The Story of Us Read Online Free Page A

did next, but I heard several loud thumps, a grunt or two and then suddenly I was being showered in a shrapnel rainfall of broken windscreen. It fell over and around me like lethal hail, landing in my hair, settling on my face and even sticking to the bloodied wound on my forehead. I went to brush the pieces off my face, but was stilled by his shouted warning. ‘Don’t touch it, just shake your head.’ I did as he suggested, and most of the pieces fell away.
    He gave another smile. ‘Can’t have you ruining that pretty face for the wedding photos,’ he said, sliding through the aperture which had once held the windscreen. The moment he entered the car his demeanour changed. He froze, half-crouched on the front passenger seat, and inhaled. I couldn’t see what was worrying him, until I did likewise. Petrol. Really strong petrol. Why hadn’t I smelled it before? The odour was everywhere, the car was permeated and bathed in pungent fumes. More crackles from the front dashboard caused both of us to turn in that direction. We looked back at each other with identical expressions.
    â€˜Let’s just get you out.’
    I shook my head angrily. ‘Just go. You won’t be able to do anything, and if this stuff ignites, there’s no need for both of us to be in here.’
    He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. He reached down to one side and released the lever to recline the passenger seat, and pushed it back as far as it would go. A moment later he was beside me on the cramped remains of the back seat. He was a big guy and seemed to totally fill the space. His face was only centimetres from mine.
    â€˜Hi,’ he grinned, as though we weren’t in the middle of a life-threatening crisis.
    I gripped his arm with an urgency that I just couldn’t see in him. ‘You have to get out of here. Now!’
    He just shook his head, as though I’d said something totally ridiculous. ‘You first, then me.’
    Who was he, this American stranger who was risking his own life to save mine?
    â€˜Now tell me,’ he continued in a tone of voice that sounded as casual as if we were chatting at a dinner party, ‘are you hurt anywhere else besides your head? Can you feel your legs, move your feet okay?’ I wriggled my ankles, as much as I could, and winced a little with the pain.
    â€˜No. All good,’ I reported back.
    That earned me another smile.
    â€˜Let’s just have a look at this seat, shall we?’ asked Jack, leaning forwards and across me to examine it closely, pushing experimentally at several points along the back of the frame. He did this a few times, more strenuously, grunting with the effort. My field of vision and lap was entirely full of this kind (but clearly misguided) accidental hero, who was making my rescue his current mission.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I’m going to have to get a little personal here,’ he said, placing both his hands on my bare legs and running them down what was accessible of my limbs, until they disappeared under the seat, presumably to see if there was a way of pulling them free. There was an unhurried air to his exploration, even though I knew that a very deadly clock was ticking. ‘I apologise for that,’ he said again, straightening up until he was once more beside me. ‘I know how fond you Brits are of your personal space.’ How could he sound so light-hearted at a time like this?
    Suddenly a small muted puffing sound came from the front of the car, followed by a long thin snaking white trail of smoke, which began to meander out of one of the vents. Jack glanced at me, all humour gone. For the first time he looked worried.
    â€˜Please go.’
    He shook his head. ‘I think I might be able to push on the seat hard enough to give you enough room to wriggle your legs free.’
    He was strong, I could tell that. His forearms were muscled, and with his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow,