The Chase - a short, unfinished piece

pburns

The metallic blue Ford Focus loses adhesion, whips sideways…

He swings the steering-wheel - right-left-then right again - trying to catch the pendulous tail before - at last - submitting to the inevitable laws of physics, dodgy reflexes and 7 measures of Smirnoff Ice. The nearside rear wheel clips the road edge and an ancient telephone pole bears the brunt of 1239kg. of hurtling steel projectile. Now on it’s side, the hard metallic scratch of metal vs. blacktop, an explosion of glass and plastic, the banshee scream of the 16 valve engine, as feet - splaying spasmodically in the footwell - catch clutch/accelerator/brakes (all-at-once!) before finally - it’s momentum spent – rolling, softly, onto it’s roof…

Silence.

There is stillness now…

The family hatchback lies defeated, it’s four wheels pointing skywards. The smell of oil and steam and heat hang in the air and liquid begins to ooze from engine bay and crevices, staining the gravel like smeared and blackened faeces. Inside the passenger compartment, there is movement.

Hope springs eternal!

Airbags - hitherto a graphic conceptualisation in a glossy brochure – protrude now, deflated, from steering boss and dashboard, their virginity usurped. Like a wasted Durex that sticks to the sole of a shoe in a children’s playground, it’s presence testament to dark nocturnal fumbling, drunken excesses… And the mixture of mud…unmentionable liquids (and blood?!) The cosy, comforting vodka-induced haze of moments earlier is clearing. It has been violently annexed by coursing adrenalin that surges through the body. This recedes again just as quickly, as the fight-or-flight urgency is over and the golden stupor of moments earlier is replaced by a vivid alertness, a hyper-awareness… He steadies himself, heartbeat fluttering, thumping violently within the ribcage, bursting to escape.

The slow realisation dawns, a mental check of limbs and body parts.

He climbs, somehow, through a rear(!?) door, the inverted interior of this once familiar cockpit now a new and strange terrain, crawling out into the stillness and the calmness - the real world, the old world, the world he momentarily considered lost and gone forever. He rises from all fours - grunting, panting – ruminating on this miraculous redemption.

And then…

- HEY!!! HEY - you all right over there???
And before he can think or move or speak…AGAIN…
- Oi…Oi…hey..you OK??!? You alright there man!?
A figure draws near, shaded by a blinding light…a young man, his (girlfriend? wife? sister?) hovering anxiously, further back, faces knotted with shock, with fright…(with…exhilaration?). The man hunkers down, peering into the interior of the upturned car.
- Is there no-one else inside??
It is a statement of hope, phrased as a rhetorical question.
The victim finds his voice.
- NO! NO!”
-We’ll call an ambulance!”
-NO! No ambulance…”
- We’ll have to get the Guards…”
-NO!!! NO GUARDS!!! Listen, don’t call the cops!”

Glances exchanged, an understanding. The Good Samaritan pauses and considers the ragged wreck before him, bleeding copiously from hands and forehead, the unmistakable whiff of alcohol. He lowers his tone now, conspiratorially
-Someone else then? Sarah, have you the mobile, give him the mobile…”
There is surely something inherent in the Irish psyche, a collective affront to authority, even amongst it’s law-abiding populace. A hangover from a colonial past?

More lights. Another car is arriving on the scene now. Suddenly, the bleeding man becomes animated, staggers sideways…
- Man…I’m outta here!
WHAT!?!? You can’t go, you’re bleeding…look!… Easy, just come over here and sit down, you’re OK, it’s gonna be alright, you’ve had a fright…
The young woman advances …blonde, pretty…becoming braver, emboldened by the arrival of more people on the scene, eager to help…
- NO! I’m outta here!

He breaks free of the man’s supporting arms and turns towards the field.
- Just live across here…it’s OK…I’m alright…thanks…”

He fades away. He’s gone…

The young man, suspicious now, walks back to the overturned Ford.
A mobile phone flashes inside the car, a kaleidoscopic rainbow playing a polyphonic novelty tune, vibrations magnified by the plastic surface. The familiar melody stirs old memories, a long forgotten opening theme to an ‘80’s TV show. The Good Samaritan reaches in, fiddles with the unfamiliar handset.

- DAVID! Don’t!

Memories of that self-same TV show, occupants just escaping to safety before the overturned vehicle explodes in a huge fireball…

- Hello?

No answer. A faint crackle, an almost imperceptible sound – a pregnant pause inseminated with the muffled breathing of subdued menace…

- Hello!? Is anyone there???

master master

Very good.