Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  "A track that only leads to one house … a man heading there during a storm. To his stupid Welsh peasant mind … I had to be you, I suppose!"

  Gil shook his head from side to side; incredulous that his own hand of cards should have played out so disastrously.

  "I was on my way to call anyway. The fact the police nearly made the right connection for once just makes it even better," laughed the killer. "I watched you get back just before the storm started. I put on my waterproofs and set off. I'd shut the gate to the derelict house only seconds before PC Davies arrived in this car. I admit I felt concerned … that is, till he lowered his window and with a big stupid grin asked, 'Mr Harper?'"

  "So you killed him."

  "Not just like that! Credit me with some subtlety!" said the killer reproachfully. "PC Davies was very obliging. First, he radioed control. The reception was terrible. The woman officer he spoke to told him the storm was messing up communications … it was possible they'd soon lose contact with him. After this, he was keen to drive me to your cottage. Of course, I couldn't let him do that.

  "But I needed him to get out of the car. It's not easy to overpower someone in a car, especially a fat oaf like he was. I told him I'd been looking round the derelict house … thought someone had been watching us from there. That interested him, though he was less keen when I suggested I show him. He only agreed after I assured him I'd been all through and there was nobody there.

  "I took him inside, quite dark it was, but he had a flashlight. I showed him the stepladder … not the one rigged for uninvited guests like you, a nice aluminium one I'd kept upstairs. He was about to step on the first rung, when I slipped the cable over his head and across his throat. He put up a fight … frankly, considering his size, a bit disappointing," he said dispassionately.

  "I changed into his clothes … too big, of course."

  "The reason you didn't take your coat off."

  "Very good, Sherlock Holmes!"

  Gil ignored the patronising comment, "How did you get him back to the car?" he asked.

  "I levitated him!"

  "Huh?"

  "I carried him, you dolt!" his tormentor said irately, slapping Gil about the head like a school master from the pre-enlightened past.

  Gil lurched forward "I meant … why not leave him? What was the point of putting him in the car?"

  "Actually, at first I didn't. I went back and got him while you thought I was radioing control."

  "You drove back to the farmhouse?"

  "Yes, you didn't hear me arrive, so I reckoned you wouldn't notice if I left for a bit. Up at the empty house, the ground was sodden, there was nowhere to safely turn. I had to back in through the gate, couldn't afford to get bogged down. He was bloody heavy … must've liked his pies!"

  "But why didn't you leave him where he was?"

  "I like things neat. And I liked the idea of you in a car with a deceased passenger."

  Gil nodded. No need to elucidate.

  "I thought about leaving him next to you … but like I said, he was heavy, the back door was nearer. Anyway, I hadn't quite decided yet whether you'd be waking up with your current bitch dead at your side."

  Gil gasped in horror.

  "Nicely balanced and extremely shocking … but in the end I went with my Rohypnol idea."

  "Rohypnol?"

  "You are such a disappointment, Gil. Rohypnol … the date rape drug?"

  Gil was probably more frightened then than at any previous moment. "What … what have you done?" he groaned.

  "I told you before. I drugged her."

  "Please, please don't hurt her. Do anything you want to me … I couldn't bear it if you …" Gil broke off, aware that by pleading he was doing exactly what he was meant to do.

  "I haven't done anything unsavoury like raped her or anything. I hope you weren't thinking badly of me?" Gil's tormentor asked aggressively. "I'm not some common sex offender. I chose Rohypnol for its sedative qualities, and also because I particularly liked the idea of her passivity …"

  "What have you done?" cried Gil.

  The man sniffed the air in a very deliberate way, "Can you smell smoke?"

  Gil turned his head in the direction of the window and sniffed. There was an acrid smell in the air. He nodded nervously.

  "Unpleasant," the tormentor said, adding a fake cough. "I'm afraid I may have been careless and left a full pan of vegetable oil on the cooker, with all its burners lit … and a trail of towels soaked in oil leading right up to the gas bottle. By now I expect the cottage is full of smoke. Imagine poor Sally lying upstairs in your bedroom, unable to save herself … and you here, completely incapacitated. I expect a fire will start soon."

