by Stan Mason
Katy wasn’t certain whether the man beneath her had cried out in ecstasy or pain but it hardly mattered to her any more. She rolled off his body with exhaustion, snuggling against him, still feeling the glow surging through her body. Every inch of her felt wonderful... and, suddenly, the world was a beautiful place! If only there were more men like him, life would be so much more interesting!
Purdy lay on the bed in despair. He was not as devastated by the image of Jennifer Roach as he had been previously. He realised this time that it was in his mind and not a vision as he had witnessed in the bank. Therefore the effect on him was not as profound as before. Nonetheless he was still shaken by the fact that she was still in his mind. The ghost of the woman had spoiled the session with the prostitute and he was still filled with frustration but the inclination to continue the physical relationship was gone. His body told him that he had been left in limbo. Wendy, his wife, had known of his relationship with the woman. Long distance lorry drivers were renowned for their casual affairs in far-off places where they had to stop overnight. It was a common practice and those wives who closed their eyes to such matters were extremely wise. There was hardly any point in worrying about women with whom their husbands had one-night stands... women they never knew and whom they would never meet. Yet they were well aware when their men slept with other women by their body language and the change in their sexual habits when they returned home. The men, on the other hand, always believed that they had got away with their indiscretions, but their wives were far sharper and knew the truth.
After a while, Purdy raised himself to sit on the edge of the bed and stared glumly at the prostitute. Considering that she had walked the streets and had been seduced by numerous strangers over the past fifteen years, Katy was extremely attractive and she had worn very well. He stood up and began to dress himself.
‘How much do I owe you, Katy?’ he asked unemotionally.
‘I told you, this one’s on me. The pleasure was all mine. All mine!’ She wanted to stay in bed, glowing in the same way all day... all week... all year! ‘Don’t leave it so long next time! Come and see me again. Will you promise me that?’
‘Sure,’ he replied casually, not really caring whether he meant it or not. ‘I’m sure I’ll be back soon.’
‘Well you know where I live. You’re always welcome.’
He took some money from his pocket and left it on the dressing-table. ‘I’d feel better if you’ll have a drink on me. you’re a good sort, Katy!’
‘Is that all I am to you, Jim?’ she countered with an element of concern in her voice. ‘A good sort?’ She sounded very disappointed. ‘Why don’t you come and live with me? I’ll find myself a job in a superstore filling shelves if necessary.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ he told her, ignoring her offer to live with her. ‘I mean I like you a lot, but living with you isn’t right. Wendy’s my wife. I couldn’t just leave her.’
‘Well you come back and use all that masculine energy on me,’ she responded sadly. ‘I’ll never charge you a penny. you’re the only man who can satisfy me... and that’s saying something!’
He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Her arms latched around him to pull him down and her eyes closed tightly as she kissed him with all the love she could muster. It was a fitting end to a night where she had walked the streets without any success at all. The problem was that the game had changed. Young girls, aged seventeen and eighteen, plied themselves under the watchful eyes of pimps and they laughed at her for being old and worn out. A poor prostitute working on her own could only stand back and watch in solitude.
When he reached his vehicle. Purdy found he had been relegated to second place in line. An early morning employee had opened the depot and was filling another truck from a separate bay. Finding Purdy’s lorry locked and the fact that he was absent, the driver of the second lorry found himself in pole position and he took full advantage of it. It was a twenty ton truck and Purdy was unable to keep his temper under control because of the delay, ranting and raving for losing valuable time. He opened the door of the cabin and sat inside, turning the radio on to a local station. For a while he listened to the music and then to the news. After a few national issues, his ears perked up as the newscaster read the next item.
‘Police are looking for a driver who struck down and killed a man on the M1 motorway some miles south of Manchester. The incident occurred in very bad weather conditions in high winds and heavy rain. The motorway north of Junction 18 was badly flooded and police were redirecting traffic. The lorry driver ignored the diversion sign and continued along the motorway after the incident. The dead man, a special constable in the police force, was twenty-nine years old and leaves a wife and two young children. Anyone able to offer information on the lorry or the driver should get in touch with the police immediately. And now back to Tony And now back to Tony Bell for another thirty minutes of music of the eighties.
