Kill Clock

by Allan Guthrie

Tick Tock …

7:30 pm

 

An April evening in Portobello, Edinburgh’s seaside.  A light rain keeping it damp, a nippy breeze keeping it cool. 

Scotland’s weather was good on the whole.  Apart from the summer when Gordon Pearce got too hot.  Nothing worse than the sun on your skin, making your armpits prickle and your back as wet as a river-bed. 

But, no, it was spring, and here he was, walking down to the beach in his t-shirt.

Taking his three-legged dog, Hilda, for a walk. 

The closer they got to the beach, the cooler it became.  Sea breezes could sometimes sting.  But this was refreshing.  As good as a cold shower.

At the bottom of the road, just as Pearce and his dog were crossing over to the beach, a black car backed out of its parking space right in front of them.  The car stopped with a jolt, the rear bumper about a foot away from Pearce’s legs.

Pearce didn’t own a car and this kind of behaviour pissed him off. 

He didn’t know much about cars.  Didn’t know the make of this one.  Just knew that the driver had nearly run them over and was tooting his horn at them.

Prick.

Well, maybe the guy was trying to signal a mate who was still in the pub across the street.  Maybe that’s what the horn tooting was all about.  Pearce looked in that direction but no-one came out. 

Pearce could have moved, walked round the side of the car.  But he didn’t see why he should.  He was on the road first. 

The horn blared again.  The driver lowered his window, stuck his head out.  It was an odd shape, like a peanut, and just as bald.  He looked behind him.

“Fucking move,” the guy said to Pearce, blasting the horn three times.

Pearce didn’t budge.  Hilda tugged the lead and whined.  Pearce spoke to him out the side of his mouth: “It’s OK.  This won’t take me long.”

Oh, yeah.  Hilda was a ‘he’.  Named after Pearce’s mother, who’d died violently a few years ago.  That’s not to say Pearce thought his mother was a bitch.  Far from it.  They’d been close.  Which is why he’d named the dog after her.

Now, it wasn’t as if Pearce had suddenly stopped in the middle of the road.  He’d been crossing at an even pace.  And when he’d set foot off the pavement, there was no traffic.  This peanut-headed arse-hole had pulled out without looking.  Or maybe it was on purpose.  Which was even worse.

The driver stuck his head out of the car window again, and said, “Why the fuck don’t you move?  And take your stupid dog with you.”

What the fuck was wrong with him?  Why couldn’t he just be polite?  These days, everyone was a rude fuck.

Pearce didn’t move.

The guy shook his head.  Leaned on the horn. 

Two punters came out of the pub to see what was going on.

The driver let his hand off the horn and said to Pearce, “You’ve got ten seconds to get out of the way.”  He started counting.  “Ten … nine … eight …”

Pearce bent down, picked up Hilda, stood his ground, stared at the guy in the car.

“… three … two … one,” the guy in the car said.

What was he going to do now?

The car backed up slowly. 

Pearce watched it come closer, wondering how far this slap-head was prepared to go.  He found out when the bumper touched his shins.  Pearce pressed against the car, but knew he wasn’t going to be a match for it.  He took two steps back and moved off to the side. 

He placed Hilda on the ground, a safe distance from the reversing car.  The beach was only yards away.  The grassy area where Hilda did his business was nearby.  Pearce un-clipped the lead, said to the dog, “Go, be busy.”

The car crept backwards.  As it came along-side Pearce, the driver shouted through the open window: “I’ve a good mind to take your fucking dog and shove it up your arse.”

Pearce leaned towards him.  The guy stared at Pearce a second, then rolled up the window. 

Pearce could have reached in and grabbed the fucker.  But he let him raise the window.  More fun that way.

With the window up, the guy was feeling brave again.  Started calling Pearce names, thinking he was safe with the pane of glass between them.  But none-the-less he was giving it laldy.  Flecks of spit collected in the corners of his mouth.

He should have driven away.

