BREAKDOWN
“Just my sodding luck to run out of petrol in the middle of nowhere,” fumed Bob. “Still, looking on the bright side, the taxi firm promised thirty minutes.”
Having spent fifteen years driving around persuading people to buy shit they didn't need, his car was always well stocked for emergencies. He opened the boot, taking out a large rucksack and the suitcase he'd need for his hotel stay. He didn't anticipate needing much from the emergency rucksack, but his radio was broken and he wanted the book he kept in there, and a torch.
It was a still night with no wind, so the rustling of leaves caught his ear. He shut the boot and swept the torch around in the direction of the sound.
“Jesus, that's a big dog,” he thought, as the shape disappeared into a small wooded area. “Was it a dog? Of course it was, what else could it be?”
The country lane was pitch black except for his pocket torch and the lights on his car. He listened intently for any further sound before getting back in and engaging the central locking.
He put the torch on the dashboard and tried to read a book but he couldn't concentrate. Something about that dog was bothering him. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes until the taxi, if their estimate could be believed. He suddenly felt strangely vulnerable sitting in his car; a sitting duck lit up like a Christmas tree. He'd broken down before, of course, but never so far from civilisation.
“Maybe I should get out of the car,” he thought, “better than being trapped.”
What was the matter with him tonight? He'd never felt anxiety like this before. Something was nagging away at the back of his mind and it wouldn't let go.
He tried to figure it out. He didn't have any more appointments till tomorrow. The hotel was only three miles away, he could walk if the taxi didn't show up, it would just be hassle with the suitcase. There was absolutely nothing to worry about. So why was he now glancing nervously in his rear view mirror?
The dog, that was it. There was something about the...
Oh fuck, you've really lost it now, Bob.
He replayed in his mind the sighting of the dog, and his memory told him implicitly and unquestioningly that the dog had a human face.
“That's beyond absurd,” he said aloud, such was his indignation that his own mind had conjured up something so stupid.
To prove to himself that there were no mythical creatures haunting this dreary country lane, he opened his window half way. Within seconds he could hear a faint noise, as if something were scrabbling in the road-side dirt.
“Of course there's something out there,” he reasoned, “it'll be a squirrel, a fox, a hedgehog.”
He tried desperately to think of more non-threatening animals as his brain replayed again the fleeting image of the dog with a human face. This time it was even more bizare and unlikely in appearance.
His attention was drawn to a louder sound: whatever was ferreting around outside was now right next to his open window. Ferrets – were they scary?
He told himself to get a grip and solve this once and for all. Pointing the torch out at where the last sound had come from, he leaned towards the window.
Well, he thought, there it is. Unless I'm dreaming this whole scenario there's no denying what that is. He continued to stare in disbelief at the... well, thing would have to do for now until he could consult David Attenborough.
The thing was indeed the size of a large Alsatian, but there all resemblance to anything resulting from natural selection ended. Its fur was patchy, as if several different animals had been hurriedly sewn together. Its hind legs and tail were more like that of a fox or wolf; its torso was – well, Bob had no clue what that was like, certainly not any animal he'd ever clapped eyes on. It had a small, lion type mane on its neck, large, pointy ears and whiskers. Bob was trying very hard not to look at the teeth/fangs.
And yes, he could now confirm that the facial features were human. He was transported back to his childhood, and H.G. Wells' 'The Island of Dr. Moreau'.
He could not take his eyes from the thing, until it finished washing its face and turned its eyes on him. The facial expression was one of childlike curiosity, as if it was pleased to meet a new friend. But the nonsensical appearance was too much for Bob and he hastily closed the window, leaning back inside the car and away from whatever it was.
As the window was an inch from closing, the thing jumped up at the car, gripping the top of the window with its claws. It yelped as its paws were crushed and let go, falling back to the ground.
Before Bob had time to consider just what the fuck was going on, a movement confused him momentarily, until he realised that it was the car tilting to the left. It was as if an asthmatic jack were lifting the car's right rear wheel. What the hell was going on?
