TKnC welcomes Les with this tale about one man pushed
too far…
MELTDOWN
The silver BMW crept slowly up and down the seemingly endless
lines of cars. The driver’s head
swivelled like it was mounted on a screw thread as he searched for that elusive
parking space.
Martin Nicholson had pulled into the
car park fifteen minutes earlier and, so far, there was no sign of anyone
driving off. It was ten thirty, his
meeting was at eleven. He’d give it five
more minutes and then look somewhere else.
The morning was bright and crisp and the sun was beginning to burn off
the early morning spring mist. He felt
good and was looking forward to meeting the sales director for the first time, if
only he could find a space.
A middle-aged woman appeared in the
car park, this was his chance. He drove
round to where the woman was opening the door of a red hatchback and
waited. She certainly took her time but,
eventually, she drove away and Martin claimed his prize. He’d managed to find a parking space in only
twenty minutes. He decided that today was going to be a good day, donned his
jacket, picked up his briefcase and locked the car.
He was tall and thin with dark brown
hair that was beginning to grey around the temples. His expensive looking suit,
briefcase and mobile phone made him look every inch the successful businessman
as he strode across the car park towards the office. Reaching the pedestrian crossing in front of
the office block’s main entrance he stopped and waited for the lights to
change. Looking up at the imposing
structure, seemingly built entirely of glass, he thought back over the last two
months.
He had been unemployed for eighteen
months. Both of his credit cards were up
to their limit, he couldn’t even afford the minimum repayment each month. The building society was about to repossess
his house and his wife had been threatening to leave him if he didn't do
something to sort the situation out soon.
That was when he saw the advert in the local newspaper. A pensions and life assurance company were
looking for salesmen to join their team.
The wage wasn't great but it was a lot more than his benefits. He sent off his CV, attended two assessment
days and, to his surprise, was taken on to start immediately. Things were starting to look up. His first few weeks
were filled with paperwork, various courses and learning the ropes. Now
he was ready to meet the big boss.The green man lit up and he crossed
to the other side of the busy road.
Entering the air-conditioned office building he looked around for
reception. A girl in her early twenties
sat behind a chrome and plastic desk.
The clear perspex sign above her head said "Enquiries" in
white etched letters. He approached and
waited for her to finish the phone call she’d taken as he entered the
building. As she replaced the handset he
gave his most charming smile. "My
name's Martin Nicholson, I'm here to see Mr Peterson."
She returned his smile. "The
lift behind you will take you to the tenth floor; Mr Peterson's office is
straight in front of you."
"Thanks."
He turned and headed for the lift she
had pointed to.
Entering the lift he pressed button ten and listened to the
monotonous piped music for a short while until the doors opened and a disembodied
voice announced, "Tenth floor."
The office Martin emerged into was
light and airy. There was lots of chrome
and plastic with natural light flooding in from every angle. Just in front of the lift was a desk similar
to reception. With a row of five seats
along one side, it reminded him of a doctor’s waiting room. Beyond the desk was a double, natural wooden
door. Mr Peterson's office he
presumed. He approached the woman
sitting behind the desk and, once again, gave his most charming smile. "Martin Nicholson, I'm here to see Mr
Peterson."
"Take a seat Mr Nicholson and
I'll let him know you're here."
He sat on one of the five seats and
tried not to look too nervous. As he
was examining his fingernails for what seemed like the hundredth time, the
wooden doors beyond the desk burst open and a man stormed out of the office and
headed towards the lift. After pressing
the call button three or four times he impatiently turned towards the
stairs.
"Mr Peterson will see you
now."
Nicholson jumped out of his
seat. He was nervous to start with and
that certainly hadn't helped. He wiped
his clammy palms on his jacket, picked up his briefcase and headed for the
doors.
"Come in."
The voice was loud, authorative. He didn't knock. He walked in.
The inside of the room was a complete contrast to the decor
outside. Lots of leather and dark wood
panelling made it look like the library of a grand country house. This was the office of a man who considered himself
better than everyone else.
On one side of the room was a large
aquarium stocked with all manner of brightly coloured tropical fish; the other was
taken up by a bookshelf and drinks cabinet.
Opposite the door was a huge mahogany desk. Sitting behind the desk, in a green leather
swivel chair, was the company’s sales director.
Peterson had grey hair and a red face.
He was overweight with a red face and, by the looks of him, not too many
years away from a heart attack.