Pearce leaned back, turned to the side and kicked his heel into the glass.  A fine mess it made.

Inside the car tiny bits of glass fell in a shower over the driver.  He yelled and Pearce could hear him clearly now, surprised, scared that he was hurt.

The window was gone. 

Pearce looked over at Hilda, who was squatting, back towards him as always.  Until he’d got Hilda, Pearce hadn’t known that a dog could be shit shy.

But Pearce wasn’t finished with the prick in the car. 

Pearce put his hands on the bonnet, jumped up onto it.  Had to bend over to see the guy inside.  He’d been brushing bits of glass off himself and had cut himself.  He was sucking his finger, but he stopped and looked up when Pearce thumped down in front of him.

Yep.  There was a madman standing on his car.  At least, Pearce guessed that’s how it seemed to him.  The driver wasn’t being so mouthy, anyway.

Pearce didn’t stop to think.  He drove his foot into the wind-screen.  And felt it in his heel.  Pretty solid fucker.  The blow only resulted in a crack. 

Inside, the driver cowered. 

Pearce kicked the wind-screen again.  Bigger crack, and something gave. 

Third time, the wind-screen spider-webbed.  Good enough.  No way the fucker would be able to see out of that.

Pearce jumped down.  Content to leave it at that.

But this bald bastard was a real twat.

The slap-head opened the door, glass falling onto the road.  “You cunt,” he said.  “Look what you’ve fucking done.”

By now, the two guys who’d come out of the pub had been joined by a bunch more people to watch the fun and games.  They’d only expected a game of pool tonight, so this was a real bonus. 

The slap-head shook his arms.  Bits of glass dropped to the ground.  He looked at Pearce.  “I’m gonna …”

“What?” Pearce said. 

No reply.  What a surprise. 

Pearce walked away. 

He hadn’t gone far when he heard the car engine.  He turned as the car reversed towards him.  Stopped short.  Again.

The slap-head braked, shouted, “You’re fucking paying for this.”

Pearce walked round the side of the car, opened the door, reached inside.  The prick put his arms up to protect himself.  Pearce grabbed him.  Pulled him out, sent him sprawling onto the road.  Pearce looked at the spray of glass on the driver’s seat.  There was a coat in the passenger seat.  He reached in, picked it up, placed it on the driver’s seat.  Then climbed inside and sat on the coat.

“Hey,” the driver said, jumping to his feet.  “What are you doing?”

Pearce closed the door.

The driver shoved his hand through the hole where the window used to be.

Pearce grabbed his hand and used the guy’s momentum to pull him forward.  His face bounced off the roof of the car. 

That hurt. 

Pearce let go. 

The engine was still running.  Pearce had to remind himself about the business of driving all over again.  Been a long time since he’d been behind a wheel.  Hadn’t had much experience before he went to jail, and obviously he didn’t do much driving there.  Since he’d come out, he hadn’t had the need.

First thing, he put on in his seat-belt.

Then he pressed in the clutch, found first gear and applied a little power.  The soles of his boots were pretty thick.  Not the best for driving with.  But that didn’t really matter.  There was only one thing on his mind.

About twenty feet to the left was the wall of the local bus station.

Pearce stepped on the accelerator and headed towards it.  Hard to see through the cracked wind-screen, but he was aware of the general direction.

He had fun rushing forward for a few seconds, and then:

BANG.

About twenty miles an hour when he hit.  Caught the wall a little side on. 

The impact jarred, but he’d felt worse.

He turned off the engine, took out the keys.  Un-clipped his belt.  Stepped out to inspect the damage.

Nice.

The whole of the front driver’s side was caved in.  Steam was coming out of the bonnet.  Water from the burst radiator dripping onto the road.  The bumper was bent in a V-shape.

The car’s owner hadn’t moved.

Pearce stepped towards him, lobbed him the keys.

The prick didn’t even bother trying to catch them, just looked at the ground where they’d fallen.

copyright (c) Allan Guthrie, 2007