Left You Dead

36

Despite the bad start to the test drive, Larry Olson had to admit his customer knew what he was doing. Goodman had done a lot of track days, he’d reassured Olson, as well as an ice-racing course in Sweden a couple of winters ago. Once he’d got the feel of the BMW, he’d handled it well through the fast, wet, twisty two-lane road over Devil’s Dyke and onto the A23.

On the return journey there had been a couple of moments when he’d overtaken a little sharply, but they’d made it without Olson needing to reach into his pocket for the vial of white pills.

Now they were inside the city limits, heading downhill in the relative calm of a 40 mph limit. Goodman duly braked as they approached the 30 mph roundel, muttering that he’d been caught in a sneaky radar trap just past this sign a couple of years ago.

Olson could relax again now and resumed his sales patter, not that he really needed to. He was pushing at an open door. He could see from the broad smile of his customer’s face that he was all but ready to sign any piece of paper he shoved under his nose, once they were back in his showroom.

They turned left at traffic lights onto the Old Shoreham Road, in electric mode now.

‘She’s so incredibly smooth!’ he said, beaming. ‘And silent — a different experience. And does she go, wow!’

‘She does. And economical, too! Around town you’ll get up to ninety-one miles per gallon!’

‘Awesome!’

Olson directed him to make a right shortly after the next set of lights. A left, then another right down a short, winding road until they reached a T-junction back at the wide New Church Road, lined on both side with large, detached houses and some blocks of flats. He kept the spiel going as Goodman, clearly concerned about his licence, kept the speed to a rigid 31 mph. They were approaching, to their left, a school for posh kids which had a good reputation. Olson had educated all three of his own there up to public school level. Back in the days, he rued, when he was earning proper money.

But were his kids, all grown up now, grateful? Hell no, they’d sided with their mother after he’d traded her in for a younger model. Embarrassingly young, his daughter had said, the last time they’d spoken, more years ago than he could recall.

The rain, which had eased earlier, was now coming down heavily again and the windscreen was misting. Just as he leaned forward to switch the demister on, Goodman shouted out a petrified, ‘NO!’

Olson was thrown forward against his shoulder strap as the car braked hard. He just saw a flash of red, then heard a sickening thump. Someone small, arms splayed wide out, eyes frozen, hurtled over the front of the car, thudded against the windscreen, then vanished. There was a heavy bang on the roof.

The car slewed to a halt.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then Goodman shrieked, ‘OH SHIT, OH GOD, OH SHIT.’