Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  M J Johnson

  Roadrage

  Amazon Kindle Edition

  © 2013 M J Johnson

  http://www.mj-johnson.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of its author.

  Acknowledgements

  Books don't get written without an enormous amount of help. Once again I must thank the kind and generous people who have willingly shared with me their time and expertise. I'm certain they know who they are.

  However, three people must be mentioned because Roadrage is undoubtedly a better book for their contribution: my friend Peter Bolwell for his time, observant eye for any shaky plot detail and invariably good advice, my son Tom Johnson for his continued support of the project and nothing short of superb cover design, and my wife Judith, for her unwavering dedication both to the book and her old man.

  You become what you think about all day long.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Othello:

  Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil,

  Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?

  Iago:

  Demand me nothing: What you know, you know:

  From this time forth I never will speak word.

  William Shakespeare, Othello, Act 5, scene ii.

  Hate is a bottomless cup; I will pour and pour.

  Euripides, Medea

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Opening Quotations

  Acknowledgements

  Author

  Also by M J Johnson

  Roadrage:

  First - 25 December - 31 January

  Second - 1 January - 19 January

  Third - 19 January - 13 February

  Fourth - 13 February - 19 March

  Fifth - 20 March - 1 April

  FIRST

  25 December - 31 January

  1

  The rain was driving hard at the windscreen. In places, pools of flood-water stretched half-way across the carriageway. Gil peered into the murk ahead with a weary stoicism, taking the lane lines as his guide. There were times during the journey when he'd felt he was steering a submersible rather than driving a car. He'd grown tired of the radio some time ago, but now the repetitive hum and swipe of the windscreen wipers was really beginning to irritate.

  It was downright unseasonal to be experiencing such a torrent, and on Christmas Day of all days. Not that he cared much; Gil Harper avoided Christmas wherever possible.

  "Santa must've caught pneumonia last night," he told Spike, a brown and white wire-haired Jack Russell, whose name pictured him well. An attentive companion under normal conditions, the dog had abandoned his habitual vigil at the passenger window to take a nap; tiny snores were the only feedback Gil received from the seat beside him.

  He suddenly felt quite sorry for himself, alone in the wretched dark without even Spike to share the boredom; just an empty road and the interminable rain. Actually, the major part of the journey was behind them. He consulted the dashboard clock, estimated about forty minutes driving time, and reckoned to be home around ten.

  Gil was returning from the Somerset coast, having travelled there the previous afternoon in a similar downpour. He had stayed the night and taken Christmas lunch with his in-laws, Marjorie and George, that is if the term in-law still applied to parents of a deceased wife. It was five years since Jules' death and each year Marjorie and George continued to invite him. They still thought of him as family, and never failed to include him at this most poignant of times for anyone who has lost a loved one. They were getting on in years and Jules, christened Julia, had been their only child; Gil could only begin to guess at the pain of their shared loss. It was not an ordeal to visit them, they were kind and sociable, but the whole Christmas thing brought up too many unwanted emotions. He'd considered using the weather as an excuse for not going, but had he done this, he knew he would have felt like a heel.

  "It doesn't seem right to be leaving before the day is out, especially with the weather as it is," Marjorie had told Gil as he lent her a hand with the washing up. "You know that you're more than welcome to stay."

  "I know that, Marge," he replied, then went on to mumble stock phrases about needing to get back and having things to do. They both knew this was untrue.

  Marjorie shook her head, gently reproaching him, "Gil, Gil, what are we to do with you? Both George and I are deeply touched that you loved our daughter, but it hurts us to see you still grieving. Jules has moved on, you know that she would never have wanted you to go on mourning her. Don't you think it's time you allowed her memory to rest in peace?"

  Gil scrutinised the dinner plate in his hands with far more attentiveness than he had formerly shown it.

  Marjorie misinterpreted the pause, "You must think I'm awful, asking you to forget my own daughter." There was a note of self-chastisement in her voice.

  "I'd never think that. You know I wouldn't," he replied, looking into the elderly woman's face with unguarded honesty.

  "You'd be quite within your rights to tell me to mind my own business, but we're concerned about you Gil. Nothing any of us can do will ever bring our darling girl back." A large tear appeared at the corner of each eye as she digested her own words.

  Gil dropped his gaze towards the floor and quietly said, "Nothing seemed real after the accident. Jules was so full of life, so dynamic. Myself, I've always been a bit retiring … shy-ish … a follower, never the leader. That's why she was so good for me ... she burst into my life like … like … I don't know … like dynamite!"

  They both smiled at the awkwardness but accuracy of his analogy.

  Gil returned to the sink to deflect attention from his moist eyes and dredged a final plate onto the drainer, poured the dishwater away and began drying his hands on a tea-towel. "I've met someone," he confided.

  "And?" asked Marjorie when she felt the pause had lived long enough.

  "I like her. I think she likes me too."

  "When did you meet?" Marjorie asked tentatively.

