'Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! I can't breathe!' said Israel.

'Don't be so stupit,' said Ted.

'I said we shouldn't have brought the dog.'

'Don't refer to him as "the dog",' said Ted. 'He's a name.'

'Ugh! Look. Let me…argh. Can I be honest with you, Ted?'

'No.'

'I-'

'I said no,' said Ted.

'But-'

'What? What part of "no", do ye not understand?'

'It's just…,' said Israel, holding both hands over his mouth.

'What?'

'I really don't feel very well.'

'Aye.'

'I've got a really bad headache. And I think I might be allergic to dogs.'

'You're not allergic to dogs.'

'But I think I might be though.'

'You're not. You were seasick, ye eejit. You'll be fine.'

'You've not got a hot-water bottle, have you, Ted?'

'Do I look like I've got a feckin' hot-water bottle?'

'No. But-'

'There's your answer then. Now shut up.'

Israel dry-retched while Ted double-bagged the dog shit. There was a great heaving sound as the ferry's doors began winding open at the front of the hold.

'Agh. Ted?' said Israel.

'What!'

'I really don't think I can drive.'

'It's your-' began Ted.

'Yes, I know. But I really hate driving at the best of-'

'Ach, Israel. You can't hate driving.'

'I do hate driving.'

'You can't hate driving. Nobody hates driving.'

'I do.'

'You don't hate driving.'

'I do! I'm telling you I do!'

'People just drive.'

'Yes, I know, but…I've just never really known what you're supposed to do when you're driving.'

'What?'

'No. I mean…I never even really liked Dinky Toys.'

'What are ye going on about now?'

The vast doors opened up fully, light flooding into the hold, the steep concrete bank before them. Vehicles all around started revving. The stench of the dog shit was overwhelming. Israel could feel his palms getting sweaty and a prickling on the back of his neck. He felt nauseous. His head was pounding like someone was in there swinging a hammer and breaking up his mental dresser full of bone china. And he really didn't like driving. He didn't like driving at all. He'd failed his test three times before passing, and eventually he had had to go on a three-day residential course, at a former outward-bound centre in Wales, where he'd been forced to do hill starts and practice reversing into a parking space for eight hours a day, and at the end of the course he drove to Hereford to take the test, and failed that too, and in the end he'd passed only when his sister Deborah had started taking him out on the North Circular, to harden him; he wouldn't forget that in a hurry; and neither would she. The memory of it made him feel sick.

'Come on,' said Ted.

Israel put the key in the ignition.

He'd once had a head-on collision with a skip on a wide, empty road during the hours of daylight. And had also accidentally brought down a Belisha beacon on a pedestrian crossing. And he'd driven his mother's car into a concrete wall in a multi-storey.

'Hitler,' he mumbled.

'What?' said Ted. 'What?'

'With the Volkswagen, you know. I think that's probably part of my problem with cars.'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Hitler. I'm sure.'

'The Italian Job,' said Israel. 'Did you ever see that?'

'They were Minis,' said Ted.

'I know, but I was just thinking about the meaning of driving.'

'The meaning of driving,' repeated Ted, to Muhammad. 'D'ye hear him?'

'Music. They're really about music, cars,' continued Israel, half-deliriously.

'Is that right?' said Ted.

Israel had listened to a lot of music in cars: he could chart his entire adolescence according to exactly where and when and who he was with in what car when he was listening to, say, Blur, or Oasis, or Portishead, or Pulp. At this moment, however, the most appropriate music would be a doomy Philip Glass film score, or some weepy thing by Arvo Pärt. Israel dry-belched.

'They're machines for listening to music in. Brian Eno said that.'

'Did he now?' said Ted. 'And what would he know?'

'Brian Eno?'

'Aye. What would he know?'

'How d'you mean?' said Israel.

'He. Know? It's a joke, Israel, for pity's sake.'

'Ah, right.'

'Anyhow, it's us,' said Ted. They were next in line to pull away and off and up the ramp and into England.

'You're sure you don't want to-' began Israel.

'Drive!' said Ted.

'Yes,' said Israel. 'Of course.'

He turned the key. The van didn't start.

He glanced across at Ted, who sat impassive, staring ahead, much as though he were in a film with a doomy Philip Glass score. Muhammad sat in his lap.

'Ted?'

Ted remained silent.

Israel turned the keys in the ignition again.

Israel felt his mouth and throat go dry.

There was an incident on the A40 once, with Gloria. He'd stalled. Couldn't get the car started again. A man had come out of his car and reached in, called Gloria a stupid bitch, and then punched Israel; he'd punched him only lightly, once, but it was in the face. It had hurt.

'Ted?'

'What?'

'She's not starting.'

'Well, try her again.'

'I've tried her again.'

'Well, try her again again.'

Israel could begin to feel the restlessness of the vehicles behind him.

He tried turning the ignition again.

'Turn the ignition and give it a shoggle!' said Ted.

'I am turning the ignition and giving it a…shoggle.'

'Ach!' said Ted, placing Muhammad down. 'Are ye totally useless, man? Can ye not do anything right? Let me there.'

Ted stood up and started pulling Israel out of the driver's seat.

'Out! Come on, out!'

'Ow! Get off! What are you doing?'

'I'm driving. Come on. Shove over. Get out of the seat, ye eejit. You can't even start a bloody vehicle, never mind drive her.'

'It's not my fault!' said Israel, slinking into the passenger seat. 'I don't feel well. It's this stupid van.'

'Don't blame the van. There's nothing wrong with this van.'

'There is.'

'There is not!'

By the time Ted had positioned himself in the driving seat and claimed the wheel, a number of other drivers had started to emerge out of their own vehicles and were approaching the van. There was a sharp tap on the window by Ted's head. Ted rolled down the window-with some slight difficulty. He hadn't got round to fixing the windows.

'Problem, mate?' said a shaven-headed man with a London accent.

'What?' said Ted.

'Problem?'

'No. Why? Have ye a problem?'

'Yeah. I do as it happens. I want to get my van off this ferry and get 'ome.'

'Well,' said Ted, turning the key in the ignition and hoping for the best, 'if you were to stop poking yer nose in here and get back in your ve-hicle'-and yes! yes! the van started-'you might be able to.' He loudly revved the van. The man walked away. '"Problem, mate,"' said Ted loudly, mimicking the man's accent.

'God,' said Ted, as they drove off the ferry and up the concrete ramp and into the blinding light and Liverpool docks. 'I hate the fucking English.'

'We're not all bad,' said Israel.

'No,' said Ted, casting Israel a pitiful glance. 'Some of youse are worse.'

They drove in a long snaking queue through the docks, past multi-coloured containers stacked high one upon the other, and huge lorry trailer-loads and cranes and cargo ships and freighters and they could have been anywhere in the world, until Israel saw a WELCOME TO LIVERPOOL sign that had been spray-painted to read WELCOME TO POO, and he knew he was back in England.

'Hello, England!' he said.

Muhammad barked in approval.