Paul Hannigan would have known. His greasy long hair and weasel face would have fitted in perfectly among them. I covered my eyes with my hand and prayed that none of them would recognize the car. A youth with a shaven head and jug ears, a fag see-sawing between his lips, hit the bonnet of the car hard with his fist and shouted something at us that I couldn’t make out. I squirmed in my seat and wished I was anywhere, anywhere, but where I was. At last I felt the car rolling slowly forward again, and when I looked up the wedding guests were in a scrum around the restaurant door, shouting and gesticulating, the jug-eared youth’s head thrown back in raucous laughter — a laughter full of brutal malice and devoid of human warmth.

We headed to the back of the car park again, passing other cars also circling, looking for spaces. Then I saw one — in the middle of the second to last row — and cried out to Mum to back up.

‘I don’t know, Shelley,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if I’ll fit.’

Mum was a terrible parker and never reversed into a parking spot if she could avoid it.

‘It doesn’t have to be perfect, Mum. Just put it in there and let’s get out of here!’

Mum ground the gear stick into reverse and edged her way slowly back into the space. She hadn’t steered enough, however, and had to come forward for another attempt. There was a car on either side of the space, the one on my side a very new-looking four-wheel drive. Mum got it wrong again and had to move forward for the second time. Her face was contorted with concentration, her jaw tightly clenched. Another car appeared now, wanting to get past, their way blocked by our manoeuvre. Mum crunched the gears and tried once more. This time the angles worked and we could at least move far enough into the gap to let the other car pass. She drove forward one more time and then we were able to ease slowly into the space.

She turned off the engine and let out a huge sigh of relief.

‘Well done, Mum,’ I said, and she looked at me and shook her head as if to say: What a nightmare!