I love driving on a day like this when everyone else is at work. The roads are dry, the sky is blue, there's not a cloud... But the morning sun is beaming annoyingly through the windscreen to my left and I pull down the sun visor… mmm, it's got a hidden mirror with a flip-open cover on it, nice touch... The leather steering wheel feels good, the engine responds to my every suggestion... I suddenly get the very distinct impression there is someone sitting beside me, but no more than a shadow; someone rather than something. I look quickly, stupidly... how could there be? A trick of the light, maybe the tinted strip across the top of the screen casting blue shadows, confusing me in my new environment. The sun punches me in the eye as we leave the line of trees I was passing, so I pull down the visor on the passenger side too, still blinded for a moment. Another, almost audible sequence of alternate light and solid dark stripes rattles me, much as I used to rattle a stick down iron railings. I pass by the copse with the sun streaming through it, then out of the village and onto the open country road.

I'm not the sort of person who buys a car simply because it's that time of year again. And I don't buy to impress others; a car doesn't fill that particular void - of which I have many - in my life. I buy because I need a new one, because my old one is just... too old and un-roadworthy... in this case virtually illegal. And it's nearly my birthday so this will be a gift to myself: a present to me from me. Cars don’t interest me for their own sake, so I don't drool over bhp, rpm, mph... I suppose mpg has a passing interest for me and that's all. But I don't want to look an idiot, tootling around in some sad, pathetic little French thing that will disintegrate at the slightest impact. So I look for something sturdy, big enough to offer me some protection. And something reliable. Japanese then, I hear you say. A Japanese saloon - Toyota, Honda? Dead right. So that's what I went for. I searched the internet and found:

Honda Executive 2.0 SE, Petrol, 90K, Silver, 8 years old, alloys, all mod cons - £2750.

Luxury at a price I can afford. 90K? No problem. It will go forever. And it's only 55 miles away. Plus, part-exchange is available. That's what I need. The ad goes on to say it has CD, air-con, electrically adjustable and heated leather seats, electric everything - it even has a sun roof which most new cars these days don't have. Oh, and sat nav:

'...not fitted as standard on this particular model, but very professionally added later'.

Not that I need it because I think that map reading is fun and a great skill, a pastime that keeps you 'connected' to your journey - an active driver rather than a passive passenger. We're constantly reminded that 'it's not the destination, it's the journey that's important'. I agree, but sometimes it's hard to justify that outlook as I face my repetitive reality and approach each tedious terminus - ultimately, with the way things are going in my life, death could be the most exciting thing that ever happens to me... but today, both journey and destination will be brimming with good stuff. So, back to the 'sat nav' - I'll just leave it off and keep a bit of spontaneity in my everyday life, do a bit of orienteering - I don't need a woman's voice telling me what to do at every turn... well, not when I'm supposed to be single, anyway.

I worked all last night, popped home for a bacon sarnie and a cuppa and, at the appointed hour, drove down here, to this quiet, modern cul-de-sac in a mainly quaint, rather remote village. Andy is an online car dealer and works from home, said he only needed a lock-up to store his stock in, which saved him on staff and forecourt overheads; that's why his cars are so cheap. Sounded clever to me. He looked rough and said he'd been up all night too - he also had a twenty-four hour vehicle-recovery business which keeps him busy. I'd come over to view the car at the weekend and would have driven it away there and then, but he said it needed a couple of things doing, plus a valet. I’d had a few creeping doubts over the last few days, but upon seeing the two contenders parked starkly side by side on the red block paving there was no contest. I had one last look over my old car, took the tax disc with eleven months left on it - that pissed him off as he said he'd included that when he valued it - then checked the boot and glove-box. I handed over the documents, filled in a few more, paid for it by card... then exchanged keys, shook hands... He said he couldn't find the HPI certificate I'd insisted on - the one that tells you your new vehicle isn't stolen or has been a write-off - but he'd post it on when it turned up. After a final, almost emotional, look at the old boy - well I'd had him for 10 years - I climb inside my new purchase and close the door, centrally locking myself in.

