Just to warn you. No graphic sex in this story as usual, and not a single wife gets burned at the stake.
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I cursed the day that I'd sold the damn car, and then I double cursed the cursed damn day that that I'd bought the damn thing!
Damn car!
I'd fancied a Porsche all my life, and I found myself there, me pushing thirty, a four year old Ford outside our house, and just about enough money in the bank to pay the difference. The difference that is between my old Ford and the considerably older but none the less beautiful red Porsche 911 that I'd been drooling over for the last four weeks every time that I passed it in the garage in town. The registration number even featured the letters GAD. Got it? George and Debbie!
I talked to my wife, pleaded, cajoled, joked and made every sought of promise imaginable, and at last she came round and agreed that we could splash our hard earned savings out on the object of my desire.
That I guess was my first mistake.
On reflection, Debbie and I weren't really Porsche material, the Ford being more our type of thing, maybe some GTI or other, or even an MX5 perhaps. But as I'd said, I'd fancied a Porsche for so long that I couldn't wait to get behind the wheel once it was mine.
"Golly George," Debbie grinned at me the first time she sat in it. "I'm not sure I feel right in a car like this."
"You look great dear," I told her happily, smiling at my pretty young wife, imagining how much better she'd look sat there in a shorter skirt and skimpy top, than the sensible dresses that she habitually wore.
That was part of the problem I suppose, neither of us being 'clubby' types or lovers of the bright lights. We were both schoolteachers at different schools in our little town in Bedfordshire, where we'd both been teaching since we'd left college. I'd been there nearly five years and Debbie, some two years younger than me a little less. We'd met at college when I'd plucked up the courage to approach her in her first year to ask if she wanted to share my blotting paper, as it seemed that we were the only two in the class who still used a real fountain pen. She'd looked terrified at first, not knowing how to respond, having no idea that I was going through the same emotions.
Quite how we got there will always remain a mystery, but for the rest of that year we went steady, even though it took me till our sixth date till I actually got round to kissing her. Debbie really was a pretty little thing, only five two, with long brown hair that she almost always kept done up in a bun. She was slim and nicely put together in a homely sense, breasts not at all large, but very firm and pert, not that I was to confirm that till much, much later. As you will have guessed perhaps, I graduated, got my job in Bedfordshire, and when Debbie followed a couple of years later, then marriage soon followed within months.
So there we were, me and my sensibly dressed wife sat in our Porsche, and didn't we feel grand! I set off on our first trip, surprised at the power available compared to my previous cars and absolutely loving it. And I continued to love it for the next four months, rather inconveniently just out of the three-month guarantee that it had come with.
The first time I heard the noise I ignored it, imagining that it would just go away. The second time I simply couldn't pretend that it didn't exist, and by the time we got home that evening from school, we both knew that something was amiss.
A trip back to the garage where we'd bought it didn't help much, as all they did was direct us towards a specialist over in Luton.
"Gear box trouble mate," the oily mechanic informed us with a sad look on his face. "All sprockets and grommets these things. I wouldn't want to take this too far with a problem like that."
You can imagine we were both desolate, all our savings having gone into buying the damn thing.
"I've got a spare one in the back," he cheered us up with. "If you leave it with me then I could have it done by Wednesday."
Well, at least that cheered us up, and Debbie gave me a cuddle and a little smile of encouragement.
"How much?" I asked feeling more confident.
"Three grand for the box plus labour," he floored us with.
"Three thousand?" I screeched in disbelief, my innards running cold at the prospect of such an impossible sum.
"Yes mate," he confirmed. "Three thousand plus another grand or so for the labour and gaskets and things. Plus VAT of course.
Oh shit!
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Our house was a pretty sad place that night, with Debbie trying not to blame me, though every time she looked at me her eyes showed the evidence of tears trying to break through, and it nigh on killed me with shame for what my indulgence was about to cost us.
"We can't afford it you know George," Debbie spoke out at last.
"I know honey," I agreed broken up. "I'll ask the guy what he will give us for it."
"I'm sure it'll be Ok George," Debbie assured me, though the look on her face told me that she knew full well that it would be anything but so.
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"Not interested mate," the mechanic informed me the following morning. "Once the gear box has gone on a car like this, then it'll be something else. I don't need trouble like that."
"But what can I do?" I pleaded with him.
"Stick some thick oil in the box to quieten it down, and then get shot of it mate," he suggested rather disinterestedly.
"But I couldn't just sell it to someone else knowing there was a major problem," I protested. "That wouldn't be honest."
"Stick it in the car auction then mate," he went on. "Then you won't even have to see the poor mug who buys it."
"Thanks for nothing," I thought as I carefully drove the damn thing home that evening, praying that the noise wouldn't suddenly get worse, and having no idea what to do.
