Storytime
By john44
- 397 reads
Storytime
It's night. Rain falls hard. The street is deserted. A car is parked
over on the left. Shops are closed. Street lights shine down on puddles
in the black tarmac. Buildings line up as far as you can see. The sky
hangs down dark and threatening except to the west, there the clouds
break apart, rays of orange light break through.
Jim sits in a doorway. He looks through the rain up at that sky. He is
laughing. It isn't the sound of amusement. It's ugly. The sound cuts
through him, severs the feelings he has left. He pushes a hand through
his hair. He feels the wet of the rain. Looks at his hand. There he
sees red smeared between the fingers. His laughter rises.
Jim looks cool. Jim drives a nice car. Mazda coup?. He likes the feel
of it, stretches out on the straight, feels the purr of satisfaction
flow through his body as he presses down on the accelerator, up through
the gears, turn up the radio, his head full of dreaming, colours
flowing, blues and reds, a girl's thighs gyrate for him, push into his
face, he's taking a curve, the world's rushing by, he let's out a laugh
for the joy of it.
Jim sees a BMW in the rearview mirror. It's pushing up close behind. He
grins. It's ten in the morning and the creep is wanting a fight. The
BMW starts to flash his lights. What the hell does the idiot want? Is
Jim supposed to pull over so the guy can pass? "Overtake you jerk! If
you got the guts!" Jim snarls backwards through the rearview
mirror.
Jim's mood is turning to gloom. He has lost sight of the girls and the
colours, can't feel the purr. He feels pissed off. He has accelerated
but that bastard is still on his tail, doesn't try to overtake, doesn't
just fade into the distance. Jim acts on instinct.
He slams on his brakes. Nice feel as the tyres dig deep in to the
tarmac. Feel the back of the car rear up, tuck your head down as the
force of deceleration builds. That's enough. Now accelerate away! He's
ready to laugh. Ready to look back. He's beginning to go. Fuck you, you
bastards! Then he feels the car going. They've tried to swerve, not
braked hard, come into the back of him. They've hit him. Jim's lost it.
The car is going across the road, sideways. He is a spectator. The BMW
breaks away, starts to roll, then up into the air, flipping end over
end. Jim's watching them head on down the street. He's sitting in his
car powerless as it slides into the pavement, hits a parked car. He
hears the screams. He understands he is hearing the voices of
children.
Jim sits in a hospital bed, two policemen stand over him. The nearest
policeman leans forward with a fuckyoubastard look on his face. He asks
questions. Jim tells him, misses just one detail, misses his braking.
What's he going to do? Hang himself?
Police go away. There was a witness. He'll hear from them. Perhaps
he'll have to attend a trial. Attend! Why not come out and say it? They
going to prosecute or not?
He read about it in the Sun. Road madness wipes out family. Mother and
two children killed. He screwed up the paper, punched it into a ball.
He threw it down into the bin at the side of his bed. His hands formed
fists, his nails dug into his palms. He hurt with it. There were two in
the BMW, middle-aged cunts up from London on work. The bastards got
lucky. Both dead.
He had badly bruised ribs, some cuts, minor stuff. They said he was
lucky. He laughed at them. They couldn't hear that, though. They
couldn't understand that. Police came back. They wanted to ask more
questions. He told them to fuck off. He wasn't answering anymore
questions. They said not to be like that, sir. He said why not. One of
'em said he should be a little quiet. Children had died. That was too
much. Jim came up from the bed and his fist came swinging at that prat.
Just bash him. Smash him. Fucking bastard.
The punch didn't land. Police told him to just wait till he got out of
there. They'd be round to see him. What the hell did he care?
Hospital lasted two days. They run tests on him, x-rays and scans on
his head. Hospital is no place to stay. It's not that people are sick
in there. It's so damned noisy. Nights it's impossible to sleep. Nights
left free to go over and over it. Brake. Feel the car go, lose control
of it. Hear things. Hear the screams of children. Feel like you're
going out of your mind. Plead for it to stop. Just five minutes sleep,
you beg. Just five sodding minutes. Why had you bloody braked? Sod
it.
Jim's first day back at work. He is in the garage. He's a mechanic.
He's changing the ignition block in an old Escort. It's a piece of
cake. He's not thinking about it. He's seeing a page of the fucking
Sun. Two kids grinning at their sodding mum. He screws up his eyes,
throws the vision out of his head, forces himself to focus on the
colour of the wires he is connecting.
-You a hero, son. People been talking about you.
Jim jerks up and round. His face is dark with warning as he pushes up
to see his boss grinning down.
-Shame about the Mazda.
-Fuck off, George. Okay.
The boss quickly loses his smile. He's a heavy set bloke in overalls
with a big round face. He is jealous of Jim's lean good looks, his
youth, his ease with life. He's ready to get nasty but the kid's been
through it.
-I aint joking. They are saying you was pushed off the road by those
two jerks. That you risked killing yourself by steering into that car
instead of a bunch of school kids. Just bad luck about those two in the
car.
Jim heard what he said. He couldn't believe it. There hadn't been any
bloody bunch of kids. He hadn't crashed into anything on purpose. He
had just sat there and it had happened. And he was to blame. He had
bloody braked. George would never know that, not even if he kept
reading the stupid papers for the rest of his stupid life.
-Leave it alone, George.
-You're a sodding hero, lad. You hear me!
Jim got up and pushed his face into his boss's. He let his teeth show,
more snarl than smile.
-Won't say it again. Leave it alone.
George shouts over his shoulder.
-He wants to play hard to get.
Then there are the others from the showroom and office coming into the
garage. There's a couple of photographers with them. Jim gets the
picture. He gives his boss a shove, his hand pushing through his
shoulder, must have been too hard, old George goes over backwards. Jim
doesn't stop to look. He just heads out through the garage doors. Screw
'em.
