They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

51 September 2011

As I drive my little red Mazda down the ramp, into a sunny afternoon, a young woman in a yellow fluorescent jacket signals for me to slow right down to avoid the sports car bottoming out, and I obey. Bruno doesn’t notice anything apart from the weird pink monster on his screen, that I can see out of the corner of my eye.

Moments later we are on English soil — well, English concrete, technically — in a queue of cars heading for the exit of the ferry port. It feels seriously strange being back in England. Like, I shouldn’t be here, that I am a fugitive. Hell, this is my country, I have every right to be here.

Yes, girl, you do. But just don’t ignore the shitstorm that awaits you if you’re recognized.

Just as I thought that, I realize we are nearing the Customs shed. Two people, also in hi-vis jackets, are seemingly selecting cars at random to make a right turn, past a row of bollards and into the shed. I can feel myself perspiring, although everything is kosher; I wasn’t carrying anything to worry about now — well, apart from the methadone I had acquired to get myself clean. But that would be OK, surely. And at least my passport had been well tested over the past three years travelling as Sandra Jones.

To my relief, Bruno and I are ignored and we carry straight on. Two minutes later I am following my satnav screen as it takes me alongside the harbour for a short distance before turning me inland and into the labyrinth of residential streets of Poole, or Bournemouth — I’m not exactly sure where I am. But one thing I am excited about, on this whole weird trip, is being able to hold the three-spoked wheel and put my foot down on the faster roads.

It is such joy when I finally clear the conjoined towns and hit the M27 motorway and just bloody go for it! Third gear up to seventy — then fourth and up to ninety...

As I stare ahead, past the bulge in the bonnet, at the horizon hurtling towards me, I’m feeling such an empowering sense of liberation — and elation — and—

Stupidity.

I hit the brakes hard, dropping down to what now seemed a ridiculously slow 70mph. I really do not need to be stopped by the traffic police. But at this moment I am honestly feeling like I’m in a foreign land where the rules don’t apply to me. Because, like before, I don’t actually exist!

Then suddenly I am scared witless. Blue lights in my mirrors. Instantly, a freezing fog swirling in my stomach and spreading through my veins.

Shit, shit, shit.

Bright headlights now, bright even against this daylight, and strobing blue lights, too. It looks like I’ve a full-on mobile disco coming up behind me.

I’m gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles are white. My speed is now a rock-steady 67mph. I’m already trying to think of a plausible excuse when they pull me over. So far, I haven’t come up with it.

‘Faster, Mama!’ Bruno commands.

The disco is getting closer by the nanosecond. I hear the siren flailing the air. Those lights and sirens do not give them a right of way — they are merely asking permission to come through, I remind myself.

Not that that is going to help me at this moment unless I pull over and block them. And how stupid would that be?

Then, to my amazement, in a whoosh, accompanied by a howling crescendo, the car has gone past and is already in the distance. It is followed seconds later by a dark, unmarked BMW, blue lights also flashing. Then another.

It takes me some moments to realize I’m fine. The bandits have gone. But all the same I keep my speed to a sensible 75mph — no point painting the devil on the wall, as my grandmother used to say. It was an old German expression that I can still remember.

Suddenly, as we pass a large construction site to our left, Bruno yells out excitedly, ‘JCB!’ Then an instant later, ‘Komatsu!’ Then after barely pausing for breath, ‘Doosan!’ He was currently obsessed with diggers and excavators, and his favourite toy was a remote-controlled bulldozer I had got him for his birthday. Bruno switched obsessions every few months. Previously it had been dinosaurs and other prehistoric monsters. Before that, worms. He had jars of the wriggly things in his bedroom.

I was beginning to wonder, privately, if he was on the autism spectrum. Whatever his obsession, it pretty much takes over his life. His entire bedroom had been prehistoric-themed after his worm phase. Now it was digger-themed. Earthworks. Cranes, all kinds of construction site stuff. A tiny bit advanced for such a young boy? Or just the sign of an enquiring mind? Whatever, I couldn’t love him any more at this moment. We were a team and away from Nicos. We would be OK with anything life threw at us. I looked at him and felt a huge sense of pride and love.

An hour later, the satnav tells me we are thirty-two minutes from my destination in Shoreham, a few miles west of Brighton.

And Bruno looks up from his screen to tell me he is hungry and that he needs to pee again. Then he shouts out, ‘Takeuchi, Mama, Mama!’ pointing at a massive digger at the roadside.

I glance at the car’s clock, and then my watch, to check it — don’t know why I do that, but I always do. It’s 5.30 p.m. and I’m very jittery, seeing all this familiar scenery on the A27, on the approach to Chichester, at being this close to Brighton, to Roy, to Albazi even if he is banged up. I realize I need to pee very badly too. But more than that, I’ve got cramps in my stomach, I’m starting to perspire but I’m feeling cold, like having a chill, but it’s not that, I know exactly what’s happening. I can feel my heart racing.

There’s a sign to a service station. It’s coming up now. I’m so frazzled I almost miss the slip road and have to brake hard, cutting in front of another car that flashes me angrily. Then as I approach the pumps and the cluster of buildings beyond, I tug my black baseball cap further down over my forehead. Silly, I’m seriously not recognizable any more, not with my long, wavy red hair and — I guess — with a young boy.

You’d have to be a pretty good detective to link me to the missing Sandy Grace.