That evening the two of us talked it over for hours, hating having to take advantage of some poor soul, but not knowing what else we could do. Duly, the following Saturday found us buying the extra thick oil, and most of my Sunday morning was taken up swapping the oil, no easy feat at the best of times. The Porsche was delivered to the local car auctions in Bedford the following week and we sat back to wait. A call on the Friday confirmed the good news that the car had indeed sold, but the bad news was that the top bid had been far below what we had paid for it. We'd expected the auction price to be less than we'd paid of course, but it was still a hard knock to accept.
"Well that's your dream over for a few years honey," Debbie consoled me, as we looked at the replacement second-hand bog standard Volkswagon parked where the Porsche had so proudly sat, our savings blown on our unfortunate escapade. "But at least you lived it for a few weeks."
"Thanks sweetheart," I sniffed back and took her in my arms and pulled her tight. "The important thing is that we've still got each other."
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Life went back to normal for about three weeks, our sensible car doing all that was asked of it, getting the pair of us to and from school each day. Of course questions we were asked about the sudden disappearance of the Porsche, which had caused such a stir when it first arrived in my school car park, but we brushed them off with claims that we'd simply changed our minds when we realised how much the running costs were going to be. Not quite the truth, but close enough, and to be honest a bit of a face-saver.
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"Mr Adams," the voice on the other end of the line demanded when I picked up the phone one evening shortly afterwards. "Mr George Adams?"
"Speaking," I confirmed.
"The Mr George Adams who used to own the Porsche 911, that was sold at the Auctions the other week?"
My legs went weak and my stomach knotted, knowing that the bloody Porsche had come back to haunt us.
"You still there Mr Jones," the now threatening voice demanded. "It was you who sold it I presume."
"Yes," I mumbled back uncertainly. "What can I do for you?"
"I think you know what this is about Mr Adams don't you?" the voice stated, and my silence did nothing but confirm it.
"So what are you going to do about it Mr Adams?" the guy on the other end went on. "What are you going to do about the duff gearbox you passed off onto me?"
"Gearbox?" I queried, well aware that I was on a loser. "What gearbox?"
"I'll tell you what Mr Adams," he went on, ignoring my denial. "We'll come round to see you to discuss the matter. We've got your address off the paperwork and we'll be there in about half an hour, so you'd better be thinking about what you're going to do about it."
Before I could say another thing, the phone clicked off and I was left standing there, shaking.
I called Debbie and told her what had happened, and she burst out crying.
"I told you we shouldn't have bought that damn car," she sobbed. "I knew it would lead to trouble."
We were still standing there when only a quarter of an hour later, the front door bell rang. I sent Debbie into the other room, and gingerly opened the door, my claims of no responsibility half worked out in my head, when three men, big men, brushed past me.
"Right then George," the middle one with the closely cropped hair and scar on his face said to me. "Where's my bleeding money you stupid bugger?"
"What money?" I murmured back, taking in his six foot odd height, bulky build and grim expression. "You bought the car, we didn't make any claims on condition, so the gearbox is your problem."
"Like a broken leg would be your problem you mean?" He shot back roughly. "And that would be just for starters."
"What do you mean," I spluttered, the horror of our situation hitting me. "You wouldn't."
"Don't piss me about sunshine," he shouted back at me, the anger in his dark threatening eyes shining through. "Ten thousand quid on the button and the car's yours again, but you'll have to go and pick it up down in London where the bleeding gearbox blew up. That's what I paid for the bloody thing and that's what you're going to give me back."
"But I haven't got ten thousand pounds," I told him. "That's why I had to sell it."
"Well you've got half an hour to find it sunshine," he threatened me; stepping up and shoving his face up close to mine.
"But I can't," I answered back as confidently as I could. "You can't get away with this."
"Hurt him a bit Jimbo," the leader said to the huge black guy stood next to him. "Don't break anything though ---- Not yet."
I found myself backing up across the room as the human nightmare moved towards me. I admit it --- I was terrified, bloody terrified. This Jimbo character was even bigger than the first guy, with muscles that seemed to have muscles built on them. His bald shaven head only added to his frightening appearance.
I yelped in pain as he grabbed my arm and twisted it, bringing it back up behind my back, till I thought it would surely snap.
"Get off him you brutes," came my wife's scream as she charged into the room, unable to stick to my instructions to keep out of it. "Leave him alone."
"Well what do we have here then?" leader man grinned nastily as he took in my pretty young wife. "You're a pretty little thing aren't you?"
"Bit skinny if you ask me," the third lout, a long lanky scruff of a man piped up. "But pretty enough I suppose."
"Nice little pair of tits though by the looks of it," the leader cut back in with. "Can't really see though with that big jumper she's got on, can we."
"Shut up you bastards," I cried out at them, but all I got for my trouble was even more pressure on my arm.
"Leave him alone," Debbie pleaded as I yelped out in pain again.
