Little Red Car

Little Red Car



‘That car will be the death of you!’ my mother exclaimed on seeing my new two-seater sports car. Bright red with chrome wheels - it was my pride and joy. I felt slightly annoyed that she wasn’t as enthusiastic as I was about it, but that didn’t detract too much from how I felt. My wife was equally, if not more, unimpressed.

‘We live on an island, for God’s sake. And the speed limit is 40 miles per hour. Why have you bought a sports car?’

Nevertheless, I was determined to enjoy my new purchase. It was a Sunday morning in the summer and after showering and dressing (shorts, t-shirt, sunglasses) I headed out on my own. Our house was at the head of a pier, just off a bay, and I took to the roads without much regard for those negative comments. I had the top down and the feel of the sun on my face was great. The roads were empty - I felt like the king of the world.

I spent most of the day away from the house. There was just me, my car and the road. The sun glistened off the new paintwork and the chrome. I breathed deep on the smell of new leather, turned the radio up and drove and drove.

Around 11 o’clock, I parked up just outside a beachside café and went in to have a coffee and read the morning papers. It was great to watch the people come and go and almost all of them peered in through the driver’s window of my car, oblivious that I am watching them with burgeoning pride. Everywhere I went that day I turned heads. It was the best feeling in the world. I didn’t want to think too much about having to return home that evening. No doubt there would be another spat of snide comments leading to an inevitable row. For now, I was enjoying life.

That night my wife was itching to have a go. ‘Have a fun day?’ she asked. I could tell by her tone that this was the preamble, and more was to come. I sort of huffed and blew without really giving her an answer, hoping her mood would subside. Standing at the window, I pulled the curtains aside to look out onto my car. ‘I think you love that thing more than me!’ she spat. The only sensible thing to do was to continue to ignore her. Already, I was missing the feel of driving but the anticipation of the next day soothed my mood.

Making my way into the kitchen, I breathed a sigh of relief. She seemed to have gone quiet and I was hoping this would now blow over. I poured myself a glass of wine and put on some music. Sitting at the kitchen table I started leafing through the brochure that had come with my car. Inevitably, my wife followed me. She poured herself a glass of wine and turned the music off. Gesturing towards my glass she sniffed, ‘You don’t want to put too much of that away. You’ll not be able to drive in the morning.’ I was fed up with this now.

‘Listen’, I retorted, ‘just drop it. I’m sick hearing you whinge about the car.’ But she was relentless.

By the time we had made it to bed, she really had the bit between her teeth. ‘You haven’t even asked me to come with you yet for a drive.’ She said this without looking at me, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, reading a woman’s trashy magazine. I had had enough.

‘You don’t even like the damn thing,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, you’d be more worried about getting your bloody hair messed up’. There is no way I will take you out in it unless you drop your attitude. And I’ll tell you another thing. I hope I never see you behind the wheel of it.’

I had no idea how prophetic those words would be.

I tried to bury my nose in my book. I didn’t want this conversation. She continued ‘I suppose you’ll be out washing it in the morning’ she said, ‘wash, wash, wash, polish, polish, polish. If only, you would wash and polish as much in this house’. I dropped my book onto the covers.

‘Look, shut up about the car. I have heard enough.’ She cleared her throat and became quiet. I was expecting more, but I think she realised my fuse was about to run out.

I was in too much of a mood to read my book. Switching off my bedside lamp, I settled down for the night. It had been a long day. I had been out on the road from the crack of dawn and was eager to get going the next day. As the world dimmed and I started to doze, she started singing. ‘I like driving in my car…’.

I exploded. I leapt up in bed and grabbed her by the throat. My wife was quite petite so I was able to get both hands firmly around her neck. I started to squeeze. The harder I squeezed, the calmer I felt. She clawed at my hands trying to pull them away. She bucked and heaved under me. I had the force of gravity and three stone in body weight to my advantage. I squeezed harder. She was now thrashing around and her eyes were bulging and bloodshot. I squeezed some more. There wasn’t too much in the way of singing being done now! She tried to mouth something at me, it might have been ‘please’ or ‘sorry’ but I ignored her and squeezed again. I was pushing her hard into the mattress and this was weakening my hold so I squeezed harder still. My arms were starting to tire but with a final arch of her back, she collapsed onto the bed and was still.