  "Please don't do this," begged Gil, "I have money. Take everything I have."

  "That's so generous Gil, but I don't need money. As I've already explained, this is not some common crime. It's an act of revenge against all that is crass … one man's battle against mediocrity."

  Gil fought against his handcuffed hand, "You're fucking crazy!" he screamed; no longer caring if he got hit.

  "Now you're getting unpleasant … must be time to leave," his tormentor replied contemptuously.

  Without any warning, Gil suddenly felt the man's right hand grip tightly round his forehead. In the bottom left of his peripheral vision Gil saw the glimmer of a knife and felt its blade press into the soft skin of his neck.

  "I used a similar knife on Kate Blatt. She put up a spirited defence, unlike her husband who died like a pathetic dumb animal. I considered slitting Constable Davies's throat with this … but too messy, and I wouldn't have been able to use his nice uniform then." The killer paused for contemplation, "If I drew this blade across your throat it would all be over in seconds."

  "Do it," whispered Gil.

  "I think you're just showing false bravado when you say, 'Do it', like that. I already told you I don't mean to hurt you … not physically. You see, I want to remember you sitting here waiting, watching the flames rise beyond those bushes, hoping for a miracle. Just think, soon every breath you take will carry the scent of your girlfriend's burning flesh. I've read that roast human smells quite a bit like pork. Imagine!"

  Gil began to sob quietly.

  The man removed the knife and his grip on Gil's head. A moment later he produced about two foot of thick metal pipe, slipped it over the handbrake, and by exerting considerable force, wrenched the mechanism out of place.

  Gil felt the car immediately begin to roll forward and automatically responded by jamming his foot on the brake pedal. His tormentor then opened the rear passenger window and threw the piece of piping out.

  "That's right, Gil, you'll need to keep your foot on the brake pedal – unless you fancy a swim!" he chuckled. "By the way, don't waste time thinking about the clutch and putting the car into reverse gear to hold it. While you were asleep, I did a bit of tinkering under the hood with my trusty scaffold pipe and detached the selector cable from the gear box. The gear stick's completely useless!" The fact he was enjoying himself was self-evident in his voice. "You've got to keep your foot on that brake pedal until help arrives … unless you want to learn to fly that is. Unfortunately, your girlfriend will be slow-cooking while you wait."

  "Christ, no!" cried Gil making a futile attempt to prise off the steering wheel, which only succeeded in leaving him out of breath and seeing stars.

  "You may have noticed that the storm, with a little help from me, has cleared your path to the sea-shore by taking down the fence in front of us. So, you have an option: if your mental torment becomes too great, you can always take yourself and the good policeman off for a sky-dive," Gil's tormentor sneered. "I reckon you'll still be sitting here with your foot on that pedal when DCI Mullings arrives. I just wish I could be here to see it myself!"

  Gil was certain he'd go mad long before the police reached him; his hopelessness and despair were all-encompassing.

  His tormentor opened the car door ready to exit, "By the way," he sa
id, "I found this in your girlfriend's handbag," he leaned forward waving a piece of paper under Gil's nose.

  Gil made no response.

  "I don't suppose you can read it in the dark. I'll tell you ... it's confirmation, your girlfriend's pregnancy test proved positive."

  "What?"

  "Congratulations!"

  "You're lying!" exclaimed Gil.

  "Now why would I lie?" mocked his tormentor. "You didn't know, did you? I had a feeling perhaps you didn't. Tut, tut, tut … secrets so early in a relationship! Tell me, do you deliberately let your pregnant partners die?"

  "Kill me, let her go!" pleaded Gil.

  "Asking favours now is it? A few moments ago you thought you'd be clever and hurl abuse at me!"

  "Please!" Gil begged.

  Satisfied with his achievements, the killer made to leave.

  Gil removed his foot from the brake pedal at the very moment the man tried to exit.

  Distracted by his own laughter, Gil's adversary didn't notice the car was moving. Over-confidence had made him blind to any possible danger to himself.