"Have a seat, Martin."
"Thank you, Mr Peterson." He put down his briefcase and sat on the edge
of the smaller, red leather seat. “I
just want to say how much I’m enjoying my job.
I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since...”
Peterson cut in, "Look Martin, I
won't insult you by beating about the bush.
I'm sure you'll appreciate it if I just come straight to the
point."
Nicholson could feel his stomach
churning. He didn't like the sound of
this.
"The company hasn’t had a very
good year. Profits are down, and in the
current financial climate, our shareholders want to see costs cut."
He started to panic. He could feel the sweat on his back and he
wiped away a bead that was running down his face.
"We've
been told that we have to streamline our department and, as you've only been
with us two months...."
He was starting to breathe heavily
and his heart was pounding.
"...I'm afraid I'll have to let
you go."
The words felt like steel talons
ripping into his chest. The air rushed from
his lungs and he started to feel faint as his heart was squeezed by an
invisible hand. "I need this
job." His voice was quiet, faltering.
"We all need our jobs
Martin. I'm sure you'll find something
else and, of course, if you need a reference..."
"No!" The word exploded from him, punctuated by his
fists slamming onto the desk. His eyes
were wide and his breath rasping, spittle beginning to froth at the corners of
his mouth. “I’ve seen the financial reports. You got a bonus that was twice my salary, cut
that back.”
"My bonus this year was a lot
lower than last year. We’ve all got to
tighten our belts.”
Nicholson looked at him with utter
contempt. “You have no idea.”
“I think you should leave now, Martin. Try and get a grip of yourself. Things aren't as bad as they seem."
Nicholson stood up, slowly turned and
headed for the door.
"Martin, you've forgotten your
briefcase."
"Keep it.” He threw open the doors, walked through the
outer office and pressed the call button for the lift. It seemed an age before it arrived but he was
determined not to look back. The doors
opened and he stepped in. As the doors
closed behind him he sank to his knees as tears of frustration and rage ran
down his face.
With his job gone and the economy
wrecked, his house would be repossessed, the credit card companies would be chasing
him for payments and, worse of all, his wife would follow through on her threat
to leave him and take their son with her.
His marriage was in trouble already but, he feared, this would be the last
straw.
The lift doors opened on the ground
floor and he slowly got to his feet. A
woman, about to enter the lift, backed off and stood aside as he headed for the
exit.
Back out on the street he needed a
drink. Stopping only to buy a half bottle
of vodka, he headed straight to the nearest pub.
"Double vodka." Nicholson’s head was spinning as he sat on
the barstool.
"You look like you've had some
bed news." The barman poured the drink
and placed it on the bar. "You want
a mixer in that?"
Nicholson threw twenty pounds onto
the bar before emptying his glass. The
clear liquid burned as it ran down his throat.
He removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. "Same again, only
this time top it up with tonic."
"You’re in
a bad way, mate, you should take it easy."
The barman placed the glass of vodka and tonic on the bar and took the
twenty pound note.
Nicholson walked over to a table in
the corner by the front window and sat down.
He placed his head in his hands and tried to think.
"You forgot your change,
mate."
The barman put the change onto the
table but Nicholson was in a world of his own.
What was he going to do? Where
was he going to find another job quickly enough to dig himself out of the hole
he had fallen into?
The car, he still had the keys to his
company car. He drained his glass and
left the bar.
He arrived back at the car and opened
the door. Throwing the bottle he had
bought onto the passenger seat, he climbed in and turned the engine over. If he went home and acted as though nothing
had happened then he could at least fool his wife for a couple of days. Maybe sell the car and get some money to tide
them over until he found another job.
Peterson appeared at the door to the
office and walked over to the car park.
He had a reserved slot, of course.
His brand new range rover glinted in the sun. He threw his briefcase onto the back seat and
climbed in. As Peterson drove away,
Nicholson decided to follow him.
Exiting the car park, he pulled in
behind the Range Rover. He followed as
close as he dare as they drove through the city and out into the suburbs. The houses became larger and more expensive the
further they went. The four-wheel drive
slowed and pulled into the driveway of a particularly large and expensive
looking detached house. Nicholson
stopped at the kerb and watched his former boss park next to an identical car,
his and hers Range Rovers, very nice.
An attractive woman, in her late
forties, and two teenage girls came out of the house to welcome Peterson
home. He had everything that Nicholson
didn’t. He had a large house, two nice
cars, a loving family and, most of all, a job.
