Breakdown by Matthew Roy Davey

“No one’s going to be looking,” he snapped.

He heard her sigh but didn’t turn to look. After a moment, the sound of her struggling up the embankment and the crashing of undergrowth came to him as she made her way into the bushes that covered the upper slopes.

It wasn’t true that no one was looking. Everyone seemed to be, staring at him as he stood there above the hard shoulder, hunched with hands shoved into the pockets of his Harrington. She’d said he was too old for it. ‘The day I take style advice from you,’ he’d said, ‘is the day you dress me for the casket.’ And that wouldn’t be too far off, the way she was going on.

Nevertheless, he wished he’d worn a different jacket. It was colder than he’d expected – not that he’d expected to end up standing by the side of a motorway – and now the skudding clouds threatened rain.

He sniffed. The air was mauve with exhaust and smelled like headaches. He watched the occupants of the passing cars. Their faces were blank, disinterested, not having time to react, and why should they care? His predicament was not unusual, and he was not disabled, with children or old enough to feel sorry for. Just a grumpy greying man, to be pitied perhaps, but not worth sympathy. It wasn’t even raining yet. How often had he sped past such ill-starred motorists, feeling nothing more than relief that it wasn’t him.

He’d never realised how small the safety barrier was, how low. It didn’t seem to offer much protection. The speed of the passing cars seemed immense. You never realised how fast, he reflected, when you were driving. But now, right next to them, it was threatening, their potential for destruction. And there were so many; a constant droning rush.

He could hear rustling from above. Was she still finding a secluded spot, going ever deeper, or was she finishing off? It wasn’t true that no one would be looking. Who wouldn’t be amused to see a lady on the large side hauling herself up a motorway embankment, struggling to conceal herself in a bush? It would break up the monotony of the journey. I spy a middle-aged woman pissing.

The argument had started in the Starbucks at Warwick Services and had continued onto the petrol station forecourt. That was what caused him to put diesel in the tank. They’d only had the car a week and he’d forgotten, been distracted, driven to distraction, literally, by her nagging. It was all her fault. He’d follow her up into those bushes and finish her off if it wasn’t for the witnesses and lack of viable escape route.

He glanced to his right at the Citroen. He hadn’t gone more than a couple of miles when he’d realised. She’d shown remarkable restraint when he stopped swearing and told her why he was pulling over. Maybe she’d realised it was partly her fault. Maybe she’d realised he’d known it was his own fault and that she didn’t need to say anything to make him feel bad. In fact, by not saying anything it gave her the moral high ground, didn’t give him anything to push back against. Moral judo.

How far, he wondered, would the car take him before the engine seized? He’d stopped because he knew that was the best way to avoid more serious damage, but the car could, in theory, keep going for at least ten miles.

The RAC said they’d be another two hours, minimum.

He glanced over his shoulder, up the verge. There was no sign of her. He jingled the keys in his pocket.

Matthew Roy Davey

Image by David ROUMANET from Pixabay row of fuel filler pump handles. two green one yellow for deisel and one black for Gasoil