“For Christ’s sake Sara, she’s just a f*cking friend.” and that was just a filthy lie, driven out by booze. Pat’s hands start clutching fists around the leather of the wheel, a wheel he had no mind to be steering.
Eyes open Patty, we’re not home’n’dry jus’ yet.
“A friend. Are you f*cking serious? You kissed her Pat, and cupped her f*cking breast. Not her arse, maybe that I could forgive… but her breast Pat.” Sara snorted, “Just friends.” sinking back into the fabric of her seat, “You’re a f*cking embarrassment, that’s what you are.”
“I’m a…” hiccup… Pat’s grip on the wheel loosens, the tyres screech as they tear into a spin, pleading for purchase on the dirt track road.
The car veers to the side.
“Sh*t, Pat!” Sara jumps from her chair, grabbing at the wheel. The car glides over a pothole, its torn edges smiling at the soft rubber wheels. Come closer, then POP. The car steers just shy of the hillside verge, a deep ditch falling off to the right. “You’re going to get us killed, just let me drive.”
Patty pushes Sara away, “I…” hiccup, “… I love you Stacey.”
“Stacey! Who the f*ck is Stacey?” breathe Sara, breathe… one in through the nose, two out through the mouth. But it’s long past that now, not even the little Angel talking sense from the dark can bring Sara back around. “You b*stard.” she slaps Pat across the cheek, “You dirty, cheating, lying, b*stard!”
Eyes open Patty.
The road is swimming, at least that’s how he sees it, tarmac folding over in the dust of midnight, rising up like shore bound waves reaching high at overhanging trees. There are hands, in the branches, grabbing at the car. And the… hiccup… the ditch! It’s climbing up, a chasm of dirt hungry for the car, for Pat, for Stacey… no not Stacey, who? Sh*t. Are those stars overhead? Holy Mother Mary and Jesus f*cking Christ. They’re eyes! The eyes of the almighty. Judge me if yer will. Yer fuckin’ prick suckin’… hiccup…
Eyes open Patty.
The cliffs to the left shudder and grumble, a sound like thunder rolling from the skies, a deep thunder carrying boulderous lumps on its wings. Debris comes falling down with the rain. Pat’s foot hits the gas, slamming pedal to the floor. Not today… hiccup.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sara reaches for the wheel once more, screaming for Pat to stop, to SLOW DOWN! He waves her away, absentmindedly watching the cliffs.
Not today… hiccup.
Eyes open Patty.
What the f*ck is… the cliffs aren’t falling, the stars aren’t watching, the ditch isn’t hungry. Jesus, yer seein’ things yer fuckin’ loon. Pat leans over to his wife, my wife… not Stacey… hiccup. Only this time it’s more than just a hiccup, this time he throws-up. Cold chunks spraying over Stacey’s… not Stacey’s… nice new dress. The night’s dinner spilling into the wife’s… SLAP… lap.
Toad in the hole. Pat giggles, giving his wife a cheeky wink.
“You dirty pig.” she slaps him again, his head falls into her… SLAP… lap, covered with that night’s dinner. His tongue lolling limp from his mouth. Toad in the hole.
“Give us a kiss….” hiccup. He smiles at his wife, lathering his lips with a loose and dribbling tongue.
“Eyes open arse-hole!” Sara pulls the wheel from Pat’s grip, barely managing to turn the car as they come screeching to a halt in fits of smoke. There the car stands, before a dead end in the end. A dead drop. A steep fall. She sees… him? A man crossing the road. What road? It’s all dirt paths and hillside tracks. But that is a man.
Sara’s mind runs rapidly round. Who? Up here? At this hour? Officer, no. He wasn’t driving. Officer, please. But really, would it be so bad, to see this arse-hole dragged away in cuffs or chains. Good riddance to the husband, but by name alone.
Sara winds down the window, it’s an old crank shaft powered by a handle, and waves to the man, “Hey there, Mister – Miss? – are you okay?”
“Watch where yer goin’ yer fuckin’…” hiccup, “…yer…” hiccup, “…yer fuckin’…” hiccup.
The man freezes, turning slowly toward the car, toward the headlights that now blind him. He appears as naught but a silhouette to the driver, to Sara and to Patty. He’s wearing a hood, and there’s something in his hands…
BANG. And again. BANG.
Two shots, loud and piercing the night. Birds squalor and flee from the trees for realms far safer than there own.
“Drive Patty… heavens drive!” Sara frantically attacks her husband in a flurry of desparate motivation. Move, by all the Gods won’t you drive!
Pat’s foot is hard on the gas, the clutch thrown to reverse, but all that comes to bare is squealing, squealing, hissing, smoke.
Sh*t, he’s shot the fucking tyres.
“Sorry Stacey…” and with a hiccupPat collapses.
The man moves forward, his hand now clearer in the gloom. It’s not just any gun, but a shotgun, two barrels sawn in halves. He’s reloading.
Stacey… Sara… struggles with the buckle of her belt . Come on, come loose. Staring at her drunken husband, head dropped within his lap. Snoring? Sh*t, take him! Please God, take him not me.
Sara throws her head around and forces back a scream, her throat constricts, her voice but lost. He’s there, stood at the window, both barrels of his gun tip-tapping on the glass. His face is hidden by the hood, but somehow she can tell… he’s smiling.
The door comes open. The man drags Sara from her car by nothing but her hair. Kicking, screaming, pleading.
“You leave her al…” hicc…
BANG. And again. BANG.
Poor Patty left to watch, in agonising pain. What can he hope to do? So slowly bleeding out, car shot in shrouds of smoke. And Stacey… Sara… suffering in vein.
Copyright © K R Perry 2019