The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (Part I)

A bird has just flown into my car – a moving car, a moving bird, heading in different directions yet somehow magically intersecting. I thought, at first, that it had simply flown close to my open window, passing by on its way somewhere else, but a manic flapping behind my head proves otherwise.
‘It’s a blackbird,’ says Fint, beside me.
‘I don’t care what it is, just get it out before I crash the bloody car!’ If he hadn’t been smoking, we wouldn’t be in this mess.
I put on my hazard lights and swerve onto the hard shoulder. We hop out, Fint leaving his door wide open. He runs to the back and bangs at the window. The bird flies up front and out. In a blur, it’s free.
‘Now that’s what I call spooky,’ he says.
‘I know. Weird.’
We stand looking at each other.
‘An omen,’ says Fint, eyes wide in an effort to look menacing.
I smile. Fint is about as menacing as a sandwich.
We get back in.
Fint looks over his seat. ‘By the way, he shat on your upholstery.’
‘Thanks.’
He smiles, pulls out his laptop and opens it up.
The diversion has made us late for a meeting with our biggest client, a publishing company that we design book covers for. When you run your own business, punctuality is something you respect. I’m keeping just below the speed limit in the fast lane when I realise we’ve company. At my bumper is a black Mercedes Sports Convertible. I’m wondering what kind of idiot drives with the top down on a cold March morning when said idiot swerves to overtake me on the inside.
‘Unbelievable,’ I say.
‘What?’ asks Fint, looking up from the laptop.
‘People like that cause accidents.’
‘People like what?’
‘That guy just passed on the inside.’
‘Oh,’ he says and goes back to work.
‘“Oh?” He could kill someone the way he’s driving.’
Fint looks at me, eyes suddenly knowing.
‘Stop looking at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you think I’m overreacting because of . . . Oh, forget it.’
‘Because of what?’
‘You know what.’
There’s a silence.
‘It would have been his birthday today,’ he says.
‘Don’t you think I know that?’
He turns to look out of his window.
I loosen my grip on the wheel and inhale deeply. ‘I’m sorry.’
He looks back at me. ‘I miss him too, Luce. But it’s been eighteen months. Maybe it’s time to move on.’
‘You are the only person I’d let away with a comment like that,’ I say. Ever since we met at art college, we’ve shared everything – friendship, career, secrets . . . And now, it seems, painful truths. Only it’s not the truth. ‘Move on. What does that even mean?’
Up ahead, the lights turn red. I slow to a stop, glance to my left. ‘Didn’t get far, did he, for all his rushing?’
Fint looks across.
‘Here, roll down the window,’ I say.
‘What? Why?’
‘Someone should tell people like him . . .’
‘Lucy, you’re not a vigilante. You don’t know him. This is how road rage incidents start.’
I lower the window. Stretch over. ‘Excuse me?’
He glances across. Good-looking guy, around forty, tight haircut. He turns down his radio.
‘Are you planning on killing someone today?’
He smiles. ‘It’s not on my agenda, no.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Wine gum?’
‘What?’
He holds out a packet of sweets.
‘So it never occurred to you that driving like that could cause an accident?’
His smile only widens. ‘I’m touched by your concern.’
‘Continue to drive like you are and you’ll be touched by something with a lot more impact.’
‘Lucy,’ Fint whispers.
‘Has anyone ever told you you look lovely when you’re angry?’ he calls across, as though nothing has ever rocked his world.
I return to the wheel, roll up the window and glance straight ahead. ‘Gobshite.’
‘Cute gobshite.’
‘Fintan, do you have to look on every man as a potential conquest?’
‘Potential? My dear, you underestimate me.’
I smile. The lights go green and I pull away. Fast.
The Merc stays level with us.

‘Ignore him,’ I say. ‘Fintan, stop looking over. You’ll just encourage him.’
‘If anyone’s encouraging him, it’s you. Slow down. Jesus.’
The Merc catches us, but has to slow behind a tangerine Nissan Micra doing, I don’t know, thirty?
I slap the steering wheel. ‘Ha! Got him!’
I check the rear-view mirror. He’s passed the Micra and is whipping into the inside lane. I accelerate. As does he. Neck and neck, I peer across. He’s like an ad for tooth whitener. I raise an eyebrow, turn back to the road.
‘You’re taking on a Mercedes, Lucy. Do you think that’s wise?’
Almost by way of an answer, it eases ahead of us.
We round a bend and I smile. He’s stuck behind a slow car in the fast lane. I join the line of traffic on the inside, which is moving faster. I keep my eyes on the road as we overtake him.
‘You absolute hypocrite!’ says Fint.
That’s when reality hits. I slow down and let the traffic go ahead as guilt crushes down on me, worse than ever, guilt that I can go on without Brendan, live, breathe, function . . . even forget how he died......(continued)