The Sister(6)

The rain picked up. Heavy droplets crashed through the leaves, spotting his back, dotting the ground around him. He fished his cigarettes from a pocket outside his overalls, took one and lit it and, not wanting the packet to get wet, replaced it deeper inside his clothes. When he’d finished smoking, he packed up his gear and headed off to retrieve his car from the rusted tin agricultural shed where he’d been sleeping for days. It cost nothing, and apart from that, the big advantage over staying in contractors’ digs was he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He didn’t like people.

The disused barn was at the end of a potholed dirt track. No one had been there for years.

He heaved open the door. It thundered noisily on its runners. Four hundred yards away, a flock of crows flew up from their roost in the trees. Was it me who disturbed them...? Or is someone else over there? No time to look now.

He started the engine and turned the car up the track. It rode more like a camel as it bumped and rolled on its suspension. The wipers smeared across the screen before finally cutting through the accumulated grime. After ten minutes, he was relieved to turn on to the smooth tarmac of a country byway and soon after turned on to the main road. He didn’t notice the white and green Lotus Cortina hurtling up behind him. It swung out at the last possible moment, overtaking him on a bend, horn blasting as it roared by. That idiot is going to kill someone driving like that! Outraged, something inside him flipped, and flooring the accelerator, he gave chase, flashing his headlights at the car in front.

The young man slowed.

The killer caught up; close enough to see eyes looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. With crew cut hair, shorn off at the sides, the shape of the man’s head annoyed him. His palm smacked down hard on to his hooter, holding it down continuously, as if doing so would make it louder.

He aimed a two-finger gesture into the rear-view mirror, and to reinforce the message, stuck his right fist out the window and rotated it up and down before accelerating away into the distance.

Unmanned roadworks came into view, reducing traffic to a single file. The lights turned red, and cars started streaming through from the opposite direction, blocking the reduced lane.

The Cortina rolled to a stop. With no place to go, he adjusted the mirror nervously, watching as the battered car rattled to a halt behind him. In his head, an imaginary scene unfolded. The driver behind gets out and approaches him. He jumps out of his car ... What are you after man? Do you want some of this, eh? Yeah? Well, hold on to that then! The man goes down from a single punch, and he kicks him around in the pouring rain ... As he’d imagined, the man got out. He watched in horror, the fantasy evaporating when he saw the size of the figure approaching in his mirror. His elbow pushed the door lock down. He’d lost his nerve.

The man stopped by his window. All he could see looking out from the driver’s seat were the man’s hips and mid torso. The distinctive brass buckle on the leather belt caught his attention. It depicted a skull and cross bones and its empty eye sockets had been picked out in blood red paint.

How can you take someone who wears a buckle like that seriously? It was all a show! Who does this guy think he is – a bloody Hells Angel?

‘Angel’ tried the door handle. An entirely different perspective dawned on the man in the car. He’s trying to get at me!

‘Angel’s’ face suddenly appeared, pressing hard against the window, contorted, one eyeball almost touching the glass. The crazed eye locked on to him. Tilted, as if pushed by a rhino, the car leaned over. Cortina man shrank into his seat, compelled by fear into looking straight ahead as the big man’s lips parted, releasing a shout so loud, it hurt his ears even though the windows and doors were shut. ‘OPEN IT!’

Turning in his seat, he looked at the white foamy spit as it mixed with rain on his window. Outraged at this blemish, he shook his head defiantly. New found defiance held his rising apprehension in check. His mouth felt dry. At least he was safe in his car.

Abruptly, ‘Angel’ stood upright and leaned his hip against the door.

From out of sight above the roofline of the car, the voice had become calm, the contrast to the moment before welcomed. ‘You really should be careful who you stick your fingers up at, you know,’ he said. At this point, he was giving him a chance.

Cortina man tilted his face and pressed it against the window, to try to see him better. He should have put a hand up and mouthed sorry from the safety of the car, but he didn’t; the sight of the spit on his window combined with his fear, made him erratic. He heard himself say, ‘Oh yeah, why’s that then?’ For the second time in as many minutes, he knew what would happen next. He cursed his stupidity.

The response was swift and decisive without concern for personal injury. A single punch exploded through the glass of the window, driving rough cubes of it deep into his face, as the fist connected.

The last thing he heard as it trailed him into unconsciousness, was ‘Angel’s’ reply. ‘Why? Because, my finger-happy friend, next time I’ll kill you!’

‘Angel’ marched quickly back to his own car, climbing in as the lights turned green. Flooring the accelerator, spinning the wheels, he headed off down the wet road, narrowly missing the stationary vehicle.





Police found the driver of the Cortina slumped in his seat two hours later. In hospital, when he’d recovered sufficiently for police to interview him, he was unable to recall what had happened.