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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