  "A few weeks ago. Not really much to tell. We met at the library."

  "The library?"

  "Mm, bit sad, huh?"

  They shared a laugh.

  "We were both getting some research done."

  "What does she do?"

  "She designs costumes for stage productions."

  "Sounds interesting," said Marjorie, then after a pause, "Well, go on then."

  "Nothing more to say, we've chatted over coffee and eaten out twice. That's about it."

  "It's a start. Is she a 'looker' like our Jules?" she enquired with a smile.

  Gil felt his face reddening, "Well, I think so."

  "As long as you think so, that's all that matters. Does this beauty possess a name?"

  "Her name is Sally. Sally Curtis."

  "I hope it works out Gil, you deserve something good."

  He had never thought his late wife had borne much physical resemblance to either of her parents. However, at that moment as Gil hugged Marjorie in what was for him a rare display of affection, he saw something of Jules in her face; it was approving and felt good.

  This scene was interrupted by George from the lounge, where up until this point he had been snoring on the sofa, mouth agape like a Venus fly trap
with Spike in a similar condition in the crook of one arm. He'd suddenly resurfaced from the arms of Morpheus to announce in a sleepy post-lunch drawl, "I think it's the Queen!"

  Gil had remonstrated with himself several times over the journey back for not taking up their invitation to stay, at least until morning.

  "All the sane people are home!" he exclaimed. These words were wasted too on his sleeping companion.

  Marjorie was right. He had become withdrawn since Jules' death, almost reclusive. Life had lost almost all its sweetness. During the three hours since leaving Somerset, Gil had seen relatively few vehicles on the road, it being Christmas Day on top of weather warnings; he'd been a fool! The concentrated effort required for driving under such conditions was straining his eyes. Driving had never been a favourite pastime of Gil's, even before the accident. For some time afterwards it had been touch and go whether he'd ever go near a car again.

  Gil Harper was thirty-nine, married and widowed just the once. He had the kind of features most people seemed to find pleasing: dark hair just beginning to show some grey and a pair of keen blue eyes set in a lean but open face. Despite being quite presentable, and having various dates set up for him by well-meaning friends all of which had come to nothing, five years on from the accident he was still finding it hard to break free of the grief. He had not been ready to form a new relationship.

  Gil was quite successful, which always seemed a bit unexpected to those who knew him well, as he possessed very little materialistic drive. He illustrated books, mostly for children, in an anarchic and unique style, often emulated, but rarely executed with anything like the same skill. Success had come early in life and for the past eighteen years Gil had collaborated with one of the world's best loved children's writers. However, this happy partnership was sadly due to end, as Felix Blatt had announced his retirement the previous summer. Gil, with a lot of encouragement from Felix, had begun to write the text of a children's story of his own. When he'd shown him the first draft, Felix had been full of praise, albeit with some positive criticism.

  The feeling of isolation from being cooped up in the car for so long, the drone of the engine, constant rain and lack of other vehicles along the route were beginning to produce a sense of mild cabin fever. These vaguely depressive feelings were alleviated a little by Spike, who suddenly opened his eyes, yawned, and went on to perform a languorous dog stretch. His next action was to rise and place his front paws on the window sill to survey the landscape. Clearly unimpressed, Spike sat down again, emitting a sigh much too large for his diminutive stature.

  "Only fit for ducks, hey? It's getting me down too, Spikey."

  Gil felt cheered slightly when a minute or two later the car's interior was faintly illuminated by the headlights of another vehicle, a good distance behind.

  At the same moment Spike gave out an unfamiliar sounding low growl.

  "Home before long, boy."

  Some people hold to an opinion that animals possess intuitive abilities that we have either lost or never had. Much later, Gil would have occasion to look back at that seminal moment and wonder if Spike had instinctively felt apprehension; whilst he, with his superior brain, had failed to sense a thing.

  As the car came closer, Spike seemed to become more unsettled, expelling a series of plaintive whimpers.

  Gil assumed it to be toilet trouble. "Not long, Spikey," he said and decided to pull over as soon as they were off the motorway.

  It was difficult to estimate the speed of the other vehicle, the rapid approach suggested its driver's foot must have been pressed hard on the accelerator. By now Gil had to avoid his mirrors because the fast gaining car had failed to dip its lights.

  Spike, whimpering, pressed his head into Gil's thigh.

  "I'll stop soon as I can, boy," he told the dog.

  Gil stole a quick glance at the rear mirror but immediately recoiled, his eyes momentarily blinded. "Give me a break!" he yelled. He wondered if the driver was drunk.

  Suddenly, without indicating, the car shot past. Gil was relieved. He wanted to flash his lights up and down several times, just to let the other driver know how it felt being blinded. He thought better of this, "If he's pissed that might only make things worse," and decided to let him go his merry way. From the speed the car was moving, Gil would have expected to see nothing more than a set of disappearing tail lights half a minute later, but this didn't happen. As soon as the other driver had overtaken, he decelerated and pulled into the lane just ahead of Gil. Gil was forced to brake and then drop his own modest speed of fifty to below forty.