In a flash he realised that he had to get out of the car in case it tipped over and trapped him inside. That thing was worryingly strong, and it was now bouncing the car, using the suspension to gain greater lift.
He quickly struggled to put on his rucksack, having first removed a Swiss army knife from an outer pocket. He decided to get out on the opposite side to the creature, despite the risk. Disengaging the lock, he flung the door open on a downward bounce and ran in front of the car, staying in the beam of the headlights.
He unfolded the longest blade of the knife, which he noticed was not nearly fucking long enough for his liking.
As he tried to cautiously move to his left to see the creature, it jumped onto the roof and sprang down onto the bonnet. It crouched there, baring its fangs and hissing at him.
An uncomfortable stalemate continued for a minute or so while both creatures silently regarded each other.
The silence was only broken when the thing clearly thought it had the better of Bob and attacked him. It leapt onto the ground and bounded towards him. As it made its final jump towards his throat, Bob thrust the knife with all his strength into whatever part of the thing happened to be nearest at the time.
It emitted a terrible noise, and slumped to the floor like a sack of dough.
Without waiting to see if it was dead, or to retrieve his suitcase, Bob turned and ran for his life.
After what he estimated to be a five minute mile, he slowed to a halt and listened intently. There was no sound and his torch revealed no sign of the thing, or anything else out of the ordinary.
He stuttered to a halt and tried to catch his breath. Now that the fear had dissipated, he realised how exhausted he was and slumped to the ground.
Collecting his thoughts he remembered the taxi. He'd left his lights on and that was what the driver would be looking for. Should he go back or try to find the hotel? He may never find it in the dark with only a small torch. Bollocks.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a light appeared in the distance. As it drew closer it resolved itself into two headlights. Bob almost cried with relief as the taxi stopped beside him.
“You the one who phoned?” asked the driver.
“Yes, I left my car because...” Bob couldn't even begin to explain. “Could we go back and get my suitcase?”
“Of course, sir, no problem.”
Bob hoped that the creature, whatever it was, was either dead or had crawled away from the road. He was almost asleep when the taxi braked suddenly and he was jolted into action.
“Don't go out there!” he shrieked as the driver went towards the thing that was lying, howling in the middle of the road.
“Don't worry, sir, he's just hungry.”
As Bob was trying to once again work out what the fuck was going on, he almost jumped out of the car as he saw the driver bend down and pat the thing on the head.
“Come on son, your tea's ready.”
Bob's mind spun in disbelief as the canine-lupine-child combo shambled into the back seat of the taxi and curled up in a ball.
“Don't worry, sir, he always has a little sleep in the car.”
Half an hour later, the taxi pulled up and the driver and the creature got out.
&n
bsp; “You can put that away, Mary,” said the driver as he entered the house, “he's had his tea.”
I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT ART BUT I KNOW WHAT I LIKE
Sandra had never had much interest in art until she met Damian. He had thrown every ounce of his award winning charm at her, and she'd fallen for it. The glamour of being in the media spotlight, even vicariously, was too much to resist. At first she had enjoyed watching him building up a canvas, admiring his flair and skill, but all that was long gone now.
As the taxi pulled up to the gallery, she gathered her thoughts and her dress. Damian was preoccupied with a mirror, as usual, arranging and rearranging his hair wax to give the impression that he'd just got out of bed and not done anything with it. Sandra shuddered at the facade she was about to inflict on the world and hoped she'd be able to go through with it long enough to get to the punchline.
Getting out of the cab, she forced herself to hold his hand and smile politely for the flock of paparazzi who descended on them like vultures at a will reading. She smiled and blinked, wondering idly which of the many photos of her they would use tomorrow.
Cautiously fingering the knife in her jacket pocket she smiled to herself. This was going be fun; naughty, illegal fun, possibly ending up in prison, but nothing more than the prick deserved. To commit this violent act in such a public manner was also engendering it with a surprising amount of added anticipation. Sandra had never thought of herself as a violent person, but then she'd
Ethelbert's Sunday Morning Page 6
