At the time, I was writing as Platen Syder. As these stories were not
entirely my own creation, we decided to adopt another penname. Our first sale
was ‘The Courier’ and the byline was Jon Teiffort. Yes, it was a simple anagram
of Joint Effort. The following tale
didn’t see publication until some years later, in fact, and I adjusted the
byline just a little:
TEST
NERVES
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Ford Escort - Wikipedia commons
Jon F. Teifort
With great care, Emma
Fayne slowly eased the sparkling clean Escort alongside the kerb and as she
switched off the engine she felt the butterflies in her stomach do another
somersault. Even though she had parked
quite neatly, she was anxious. She sneaked
a sidelong glance at her instructor.
He smiled and that restored her confidence. ‘No need
to be nervous, Miss Fayne. I’ll just nip inside, if you’ll wait here.’
‘Thanks.’ She swallowed and wiped her moist palms.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Good. We’ll get you through!’ He slid out and strode
purposefully into the dreary driving test centre. Frosted windows above the
first floor proclaimed that other businesses shared the office building.
As she stood by the car bonnet, she noticed a
policeman strolling along the pavement and suddenly tried not to worry about
her new dress blowing in the slight breeze. A deep-throated voice from behind
startled her: ‘Waiting for your test, Miss – ?’
‘Fayne,’ she supplied automatically.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, peering through tortoise-shell
spectacles. ‘I just thought you didn't look too well.’
Emma forced a smile. ‘A little nervous, that’s all.’
He eyed a yellow Volvo parked on a double yellow line.
‘What’s the number of that car the policeman’s standing beside?’ he asked rather
curtly.
She gave the number hesitantly, now quite upset at his
incivility.
‘Right, Miss Fayne, let’s get started,’ he said, as
though he had no time for nervous candidates.
He peered over his shoulder. ‘Move off as soon as you’re
ready. Turn first left after that pelican crossing.’
No such thing as a please, she noted irritably.
Moistening her lips, Emma mentally ran through the
sequence with ease, born of repetition. Handbrake still on. Gear in neutral.
Switch on – first time! She sighed
thankfully. All clear behind, into gear, brake off – another quick check
behind, indicator on – and away we go.
As she passed the crossing and neared the junction she
marvelled at herself. No mistakes! With the way she felt – and the examiner’s
manner didn’t help, either! – she found this hard to believe.
At the junction’s STOP sign she braked to a halt. Her
dress had ridden up her thighs but she fought off an urge to pull the material
down: she had no wish to distract the examiner and didn’t want him thinking she
was more concerned over her appearance than the test.
They seemed to be at the junction an age and he was
betraying signs of impatience, tapping his fingers on his briefcase. Then, at
last, a reasonable gap presented itself and she moved off, effortlessly meeting
the speed of the traffic stream.
‘Turn right into the high street, at the next
junction, please.’
Good heavens, a ‘please’, would you believe? I’m
winning him over with my superior car-handling, she thought.
Her right turn was quite good, if perhaps a little
sluggish on the pull-off.
She was beginning to relax. They were heading for the
de-populated part of town. Should be no trouble reversing there.
She approached the traffic-lights in the inside lane.
Just ahead trundled an old VW Golf on the outside.
The shrill siren startled her!
Wide-eyed, she spotted the flashing blue light of the
police car in her rear-view mirror.
In an instant the patrol car swept past.
But the elderly driver of the VW must have panicked.
He pulled in.
Emma’s heart lurched as the ancient vehicle veered
towards her lovely clean unblemished car! Her foot rammed down on the
brake-pedal.
Tyres screeched.
She’d done it – emergency braked in time!
There was a resounding crash from the rear. The wind
was thrust out of her by the jerk of the seat-belt and the juddering motion of
the car.
The driver following had been too close and he hadn’t
braked in time.
She was aware of her examiner swearing, then she
blacked out.
***
Beside her bed
stood a police constable, a young nurse, and a man with a moustache who leaned
over solicitously. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Stokes.’
‘The gentleman with me,’ she said tremulously, ‘is he
all right?’
‘Yes – and now safely locked up!’
‘But... it wasn’t his fault... The old gent in that
Volks–’
‘I’m afraid your examiner was anything but, Miss
Fayne. He’d just robbed Manny Goldberg – his office is over the test centre.’
‘Robbed? But he seemed so plausible.’
‘You were made use of by a very cunning man, Miss. On
leaving the building he must’ve noticed PC Bennett here beside his parked
Volvo. He didn’t relish being stopped for a parking offence with the stolen
money on him, so he quick-wittedly posed as your examiner.’ DI Stokes looked
grim. ‘It’s a fair bet your test route would’ve soon led into the country. And,
once there, well...’
Emma paled. ‘Then, my accident... was lucky?’
‘Yes, Miss. And I think that but for your test nerves
you might’ve noticed he wasn’t carrying an examiner’s clipboard – only a
bulging briefcase!’
THE END
Previously published in Costa Life Magazine in 2008.
Copyright Nik Morton, 2014
If
you liked this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat, which
features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’. He is also featured in the story
‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is
available as a paperback and as an e-book.
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