I wish I could work out what’s going on up there. It’s probably something dull and bureaucratic. Once before, I was stopped by fluorescent-jacketed police—three of them, like today—who were holding up traffic on the Rawndesley Road as part of a survey about driver behavior. I’ve forgotten what questions they asked me. They were boring, and felt pointless at the time. I remember thinking, My answers will be of no benefit to anyone, and answering politely anyway.

The car in front of mine moves forward at the exact same moment that the policeman with his back to me turns his head. I see him in profile, only for a second, but it’s enough. I make a choking noise that no one hears but me. I’m embarrassed anyway.

It’s him.

No choice, then. Driving past him is unthinkable—no way of avoiding being seen by him if his colleague stops my car to speak to me—so I’ll have to turn around. I edge forward and swerve to the right, waiting for a gap in the oncoming traffic on the other side of the road so that I can escape. Please. I’ll feel OK as soon as I’m traveling away from him and not toward him.

I edge out farther. Too far, over the white line, where there’s no room for me. A blue Toyota beeps its horn as it flies past, the driver’s open mouth an angry blur. The noise is long and drawn out: the sound of a long grudge, not a fleeting annoyance, though I’m not sure if I’m still hearing its echo or only remembering it. Shock drums a rhythmic beat through my body, rising up from my chest into my throat and neck, pulsing down to my stomach. It pounds in my ears, in the skin of my face; I can even feel it in my hair.

There’s no way a noise like that car horn isn’t going to make a policeman—any policeman—turn around and see what’s going on.

It’s OK. It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. How likely is it that he’d remember my car registration? He’ll see a silver Audi and think nothing of it. He must see them all the time.

I keep my head facing away from him, my eyes fixed on the other side of the road, willing a gap to appear. One second, two seconds, three . . .

Don’t look. He’ll be looking by now. No eye contact, that’s what matters. As long as you don’t see him seeing you . . .