There's always a moment's silence at a momentous time like this, well there is for me, like the pause between the movements in a symphony. Something is ending, something new is beginning, so let's have a brief silence for reflection. Like a good conductor, I glance around, look what instruments are at my disposal, take stock and assume control. The key will do for a baton. I turn it, the engine section strikes up a deep, distant ostinato... which responds to my right foot and builds to a crescendo... the clutch bites, and off we go; not following the score at all, making it up as we go along... out of the cul-de-sac... rum-ti-tum... indicator... tic, tac, tic...now the violin squeal of radials... accelerando onto the narrow main road... pianissimo through the gear changes... and now the main theme: Homeward bound.

It's about an hour's drive home so I search the radio for some good chat. I can't stand the inane drivel that DJ's spout - even the cleverer ones like Jonathan Whass-his-name annoy me - so BBC Radio 4 it will be. 'Woman's hour'... that will do. It's an interview with the author of a new book - she's a voice-coach too - about 'presence': what gives a famous actor, sportsman or politician 'presence', the quality that makes them the centre of attention whenever they enter a room? Her voice is subtly powerful, insistent:

'Presence is an energy. It allows you the state of being present in the 'present', in the moment. That's why an actor should be wary about performing with a child... because a child isn't acting, is just 'present', and so will always overshadow one who is not...'

That will do nicely and is right up my esoteric street. I hit a pothole, or maybe even just a cat's-eye in the road and the radio suddenly switches to a loud, repetitive beat, something that Fat Boy Slim would eat for breakfast. It makes me jump with both the surprise and the volume of it. I fumble to turn it back. Surely not a bloody fault! I've only been going two minutes. What next? The wheels part company? I aim for another hole in the road and there's a double thud as both front and back wheels hit it.

'What current politicians do you feel best display this quality, this 'presence'?'

The radio is fine. And the wheels are still attached. Phew.

But again I feel the other type of presence, and I feel a shiver despite the sun and the growing stuffiness in here. It is there if I don't look. If I concentrate on the road I see it in my eye corner as just a patch of darkness, but if I turn my head even slightly it is gone. Relax. Soon I turn on the air-con - the sun's rays are really heating up the black trim - set it to eighteen degrees, and settle back into the plush seat. Again the shadow is beside me but not when I turn my head. The air is getting cooler and the slightest sweet smell of perfume pervades the sun-drenched interior too - remnants of its last owner? The roar of a bike engine suddenly drowns the radio and it passes me with a roar, swerving back into its lane just before an approaching car hits it head-on, then quickly diminishes in pitch and volume as it heads for the vanishing point. Damn! Concentrate on the road! I never saw it coming. I look in the rear-view mirror, but the road I've just driven over isn't there... the mirror has moved and there's the headrest of the passenger seat centred in it. I blink and - I swear - a pair of women's eyes are looking back at me, blonde hair falling like curtains from her brow. I slam on the brakes and the car skids and I can barely keep control. A horn sounds from behind and I take hold of the car once more. Another glance. The mirror contains just the headrest again now. I turn it back into position, wave apologetically to the blue Ford I now see in it and, shaking, I turn into the lay-by I'd seen sign-posted about a mile back. I'm out in an instant, slamming the door behind me, prowling around, stooping and staring into the interior, eyes wild, heart banging. Nothing. Of course. The engine purrs, 'Get back in and drive me... the sun is shining, the road is all but empty... take me... let's go somewhere quiet...come on, it's our day off'.

The machine talks to me, soothes me, and I immediately, inexplicably, overcome my fear - I'm not really a 'car person', but boyish enthusiasm is a powerful thing and just takes me over... and she is new; well, new to me. So I'm inside her again, grasping her wheel, revving her up. I say 'she' and 'her' because that's how it feels. My last car was certainly a bloke. We were mates and I miss him already; but this is definitely a girl: the feel; the perfume; the eyes. No, not the eyes... there were no eyes, just my tired brain. I need sleep. I'd once seen a deer - a real one like Santa employs - in the middle of the road drinking from a lake, when I was very tired once; I drove straight through it and the image evaporated into moonlit splashes and shadows. That scared me too and I pulled in at the next services for a coffee and some star-jumps to get the blood pumping again. I don't need star-jumps today. My heart is doing fine by itself and I am wide-awake now. Still, I promise myself a coffee and a sugar boost if I come across a garage - which is a little unlikely out here.