People like him didn’t understand what it was like living on next to no
money. What it felt like to be unable to
pay bills or provide for your family.
He was staring, intently, at the family
reunion when the woman looked over and pointed at him. Peterson, recognising him, started walking
down the driveway.
“Nicholson...What is it? Nicholson!”
He was aware that he was revving the
engine loudly as the man approached the car.
Peterson stopped suddenly, sensing a threat. Nicholson released the clutch, the wheels
spun and smoked as he sped away.
Driving towards the motorway, his
head was full of bad thoughts of how wrong everything had gone. He didn't see the lights change to red. Driving straight across the junction, he
clipped another car and almost ran down a young girl on a crossing. He tried to brake but the damage had already
been done. Over the limit and in no
state to be driving, he kept going. He
couldn't afford to be breathalysed now on top of everything else.
Hearing a siren in the distance he
panicked, weaving through the traffic and accelerating. Joining the motorway he couldn't see any
flashing lights. It wasn't far to his
house, perhaps if his luck held out...
Then he spotted it, a police Volvo
about two hundred yards behind him. Keep
calm, stick to the speed limit and they will just go past. The car’s blue lights came on, maybe it wasn't
him they wanted, keep calm, keep calm. The
Volvo pulled in behind him, there was no doubt now. He floored the accelerator. If he could put some traffic between them he
could come off at the next exit and lay low for a few hours, report the car stolen
or deny moving it from the car park.
He was getting desperate now; he knew
he didn't stand a chance of losing the police.
No job and now he was going to lose his licence at least, probably end
up in prison. His world was collapsing
around him.
Reaching over to the passenger seat
he picked up the bottle of vodka, opened it and took a long drink. There was only one thing he could do.
He pushed the car to 110mph but the
police were still gaining on him, he didn't have long. The junction was just ahead. He veered sharply left and onto the slip
road. He wasn’t worried about the other
traffic and sped straight across the roundabout, through a red light without
stopping and caused a pile up as three cars slammed on their brakes to avoid
him.
With the sound of horns blaring
behind him Nicholson zigzagged his way through the busy traffic. Blue lights flashing, the police car’s siren
wailed but Nicholson wasn’t stopping now.
He went straight through another red light, then another, across a mini
roundabout and turned left into an industrial estate. He sideswiped a parked car as he took the
sharp bend at forty. Two more turns and,
with the police car still behind him, he turned into the dead end at the far
side of the estate, the side that bordered the dual carriageway. His only option now was to ditch the car and
run.
The police car screeched to a halt as
Nicholson slammed into the chain link fence at the end of the road. Shaken and bleeding from a gash on his
forehead he kicked open the door of the BMW.
The first policeman from the patrol car grabbed him but Nicholson was
too fast. Driving the point of his elbow
backwards into the man’s face he dropped him to the floor with blood streaming
from his broken nose.
Climbing onto the bonnet of the car,
he vaulted the fence as the second policeman tried to grab his legs. He landed heavily and scrambled up the grass
bank. On the other side of the dual
carriageway was a housing estate, a rabbit warren of back yards, gardens and
alleyways for him to hide in. He could
rest for a while and think.
He jumped over the crash barrier and stumbled
onto the road. The driver of the truck
would later tell police that he did his best to brake and swerve but it was too
late. Any luck that Nicholson had left
had run out. He had nowhere to go.
At Martin Nicholson’s funeral he was
described as a hard working and loving family man. The police report said that he had suffered some
kind of breakdown and acted totally out of character. His death was a tragic accident.
His former employers sent a wreath
but there was nothing from Peterson. He
didn’t attend or even send a card. After
all, he wasn’t to blame; everyone was suffering because of the financial crisis.
Weren’t they?
BIO:
It was while Les Morris was at
school in Cumbria that, inspired and encouraged by his English teacher, he
developed a lifelong love of books and made his first attempts to create his
own stories. At 16 he left school and spent most of the 80s and 90s in the
Royal Navy where reading and writing helped pass the long, often boring, days
and nights at sea. Since then, he has worked in many industries but always
continued to write when time allowed. More recently he started to concentrate
on writing thrillers and had a short story, "Blood on Their Hands",
published in Matt Hilton's anthology "ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume
1". He is currently working on completing a trilogy of stories involving
the same character. He lives in Cumbria with his wife and children. http://lesmorris.blogspot.co.uk/
