The last place I wanted to be on a sunny day in late July was sitting in a car, stuck in heavy traffic. Cars towing trailers clogged the lane in front, almost bringing it to a standstill. Holiday traffic. But I wasn't going on holiday. I am being driven away from my friends, my summer, kidnapped by my own father.
I glanced over to the driver's seat, where my father sat, his face frowning and tense, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. It was hot and stuffy. The car was packed with gear. We were going to stay at my grandmother's for an indefinite period. I do not like going there, even in the best of circumstances.
Father stared forward, unresponsive, so I turned away, studying the road ahead. The traffic was freeing up now. The speedometer flickered through 50 to 60 and 70, climbing up steadily. The cars and lorries kept pace with each other as they traveled towards a point where the motor way narrowed. It was almost like entering a tunnel. The three lanes were squeezed down, causing the traffic to bunch as the stream of vehicles entered a deep defile.
I was still reviewing my grievances, safe in my mental cocoon, when all my problems went right out of my head. I was a fraction of a second away from death...
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