So where are we then? I'm slightly elevated at this spot, but everywhere around is virtually flat, green or golden, with low hedges around every field, and deep, wide drainage ditches beside each road... we've had so much rain lately that a couple of the fields are still half under water and reflect the shimmering skies. I see a distant steeple through the haze. Again a whiff of sweetness from the cooled circulating air. Where am I? God knows. Certainly not on the road I came on, the one I planned for. Sat nav! I suddenly feel like I'm piloting Thunderbird II. I lock myself in again with a reassuring clunk - I always feel more at ease when safely and securely insulated thus from the world - and recline my seat a little, with an accompanying mechanical whirr. This is great. I punch in my post-code, check and adjust - whirr - the door-mirror, pull back onto the road with a crunch of gravel and I'm away. Thunderbirds are go!

It's a woman's voice as I’d imagined, a very nice voice. For some reason I christen her 'Rose'.

'At the next roundabout take the second exit.'

'What, you mean straight on, Rose?'

That's me: I can even argue with one of these. If it was a bloke directing I'd keep quiet, merely nod my head in silent gratitude, but her tone of voice had just a hint of 'I told you I was right' about it which winds me up. Still, I need her now, so I'm not going to upset her.

'OK. But where now?'

'Don't know... we've never come this way before... come on, let's just drive!'

I think that's what she said. Again I hit the brakes and again the wheels squeal. I lose it for a second but straighten up and now I'm frozen, driving on automatic, like a mannequin with only eyes and arms that move.

'Yeah, why not,' I hear myself saying. Then I sing a song I've never heard:

'Life is an open road,

Fill her up and foot to the floor;

Life is a one-way street,

There's no going back for more...'

... and find it's playing on the CD player. I have a distant feeling this is some kind of dealer's joke, a repayment for taking the tax-disc, but it's only fleeting. I can see her now if I don't look directly at her. She's blonde, just as I saw in the mirror, about seventeen... eighteen... really not much more than a child. Her eyes are big and heavily made-up and she's wearing blue, but what exactly I can't tell.

'This is great... what a gorgeous creature she is... I love her already... music blasting, air con... heated leather seats... mmmm, like the feel of that.' She has a broad local accent and her voice is hoarse in a very sexy way.

'It's warm enough today, you don't need that switched on!' like I'm reading from a script.

She wriggles deeper into the black leather and giggles and I can see her legs are bare and her short dark-blue denim skirt has ridden up.

I must have slowed because a car zooms past me, something else I didn't see coming. My heart bangs once against my ribs, and I'm squeezing the wheel hard, breathing heavily, waking from a tiredness-induced blackout. Simultaneously the sounds around me slam into my ears, starting in reverse then turning inside out and I'm back in the very bright and loud present.

She moves her arm and I can see she's touching herself between her legs. I wasn’t daydreaming, she’s till here! She's still here in the car! I turn, horrified, and look again, but she doesn't vanish. Her full, bra-less breasts are barely covered by her light-blue vest top and her free hand sweeps up to tease the nipple that is rising through the material. She looks up at me, coyly, through her hair. I panic inside but it's not reflected in her eyes and she snuggles up to my shoulder.

'Let's go somewhere quiet. Come on... it's our day off.'

Again, I'm here, but I'm not. Present but absent. It is now, and I'm awake but I'm somewhere else, sometime else. And she is here, she is real. She is the child who is 'just present' and I am the wary actor. I see her and she sees me too, though I'm sure she thinks I'm someone else.

I drive. It's all I can do. The roads are very quiet, with long straights and, at the speed I'm going now, sudden sharp bends. The car handles beautifully and I feel so confident, bordering on arrogant, indestructible. At intervals she tells me where to go, which turns to make. She points one way, says no, no, no, and laughs, then the other way, still pressing close to me. Her choices seem to be random and this is great fun for her, assuming control when normally I, whoever I am, would be the one to make all the decisions and she would sit passively. I indulge her in her game, basking in her child-like happiness.

But the child is now a woman. The hand between her thighs is moving rhythmically and her legs and bum are rubbing against the leather. I watch her slowly take off her knickers - they are lacy, white and snag for a moment on her left heel. She dangles them over the gear stick and massages the leather knob with them. Her hand returns between her legs and then my lips are opened by her fingers. They are warm and soft, fleshy and sticky and I taste her, I really taste her.

'I know what you want...' playing with the knickers on the gear knob again, wrapping them around it. And suddenly I know what I want.

