Ronnie
Ronnie
Ronnie sat stock still. Had he glanced in a mirror, he would have seen a look of utter incomprehension on his face, with a dash of incredulity thrown in. For a moment, he was entirely lost in the confusion of it all, mind struggling to process what had just happened. His thoughts were interrupted when he noticed the uncomfortable dampness at the front of his jeans. A sudden wave of shame passed over him as he realised, almost in disbelief, that he had wet himself. Only moments before, he’d been staring at the back of the Ford in front, which, like his own car, was crammed with boxes and bags. He found himself wondering about the people in that Ford, were they, too, setting off on an exciting new adventure, filled with hope and anticipation? Or had their journey, like his, taken an abrupt turn into confusion and embarrassment, leaving them just as shaken and uncertain?
Were they also escaping a life that was, at best, subsistence? Were they heading to a land of milk and honey, where the streets were paved with gold?
For Ronnie, it was a new job as a graphic designer in London. He hoped it might finally deliver the excitement, recognition, and perhaps even the fortune that had always felt just out of reach. The ache of leaving his family was still raw, a dull, steady throb that would follow him south. He could still almost smell the damp earth of the farmyard, the scent that clung to his coat and skin, stubborn as the mud on his boots that would still be by the back door. Echoes of his mother's voice calling him in for supper replayed in his mind, as vivid as if he were still standing at the kitchen door. The Dales uniform, a battered flat cap, had been left purposefully behind on his bed at the centuries-old family farm, a small act of defiance or maybe hope. He had mentally tipped his cap to his fellow escapees, wherever they might be on their journeys.
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he barely noticed the rumble beneath his feet, until suddenly, the world turned upside down.
In what had felt like an instant the Fiesta did a spectacular action movie back flip, straight over the roof of his Golf. Ronnie was sure he had felt the front of the VW lift slightly, but he had no explanation as to the unexpected actions of the Fiesta. Until that is he had seen the devastation in front of him in the space where the Fiesta had been until a few seconds ago, and yet he still couldn’t fathom it, it wouldn’t compute. It looked as if Satan had decided to open his fiery pit of Hell to the visiting masses while they were in the middle of a motorway in Yorkshire.
Then the disbelief and a dose of relief kicked in, that Fiesta could have been him: the car in front had essentially taken the blast. But at what cost? He could see the Fiesta in his rearview mirror lying upside down and straddled over the low Armco fence in the central reservation. A cold sweat prickled at his neck as he forced himself not to imagine the faces, the sudden silence, the lives forever changed by the last few seconds. It had landed perfectly across its roof, Ronnie didn’t want to contemplate the carnage inside, as the Fiesta was buckled in places that the designers probably hadn’t the foresight or budget to strengthen against impact, certainly not for impacts as catastrophic as this one.
By some inexplicable twist of fate, Ronnie’s luck seemed to be operating on a whole new level. He glanced down, noticing his jeans, damp and uncomfortable, but reassured himself that they would dry in time. “It’s not the end of the world,” he thought. “No one else needs to know I’ve pissed myself.” The knowledge was embarrassing, but it was a secret he could live with. What mattered most was that he was still alive, breathing in the smoky air and feeling the wet seat beneath him.
Around him, the chaos was almost surreal: flames flickered in the near foreground and in the distance, casting flickering shadows on the faces he could see, ones filled with shock and disbelief. The acrid scent of burning fuel hung heavy, mixing with the metallic tang of rain-soaked tarmac. Ronnie hugged his arms to himself, feeling rough fabric against his skin. He told himself, “I’m lucky. I made it out. Others weren’t so fortunate.” The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and he tried not to dwell on what horrors might be unfolding just yards away. The rawness of survival was both a comfort and a curse, and he promised himself quietly that he would make the most of what seemed to be a second chance.
His instinct told him to get out. The awareness that the flames in the other cars and vans could spread, or, even worse, things might start to explode, pressed in on him. It took real effort to leave the piece of German engineering that had just saved his life, but he forced himself to make the decision. He grabbed his phone and a jacket, leaving the rest of his belongings behind to trust in the gods who watched over Volkswagens.