  "What the hell is your problem?" Gil shouted in exasperation. This brought Spike to his feet, and taking a full stretch, he leaned onto the dashboard to let out a growl followed by three warning barks.

  "That's right Spikey. He is an arsehole."

  No sooner had Gil expressed this opinion than the other car began to pull away at an incredible lick. Considering the treacherous road conditions, such a speed was extremely ill advised. The gap grew between them so fast that it seemed likely the other vehicle had accelerated to a hundred mph at least. Gil was glad to watch as its tail lights reduced to nothing more than red pin pricks in the haze ahead.

  "Thank God for that! We can relax again Spike."

  Spike however remained on guard duty. And Gil's moment of elation was short-lived when he noticed through the thick sheets of rain that the car ahead must have braked quite hard and that he was rapidly catching up. At first he wondered if there was more flooding, a speed restriction or some obstruction on the road, only to realise unnervingly, once he reached the leading car, that there was nothing. Both were now travelling in convoy at less than thirty mph.

  Gil wondered if he'd come upon a bunch of joy-riders out for kicks. If this was the case, then he suspected they would only speed up again if he overtook them. He felt slightly better about things when the car in front started flashing its hazard lights and eased over onto the hard shoulder. As Gil passed the slowing car he attempted to catch a glimpse of its occupant or occupants, but the darkness and rain made this impossible. He briefly entertained the idea of stopping to see what was wrong and whether he could offer some assistance, but swiftly dismissed the notion as a bad idea.

  "I'd be no use if they have broken down. Anyway, serves them right for driving like morons."

  Gil had managed about thirty yards before he realised to his horror that the other car was tagging alongside. He felt enraged by the inanity of whatever this stupid game was about, and against his better judgement, put his foot down hard on the gas to break away. At first it seemed he might make a clear break and leave his tormentor far behind. Sadly, not for long. The wing mirror showed the other car was getting closer on the hard shoulder. The rain was pummelling the windscreen so fast during this acceleration that Gil needed to strain forward in order to catch a fleeting view of the road as the wipers cleared the streams of water. Spike became more agitated and was growling loudly. As Gil's Volvo touched seventy the maniac was only a car's length behind. Having embarked on this direct action, Gil acknowledged he had little alternative but to see it through. He clenched his teeth, screwed up his eyes and stepped on the gas pedal.

  "I'll give you a chase if that's what you want you moron!" he snarled.

  Somehow the situation had Spike caught in its grip too. He was rushing to and fro, barking with unaccustomed ferocity, one second at the windscreen, the next at the passenger window. Uncontrollable frenzy had seized the moment and the deafening noise coming from the dog provided an aptly manic soundtrack.

  The speedometer needle passed eighty, eighty-five, ninety. At each of these stages Gil looked over his shoulder to see if his pursuer had given up. There was no change. Ninety-five, a hundred, a hundred and five; his adversary was right beside him. Gil was beginning to feel a loss of control in the steering as the wheels found it increasingly difficult to gain purchase on the wet surface. At a hundred and ten Gil had nosed ahead by a few yards, a cold sweat breaking
out on his upper lip, the car slithering like a toboggan on a slalom run. Spike was gnashing his teeth, frantically dashing about; the car's interior was bedlam.

  "Shut up Spike!" Gil shouted, but Spike, who, as a rule, liked to please, either didn't hear or was too overwrought to check himself.

  Gil felt an insanity take hold of him. He put his foot right down until the accelerator was pinned to the floor. The car surged forward; a hundred and fifteen, a hundred and twenty and increasing; it was like trying to manoeuvre a drunk on roller-skates. When the speedometer read a hundred and twenty-seven mph, Gil's control of the steering was so tenuous that to have gone beyond must surely have brought destruction. Even so, the temptation remained when he saw the pursuing car draw level; but sanity won.

  Perhaps sensing that Gil had reached his limit, the other car suddenly burst into the lead and cut into the lane with just a few feet to spare. Gil, his heart in his mouth and fearing they might touch, swerved out to the middle. At this point Spike lost his balance and tumbled onto the floor but almost immediately recovered to resume barking at the window. The other car then suddenly veered right, directly into Gil's path. He had no option but to slam his foot on the brake. As they screeched into play, the car began to aquaplane across the wet surface. Fortunately Gil remembered to steer into the skid, although he wasn't certain whether it had been this action or just sheer luck that saved them from hitting the central barrier.

  "Oh Christ! Oh hell no! Oh Christ!" he screamed. For a split-second it was like he'd been transported back five years to the accident.

  As the car's speed dropped, Gil regained control of the steering. The other car had gotten clear and was now about two or three hundred yards ahead. Gil settled back into the slow lane at forty. It looked as though the machismo game was finally over. This was until Gil noticed the car's brake lights flash up again.