Now her hand is on my leg and it crawls, it inches, like a tarantula onto my crotch, then massages me through my jeans. I am frozen and still all I can do is drive.

'Give us a blowjob.'

Did I say that?

'That's a bit rude! What do you say?'

'Give us a blowjob, please. Let's christen her while I drive her.'

Yes, I said that, though not in my voice, and anyway, I barely know the girl. She giggles and squirms some more in her heated seat.

She is very dexterous. Her left hand comes away from her breast, reaches over and pulls my jeans undone. A motor whirrs again and my seat slides back a little, then my right hand returns to the wheel. Mmm, I did that.

'That's better,' she whispers, 'you said it had good headroom...' and she laughs at her own joke, and I do too. She is funny and pretty and sexy. I like her. I really like her.

She yanks at the faded denim and methodically pops the buttons one by one. Then she reaches to the floor, pulls aside her purple rucksack, opens her handbag and searches through it. She takes out a very red lipstick and, as seductively as possible, smears it on her lips, requisitioning the rear-view mirror to do so. I catch a glimpse of her - identical to the one I had before - all eyes and hair. Then she pouts so I can see her lips in the reflection, retracts the lipstick and pushes it back in her bag. I straighten the mirror up.

'Oi! I might need that!' I growl indignantly.

'Not as much as you need this...'

She gently pecks me on the cheek then undoes her seatbelt. Leaning over, she pushes her head under my left arm and kisses me through my pants. Goes straight there and kisses me, long and lovingly. Then she bites me hard. She bites me hard in both senses of the term, then she pulls the damp material aside, takes out my cock and licks the tip. Her tongue is so soft, the touch so light, that I can barely feel it. It stirs a deep, distant memory and I want to be inside her... I reach round with my left arm and stroke her bare left thigh, edging closer and closer to the naked wetness between her legs.

'Listen… you're gonna cum in my mouth, so keep your eyes on the road, both hands on the wheel. And concentrate on where we're going. You'll be in my mouth, but I'll be in your hands.' She talks as if she's got her mouth full, for effect, and again the laugh. 'This is my treat... enjoy...' Her tongue is playing on me, pushing into the hole. I feel her left hand close around me and pull the foreskin back a little. Her movements are constricted by my clothing and I need to feel her pull it right back. This is so frustrating, but wonderfully exciting. I take my right hand off the wheel now and try to ease my jeans a little lower. As I raise myself up she helps me, and soon they are around my knees. Still I drive. Hedges blur past. The odd farm building appears in the distance, grows larger, more detailed, and then quickly joins the past in the rear-view mirror.

I can hear her now, slurping and sucking. She spits on me and I can feel her saliva running down my shaft and onto my balls. Then she rubs it in, hand moving quickly, almost frictionless; then licks it off and wanks me rhythmically and beautifully... so sweetly and lovingly. I bend to kiss her hair. Now she takes me deep and bites the base of my cock, my full length is somehow down her throat. And she sucks... sucks really hard. Making a circle with her thumb and forefinger that she wraps around me just below where her teeth and lips are closed on me, she pushes down as hard as she can.

'God... Rose...uh... I'm coming Rose, I'm coming... uh... uh...'

Her name is Rose.

She doesn't pull away, just keeps on sucking and pulling back hard, her breath coming in a series of little squeaks and gasps. I hold back till the very last moment. The waves of pleasure build. It's like riding ripples on a pond... but from the edge to the middle. The outer ones are small and spaced out, lapping gently against my stomach; slowly the height and depth increase and more of my body feels the pleasure; as we approach the epicentre the waves toss me higher and my head begins to deaden and fill with it; the frequency and amplitude increase and the end is in sight. I hold on and on till I can hold myself on the surface no longer, then plunge down into the depths, into the sweet, syrupy blackness. Again a submerged memory stirs, a dark memory, but like a mythical big fish it is gone with just a flash of silver.

