Telling Lies by Nicholas Boldock

At half past five Harry arranged all the papers on his desk into neat piles, as he always did before going home. He shoved his pens into the blue plastic desk tidy and shut down his PC. He performed this same ritual every evening, did it automatically, even unconsciously. He felt overjoyed to be finally going home - the days seemed to be getting longer and longer and longer - even though home, to Harry, was only marginally more bearable than work. His wife, Jean, would be waiting for him, dinner in the oven, wine on the table. The same as always. He hoped it would be a nice meal, a special meal. Something traditional, maybe a roast. That would be just lovely. His car was one of the few things that gave Harry unreserved enjoyment. It wasn't overly flash - it was only a Cavalier - but he took great pride in it. He cleaned it at least twice a week, inside and out. It was important to keep a clean car. There was nothing worse than a car full of clutter. Old newspapers, crisp packets, drinks cans. Full ashtrays. Harry was bemused by people who let their cars get into such states. The only conclusion he could come to was that some people were just born filthy. Harry swung the Cavalier into Lancaster Road. He drove the same route to and from work every day. He always, always, went down Lancaster Road. He had tried to stop, had thought of alternative ways he could get from A to B without driving along that particular road, but however hard he tried he was compelled to retrace the self same path.

Harry had once been involved in a car crash on this road. Two years ago he had owned a metallic blue Peugeot 205. Not in the same class as the Cavalier by any means, but still a tasty little motor. He and Jean had been on their way home. It was a Sunday, and Jean had buggered the entire weekend up by arranging for them to visit her parents in Gloucester. We'll drive up Friday night, she'd said, and come back Sunday. It'll be good to get away. Except Harry hadn't wanted to get away. Back then, Jean hadn't been the only woman in his life. There was also Amy, a moderately attractive brunette who had been working in Harry's office as a clerk.

She wasn't like the regular office staff. She was intelligent, courteous and sexy. And so very dirty. She didn't care that Harry was married. The woman just loved to fuck. Harry spent that Saturday playing Scrabble with Jean's parents. Up until a couple of days before, when Jean had sprung the big surprise trip to Gloucester on him, he'd been planning on spending the majority of Saturday evening in a nice hotel with Amy and a packet of assorted condoms. As a result he had spent the entire weekend in a foul mood. He had made little effort to be pleasant to her parents. Her mother was an irritating old witch anyway.

In the car on the way home from Gloucester, they had started to argue. Jean couldn't understand why Harry had been so moody over the last couple of days. He tried to make excuses, tried so hard, saying he was tired, that work was stressing him out, that he wasn't feeling well. And all through his best excuses, Jean just kept on and on at him, telling him over and over that she didn't see why he had to be such a fucking twat whenever they went to see her parents, why couldn't he just behave like a civil human being for once in his life?

'Oh, for fuck's sake...' Harry had said, and there it was, World War Three, right there in the little Peugeot. The argument had gotten more and more heated, as these things are apt to do, and it had lasted almost the entire journey. Finally, Jean had set her face in stone, turned to look out of the window, and determined not to speak to Harry for at least the rest of the journey, if not the next week or so. Continued below

Telling Lies by Nicholas Boldock

Harry sank down onto the brake pedal as he approached the traffic lights at the junction of Lancaster Road and Westwood Avenue. He drove by the book these days. In fact, Harry considered himself to be an excellent driver. As Jean sat resolute, arms folded, face turned to the window, Harry had become more irate by the second. Luckily they were nearly home by this point and he would no longer have to endure her childish games.

He was really gunning the Peugeot by now, driving almost recklessly through the cloud of anger and frustration that had gathered around him. He had come up to Lancaster Road, slowed the car only slightly, and hurled it around the bend onto the road that was to become his nemesis. Jean had snapped out of it at this point. 'Harry, please slow down,' she'd said, as calmly as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't just spent the last couple of hours tearing strips off each other. He ignored her. He would be slowing down soon anyway for the traffic lights at Westwood Avenue, which went across Lancaster Road at right angles. There was a slight dog-leg on Lancaster Road, just before the lights became visible up ahead, and as Harry brought the Peugeot around the gentle bend he saw the traffic lights, green for now, but still a fair way off. He had the car doing almost fifty, way over the speed limit in a built-up area like this one.

He teased the accelerator, the needle pushing towards fifty-five, the lights still green. Jean now, whining in his ear, 'Harry, for God's sake, just bloody slow down will you?' and he knew she was right, that he was driving far too fast, but then he was coming up to the traffic lights and they were suddenly turning from green to amber. He was going too fast to brake safely before the junction so he gave the Peugeot even more gas and went for it, flying through the lights just as they turned red, or maybe slightly later than that, thinking to himself, yes, made it, and then Jean screaming his name, Harry turning his head to look left, only he's too late as he sees a truck that for an instant seems too large to really be there, just as it ploughs into the side of the Peugeot.

The lights were an assured red this time as Harry braked to a stop at the junction. He looked right and left. No lorries. The lorry that had smashed into the car two years ago - into the passenger side, into Jean - hadn't actually done that much damage. The lorry itself wasn't travelling overly fast, but the momentum of the Peugeot had carried the little car over the junction where it had careered further down Lancaster Road and smashed into a line of parked cars. Harry, disoriented and unsure as to which way was up and which way was down, never mind left or right, had fought with the wheel and pumped at the pedals with no real sense of what he was doing, sending the car spinning across to the other side of the road. The back end of the car had slid out sideways, all semblance of control gone now. There was a crunch of fracturing metal as the car slammed into a lamppost and came to a halt.

Continued on www.thisisull.com...... Next Page Telling Lies.

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