Just Try Not To Die

  Chapter One:

  Ten Out Of Ten

  For fuck’s sake! Brian flailed at the brakes of his clapped out Yamaha moped, the nigh-bald tyres squealing as his bike fish-tailed down the greasy road. Cunting bus drivers, he thought, as the Number 11 from Penzance to Redruth pulled out from the bus stop. The driver reached out, waving a hand in apology, and Brian fumed. Yeah mate, wave your hand. All the good that would have done me had I fallen off and cracked my head open like an eggshell. The amount of times this helmet had been dropped, he thought, might as well just strap a tea towel to his head and call it a day. To add insult to injury, the bus kicked out a plume of choking fumes as it pulled away. Miner’s lung, Brian thought; the way my granddad went. It seemed every commute entailed being nearly knocked off or choked in other vehicle’s fumes. Mopeds were a mug’s game; all the discomfort of a real motorbike, none of the fire-spitting performance. Plus, he looked like some spotty young oik, especially with his L plates front and rear, albeit a ridiculously tall one. If he could have afforded a car he would have bought one without a moment’s hesitation. He would have had a roof over his head then. A radio too, no tinnitus from the constant windblast. But no car had he.

  Brian Trelawney was perhaps the only car salesman in Cornwall without a car of his own.

  But then there were many things Brian had to do without. Parents, for one thing. A girlfriend for another. The former wasn’t his fault, of course. They’d had him late. And cancer was a fickle bitch at the best of times. The latter, however, was probably his own fault in all honesty. He wasn’t the brightest of chaps. Wasn’t the most outgoing either. Nor was he a George Clooney in the looks department.

  But what he did have was a particular set of skills. A set of skills that made him pretty much useless at anything important in the real world. He could lead a raid in World of Warcraft. He could quote Aliens line for line. Heavy metal music? Oh yeah, he’d been to some gigs. Download, Bloodstock. Maiden, Sabaton, System of a Down. Avoided the mosh pit like the plague, mind. Eleven stone and six foot seven tall did not an imposing physique make. He’d tried lifting weights once. Once. Got hot, flustered, sweaty. Decided he must have been allergic. And so, skinny, tall and frail he remained; less meathead, more breadstick.

  The roundabout up ahead, Sainsbury’s on the other side like a blazing orange beacon of salvation in the morning darkness. Usually he’d stop off for a quick bacon butty and a coffee before work, but he was running late enough as it was, thanks to his bike’s refusal to start first, second, even seventh kick that cold, almost-winter morning. Instead, he pulled up at the white line, waiting patiently for his turn to pull out. A car. Another car. A van. Finally, a lorry, a Stobart, all green and white. Was it indicating to turn? He couldn’t tell. No, he thought, and gunned the throttle, only to find the lorry was, indeed, turning, swinging round the roundabout towards him. Fuck’s sake, he cursed for the second time in as many minutes, too late to stop now, pressing on and willing the fifty cc’s of throbbing power below to speed him across. A blaring horn blasted out from the truck and he winced in embarrassment as the hiss of pneumatic brakes cut through the crisp morning air. Why hadn’t he bought a one-two-five cc bike instead of this bloody moped? He was nearly thirty; even on L plates he could legally ride a bigger bike than this arthritic snail. Alas, the job offer had come at an inopportune time, his bank account all-but drained, and this had been the only thing nearby he could both get to view and afford to buy.

  Once again he cursed how he’d squandered his inheritance. A gaming PC. An Xbox One. A sixty-inch 4k TV; luxuries that now afforded him only Sainsbury’s eight-pence noodles to eat. At least he’d had a house out of the bargain, even if it did take all of his meagre wage to afford the bills. The mortgage had been paid off, thanks to his mum’s life insurance policy. But gas, electric, council tax, they all added up. Food, too. He liked food. So much so that he tried to eat everyday if he could, though sometimes he failed even in that goal. He grimaced as he rode over a pothole, fillings rattling from his teeth. Really? He paid council tax for this? Roads like Swiss cheese? Christ, councils were about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. They should stick to what they were good at; erecting park benches and changing the bulbs in streetlights.

  Another roundabout up ahead, signposts pointing right to Marazion and left to Hayle and St Ives. He tightened his deathgrip about the handlebars and widened his eyes as he approached, keen for no more sudden-death experiences. Two was enough for one commute. Even as he rolled closer to the island, a gap in the traffic and he lunged forward, urging the ped to its derestricted top speed of forty whole English miles per hour. The wind howled about his ears. The engine vibrated as it unleashed its full pent up fury beneath his strangely twitching groin. This, he thought, as an impatient Mondeo behind flashed its lights; this is how it felt to be bottom of the food chain. This is how it felt to be a minnow in a world of sharks.