I pump my cum into her mouth. She chokes on it and her head comes up quickly, too quickly, pushing my left arm - and the car - to the right. Simultaneously I feel the car hit another deep pothole and something gives, pulling it more to the right and across road. Something is wrong. My foot hammers on the brakes instinctively, but I'm on the verge at the wrong side of the road, still in control though only just. I hear a bang and the tearing of metal and I lose the ability to steer. The rear end slews round over the edge of the ditch, loses contact with the earth, and we start to spin and fall. The car turns over onto its roof and slams into far, almost vertical bank and hits the water. There are no sickening screeches or screams between the flip and the impact, just the 'Crash Symphony Overture' that in dreams and reflective moments I still hear: the roar of the engine; a series of dull thuds; a long rattle; a bang like a cannon; a huge splash; a loud crack; a final thud - end of movement. Pause. Silence. Then my mind focuses, goes into survival mode. I hear water lapping against the doors like applause, and a burgeoning trickle, like laughter, but all else is eerily quiet; a dense, padded, compact quietness. I'm hanging upside down. Rose's face is pushing down against the sunroof next to me; she's mooning through the side window, legs across the windscreen. A deep gash splits her once beautiful face. The impossible angle of her neck tells me she is probably dead. Water is seeping in through the edge of the screen, which is distorted and shattered like the surface of a depth-charged sea. Blood - that must be where her head struck - is splashed across it. The interior is getting darker and colder, as if the sun is setting, but it is the car not the sun that is slowly sinking.

I scrabble to undo my seatbelt, desperately trying to orientate myself in this inverted world. The catch gives and my head hits the glass roof beside her face, smears the marbled blood and cum that oozes from her mouth. I free my legs and do a sort of sideways roll onto her. Then, because they are now restricting me around my knees, I feverishly pull my jeans up over my thighs. I reach for the driver's door handle but there is no sound, no response, no escape. I try to push Rose aside so I can get a clear kick at the screen, but she is a dead weight. With a burst of strength I manage to sit her up a little and move her legs. Her head lolls sickeningly to one side. I wriggle so that I'm between the two front seats, use my now almost useless arms and the headrests for leverage, and try to kick the screen at the driver's side where I see water is trickling in. Now the water rises faster inside the upturned car and some objects from her handbag - the lipstick, a diary, some receipts - are floating around as our new floor is submerged. I've lost a shoe but I kick against the screen with the other foot... harder... again with all my might, panic taking over me. I'm thinking that the thing I need to do to save me will probably kill me. The water comes in faster, the cold shocks me and I shiver uncontrollably. I'm shouting and swearing.

'Come on you bastard... fucking hell...Unghnn!' kicking with every syllable. I try again with just a grunt. It moves outwards a little, starts to crumple. Escaping bubbles are replaced by cold, dirty water.

'Come on! Fuck! Fuck!' I kick and curse one more time, nearly spent. I'm crying. Water is pouring in now, like a tap on full. One more kick. It will go with just one more. But I haven't strength for another. I raise my foot but the pain starts to take over. No, it's useless. Useless. But it's OK. I'm OK here. It's quiet and calm... so calm. Peaceful. I give up. I look at this once beautiful young girl, now twisted, defaced and dead beside me, and sob for us both.

Her eyes snap open, one of them now just below the icy surface.

'Again! Try again!'

Her screams terrify and mobilise me, but I'm still crying and shaking. I gather myself for one more kick - the rising water absorbs the force of my effort - and another... on the second one the screen finally gives and is swept into the car by the weight of the filthy deluge. I take my last breath. The in-pouring flow pins me back, and for an age I cannot move against it. Now I'm submerged. The air is gone. Water is suddenly in equilibrium and everything is in slow motion. I can move her now the water bears her weight, but her badly broken right arm is still somehow wedged between the buckled door and her seat. The liquid ballast makes the car roll a little as it sinks; it pitches backwards, and under the rising bonnet, through the gaping hole that was the screen, I can see sickly, yellow sunlight. I force my feet through first, push with exhausted arms, and I'm out... lungs burning I break the surface, gasping, and somehow get to the edge, but I don't have the strength to pull myself out. There’s a screech of brakes, pounding footsteps and horrified shouts. I call to them, breathlessly, to get the girl out. I'm delirious with cold, fear and exhaustion. Strong hands haul me a little way up the bank. Pain sears through my upper body, I scream and they lower me down. I hear a splash behind me, feel the waves hit me. Then there is blackness.

I come round suddenly at the side of the road and try to sit up in the stark sunshine, but I can barely move.

'Rose! Rose!'