  From Gil's perspective, it wasn't a plan at all. In fact, if it had been, it would have failed. It was instigated in a split second after hearing about Sally, when he literally saw red.

  Gil aimed the car's passenger side at the stile.

  It was one of those rare moments when every necessary factor required to work did so, and produced a result way beyond anything Gil could have imagined.

  The killer's foot touched the ground at the exact moment the stile made contact with the car door. However, by the time he'd realised what was happening and attempted to remedy the situation, it was too late. The door clamped shut around his lower leg, causing excruciating pain.

  Gil couldn't believe his luck; adding a turn to the steering-wheel before jamming his foot on the brake again. The car's nose was on the edge of the bank before it sloped down to the coastal path. The trapped man lurched forward, contorted in agony as he attempted to pull his leg free.

  Gil turned round to look at his assailant, "Give me the key!" he screamed rattling the handcuffs.

  "Okay, okay," replied his assailant, in a voice marked by pain but clearly stalling for time as he struggled to get free.

  Gil eased his foot off the brake momentarily and jerked the steering-wheel left for extra purchase.

  There was a sharp cry from the back of the car, "You'll pay for that!"

  "The key, give me the key!" shouted Gil. Over his shoulder he saw his attacker sprawled across the rear seat like a beached turtle, "Pass me the key!"

  Gil watched the man's hand reach inside his waterproof jacket a moment before it lunged forward, preceded by the knife. As he saw the blade coming at him he drew back. The blow could easily have been fatal if his attacker's coordination hadn't been impeded by an awkward position. As it was the blade scored a three-inch line along the bottom of Gil's jaw just above the neck. The weapon continued along its trajectory after cutting; Gil grabbed the attacker's hand with his own free hand, opened his mouth, and bit, hard as he could, on the other man's wrist.

  The scream that followed proved the assault was successful. A second later, his attacker's hand opened, the knife was released and dropped beside the gear stick.

  Gil released his teeth from the man's hand, which was immediately drawn back with a painful sigh.

  "You'll pay for that too," warned the killer.

  "The key, give me the key!" screamed Gil, spitting his enemy's blood from his teeth as he spoke.

  "I dropped it on the ground outside … after I locked the cuffs. If you want it you'll have to let me fetch it."

  "The key!" shouted Gil, "Don't fuck me about. Give me the key!"

  "I told you, I don't have it!" he shouted back.

  Gil considered the possibility of this. "Then we'll wait for Mullings," he said resolutely.

  There followed, what was for Gil, an interminably long silence.

  During this time his adversary continually struggled to get free. Gil could feel the blood from the wound on his jaw running down his neck, soaking into his sweatshirt but he was not aware of any pain. He could smell smoke; this was the thing he was most conscious of.

  "Okay you waste of space, have your key … but once you get free, soon I'll be free too, then you'll wish you were still handcuffed to that wheel."

  "Why don't you just shut up!" said Gil, "The trouble with you psychopaths is you're so boring!"

  Gil's off the cuff remark seemed to score a point. There was silence for a moment. When his assailant replied his voice had an iciness about it, "Okay, here it is".

  The man held out the key. It was attached to a small round fob.

  As Gil reached for it he let go the steering wheel which was still locked into the stile and inadvertently released pressure on the foot brake. The car moved forward. This caused his assailant great discomfort as his leg and foot were repositioned.

  Gil had half expected his assailant to be malicious and let the key fall uselessly to the ground out of sheer spite, but fortunately he didn't. Gil took the small key with its two distinct ends precariously between finger and thumb. He was suddenly grateful for the hours recently spent in a police station, and especially glad he'd watched with interest as an officer had removed a set of handcuffs from a prisoner. He recalled noting how the cuffs were double locked; had observed how the pin-like end must be inserted into a hole on the flat surface of the cuff first before the key itself could be used. It was not easy to attempt something for the first time one-handed in the dark. He found the hole to take the pin, felt something click; after a few moments feeling with his fingers he located the key-hole.

