Sylvie watches the car nose its way out of the drive. She waits until it disappears round the corner before taking her foot off the clutch. As long as Oliver keeps to the speed limit it shouldn’t be too difficult to follow him. Two things make the car easy to pick out. Not only is it a cool Mercedes cabriolet roadster in a distinctive shade of metallic blue, but also it has a personalised number plate – D3 ANA. Sylvie holds back as the Mercedes turns onto the parish road, then she follows. Half an hour later they join the mid-morning motorway traffic. The Mercedes is five cars ahead. Sylvie maintains her distance; her mind focused and her jaw set.
Sliding his hands to a comfortable position on the steering wheel, Oliver enjoys the sensuous feel of the leather. The car is capable of nought to sixty in just over five seconds with a top speed of one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour. His right foot hovers lightly on the accelerator. How he’d love to floor it and leave all this traffic behind. He knows his present to Deanna was extravagant but if ever there’s a birthday to celebrate it’s a girl’s fortieth. They pored over the specifications, not skimping on accessories, and by the time his wife had chosen all the extras it had cost him just shy of fifty thousand pounds. But it’s worth every penny. The SLK is a joy to drive. He glances around the cockpit, appreciating the intuitive design that puts everything at his fingertips. Even the sports steering wheel, featuring multi-function buttons, allows him to operate many controls without taking his hands off.
Oliver checks the mirrors before indicating right and pulling out into the fast lane. Feeling the power, he can’t resist. As the car accelerates away he watches the speedometer’s red needle glide past eighty and on towards ninety. His smile broadens as the sports car whizzes past the traffic in the middle lane. The road in front is empty, but flashing lights and blaring horns grab his attention. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he watches incredulously as a dark blue car swerves dangerously across the traffic from the inside to outside lane, narrowly missing the rear of one vehicle and the bonnet of another.
Bloody idiot! No doubt it fancies bullying me out of the way.
Oliver eases back to the speed limit. The dark blue car stays in the outside lane, matching his speed but keeping its distance. Checking the side mirror, Oliver joins the traffic in the middle lane, aware that the dark blue car does likewise. However, with no further incidents, he soon relaxes back into the ergonomic seat. The black leather upholstery with the contrasting silver inserts adds a stylish touch to the all-black interior and he’s pleased they chose this instead of standard cloth.
Deanna certainly knows how to make something stand out head and shoulders above the crowd.
But, this time, the thought does not bring a warm, contented glow and Oliver scowls as the familiar, pervasive ‘grey mist’ threatens to descend. How can it creep up on him out of nowhere? After all these years he’d hoped to have discovered some inner alarm alerting him to its insidious presence, but he can fall asleep happy and wake the next morning plunged in despair. Age has taught him nothing.
‘Count your blessings, Oliver. This will bring you to the light,’ his psychotherapist’s voice resounds in his head.
He abandoned therapy several years ago, believing he was finally mastering his depression, but the depth of recent mood swings has caused great concern. Perhaps he should book further sessions.
Oliver glances at the clock on the console. If the traffic remains at this level he should be on the Lizard by mid-afternoon. His mind wanders to the previous afternoon and his cycle ride with Jamie around the Surrey Hills. It was good spending quality time with his son, doing something physical. On their return to Hunter’s Moon, he even managed to persuade himself he had everything under control and that Sylvie didn’t pose a serious threat. Oliver shifts in his seat.
To the west, a warm, welcoming glow lights the far horizon. Good, because the clouds above him threaten ominously. Suddenly the heavens open. In a gathering spiral, the ‘grey mist’ descends, swirling around him and seeping into every pore. As it claims him in its vice-like grip, Oliver surrenders to his old foe. Switching on the windscreen wipers, he selects maximum setting and powers on towards the beckoning light.
*
Rain lashes the windscreen and Sylvie curses. She watches in dismay as the Mercedes pulls smoothly away and curses again. The wipers have an erratic momentum of their own. As the blades slide across the wet glass, a long sliver of rubber on the driver’s side flaps madly with each sweep. In one, sudden, frantic motion the offending section breaks free, flying away into the slipstream and leaving an arc of rubber smeared across the windscreen in the centre of her eye-line.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Sylvie shouts, slamming her hand against the steering wheel. ‘Bloody weather!’
The traffic closes in around her in a menacing fashion and she takes her foot off the accelerator. At once, the car stops its whining rattle and rapidly loses speed, causing the car behind to swerve into the outside lane to avoid a collision. Horn blaring, it overtakes, and Sylvie watches dispassionately as the middle-aged man at the wheel glares at her through the torrential rain. A sarcastic smile curls her lips as she raises her middle finger.
Passing a road sign alerting drivers to services half a mile ahead, she decides to stop for coffee and let the worst of the storm pass. There’s no way she will catch up with Oliver now. She can only hope he’s going back to that farmhouse on the cliffs. As her pent-up frustrations spill over, Sylvie screams at the darkening skies.
The windscreen wipers continue their seamless dance, slipping and sliding over the wet surface of the glass in perfect symmetry, like a pair of well-rehearsed skaters executing impeccable turns, unfazed by the drama taking place in the driver’s seat.