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‘Put the phone down!’ I shout, gripping my seat with renewed vigour. ‘It’s illegal to hold a phone with the engine on. Not to mention dangerous. They’ve done studies. Phones affect your reaction times as much as five units of alcohol.’

Mrs Kinnock’s worried, wobbly voice comes through the speaker. ‘Don’t use your phone in the van, Olly. It’s as dangerous as drink-driving.’

‘Yes it is, Mrs Kinnock,’ I call out.

‘We’re nearly at the port, Mum.’

‘Oh God, don’t do anything stupid,’ his mother gabbles. ‘You know how Lizzie works. Don’t walk into it and make yourself look like the villain again.’

The van veers again.

‘Put the phone away, Mr Kinnock!’ I shout.

‘Gotta-go-Mum-bye.’ Olly drops the phone onto his lap. ‘Kate, she’s sixty-five years old. If I hadn’t picked up, she’d have thought something bad had happened.’

‘Would she prefer you died at the roadside?’

We reach a roundabout, but Olly barely slows down, zooming around and off at the ferry port exit. My eyes return to the petrol gauge.

‘Ferry port,’ says Olly, glancing at a sign. ‘Two miles.’

The van starts to splutter.

‘We have to make it,’ says Olly. ‘Say a prayer for us.’

‘I don’t think even God can sidestep the scientific laws of petrol consumption.’

‘Kate, I’m in hell every second of every day. Awful, gut-wrenching, nauseating pain. Indescribable. Screaming in the wind, begging people to believe me, having doors slammed in my face. And I’m one of the good guys. I recycle. God owes me big time.’

‘Have faith, Olly.’

I say a silent prayer.

We pass a sign. One mile until the port.

The spluttering is getting louder and every few seconds it sounds like the engine is cutting out.

‘It’s okay,’ Olly insists. ‘It’s okay. We’ll make it.’

But it’s not okay. I think we’re running out of petrol.

As the engine stops and starts, we pass blue freight lorries lined up in a port-side car park.

‘Please, God,’ I say. ‘Please let us make it.’

Olly drives the van straight across a mini roundabout and now we can see the blue and white ferry at the end of the road.

It is moving, slowly, slowly.

Olly roars the van down the road. He must be doing 50 mph in a 30 mph zone but I don’t challenge him.

Men appear from somewhere, shouting and waving as Olly screeches the van to a halt.

We leap out of the car, but I know it’s too late. A metre of churning green-brown water lies between the ferry and the boarding platform. The car ramp has been cranked up and the ferry is powering up its engines, blasting through the water.

‘You have to stop that ferry!’ Olly shouts at the men. ‘My son is on-board!’

When he doesn’t get a response, Olly begins stripping off, apparently about to jump into the water.