He is sitting at home. He's got all the curtains drawn. He has seen
them out there. Idiots with cameras. He wouldn't have believed it. One
word from him and next day a two page spread in a national newspaper,
shots of him in the street, old photographs dug up from godknowswhere.
Quotes from his mum, quotes from his boss, old friends, girlfriends.
One big joke. One big fake story built up on lies.
He had six cans and he intended going through them nice and slow. He
was down to number three. He was watching the telly. Snooker match.
World championships. It fitted his mood. Mesmerised him. Let his mind
numbly follow the path of the balls, jump ahead to see the angles that
would be made true. As he finished the can he squeezed it in his fist
and let it drop beside him on the floor.
The door bell.
Now the bastards were getting cheeky. He got up, walked heavily to the
door, flung it open and stood there, letting his body fill out
threateningly. He was looking at a chump in a suit. He didn't look like
your average reporter.
-Yeh? Jim spat.
The guy looked over his shoulder nervously.
-Can I come in?
-No. Jim almost laughed. The guy cringed but pushed himself forward to
speak.
-I'd like to talk to you. I read about you in the papers. It's about
the crash. You see I am the father. I read that you had lost your job.
That you had meant to miss those children. They said you were in a bad
way. I want to help.
The words all tumbled out of the guy in a gush of emotions. Jim felt
just one thing. Disgust. His face hardened.
The guy hadn't finished.
-Let me in. I just want to tell you that I have forgiven you.
As he reached the words 'forgiven you' Jim exploded. He picked the guy
up and shouted in his face. He shouted for him to get the hell away. If
he didn't he would get a thrashing. Just to get the fuck away.
He threw the guy down the path and the guy half stumbled half fell out
through the gate into the street. Jim slammed the door. He wanted to
see how they would manage to twist that into a hero's act for the next
day's big story.
The last act. Down the pub, he is drinking. The barman looks him over
nervously. He is downing them fast. There is a look in his eye. People
are talking. A group of lads sit across the bar, nod towards him. He's
the one. Sure enough. Something is cooking. The barman can see it. Jim
can feel it. He doesn't give a shit. He's ready.
One of the lads comes over. He is getting in a round. He looks directly
at Jim. He gives him a wink. It looks like a move to start a
conversation. Jim drinks. The guy leans toward him as the barman sighs
to himself, hurrying over the order. It's too late.
-You fancy my fucking arse? Nancy boy! Jim doesn't look up as he spits
the words into his beer.
The lad takes it in quick. Grabs Jim by his jacket, pulls him up, leers
into his face. He's trying to think of some tasty put down. Jim comes
up, nuts him, shoves him back hard. Then he just stands over the
guy.
The barman has seen it all before and he's round the bar and got Jim by
the collar and he's saying 'all right, all right, none of that and
you're out of here right' and Jim's left standing in the street. Fuck
'em. He just stands there. Leans up against the wall. He isn't so
pissed. It isn't that. He just can't be fucked to move. He stares at
nothing. He thinks of nothing at all.
Then they are there.
The four lads have come out and they are looking at him. He looks back.
What the hell do they want? He is leaning back against the wall. They
are tough boys out for some fun. One of 'em got a bloody nose. Aint
that enough? Seems not as one of 'em reaches forward to poke at him.
This one looks indecent somehow, his shiny shaved head too pink to be
real. Jim follows the path of the finger as it gets near. He just
watches. Let's a smirk cross his face.
-Who the fuck do you think you are?
The finger drums the message into his ribs.
-Who the fuck to YOU think YOU are?
Jim gets to spit out his response just before they hit down on him. All
four go at it. He gets a fist to the jaw, boot in the leg, boot in the
side, knee comes in hard. He just goes with it. It gets noisy. What the
hell? Suddenly they are gone.
Car comes swinging in. Crunch of tyres pulling up fast on the street.
It's the police. He stands there all sort of crooked from the beating.
Barman must have called them. They are a couple of nice looking clean
things in their nicely pressed uniforms. Two little darlings. Jim feels
a few drops of rain coming down, one hits his cheek, the coldness of it
is good.
He hears them talking as they approach.
-We know this one, eh, Derby?
-Think we do at that, Jones. Think we do. Looks like he's causing
trouble to me.
They laugh to each other as they loom up and blot out the world Jim was
trying so hard to get away from. Derby held him up straight. He said
'Let me give you a hand here.' And Jones made suggestions with his
rubber truncheon, like 'Why don't you get out of here? Why don't you
just curl up some place and die?' Jim felt the crack on his skull. It
was a dull pain at the back of his head.
Derby said to go slow at it. They didn't want any accidents. The rain
was falling harder. Jim looked into their heroic faces. He started to
laugh. He knew they would want to know.
-Can't wait to see your faces in the papers tomorrow. Right couple of
heroes! Right fucking heroes you'll make!!
They bundled him into the car. He just lay on the back seat, sprawled
out, listened to the slam of the doors. The material of the seat
irritated his cut cheek, burnt into it. He didn't move. The two
policemen were talking. They were using their brains real hard. Adding
two and two. This was a hero they had in the back. He looked a bit beat
up. Some explanation would be needed. The car suddenly braked. It was
quiet for a moment. He listened to the sound of the rain of the roof of
the car. It played a merry beat. Then the door opened near his feet and
he felt himself being dragged out.
He sat slumped in the shop doorway, felt the blood trickling down his
neck mixing with the rain. He was looking at the far off clouds, his
eyes full of irony at the sight of the orange rays breaking through. He
wondered how long it took to bleed to death. He wondered how much of
the stuff trickling down his neck was blood and how much rain.
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