This is a humorous short story for the anthology. The idea
was to write a short story featuring a ladder, a key, a park bench and a petrol
station, as well as an emergency exit. It was fun in the writing, hope you have
fun reading it!
LUCKY WITH CARS
Nik Morton
Twenty miles after I’d left home, the petrol gauge needle
was hovering over the red. My green Ford Escort was just running on the fumes
in the tank when I breasted the hill. Yes! My luck was still holding. At the
bottom of the slope was a garage. I coasted down and turned in to the
forecourt, a smug grin on my face. My wife Maureen was forever telling me off
for letting the tank get too low. ‘One of these days, you’ll get stranded! And
I don’t want to be sitting here with you when it happens!’
She wasn’t,
fortunately, or else I’d have received an ear-pounding for the last five miles
or so. Still, I got to the petrol
station, didn’t I? I had never cut it so
fine, though.
I recalled
that time when my old Austin
I ignored
the knocking near the rear axle.
And one
Saturday, when my exhaust fell off, I kept going. The Noise Abatement Society
didn’t exist then. Maybe I was the reason they started up. Anyway, I found one of the few garages open
and they had a suitable exhaust. Lucky with cars, that’s me.
But not
this time.
As I braked
alongside the pumps, I realised that the garage was closed.
My heart sank.
I wasn’t a member of any motoring
organisation; I thought that with my good luck, I didn’t need one. My mate Alan
said they didn’t take too kindly to people running out of petrol, anyway.
Nothing for
it, then. I would have to telephone Alan.
But the
telephone kiosk had been vandalised. It was times like this when I wished I
could afford a mobile phone. Maureen
said we should both get one. Keep in touch. I’d probably let the battery run
down and it would cut out at a vital part of a conversation.
I left a
note in the car’s windscreen to explain that there was no need to worry, I
wasn’t a terrorist or anything. Then I started walking back towards town.
At least it
was a summer evening. As dusk fell, I could see clearly where I was going. I
tried thumbing a lift a couple of times, but nobody stopped. I wouldn’t have,
either. Not these days. You don’t know who you’ll pick up.
According
to the road-signs and my aching feet, I must have walked twelve miles. Here, on
the outskirts of town was a park named after some Marxist African, complete
with benches and roses and trees. The
roses reminded me of Maureen – not their scent but the thorn in my side. The
park bench was most welcome as I sat down to rest my feet. Only a minute or two then I would get going
again, crack the final eight miles.
I must have
slept and woke an hour later, shivering with dew on my face. I couldn’t
remember the last time I’d been walking the streets at such an unsocial
hour. Maureen would have been livid, if
she’d known.
Two hours
later I got to our street and quickened my pace and opened the front gate. It
creaked. Maureen was always on to me to get it oiled. As I stood in the porch
and fished in my pockets, I realised that I had dropped my keys somewhere.
Probably in the park when I was asleep.
What a
night this was turning out to be!
Walking
round the side of our house, I scuffled past the wheely-bin and reached up over
the edge of the wood-panelled gate. Hanging on a piece of string was the key. I
opened the gate. I hadn’t fancied climbing over. The way things had been going
tonight, I’d probably have slipped and broken my neck. Serves you right,
Maureen would have said.
At the
bottom of the garden was my shed, my final refuge from Maureen, and screwed
above the door was an old sign I had pinched from a demolished building:
EMERGENCY EXIT. Maureen never got the joke.
My ladder hung on the side of the shed; I never bothered to padlock it
though Maureen reckoned I should have, otherwise I was making it easy for
burglars. Now, I was glad I hadn’t
listened to her.
Lifting the
ladder to the back of our house, I rested it against the wall.
Our
bathroom window was always left open. Maureen liked the fresh air. Even in the
height of winter. I just shivered and kept quiet.
As I
struggled to get my thin body through the window, I swore a few times. I’d
wanted to leave a spare key under the gnome but Maureen had vetoed that.
Finally,
after jamming my left foot in the lavatory pan and barking my shin on the bidet
- Maureen again, she wanted it to match our Jacuzzi – I was inside my home at
last.
Limping
downstairs, I left a wet footprint as I went.
My spare car keys were in the lounge bureau and I found Maureen’s keys
in the kitchen drawers, suitably labelled: ‘My keys. Do not use!’
Sorry, old
girl, I thought, needs must.
Our lockup
was at the end of the street and her Morris 1000 was in pristine condition, a
collector’s item. It should be, she got me to polish it twice a week. She drove
it only on Sundays, to visit her sister.
I quite
enjoyed driving it. Devilment almost tempted me to nudge the odd bollard here
and there.
By now I was
having difficulty keeping my eyes open. Mustn’t wander across the road. Have an
accident. Not now.
It was amazing how quickly I got
back to the garage.
As I pulled
in behind my car I popped the boot of the Morris.
I got out
and unlocked my Escort’s boot. I’d
transfer Maureen to the Morris. Quicker. I lifted the boot and stared.
It was empty.
‘Having a
problem, sir?’
I swung
round and two policemen were standing on the forecourt. One of them switched on
a torch and shone the beam in my eyes.
‘No,
officer,’ I said, which was quite untrue.
When did
she get out? I’d heard her knocking as I
reached the brow of the hill...
‘If you’re
looking for your wife, sir, she’s quite safe in the hospital,’ said the
policeman with the torch. ‘While on
patrol we saw your car stranded here and stopped to investigate.’
I listened, quite numb.
He went on, ‘We read your note
and were about to leave when your wife’s knocking against the boot alerted us.’
He shrugged. ‘I think you can help us with our enquiries, sir.’
If only I had listened to Maureen
and made sure that I’d had a full tank!
***
Previously
published in 39 Emergency Exits,
published by Fygleaves, 2006.
Copyright
Nik Morton, 2014
***
My
collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye,
published by Crooked Cat, features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye. He
is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the anthology, Crooked Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked
Cat Publishing is available as a paperback for £4.99 ($6.99) and much less for
the e-book versions – UK or COM.
Paperback - Amazon UK
Paperback - Amazon COM
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