“Always check your blind spot,” Dad tells her.

Vera squeals, slaps his shoulder. “You’re a right cheeky Charlie, ain’t ya? Me blind spot! Is that anywhere near me G-spot, eh?” She heads off into cackles of laughter and I’m pretty sure her eyes are closed, which makes me feel even more nervous than her pulling into the traffic without reference to the indicator or wing mirror did.

“My car is parked down the next left-hand turn,” I say, pointing in the direction of Chinatown. Vera throws her cigarette butt out of the window and rolls another with one hand, which, I have to admit, is pretty impressive.

“So, did you have a good night out, then?” Vera says as we roar past the turn.

“Oh, Vera, I think you missed...”

“I used to love the old Hippodrome,” Vera goes on, oblivious to my frantic hand gestures, “back in the ’80s when Peter Stringfellow were runnin’ it. All very glam back then, I don’t mind telling you. All disco balls and slow sets and martinis.”

“Vera, the thing is...”

She swerves to the right without slowing or indicating. A cyclist has to brake sharply to avoid being smeared across the bonnet. He shakes his fist at Vera, who transfers her cigarette to her other hand and raises two bony, crooked fingers in the cyclist’s direction. She cackles again. “Bloody cyclists.”

“Can you turn back?” It comes out louder than I anticipated. A plaintive tone. Vera screeches to a halt on the road and the car behind does the same, then blasts the horn.

Dad puts his hands over his ears. Vera turns her head to look at me.

“Sorry, Vera, I just...the car, it’s parked back that way.” I gesture out of the back window towards the car with the blaring horn. “In Chinatown.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” says Vera.

“Well, I—”

“What’s that bloody geezer beeping at?” she says, nodding towards the car behind us.

“I’m...not sure.”

Vera looks at Iris. “I reckon you should come back to mine. My flat’s just down the road, and I’ve got some TCP that’ll sting the shit out of that cut on your forehead.” She cackles again.

“She might need stitches,” I say.

“I don’t need stitches,” Iris says.

“Just as well ’cos I’m not great wiv a needle and thread, bein’ honest,” Vera says. A man, morbidly obese and glowering, emerges from the car behind.

“I think we should go,” I say to Vera. My voice is high and taut as the man lumbers towards us.

“All right, all right, keep yer ’air on.” Vera tosses the cigarette out of the car window, narrowly missing the man’s besandaled foot. I clench every muscle at my disposal. Vera, oblivious, wrestles the car into gear and scorches up the road.

12

You should check your mirrors regularly to observe what is going on behind your vehicle.

“Where do you live?” I ask Vera when my breathing returns to normal.

“You know Archway Road?”