Wild Fiction

‘Yes I want you to go. I have work to do.’
James tried to say something but Rebecca put her finger over his lips and pointed to the door. She led them out and the author closed the door behind them. He stuffed the bonds back in the envelope and put them in his safe. He shut the safe door with a firm click and spun the dial on the combination lock. He sat down in front of the computer and became absorbed in his work. He wrote the story, the one that you’re reading, one word at a time.
The Jaguar’s engine was unmistakable when it started. It purred at idle and roared when revved. He glanced down at the bottom right hand corner of the screen. It read 18:07. He walked to the window and watched Genevieve backing the car out of the garage. He saw the dent and scratches on the back left corner and watched as she pulled away down the driveway.

Chapter 35

The Jaguar’s powerful engine let out a deep-throated growl as Genevieve dropped a gear on each corner. The fat tyres gripped the road surface as she gunned the car out of each curve and slammed her foot on the brake at the next corner. Her hand clenched the gear stick as she played it like a fighter jet’s joystick. In her mind she was at Le Mans. The time was twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. Just one minute to go and it was all over. In her mind’s rear-view mirror she could see the competition biting at her tail. She wasn’t going to let them past. The chequered flag was for her and her alone. She hit a damp patch at the next corner and the back of the car slid out. She overcorrected to the left with her foot on the brake and the rear-lights snaked bright red behind her. She regained control, took her foot off the brake, and gunned the engine again. Her breathing quickened, she could see the glistening sheen of water at the next corner. She hit the brakes again and the back of the car slid up the perfectly cambered bank and returned to the middle of the road. She let out a loud laugh which the wind rushing over her head caught and whipped away. The yellow post box that marked the entrance to Gunther’s house came into sight. Eighty yards of straight, smooth, flat road to go. She slowed remembering the last time she had turned into Gunther’s driveway at high speed, the yellow post box between her windscreen wipers.