Dead Man’s Footsteps

75

He could have done with another Mars bar – he was starving – but Ricky didn’t want to risk leaving the car to buy one, in case he missed her. Christ, it was over half an hour since she had gone into the mobile phone shop – what was the bitch doing in there? No doubt dithering about which colour to buy.

The cab would be costing a bloody fortune! And whose money would she be using to pay for it?

His, of course.

Was she doing it deliberately to make him angry, knowing that he would be watching somewhere?

She would pay for this. Every which way. And then some.

She would scream apologies to him. Over and over and over. Before he was finished with her.

A shadow fell across his nearside window. Then he saw a traffic warden’s face peering in. He put down the window.

‘I’m picking up my mother,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s disabled – won’t be a few minutes.’

The warden, a lanky youth with a sullen face and his cap at a jaunty angle, was not impressed. ‘You’ve been here half an hour.’

‘She’s driving me nuts,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s suffering dementia – first stages.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Got to get her to the hospital. Just give me a couple more minutes.’

‘Five minutes,’ the warden said, and swaggered off. He then stopped by the car in front and began tapping out a ticket on his machine.

Ricky watched his altercation moments later with the returning owner, an irate-looking woman, and continued to watch his slow progress into the distance. He realized, with a shock, that another twenty minutes had passed.

Jesus, how long do you need to buy a fucking phone?

Another five minutes went by. Followed by another. Suddenly the taxi drove off and was swallowed by the traffic.

Ricky did a double-take. Had he missed her? Had the warden moved the taxi on?

He started the car and followed. Several vehicles in front, the taxi headed down to the sea, then turned right. Keeping his distance, staying several vehicles back, he followed the imbecilic, moronic, geriatric, dithering fool of a driver at a pace where he was likely to be overtaken by a tortoise. They went along the seafront, then up the winding hill into wide, open national park and farmland, and along towards the cliff-top beauty and favoured suicide spot of Beachy Head.

A double-decker bus was on his tail, pushing for him to speed up. ‘Come on, fuckwit!’ he shouted through the windscreen at the cab. ‘Put your fucking foot down!’

Still at the same speed, he passed the Beachy Head pub, following the winding road towards Birling Gap, then up through East Dean village. The agony continued through more open countryside, winding past the Seven Sisters and into Seaford. Then on, past the Newhaven ferry port, and up the hill into Peacehaven. A long-haired young man and a girl stood on a street corner in the distance waving and, to Ricky’s astonishment, the for hire light suddenly came on and the taxi pulled over.

He pulled over too and a line of traffic that had built up behind him shot past.

He watched the couple get into the back.

The taxi had been empty.

He’d been following an empty taxi.

Shit, shit, shit.

Oh, you little bitch, now you’ve really fucking done it.