The Devil at Your Heels
The tick tick tick of the car’s cooling engine dragged Arthur back to his surroundings with a rush. The sky was cornflower blue, the only movement a honking arrow of geese skirting the horizon. He squinted against the bright summer light, his face cooled by a gentle breeze that disturbed the smoke hazing the air. A fly crawled across his face, tasted the sweat beading on his skin, before he swatted it away.
He looked down at his hand resting on the hood of his car. He felt the heat bite deep into his hand, the pain distant, happening to someone else. He idly fingered a small dent marring the otherwise glossy, satin finish. Such a small thing, his mind wondered, such a small thing with large… He looked up sharply and the reality of his situation fell on him like a ravening beast, seizing his throat in a choking grasp that left him dizzy and breathless.
A little up the road, lying on its roof was a late model Mini, as helpless and useless as an upturned beetle. Scrapes and gouges in the paint work and battered panels robbed it of its graceful lines. Wisps of smoke spiralled into the air from its shattered engine and petrol leaked in a spreading, acrid pool. One of the front wheels rotated hypnotically.