  Gil inserted and turned the key. He was aware of the noise of exertion coming from the back seat. The cuff fell open and slid down the steering wheel. At the same moment there came a painful shout from the rear, followed by the clunk of a door. A second after this Gil felt a pair of hands about his neck pressing into his windpipe.

  "Said you'd be sorry didn't I?"

  As Gil's head was jerked backwards, his foot lost its place on the brake pedal. The car began to nose-dive down the bank. His attacker held on; Gil was choking. The car was picking up momentum as it rolled towards the coastal path. Gil swung his fists about his head in the anticipated direction of his attacker, but to no avail. The police car was moving unexpectedly fast, Gil's feet were now out of reach of the pedals. His left hand fumbled around the gear stick for the knife; he touched its handle then raised it and jabbed behind him with all his strength. There was a sharp cry followed by the release of hands on Gil's neck as the man slunk back to nurse his wounded shoulder. Gil slammed his foot on the brake just as the car ploughed into the coastal path. The next moments seemed to play out in slowed down time as the car slid irrevocably towards the cliff. It seemed very possible it might not stop, but fortunately it did, the car's front end teetering precariously on the very edge of the cliff.

  Gil felt for the door handle. As the door swung open he aimed for an area of cliff-top, took his foot off the brake and dived. He landed face down in a puddle of mud. He sat up, winded from the fall, gagging for breath after being half strangled. To his surprise he found he was still clutching the knife as he wiped the dirt from his eyes on his sweatshirt.

  The police car seemed to hover a long time before it finally rolled forward; then it appeared to hang a moment in mid air. Gil thought he heard a door burst open a second or two before it plummeted. He scrambled to his feet and gazed over the edge. There was nothing to see through the incessant rain, just mist and darkness. A few seconds later he involuntarily shuddered at the almighty crash as half a ton of steel met rock and water.

  Steadily clutching the knife, he searched the cliff-top through the haze.

  There was no sign of the killer.

  Gil had no idea how badly injured the man had been after he'd stabbed him. Perhaps his attacker was already dying as the car fell.

  There was no time for reflecti
on. He had to reach Sally.

  Gil slid and slipped up the bank, which had become a mudslide. He tore his jeans and cut his knee on a stone but with his body running on adrenaline he didn't even notice. He sped past his own car and up the steps to the cottage. The smoke stung the eyes and became denser and more acrid the closer he got. He could see the flickering of flames behind the curtains of the living room although they were not yet alight.

  Gil went through the porch, entered the front door and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of smoke that under normal circumstances would have sent anyone reeling in the opposite direction. He raised the front of his sweatshirt to cover his nose and mouth.

  The house was filled with an eerie silence; he seemed to be immediately swallowed up by the smoke and darkness. The stairs were straight ahead and he groped forward, trying not to breathe in the noxious smoke, as he felt for the stair rail.

  Once he'd located it he ascended as quickly as he could. When the steps petered out, he knew he'd reached the landing. The smoke was denser here. He searched with a hand for the door. Fortunately it had been shut, reducing the amount of smoke that had entered the room.

  He heard coughing and was at once filled with hope.

  As soon as the door opened and before the bedroom filled with smoke, he caught sight of Sally. She was lying on the bed asleep. He also noticed that her hands were tied to the corner posts of the bed. He thanked his lucky stars he hadn't discarded the knife.

  He took in a gulp of the relatively clean air of the bedroom before becoming once again engulfed by the acrid smoke. He groped forward, reached the bed, felt for Sally's arms and the bonds attached to her wrists. The knife made light work of the rope. Once both arms were free, Gil let the knife fall. He dragged Sally to the side of the bed then hoisted her onto his shoulder. He groped his way back to the door. On the landing again, he felt for the stair rail. Ahead he could feel increased heat and the flicker of flames. There was nothing to do but proceed.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs the way ahead was outlined by the door frame which now presented a fiery rectangle to aim for. He scrambled out through the porch and was overjoyed to find himself in the pouring rain once again. His legs crumpled under him and he let Sally slip gently to the ground.