We were in danger, I was now aware. The road was not much wider than the car and slippery with black ice as it wound itself like a snake around the mountains. The higher we climbed, the colder it became. At each bend I hoped we’d reached the peak or come to a wider platform so we could turn around. The snake was controlling us. It was squeezing the life from us.

Jessie was quiet. Very, very quiet.

Finally, she spoke: as slow as the wheels of the car. ‘Need chains on the tyres … Road needs grit … Some daylight would help.’

I could say nothing.

‘Can’t mess with these monsters. All this for the sake of adventure? Not my idea of one.’

We drove on in silence. Damn! This was my fault. This was how tragic deaths occurred. Firstly, you find yourself in danger. Secondly, you find yourself dead.

‘Where’s God when you need him?’ I whispered, worried that the weight of my voice could adversely affect the mechanics of the car.

‘Where do you think?’ She replied as if it was obvious: ‘Watching The Waltons.’

I closed my eyes and prayed. When I opened them, Jessie was sighing with relief. We had reached the summit. She cheered, cautiously. We began our descent.

Suddenly I heard a clunk-scraanch. I let out a pathetic yawp. Something was packing up. The brakes? The flood? The rust? We had been warned.

Death was chasing us.

Jessie automatically began some strange braking manoeuvre with the hand-brake and clutch, which scraped noisily as she jerked the car forward. She was tightly coiled over the wheel, every facial muscle exuding a phenomenal will power. She was grinding her jaw. If I poked her, she would detonate.

There was no one behind us. No one in front of us. We had not seen another car for hours. Matilda’s headlights were our eyes, because we were in the pitch black that no city really experiences.

‘Have you made your last will and testament?’ she joked, without a trace of humour.

What could I say to that?

‘Well, who else are you going to leave it to?’

I put my hand on the door handle.

‘You’re not going to leave me, are you?’ She sounded disconcertingly neutral, as if she was trying to hide a terrible fear or a terrible rage. ‘Isn’t this the point in the film where we say we love each other?’

No, this is the point in the film where we die, I wanted to reply.

‘You wanted adventure,’ she added bitterly. ‘As for jumping ship, you’ll not last the night out there.’

My voice broke through: ‘I wasn’t going to leave – how could you even think it! I’m the man; I should have taken responsibility for the car.’

‘Are you really?’ she sneered. ‘Remember, you left me when we should have been sorting out the car, Stanley Stone-Age.’