I found that apart from a few signs of exertion, I was still quite calm. I reached over, turned off her bedside lamp, lay down beside my wife and went to sleep.

During the night, I dreamt that I was being chased through the streets around our house. My pursuer was faceless, but I could feel them gaining on me. The overriding feeling was one of impending doom. They were getting closer and I could not run much further. I knew that I must get away from them but time was running out…



* * *



I woke the next morning with the early morning sun making lazy patterns on the ceiling of the bedroom where it had made its way through gaps in the curtains. I turned to my side to look at my wife’s body.

There are moments in your life when you do a double-take. It might be when you read something bizarre in the newspaper or pass a strange looking person while doing the weekly shop. It also happens when you are expecting to wake up next to a dead body… that seems to have disappeared in the middle of the night. I sat up in the bed, my heart hammering in my chest. Could I have dreamt the events of the previous evening?

I got out of bed and checked the bathroom. I ran downstairs to the lounge and into the kitchen. She was nowhere to be seen. I fell into a chair at the kitchen table and ran through my memory of the strangulation. If she had acted out those last moments then she had fooled me, completely. Maybe I was dreaming, still sleeping and not in the real world. The feel of the hairs standing on my arm suggested that I was wide awake. Our wine glasses in the sink confirmed the chain of events, the dregs of wine in them deep crimson, the colour of blood.

I lifted the house phone and called my wife’s mobile phone number. It rang through to voicemail. It was odd to hear her voice as I had already accepted that she was dead. But where was she? For a split second I considered phoning the police. That would be a great conversation I thought, ‘Can I report the disappearance of my dead wife’s body.’

‘I see sir, and when did she die?’

‘About two minutes after I started strangling her last night!’

I wasn’t thinking clearly. ‘Under the bed! She rolled off in the middle of the night!’ I thought and bolted up the stairs. I ran into the bedroom, not getting too close to the bed. After all, I didn’t want her cadaverous arm to reach out and pull me into the crypt below the bed. I dropped onto my knees but apart from an old scalextric set, some car magazines and a few dust bunnies there was nothing there.

My heart was racing now. Where could she be? I decided to check downstairs again and bounded down the stairs stumbling at the bottom and falling to my hands and knees from the last step. Although this was not strenuous exercise the combination of adrenalin and fear made my breathing heavy and out of control. A frenzied check of the lounge and kitchen revealed nothing. Out through the front door. Sweat was streaming down my forehead and soaking the back of my shirt. Along the pier, running, directionless. Where was she? Her laughter seemed to fill my head. I ran on, completely panic stricken. All coherent thought was gone. What was I doing out here. There was no way she could have miraculously recovered and left the house. Was there? Onto the main road, running and searching.

Deep within my subconscious, I heard the squeal of tyres as a car accelerated quickly from a standing start. Suddenly it was all becoming clear. Everything had slowed down now. I felt like I was moving in treacle. I could see how this would pan out. She would claim that the car was too powerful for her, that it had all been a tragic accident, and, after all, she would be a grieving widow.

The final pieces were in position - my mother, as ever, had been right.

As I sucked in my final breaths, I turned toward the sound of the squealing tyres. I was rooted to the spot. My feet were planted right in the middle of the road. The sweat on my back was cooling and I shivered - maybe in anticipation of death. My final thought was that the chrome bumper and the bonnet would be damaged from the impact.

The car struck me square on the hip, the momentum knocking me off my feet and upwards. As I was hurled into the air, I took one final glimpse of my beautiful car. My wife’s face, slightly frosted through the windscreen, was smiling. I felt no pain. The sky was blue, the sea was clear and there was a final flash of red before I came tumbling down, and the darkness took me.