Dave suggests.
"Eh?"
"He's this really tall black guy who appears from nowhere and torments the bad guys with his banjo playing."
"That's pretty bad."
"You're one to talk. You were the one who came up with Shortsighted Viagra Man."
"Oh, come on," I say. "That one's brilliant."
Dave laughs. "Lock up your daughters! And anything else nearby!"
We happily talk bollocks for another ten minutes or so before a new visitor arrives. This one has a badge.
"I need a few minutes with your friend," he tells Dave.
Dave looks at me. I nod.
"See you in a bit," Dave says, and leaves.
His name is Burke, and he's police. He's tall, fiftyish, with big shoulders and the air of somebody who's seen things you really don't want to ask him about. The plastic chair complains when he sits on it.
He sits and looks at me for a while. When he finally speaks, I wonder if he gargles gravel for breakfast.
"I've spoken to the Doc," he says. "I know you weren't drunk, and you weren't high. Want to tell me what happened?" He stabs at his notebook with his index finger and it beeps. Recording.
"There's not much to tell," I say. "I was driving home --"
"From where?"
"From Ottomatik. I'd just had the car serviced."
He nods as if to say carry on. I carry on.
"I'm about halfway home and then the car goes crazy."
"Crazy?"
"It was as if the accelerator stuck," I tell him. "The brakes didn't work, none of the buttons on the dash worked, the car just kept on accelerating."
"What did you do then?"
"I thought the pedal might be stuck, so I tried pressing on it. I tried the brakes. I pressed every single button I could reach."
"And?"
"And none of it made any difference. And then I crashed."
Burke stares at me for a very long time. If I'd had anything to confess, I'd have spilled the beans there and then.
"Was your car modified in any way?"
"No."
"You haven't had it chipped?"
"No."
Burke stabs at his notebook again. It beeps. He stands up, the chair making a noise that sounds awfully like a sigh of relief.
"Thanks for your time," he says, dropping a business card on the bedside table. "I'll be in touch."
I get out the following morning. Amy was right. When the painkillers wear off I feel like somebody has hit every bit of my body with a frying pan. I spend most of the day munching Ibuprofen before heading for work. Being off sick is a luxury I can't afford.
I've barely taken off my coat before Sleazy Bob summons me to his office.
"You need to go home, Matt," he says.
This isn't like him. Sleazy Bob is not the caring type.
"Thanks, Mr Hannah, but I'm fine. Honestly. It looks much worse than it is."
Sleazy Bob looks confused, then realises what I've just said. "Matt, you work in a customer facing role. You're an ambassador for Hannah's. And ambassadors don't look like they've been in a bar fight."
"I wasn't in a fight. It was a car accident."
"I don't think that really matters," he says. "Take the time off. Come back when the bruises have gone." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. I go home.
Amy and Dave are both working and I've got nothing to do, so I wanderki past the supermarket and stock up on beer and painkillers. I go home, play video games until I get bored, make a half-hearted attempt at tidying up and flick through my messages, email and news feeds. I call up the local paper to see if anything interesting is going on. They've got a picture of my car on the front page.
I look again at the photo. Something isn't right. It looks like my car. It's more smashed up than I remember, but then I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders the last time I saw it. But it's not just the damage to the car that's wrong. It's the photo itself. When I crashed, I ended up in a field. The photo shows a suburban street.
Either the local paper has been faking things again, or…
I scan the text. Two words jump out.
Scott Marsden.
According to the paper, Scott was a "boy racer" who lost control of his car at roughly the same
"Eh?"
"He's this really tall black guy who appears from nowhere and torments the bad guys with his banjo playing."
"That's pretty bad."
"You're one to talk. You were the one who came up with Shortsighted Viagra Man."
"Oh, come on," I say. "That one's brilliant."
Dave laughs. "Lock up your daughters! And anything else nearby!"
We happily talk bollocks for another ten minutes or so before a new visitor arrives. This one has a badge.
"I need a few minutes with your friend," he tells Dave.
Dave looks at me. I nod.
"See you in a bit," Dave says, and leaves.
His name is Burke, and he's police. He's tall, fiftyish, with big shoulders and the air of somebody who's seen things you really don't want to ask him about. The plastic chair complains when he sits on it.
He sits and looks at me for a while. When he finally speaks, I wonder if he gargles gravel for breakfast.
"I've spoken to the Doc," he says. "I know you weren't drunk, and you weren't high. Want to tell me what happened?" He stabs at his notebook with his index finger and it beeps. Recording.
"There's not much to tell," I say. "I was driving home --"
"From where?"
"From Ottomatik. I'd just had the car serviced."
He nods as if to say carry on. I carry on.
"I'm about halfway home and then the car goes crazy."
"Crazy?"
"It was as if the accelerator stuck," I tell him. "The brakes didn't work, none of the buttons on the dash worked, the car just kept on accelerating."
"What did you do then?"
"I thought the pedal might be stuck, so I tried pressing on it. I tried the brakes. I pressed every single button I could reach."
"And?"
"And none of it made any difference. And then I crashed."
Burke stares at me for a very long time. If I'd had anything to confess, I'd have spilled the beans there and then.
"Was your car modified in any way?"
"No."
"You haven't had it chipped?"
"No."
Burke stabs at his notebook again. It beeps. He stands up, the chair making a noise that sounds awfully like a sigh of relief.
"Thanks for your time," he says, dropping a business card on the bedside table. "I'll be in touch."
I get out the following morning. Amy was right. When the painkillers wear off I feel like somebody has hit every bit of my body with a frying pan. I spend most of the day munching Ibuprofen before heading for work. Being off sick is a luxury I can't afford.
I've barely taken off my coat before Sleazy Bob summons me to his office.
"You need to go home, Matt," he says.
This isn't like him. Sleazy Bob is not the caring type.
"Thanks, Mr Hannah, but I'm fine. Honestly. It looks much worse than it is."
Sleazy Bob looks confused, then realises what I've just said. "Matt, you work in a customer facing role. You're an ambassador for Hannah's. And ambassadors don't look like they've been in a bar fight."
"I wasn't in a fight. It was a car accident."
"I don't think that really matters," he says. "Take the time off. Come back when the bruises have gone." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. I go home.
Amy and Dave are both working and I've got nothing to do, so I wanderki past the supermarket and stock up on beer and painkillers. I go home, play video games until I get bored, make a half-hearted attempt at tidying up and flick through my messages, email and news feeds. I call up the local paper to see if anything interesting is going on. They've got a picture of my car on the front page.
I look again at the photo. Something isn't right. It looks like my car. It's more smashed up than I remember, but then I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders the last time I saw it. But it's not just the damage to the car that's wrong. It's the photo itself. When I crashed, I ended up in a field. The photo shows a suburban street.
Either the local paper has been faking things again, or…
I scan the text. Two words jump out.
Scott Marsden.
According to the paper, Scott was a "boy racer" who lost control of his car at roughly the same
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