'There was no-one else in there mate. You were on your own. On your own!' He shouts the last line at me as if I'm an idiot, searching my eyes, shaking his head. Water drips from his hair and beard. He shivers too. Behind him the front wheels - like Rose's neck, impossibly twisted - and the headlights, silver bumper and grill are all that protrude from the now still water. I struggle, but I’m spent. My shouts turn to sobs.

'Get her out! Get her out! Rose! Rose!'

'Poor bugger... he's lost it.'

'Everything's OK pal, ambulance is coming. Come on, settle back... let me cover you up, keep you warm, you're shaking...'

********************************

That was six months ago. I was in hospital for ages - smashed shoulder, wrist, ribs and ankle; oh, and cuts, bruises, concussion. I've been back a lot too, operations for this and that, some physio. I'm still not right, probably never will be. They said I had so many broken bones it was a wonder I'd got out, most people would just have given up. The car had simply started to disintegrate when it hit that final pothole. The bodged-up steering was the first thing to go. I was told I was very, very lucky that another car was passing by:

'That's normally an extremely quiet road.'

Because of my constant, though delirious, protestations, police frogmen searched the ditch. Trussed up in a car blanket and weighted down with stones they found the remains of a young woman. They knew straight away it was female by the clothes - denim mini-skirt, light-blue vest top - but little else remained to give them a clue. They linked the body immediately to the disappearance of a local girl who'd vanished almost six months beforehand. (The first anniversary of her death will be next week and I will take her a dozen roses.) Her parents could think of no reason why she would run away, but suspected she'd taken a small bag of her things - and were still hopeful until they heard that fateful knock on the door. Upon receiving the news, her father's best friend and business partner gave himself up, broke down and confessed.

He'd been her secret lover since she was seventeen and no-one had suspected. They were clever, sensible, restrained, never taking the slightest chance of being caught. In public, they always maintained the illusion of an avuncular relationship; 'Uncle' Trevor was like a second father to her - at least that's what people thought. They'd surreptitiously slipped away for a day out; he was showing off in his new car - not brand new, but, same as me, as good as he could afford - and things had 'got out of hand' to use his words. After the car hit the water, he'd kicked out the windscreen and tried to pull her out before he was forced to make for the surface. He didn't realise the impact had broken her neck and she couldn't move - the post-mortem's findings were terribly traumatic for all involved. He knew her arm was trapped; as the car slowly sank she drowned before he could free her. But he tried. Many times, till he was exhausted. Sitting spent and distraught on the bank he suddenly feared losing everything - his wife, his home, his business, friends and respectability - and panicked. He walked a mile or two to a farmhouse and asked to use the phone, saying he'd fallen into a ditch while walking. He rang his mate Andy who was soon there with his recovery wagon and they got the car out, unseen by anyone. Trevor saw to the girl and knew enough about Andy's shady dealings to convince him to keep quiet. The poor bloke, thrust unknowingly into the middle of this tragedy (God knows how he felt when he saw her broken body in the emerging car), couldn't touch her, wouldn't help, just sat sobbing in his crew cab with his head in his hands repeating:

'No! Oh, God... no!'

The next day Trevor had a new car, saying he just couldn't get on with the other one, and not another word was said about it. Andy, the dealer, kept the bent and twisted Honda, ostensibly for parts, but got greedy. He did a bit of 'cutting and pasting' - i.e. lots of poor quality welding - adding bits from other vehicles, and then sold it on as second-hand. It had no HPI certificate. Andy made a good living from doing that sort of thing - no wonder his cars were so cheap. Poor old girl - she'd had more work done than Anne Robinson; she was an oxy-acetylened illusion, a motorised sleight of hand, and her welds were her weakest links.

I couldn't bear to hear or read about it when it first hit the news - I was in hospital and wasn't up to it mentally or physically - but I'm ready now. Today I found the full story of Rose's accident where I once found their patched-up car: on the Internet. I can still hear her voice:

'...we've never come this way before... come on, let's just drive!'

The report said that the young blonde had been 'performing a sexual act on her secret lover, a now disgraced local man’. He'd lost control at high speed and the car had spun into the ditch. He'd miraculously escaped unharmed bar a few scratches and had then tried repeatedly to rescue her. Because of her horrific injuries she couldn't manage to free herself, but she was conscious and he could hear her screaming:

'Again! Try again!'

She was called Rose and I still have a pair of my underpants with her kiss imprinted on them in red lipstick.

**********************************