Purdy sat rigidly behind the steering-wheel in the cabin staring dolefully through the windscreen. Twenty-nine years old with a wife and two young children. It was too horrid to think about! Why had a man been standing in that spot all on his own? He wasn’t helping to redirect traffic. He was simply standing idly some way behind the diversion sign. Purdy experience a strong urge to find out where the man lived so that he could console the wife but he recognised it wasn’t logical or rational. If he started to make enquiries he would be caught. At the moment he seemed to be in the clear. No one had taken his registration number in that atrocious weather especially as he had been out there on his own in the darkness. He found a spare windscreen-wiper in the cabin and went out to install it in place of the missing one. If the police ever caught up with him, he would claim that he thought he had struck a yellow bollard placed on the motorway. There was also the option of going to the police with that particular excuse, asking them to take into account the fact that he had come forward having given himself up of his own accord. However th Court may not be sympathetic to his plea. He might end up in jail, and lose his driving licence which would mean the collapse of his business and losing his house to the bank. His chances of finding a driving job after that was out of the question. He would have punished himself without making amends or contributing to anyone’s benefit. He would lose everything! It was far better not to do anything at all and let the issue die a death over the effluxion of time. He called in at two depots in Manchester, seeking a load back to the south, but luck was against him and he struck out.
The journey home was free of incident and he had the advantage of returning in daylight. He took great care to drive through the small villages and town until he was well clear of Manchester before entering the motorway. The police would be out in force searching for anything which might give them a clue to the death of their colleague. Of all the people he had to kill it had to be a policeman! They would never let the matter drop when one of their owned was killed! For the next few weeks, remote leads would be welcomed by the constabulary however slender they might be. He then realised that it was yet another night where he had failed to get some sleep. It was difficult to imagine how long he could go on in this way!
He arrived at Consolidated Stores at four o’clock in the afternoon and leaned heavily on the counter. Brenda had just arrived for duty and Sally sat idly behind the computer.
‘All done!’ he boasted. ‘Lock, stock and barrel! What do you want delivered next?’
Brenda gave him a doleful look as she scanned his face. ‘Who do you think you are... Superman?’ she challenged. ‘You drove off to Manchester in a peeky condition in all that high wind and rain. No sleep during the night. And now you’re back for another load. Are you greedy, mad or what? Purdy stared at her in confusion as she leaned over the counter until their faces almost met. ‘Are you an alien from outer space living on some kind of special energy source or don’t you ever sleep?’
&nbs
p; ‘I manage all right,’ he riposted sharply. ‘Don’t you worry!’
‘Like hell you do!’ she countered acidly. ’I’m not letting you take out another load until you’ve had at least six hours sleep! And you can rely on it!’
His face dropped at her remark. ‘Come on, Brenda! Lighten up a little! It’s still daylight. I might just be able to start off in the light!’
‘We haven’t got anything for you!’ she told him bluntly, although he wasn’t certain that she was telling the truth. ‘In fact now that I look at the books, we haven’t anything to go out until tomorrow morning. I suggest you go home and go to bed.’
At that moment, another driver walked in. ‘Hi, Bren!’ he called out. ‘What’s for me, my little love?’
Without hesitation, she picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to him. ‘Liverpool, Bert. It’s all here. Michael will sort you out in the loading bay.’
The driver blew her a kiss, took the papers, and disappeared from the office.
Purdy stared at her in disbelief. ‘That was mine, wasn’t it?’ he claimed. ‘My load!’
‘Don’t get paranoid,’ returned the woman calmly. ‘He phoned in an hour ago. You’ve only just arrived. It was reserved. We don’t have any more loads to go out until the morning. Here’s your cheque. Take it and go home to bed!’
‘That’s right,’ ventured Sally behind the computer adding insult to injury. ‘Go home and get some friggin’ sleep!’
He felt very disgruntled at the harsh treatment because he knew that she was lying. There were always loads to be carried from the company, On the other hand, he recognised that Brenda was trying to protect him. Everyone kept telling him that he needed sleep, as though he wasn’t aware of that already. Why couldn’t they advise him how to save his business? He made his way home and entered the house tiredly.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked his wife, meeting him in the hallway. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’
‘I’m all right,’ he told her yawning loudly.
As he came close to her, she sniffed at his clothes. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. ‘I can smell perfume on you.’
‘Perfume!’ he laughed. ‘How can it be perfume? I spent all last night driving to Manchester through the wind and heavy rain. If you’re implying I’ve been with someone...’
A flint of recognition flashed in her eyes. ‘I remember that smell. The woman you know in Manchester used to wear it. I always know when you’ve been with her!’
‘Come on, Wendy!’ he went on in denial. ‘When could I have been with a woman? You tell me that?’
‘How about this morning before the depot opened,’ she rattled perceptively. ‘That’s when it happened!’
‘When what happened?’ He was becoming desperate. He had defended himself with a lie and had no option but to continue not to tell her the truth.
‘Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, Jim Purdy! I know when you’ve been with another woman!’
He threw his hand into the air in despair. ‘How do I convince you you’re wrong?’ he shouted in anger.
‘There’s only one way you can convince me,’ she retorted curtly. ‘Come upstairs now!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! That’ll prove nothing.’
‘Oh yes it will. I don’t want to have sex with you, I just want you to undress so that I can smell your body. If you’ve been with her, that perfume will be all over you. I’m not having you two-time me, Jim! What’s it to be?’
