The car sped
away from the house, making Lewis Hamilton look like one of those Sunday
drivers with the flat cap and leather gloves.
Jane wasn’t
usually a careless driver, but the argument she’d just had with her partner had
filled her with rage.
“You’re not
spontaneous enough,” Claire had told her.
Buggering
off suddenly was fairly spontaneous, so that had shown her.
She thought
she’d drive around for a while and let things calm down before returning home. They’d
say their sorries and crack open a nice bottle of wine and watch a film on the
sofa. It would be ok again.
Except the
anger wasn’t dissipating in the slightest.
Jane
screeched around corners and accelerated down one-way streets, turning the
market town into an urban rally. Instead of excitable spectators cheering her
on, the streets were lined with frightened pedestrians, some of whom leapt out
of her way as she mounted the kerbs frequently.
She turned
back into her own road, feeling no calmer.
She could
see Claire in the garden.
Jane pushed
her foot to the floor and roared towards her.
Claire waved
and smiled, but her face turned to shock as she realised Jane was heading
straight for her.
She was
paralysed.
Jane bounced
the car over the pavement and through the hedge. The car struck Claire, still
travelling at 50mph.
Claire was
knocked through the living room window and the car smashed into the wall behind
her, the bonnet crumpling like an accordion.
Jane was
thrown through the windscreen.
Their bodies
ended up together on the carpeted floor, locked in a twisted embrace and looking
like Juliet and Juliet.
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