(Chapter 12)
"Smoke and Shadows" (circa-1976)
"Fucking Stephanie Monroe...Fucking mad woman...Fucking violent husbands," he muttered to himself, yawning into a clenched fist, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror, making a mental note to cross 'The Bridge Hotel' off his list of social venues.
The sudden impact of the car mounting the pavement and crashing into a row of metal railings at a bus stop woke him from an untimely sleep, the natural reaction to grab the steering wheel after the event offering little to prevent or cushion the blow from the impact.
In the claustrophobic silence he sucked in precious air, trying to calm the accelerating heart beating frantically inside his chest, his head aching with the pain of been thrown like a rag doll against the car windscreen, sleep deprived eyes staring into the mirror, trying to focus through the cobwebs of nausea, his face peppered with several cuts from the shards of glass that had showered his body on impact and an open wound spitting blood from his forehead.
Sweeping away particles of broken glass from his limp body and wiping cold beads of sweat from his forehead, breathing in short gasps of air and stepping from the car to examine the damage, cursing under his breath at his stupidity, a fleeting glance at his watch a chilling reminder that things could have been more serious.
If he had been travelling this route an hour or so later the bus stop would have been littered with people on their way to work and furthermore if he had hit the bus stop head on, he could be spending the night in a hospital ward, or even the hospital morgue.
He made a mental note to start wearing his seat belt before examining the car.
The impact of the wheels hitting the high kerb had slowed the car enough to cushion the blow just before hitting the metal railings and surprisingly the front of the car didn't appear to have sustained too much damage.
A yellow orange glow on the horizon signalled the beginning of a new day and the last thing he needed to see at this time in the morning was a police car.
Although his legs protested against the physical demands and every bone in his body ached, he managed to push the car from the footpath and back onto the road.
The journey home was painfully slow but the early morning bird-song and the welcoming cool breeze in his face and Paul Rodgers crooning 'All Right Now' from the car radio, helped to ease the pain and bring him back to reality.
The taxi drive to Newcastle Royal Victoria Hospital was only a couple of miles away from his flat. The Accident and Emergency Room was unexpectedly quiet. A plump nurse with a bloated look of someone who had a craving for carbohydrates, called Susan Owen quickly attended to the four stitches he required and he was soon on his way back to the comforts of his own flat.
After a couple of glasses of red wine and a restless night's sleep punctuated by disturbing dreams of becoming the latest statistic in a long list of road accident victims, he was shaved and showered before seven o'clock the following morning.
June Chamber's was having breakfast when the telephone rang. After giving her a brief summary of the accident and the subsequent damages to his car she said she would send a breakdown vehicle and have it brought to her garage in Newton-by-the-Sea.
Between slurps of coffee and a conversation laden with innuendo and flirtatious phone sex, followed by a description of the recent addition to her dressing-up-wardrobe and some new phallic toys, she asked him if he would like to spend the day at her flat while the mechanics worked on his car.
After a few minor body repairs, a new windscreen and radiator and a solo demonstration with her new phallic toy followed by two hours of bed rattling sweaty sex, he was heading back to Gateshead.
A peaceful evening with Caroline Spencer in his favourite Italian restaurant was a welcoming relief after the bizarre night at Stephanie Monroe's flat.
It had certainly been an anxious two weeks, constantly looking over his shoulder, staring into the eyes of faceless strangers, jumping nervously whenever someone knocked at the door or a car unexpectedly backfired in the street.
The facial wounds from the road accident had now healed so he thought it prudent not to mention his close encounter with death, in fear of a question and answer confrontation.
Caroline hummed softly to the romantic music as a waiter placed food on the table, beaming a wide smile and raising her wine glass in the way of a toast, announcing that she was giving up her job in teaching and going to work as a probation officer at HMP-Durham.
The night of celebration began with a long and uninteresting summary about her new job in the prison service. Wine glasses filled, wine glasses emptied, another bottle arriving at the table, a night of mixed emotions and flirtatious interaction, her demeanour growing in confidence, her voice lowering to surreptitious whispers, events of their intimate liaison in the swimming pool at her parents' house stimulating arousal, any further conversation about career moves melting away in the heat of passion.
If only he'd telephoned a service engineer when the pilot light kept going out on the central heating boiler, they wouldn't be going back to a cold house.
She smiled, but she looked uncomfortable. She shivered and sighed at his feeble attempts to ignite the pilot light. He feared the cold atmosphere might dampen the mood and the libido until he remembered that he still had water from the emersion heater.
He made a mental note to ring a service engineer first thing in the morning.
A bottle of wine in one hand and glasses in the other, sprinting up the stairs to the bathroom, taps turned on, wine poured into glasses, clothes quickly abandoned on the floor, two white candles on the window sill and classical music filtering through from the bedroom providing a romantic ambience for a night of insatiable passion.
