CheckOut 27

                    Prologue

 

I remember reading about cases where people have been hit by a vehicle and literally knocked out of their socks. The sudden impact and tensing of the muscles caused them to lift straight out. I still had socks on when I reached the hospital. In that final moment the self preservation gene we must all have stepped forward.  I turned away in a futile attempt to save myself but heard the crack as my right leg broke. With the impact my body rolled across the car bonnet directing my shoulder to smash the windscreen with my head following behind it. After that I rely on Police reports and medical records with some eye-witness statements thrown in for dramatic effect. The eye witnesses are far more descriptive. ‘I was certain he was dead but I saw some blood coming from a gash in his head and my friend said you don’t bleed once your dead’ but my favourite, ‘I started to clap it looked like they were filming a TV programme then I saw the blood and thought it’s too realistic for the tele, so I stopped clapping’

 

In the supermarket the whole event had developed slowly, at first nobody took any notice as I walked across the parking area towards the road. A line of 27 checkouts with people queuing at each one all looking around but not through the large glass frontage, no one sees the dead man walking. But then as I stepped off the pavement out in to the road and turned to face the single on coming car one child’s voice spoke out. “That’s naughty mummy” The queues either side looked over to the voice bored with the conveyer belts ahead of them. Trying to work out what sort of person you are stood behind from the contents of their trolley. What can you work out about the man who buys Tea Bags (the cheap supermarket brands) Always Tampons, Jelly Babies, dried pasta, vanilla flavoured yogurt, a pair of black socks and the Daily Mail?

A henpecked husband or a future serial killer?

 

The number of heads which first looked to the child and then following his pointed finger to the man in the road increased as the seconds ticked by. From almost no one to the complete shopping queues of 27 checkouts, faces searching across the car park to this single man in the road. Speculation in their eyes, was he some sort of workman stood checking the road, a plain clothes Policeman stopping cars but before anyone got close to the answer the car hit. Looking back towards the supermarket it appeared to be a goldfish bowl, a hundred silent faces behind the glass gasping in horror. The mother grabbed her son covering his eyes from the circus style juggling act of arms and legs tossed upwards to the sky bouncing off the bonnet into the windscreen.

 

Inside the car a very ordinary red coloured sierra with one wheel trim missing an argument had raged. If the couple in the front seats had not hit me and got involved in the ensuing police investigation they were heading for divorce.  The woman had slipped up about her night out with the girls when her husband recalled the restaurant she had supposedly been to was in fact closed for refurbishment. As they drove around the bend the defensive wife clearly rattled tripped up more and more proving the old adage when you get to the bottom stop digging. It wasn’t a case of them stopping.

Chapter One

 

Monday Morning, One Week Earlier

 

My morning post arrived around one in the afternoon so I got to it at breakfast the next day as a rule. This however, was still Saturdays. The letter from the hospital looked interesting so I opened it first, to be honest the £100,000 cheque from the lottery in the Netherlands looked better and almost won the contest but I had some misgivings about its authenticity printed on pink striped paper and fifteen pound signs getting ever larger across the envelope. Has anyone ever had a letter from one of these people telling them they’re not a winner I wondered? The hospital letter was worryingly incorrect.

 

‘Dear Mr Peter I Digby,

We are sorry to inform you your operation scheduled for the 23rd August 2011 has been cancelled due to increased demand on the Gynaecological facility at this Hospital.

We will be rescheduling your Hysterectomy for 1st September 2011.

If this is inconvenient please contact this department as soon as possible to make further arrangements…’

 

I looked over the rest of the letter shaking my head absentmindedly. The audit team were coming. If I had been more relaxed the hospital letter would be funny, I mean quite frankly a hysterectomy would be very inconvenient. Especially if they can send a letter addressed ‘Dear Mr Peter I Digby’ what the hell would they pull out once they were unable to find a uterus? Visions of surgeons scratching their heads with a hand full of bowel crossed my mind. At thirty nine years of age I really couldn’t do without my bowels. I am reasonable fit for my age and have what my mother calls a lot to offer. She is of course biased and wants me married off safely as everyone of her generation was brought up to do. Drinking, watching football and ordering takeaways would only end up making me lonely she had said in the last e-mail.

 

I looked at the clock and finished my tea; it was an early start today because of the visitors coming to the supermarket. The letter was despatched to the pile of papers on the table most of which required attention of some sort. I took a mental picture of the view from the window across the landscape valley and the distant hills. It was the reason I bought the cottage because of that view. From a seat in the garden you could see the patchwork fields laid out before you.

 

Outside in the garden I walked towards the double garage and sighed. My spirits dropped like that feeling you have as the lottery numbers come up on screen. You eagerly look down at your own ticket, no to the first number, not to worry five is still a great deal of cash, no to the second, well maybe four then and so on until you have nothing. I have never won more than £10 on the Lottery therefore my depression was an old Peugeot sat waiting for me in the garage.

 

To be perfectly correct a Peugeot 406 HDi in pale green which in its day was probably described by a very interesting name but now it’s just green. The radio is very poor and fades out as you drive; the heater is temperament and usually gets warm on cold days thirty seconds before arriving at work. It has a dark grey velour interior now looking rubbed and worn in places. Once inside I found myself sitting for a moment hands resting on the well worn steering wheel. The back ground noise was a rattle, a tap-dancer on a metal tray echoing in the garage. Oh the joy of a cold diesel engine in the morning. Even with the windows and doors closed I had the smell all over me, that damp feeling of diesel clinging to your clothes.  I stared for a moment sideways at the black plastic car cover hiding a vehicle with fully functioning radio and heated seats that could toast you. It had only arrived a week ago after 3 months waiting. I would give anything to be able to drive it out into the road and away. I remember clearly the day I walked in to the Mayfair Branch of BMW and asked about the new M3, the salesman was not fazed in fact he had been asked twice that day already he said.

Reviews

[Andrew M Gallagher]

As a first book I think it has taught me a great deal most of which I will take to my next book.......Oh yes, there is more to come.