Jennifer Joyce - The Accidental Life Swap

Vanessa hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Little Heaton was in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen any sign of civilisation for at least fifteen minutes as we delve further into the Cheshire countryside. Even the sheep-filled fields have given way to wild moorland and I’m starting to panic that instead of taking me to the address I’d hastily jotted down earlier and am now clutching in my hand, the taxi driver is finding the perfect spot to bury a body. My body.

I know I’m being paranoid – or at least that’s what I’m telling myself as I take deep, even breaths while watching the meter clocking up pound after pound – but I’m not the most adventurous of people. I’d felt super-sophisticated when I moved to Manchester from the tiny town I’d grown up in, though any sense of refinement diminished rapidly when I moved into the flat with Lee, obviously – but I was still proud of the leap I’d made. Now, though, I want to take a giant step backwards. I want to return to a place of safety. A place I know, even if I don’t particularly love it. My grubby little flat doesn’t seem so bad when faced with the prospect of being transported into the wilderness with a maniac.

The taxi driver hasn’t given me any hint that he’s a maniac. In fact, he’d seemed quite pleasant as he’d hefted my holdall into the boot of his car, and he’d attempted to make small talk as we’d left the town somewhere on the outskirts of Warrington behind, only giving up when it transpired it would be easier getting blood from a stone than having a two-way conversation with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him about the weather or how many weeks there are until Christmas, but I found all my attention was focused on not having an anxiety-fuelled vomit over the backseat of his car. I’d bought a bottle of water once I’d disembarked the train at Warrington and have been taking tiny sips of it ever since, but it’s doing little to ease the nausea I’ve been feeling since I stepped onto the hot, stuffy bus that eventually led me to a town I’d never even heard of until I’d Googled how to get to Little Heaton. From there, I’d managed to locate a taxi rank to take me the rest of the way. Or at least that’s what I hope is happening right now. The taxi driver is pleasant and I didn’t spot a shovel in the boot of his car earlier, but you just never know. I should ask if it’s much further, to try to gauge the driver’s intentions, but I find myself mute and clammy-handed as I sit ramrod straight in my seat, wincing as the meter continues to tick over.

‘I don’t come this far out very often.’

I jump a mile as the driver’s voice suddenly speaks over the radio, interrupting Mike and the Mechanics urging the listeners to appreciate their loved ones while they’re still with us. Seriously though, why am I worrying so much? A taxi driver who listens to Mellow Magic is hardly a threat, right?

‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ The driver nods his head, indicating the scenery surrounding us. To the left of us, the greenery curves up high, the hilltop reaching for the blue, clear sky, while to the right there is a sharp drop where we can see down into the valley, as one field merges into the next, with only the odd ramshackle outbuilding breaking up the greenery. There are no other cars on the road, no people or animals that I can see from my vantage point. Nobody to hear me scream. It is beautiful and eerie all at once.

‘So peaceful, innit?’ The taxi driver shakes his head in wonder without waiting for an answer to his original question, as though he knows I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. ‘I used to come up here a lot with the missus, back in the day. Walked for miles, we did.’ He laughs and pats his rounded stomach, accentuated by the belt tethering him to his seat. ‘Long time ago now, though. Don’t think I’d have it in me anymore.’

I nod and twitch a smile at him, though I say nothing. My mouth is dry, my tongue fat and sluggish, my mind a garbled mess unable to put together a sentence. I take a sip of my water. It’s almost gone.

‘Not much further now, love.’

‘Really?’ My voice is a rasp, despite the water. I haven’t uttered a word for miles, not since the meter was displaying below a fiver.

The driver is watching me through the rear-view mirror, his bushy eyebrows raised. ‘Five minutes, I’d say. Ten, tops.’

My shoulders relax, even as the fleeting thought that he’s toying with me – all part of his sick game – flashes across my mind. I screw the lid back onto my water and slip it into my handbag before taking out my phone to text Emma. I haven’t dared to communicate with the outside world since we entered the deep depths of nowhere, in case the driver knew I was on to him and was raising the alarm.

I am an idiot, but in my defence, this has been a really weird and extremely stressful day so far.

‘You on holiday then?’ Having coaxed one little word from me, the driver is having another stab at small talk and I feel I owe him after thinking the worst of him.

‘I wish.’ A holiday would be nice. I haven’t been away since I was little, back when my parents were still together and we spent a couple of weeks in Italy. I remember the heat and the gelato and the feeling that life couldn’t get any better than this. It didn’t. My parents split up shortly afterwards and we never returned to the glory days of that summer holiday.

‘Oh?’ The driver is raising his eyebrows at me in the rear-view mirror, and I assume he isn’t enquiring about my desire to jet away to sunnier climes.

‘I’m going to Little Heaton for work.’

‘I see.’ The driver nods, his eyes back on the road. ‘What kind of work?’

I’m about to explain that I’m in events management, but that isn’t strictly true anymore. But I can’t tell him I’m in property development either, as I’d feel like a fraud.

‘I’m helping out with a house refurbishment.’ This is much closer to the truth of the situation, and luckily the driver doesn’t probe any further. Instead, he regales me with tales of his own home improvements, from DIY disasters to DIY triumphs. He’s in the middle of a story about the dodgy plumbing he discovered beneath his kitchen sink when I spot the first sign that we are indeed on the right track. We’ve wound our way down the hillside and though I have yet to see another human being, there are at least fields of sheep and cows again. And then, nestled in an overgrown bush and only just visible through the foliage, is a hand-painted sign:

Buy fresh eggs @ Little Heaton Animal Sanctuary

There’s an arrow pointing ahead and everything. We’re almost there!

A couple of minutes later, we’ve turned off the tarmacked road and onto a little lane that is barely more than a dirt track. We jiggle and bump over the loose rocks and potholes until we reach a bridge stretching over a canal. I strain to look out over the side as we drive over, the knot in my stomach loosening for the first time since Vanessa landed this gig on me. Little Heaton is beautiful. The water of the canal is sparkling in the sunshine, throwing out shades of green from the trees and hedges lining the towpath. All is still apart from the ripples following a pair of swans as they glide alongside a moored barge.

We cross the bridge, emerging fully into the village. There is so much green, from the lush, leafy trees, the beautifully presented gardens sitting proudly in front of quaint cottages, and the hills in the distance. We are a world away from the bustling city centre I’m accustomed to.

I finally spot my first human for many miles; a dog-walker in hunter green wellington boots pulled over worn jeans. He raises his hand in greeting as we pass, pulling tight on the lead to keep his dog away from the tiny lane we’re passing along.