Page 63 of Perfect Wives
I want to shout for Beth to stop. I want to scream that this is insane. But I can’t speak. Can’t move. I wish I could escape. I wish I was standing in those fields I picture when the world feels too much, but there’s no way out of this.
Beth changes gear again, and the car jerks forward, faster now.
The man is running on the side of the road. Beth would barely have to move the wheel to plough straight into him.
Fifty metres.
Twenty.
Faster and faster.
Ten metres.
I scrunch my eyes shut, waiting for the thud of impact.
We can’t?—
THIRTY-FOUR
TASHA
‘No,’ I cry out, my voice barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to force my eyes open. In a split second, the world sharpens: the blur of the trees flashing past the window, the long stretch of empty lane, the grip of Beth’s knuckles white on the steering wheel…and the runner. He’s so close now I can see the gleam of sweat on his forehead, the shock widening his eyes, the moment he registers the danger he’s in.
Guilt floods my body, gnarly like the tree roots. It’s the guilt I carry every day. For my parents and how much more they need from me than I can give. For the girls, who never get the best of me or enough of me. For Marc, who despite everything I now know, bears the brunt of my fraying edges. And for my two best friends, who don’t know the whole truth, who I’m starting to question if I can trust. The burden is already too much. I can’t add the murder of this man.
I can’t do this.
‘Stop.’ My voice is louder this time, high-pitched and jolting – a hammer to glass. It shatters the tension in the car, and suddenly we’re swerving. Beth yanks the wheel to one side, slamming her foot on the brake. The car skids, hitting the gravel edge, veering so close to the trees I think we’re going to hit them,going to die. Then we stop with a hard jolt. My body is thrown against the seat belt then slammed back as it locks in place.
The engine stalls. The only sound is the roar of blood in my ears and the heaving breaths we’re all taking. Then there’s a shout from outside. I twist round and look through the rear window. The runner is walking towards us, his face a mask of shock and fury.
‘Hey!’ he shouts, hands waving wildly in the air. ‘You almost hit me!’
Beth sits forward, fumbling to restart the engine, her hands shaking. She can’t get the key to turn. The man raps on her window with his knuckles.
‘Sorry,’ she stammers. ‘I lost concentration.’
Her words do nothing to placate him. ‘You almost killed me,’ he says, reaching for the door handle, but it’s locked, thank God. ‘I’m reporting this to the police,’ he shouts. ‘This is dangerous driving.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Beth mouths again as the man unzips a pocket on his jacket and pulls out his phone. A second later, he’s pointing it at the car – at us – and talking loudly. ‘My name is Paul Shortly. I was running along Fordly Lane at fivep.m. when this car almost hit me. The driver was clearly speeding.’ He steps back, recording the licence plate of Beth’s car.
He’s making a video, I realise, just as his words register. It must click in Georgie’s head at the same time because suddenly she’s leaning over Beth and calling to the man.
‘Hey, did you say your name is Paul Shortly?’ Georgie asks. Her voice is inquisitive and casual, but loud enough for him to hear outside the car. And it’s only because I know her as well as I do that I hear the edge to her voice that gives away the panic she’s trying to hide.
The man frowns, thrown by the change of direction. He looks from Beth to Georgie and then glances in the back to me. It’sa fight not to duck down and cover my face. ‘So?’ he replies, stopping his recording.
Beth’s hands are still fumbling with the key, and suddenly the engine starts. The man doesn’t step back.
‘Hang on,’ Georgie says to Beth before raising her voice to be heard. ‘You’re not Richard? You don’t have a daughter called Rowan?’
‘What are you talking about?’ he asks as confusion replaces the set of anger in his face. ‘I don’t have kids. Who are you?’
‘Are you saying you don’t know a woman called Keira?’ I blurt out, leaning forward in my seat, needing to be sure. My mind spins, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. This is the man from the photograph Keira sent us – the right face, the right place, the right time. But he’s acting like he doesn’t know them.
The man steps back from the window, his frown deepening. ‘What is this? Was that on purpose just now? Jesus.’ He scrubs a hand over his face. ‘I’m reporting this to the police.’
In the next second, Beth has thrown the car into gear and is pulling away, leaving the man standing in the road, still angry, still shocked.
