Page 26 of You Lied First
‘Can we limp it to the nearest petrol station, do you think?’ she asks.
‘We passed the last one a long way back,’ Flynn says. ‘I checked on Maps. There’s no more between here and where we’re going.’
Guy tears his hands through his hair. ‘I swear. They’re supposed to check the spare. Fucking bunch of cowboys. Excuse my French.’
He paces three steps up and down the dusty tarmac, while the rest of them stand staring at the car, as if their collective willpower could re-inflate the tyre.
‘There’s no pump in the boot?’ Celine asks. ‘I always keep one in my car. Just in case. And a tow rope.’
‘You think I didn’t look?’ Guy snaps.
‘Are there any rescue people we could call?’ Sara asks. ‘Like the AA? Is there a number on the rental papers?’
‘We’re in the middle of nowhere!’ Guy scoffs. Then, seeing Sara’s face fall, he softens his tone. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just: how long is that going to take?’ He looks at the sky. ‘It’s not getting any earlier and we still have a good forty minutes to go on this road. Plus off-roading and setting up camp, which I certainly don’t want to do in the dark.’ He looks around. ‘Any other bright ideas?’
Margot shrugs. Guy wipes sweat off his brow.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘If the closest petrol station is behind us, to be honest, maybe our only choice is to turn back.’
‘You mean just go home?’ Margot asks.
She’s surprised how the idea disappoints her. Despite the undisputed hassle of erecting the camp and disassembling it again in the morning, she realises she’s actually been lookingforward to spending the evening in the peace of the desert under a canopy of stars. And she spent so long this morning prepping the food.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Guy says. ‘What does “Sara Say”?’ He grins at Sara now, and she laughs, clearly relieved to have Guy back on familiar territory.
‘It sounds like the sensible option, to be honest,’ she says. ‘From where I stand, it doesn’t look like we have any other choice.’
Margot waits for Guy to ask her opinion, but he doesn’t. She addresses the teens. ‘You two all right with that? If we turn back?’
‘You mean, that’s it?’ Flynn asks. ‘No camping?’
‘Well, yes,’ Margot says. ‘Not unless you do it in the garden.’
‘Aww,’ Liv says, pulling a downturned face. ‘I was really looking forward to it.’
‘I know,’ Margot says, surprising herself by reaching out to touch Olivia’s hand.
‘Look,’ Guy says, ‘by the time we’ve driven, slowly, back to the petrol station and inflated the tyre – assuming it’s not got a hole in it – it’s going to be very late by the time we actually get to the desert. It’s going to be pitch black. We can’t pick a spot in the dark. We need to see where we are to put up the tents.’
‘Could we try again tomorrow?’ Flynn asks. ‘I really want to drive the quad bike!’
‘Maybe,’ Margot says, and she starts to think through the logistics and timings but then she hears a car slowing and they all turn to watch a Land Cruiser with Arabic plates pull to a stop behind them. Out gets an older man wearing the traditional Omanidishdashawith amasarturban tied aroundhis head,followed by three younger men, similarly dressed, who Margot imagines could be his sons.
‘’Allo…mushkila?’ the older man says, pointing at the deflated car as the others gather around it, examining the tyre. The man’s beard is flecked with grey and his face weathered. Margot remembers the wordmushkilafrom what little Arabic she’d learned at her ladies’ morning lessons – ‘problem’.
‘Yes,mushkila,’ Guy says nodding vigorously. He points at each wheel in turn: one on the ground with a massive hole in it and the other flat as the proverbial and gives an exaggerated shrug. ‘Do you have a pump?’ He mimes hand-pumping and points to the air nozzle, but the man shakes his head. He fires some Arabic at the young men, who scurry back to their own car.
‘What’s happening?’ Sara asks, as if Margot is the font of all knowledge.
‘I think,’ Celine says, her eyes on what the men are doing, ‘they’ve thought of a way to help us.’
22
SARA
Celine is not wrong. In under half an hour, the man and his sons have fitted their own spare wheel onto our car and taken our flat spare wheel as their own replacement: a straight swap. There follows a lot of hand-shaking and back-patting. Guy tries to give the man some cash and, failing that, take his phone number, but he shakes his head. The Omanis pile back into their car and drive off, leaving us looking incredulously at each other.
‘Did he seriously just give us his own wheel?’ Liv asks.