He walked slowly towards the front room and slumped down in an armchair. ‘Okay,’ he admitted. ‘Why do you always have to be right? I killed a man on the motorway and then I slept with a woman. Don’t you see... I don’t care any more!’
She followed him into the front room but stopped in her tracks at his declaration. ‘You killed a man on the motorway? But I thought you said it was a woman.’
‘That’s right. I killed the woman in Cornwall but last night I hit a man on the M1. He had yellow oilskins on as well. I wonde why it’s always bloody yellow oilskins!’
‘You’re not the driver they’re looking for, are you?’ she gasped. ‘I heard it on the radio this morning but I didn’t believe it could have been you.’
‘Well it was. Now the tally is two. How many more, Wendy before they lock me up and throw away the key? How many more before I go completely out of my mind?’ He held his head in his hands and started to cry.
She looked at him coldly. ‘I bet you didn’t cry when you were in her arms this morning. I bet you didn’t! You’ve got the luck of the Devil. Two accidental deaths and no one knows you were involved.’ She stared out of the window at the truck noticing the dent in the front wing which hadn’t been there before he left for Manchester. It was the kind of confirmation that she dreaded, ‘My God! You really did it!’
The woman in yellow oilskins keeps talking to me. She didn’t appear again buy I keep seeing her in my mind. I don’t know what to do about it.’ The tears welled-up in his eyes again.
‘You ought to see a doctor. Someone who can help you in your state of mind. I don’t know how you can live with yourself after what’s happened. That man last night was only twenty-nine. He had a wife and two young children.’
‘I need to see a doctor,’ he repeated slowly. ‘You don’t know what I’m going through. It’s like being on a rack hanging over a fire.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she told him. ‘I’m on the same rack with you. We’re burning together!’
Chapter Seven
Charles spent a restful night without interruption. He rose fairly later than usual feeling quite refreshed and sauntered into the kitchen in his dressing-gown to read the not he had left for himself which was perched on the kettle. ‘Nine o’clock appointment with the doctor,’ he muttered, making sure not to forget. He decided not to have any breakfast in case it interfered with the doctor’s examination and simply made himself a cup of tea. At five minutes to nine, he climbed into his car and drove to the surgery. Once there, he sat on an uncomfortable seat and perused a magazine which was six months old. Every now and then he looked round critically at the other patients which included a large number of women. Some of them held screaming babies in their arms, the noise echoing hollowly from the low ceiling in the room. Others allowed their children to run riot, leaving them to yell at the top of their voices. Charles had always enjoyed good health. He tried to recall the last time he had seen a doctor but it was too long ago for him to remember. In fact it had been so long that his previous doctor had retired seven years earlier. He waited almost twenty minutes before his name was called and he entered the surgery to face the physician.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked the doctor curtly, in a feeble attempt to adopt a caring attitude. Clearly, the constant line of patients beating a path to his door day after day tended to blunt his enthusiasm.
‘My wife was killed by a hit-and-run driver recently,’ he began, ‘but I can hear her speaking to me occasionally in my middle ear.’ He was going to reveal the incidents relating to the messages on the telephone answering machine and the computer but decided that it was irrelevant.
The doctor opened a large envelope which contained the brief details of Charles’s past medical history. There was very little to read. ‘It seems you’ve been very fit for many years. Are there any symptoms you want to tell me about... drugs... medicines... pain... nausea? Any accident you had over the last five years?’
;’Not really. Since the death of my wife, I feel very depressed. I’ve suffered from headaches and loss of sleep. I’ve an uncle in Berkshire who’s a doctor. He came to the funeral and gave me a prescription for sleeping tablets which helped for a while. They’re the only tablets I’ve taken which are drugs but I’ve run out of them now.’
‘When you were very young, you had a rather traumatic experience I see. Otitis
media... infection in the middle ear. It usually occurs as a result of an infection spreading up the Eustachian tube from the nose or throat, or from one of the sinuses. Children sometime suffer the disease which is a complication of cold, tonsillitis, sinusitis or adenoids.’
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ returned the banker. ‘I was ten years old when I caught a bad cold. Everyone in the class went swimming and I wanted to represent the school on Sports Day against two other schools.’
‘The beginning of the swimming season is always a dangerous time,’ stated the physician. ‘Diving and underwater swimming can force infected secretions up through the Eustachian tube into the middle ear. And then the trouble begins.’
Charles nodded. ‘I used to experience all kinds of weird sounds. Once there was a high crescendo musical note followed by giddiness which made my doctor think I had Meniere’s disease, but it sorted itself out in time. Since then my middle ear has always been sensitive to sounds. That’s possibly why I can hear my wife’s voice.’
