Bloodline

I walked across and down the road to my car, which I’d parked about forty yards away.

Dammit, I thought. This was the first time for about six weeks I had been asked to be on the Morning Line, and it would just have to be the day after I wanted to stay out and play — or even stay in and play. There was no doubt that Emily had been willing, eager even. Had I made the wrong decision?

But I knew that I had to have some decent sleep if I was to be any good in the morning. Last year I’d been out late and had a few drinks the night before I was on, and I thought I’d been rubbish. Television is very unforgiving of puffy eyes and a pallid complexion. I knew of an ex-colleague who had arrived for a show slightly late and rather hung-over and he had never been invited on again. There are always those like Iain Ferguson standing in the wings waiting to take over when your star wanes, and I had no intention of giving anyone an easy ride into my seat.

I had started my old Ford and was reaching for the gear lever when something was thrown over my head and tightened around my neck. I grabbed at it but whoever was pulling was much too quick for me to get any fingers between the ligature and my skin.

My head was snapped back hard against the headrest. I tried to cry out but nothing happened. I couldn’t breathe, neither in nor out.

I began to panic and dug my fingers into my own neck trying to get them behind whatever was strangling me. But the harder I tried, the harder the person behind me pulled.

I reached back over my head but I couldn’t get my hands down far enough owing to the headrest.

I was dying. And I knew it.

I could feel my heart thumping extra fast, trying its best to pump blood to my ever-dulling brain. But the blood wasn’t getting there. There was a blockage at the neck.

My lungs were filling with carbon dioxide and they were bursting to breathe but there was no way out for the gas, and no way in for life-giving oxygen.

I thrashed around behind me with my hands but there was nothing to grab.

This was it. I was going. Unconsciousness and death were but seconds away.

I didn’t want to die.

I banged the steering wheel with my fist in anger and frustration, and I could hear the car horn sounding over the ringing in my ears.

The ignition must be on, I thought. Of course it was — I’d started the engine.

I reached forward with my left hand and, using the very ends of my fingers, I pushed the lever into first gear. Next I released the brake, then I positively stamped on the accelerator, released the clutch and hoped the car wouldn’t stall.

I couldn’t see — my vision had gone completely, but I felt the car lurch forward. I didn’t know where we were going but I didn’t care, I kept my right foot hard down on the gas, right to the floor.

It seemed an age before we hit anything but it was probably not more than a couple of seconds. There were two almighty crashes and another loud bang inside the car as the driver’s airbag deployed. Then everything went quiet, save for the music from the party.

But best of all, the pressure on my neck eased and I gasped in a huge gulp of night air. I leaned forward against the steering wheel holding my throbbing neck and trying to breathe in shallow breaths to reduce the excruciating pain.

Things began to return to normal in my brain.

My sight came back suddenly with a rush but all I could see was white. I realized my head was up against the now deflated airbag so I lifted it and looked through the windscreen.

We had bounced off another car and then hit Nicholas and Angela’s stone-pillar gatepost full on. The whole bonnet was crumpled. My dear old Ford looked to be mortally wounded, but it had clearly accelerated as well as any sports car.

I put my head back down again onto the steering wheel. It was more comfortable like that, but part of my re-oxygenated brain was suddenly screaming at me.

Danger! Danger!

The rest of my brain began to listen.

Someone was trying to kill me and they might still be here.

I quickly turned in the seat and looked behind me.

The back door on the driver’s side was open. Whoever had been there, whoever had tried to kill me, had now scarpered.

My sudden turning movement had resulted in a severe bout of dizziness so I rested my head once more on the steering wheel.

That was better.

In the distance, I could hear a wailing siren getting closer and closer.

‘He must be drunk,’ I heard a voice say. ‘Look at his suit. He’s been to that party.’

I wasn’t drunk. I’d only had a small glass of red wine with dinner and a sip of champagne for the toast. I tried to say so, but nothing came out. Instead, my neck went on hurting like hell, and I was having difficulty swallowing.

I opened my eyes and lifted my head a little. A uniformed policeman was crouching in the driver’s doorway.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked.

I tried to say no, I wasn’t all right, but the words wouldn’t form in my throat. So I just shook my head slowly from side to side.