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For Better, For Worse - Jane Isaac






The spray from the wheels of a lorry splashed across Stuart Ingram’s windscreen, temporarily blinding him. He switched up his wipers, resisted the temptation to depress the brake, a movement that would send him sliding across the dual carriageway, and squinted, battling for a clear view of the road through the darkness and the rain pummelling his windscreen.
He overtook the lorry and pulled off at the next junction into Rothwell, a small market town on the fringes of the Northamptonshire border. The streets were deserted, dull hues behind tightly drawn curtains the only sign of life in the old terraces that lined the roadside. After a week of unnaturally high October temperatures and the Met Office predicting a possible autumn drought, the rain had arrived with a vengeance, swamping everything in sight and leaving a slick residue as the hard-baked ground failed to cope with the sudden onslaught.
The streetlights bobbed and flickered through the blurred car windows, casting shadows on the buildings nearby. He approached the quaint shops and restaurants that marked the edge of the town centre, turned right at the roundabout and parked up in the market square.
The sixteenth-century Market House sat tall and proud, its limestone structure gleaming, newly polished by the downpour. Stuart skirted around the edge of it, scurried across the road and was relieved to see the welcoming neon sign lit on the door of the takeaway. It wasn’t the glossiest shopfront – the stringy nets had covered those windows for eighteen years – and the inside was plain and functional. But, hell, it served the best curries in the area and was well worth the detour.
Ten minutes later, he left the shop carrying a white plastic bag with filled pots inside. The smell of the food wafted into the air, tickling his senses as he rushed back to the car. In fifteen minutes he’d be home, tucking into his curry with his trusted spaniel, Oscar, at his feet and his wife, Gina, moaning about his weekly indulgence. His stomach growled in anticipation. He flipped up his collar, halted beside the zebra crossing to allow a white van to pass. The headlights of another vehicle in the distance flickered on the wet surface. At least a hundred yards away, he guessed. Plenty of time to stop. He stepped onto the zebra crossing.
The engine roared. The car picked up speed. He looked back. Shielded his eyes from the dazzling headlights. Hurried across. He was almost on the other side, toes touching the kerb when it swerved, partially mounted the pavement and ploughed into him. The thump splintered his eardrums and hurled him into the air. The bag he’d clutched so fervently flew from his grasp. A shower of lights filled his vision, until he was tossed into a well of darkness.
The Jaguar’s wheels screeched across the tarmac as it sped off, leaving splatters of food and broken pots scattered across the pavement and swirls of steam curling up into the damp night air. 


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