  Villages ground past at glacial pace. Finally, the village he’d been aiming for; Canon’s Town, his car dealership, his place of work, on the right. He slowed down, hoping beyond hope that the Mondeo behind wouldn’t take this opportunity to come flying past and knock him clean off his steed. It didn’t, the businessman in his mirrors merely rolling his eyes as Brian slowly, wobblingly made his way across the other lane and trundled onto the forecourt, his exhaust popping, banging and spitting out a tramp’s cough of two-stroke fumes. Parking the bike on its unnervingly creaky stand, he made his way into the office. He’d barely even removed his helmet by the time his boss’ voice berated him from behind a cluttered desk.

  “You’re late, Brian,” Gordon chuntered. “Fifteen minutes. It’s coming out of your paycheque.”

  “But… I’m on commission?”

  “Yes… well…” The rotund man, all sweaty handkerchief-dabbed forehead and more chins than a Chinese phonebook, seemed flustered by the response. “Well, you could have sold a car in that time. Speaking of selling cars, what’s wrong with that board, hmm? Can you see what I see?”

  Brian gulped, regarding the whiteboard haphazardly screwed to the wall. Each of the three salesmen’s names were up there, a tally beside them keeping track of how many cars they’d sold that month. Very few such ticks were next to his own name. Though to be fair, very few were next to the others too.

  “It’s October, Gordon. And it’s the fifth.”

  “That be it as it may,” the garage owner spat, nodding sagely. “But you should be aiming for the stars, lad. You’re young. I remember myself at your age, full of spunk and energy. You should be brimming with gumption, selling cars left and right.”

  Brian stared at him, his eyes dull and dry within black circles that spoke of late nights and energy drinks. Ignoring his stare, his boss continued.

  “Lack of spunk, that’s your problem.” He seemed to like the word spunk. Used it several times a day. Was worrying at times. “You see, selling a car is very much like making love to a beautiful woman...”

  Brian nodded. True enough, he thought. He was terrible at both, though not through want of trying.

  “I’ll do better,” he promised, interrupting the man’s burgeoning soliloquy.

  “Well make sure you do,” Gordon told him. “And get the bloody coffee pot on. I’ve a tongue like Ghandi’s flip-flop.”

  Brian did as he was bade, discarding his helmet and wandering over to the small toilet-cum-kitchen-cum-generalshitstoragearea they used for making coffees. He’d just filled the filter and pressed the button when Neil rocked up beside him.

  “Gordon giving you a hard time again, Bri?” the youth the same age as Brian asked. Neil was shorter than Brian – though that wasn’t hard – but what he lacked in the height department at a mere statuesque
six foot, he more than made up for in looks. His neatly-gelled blond hair, firm gym-honed physique and Roman nose made him a hit with any ladies who happened to make the mistake of wandering into the car dealership.

  “Yeah,” Brian admitted. “He’s a proper hard ass at times. He has it in for me, I swear.”

  “His ass,” Neil told him, regarding the jelly-like form of their boss sauntering across the office, “is anything but hard. Anyway, ignore him; it’s coming into winter and no-one’s buying cars anywhere. He just likes to beat his chest from time to time. Like a fat gorilla.” His blue eyes, so different, so keen, alert and full of energy and promise compared to Brian’s own, glanced out of the window and he grinned. “But if you wanna get into his good books, you can have this one on me.”

  Brian followed his gaze; a woman out there, eyeing up a Mini Cooper S on the forecourt. Short skirt despite the Cornish chill, milky skin, full figure and legs that went all the way to the top. He gulped, before turning back to Neil.

  “You sure? That’s more your type, isn’t it? I mean, you’re the ladies’ man, ‘n all. I’m, well… me. I might scare her off.”

  Neil shook his head, rolling his eyes.

  “You’ll never get anywhere with that attitude, mate. Old Gordo’s right; you need more spunk. Now go out there and show her your… erm… spunk.” He paused, aware of how weird that sounded, before continuing. “You know what I mean.”

  Brian nodded, before rolling his shoulders and striding purposefully towards the door. The bell rang as he opened it and he loped out onto the forecourt. This is it, he thought. This is where they always look up and tell me they’re just browsing. Was it his demeanor, he’d often wondered? The foul stench of desperation that had clung to him like a cloud of Lynx Africa? Or was it his height that intimidated them? He hoped the latter, for that at least would have made him feel at least a little manly. The woman looked up at him and he prepared to hear those words, already starting to turn and mouth the words ‘no problem,’ when she spoke.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “I could use some help.”

  “Oh,” he replied. “Well… sure. What can I do for you?”

  He slowly approached the woman, at once puzzled and not a little bit frightened. She was tall, not as tall as him obviously, but a veritable Amazon all the same, and her face, pale and made-up with dark lipstick and eyeliner about her startling grey eyes, was unbelievably alluring, even in the unflattering glow of the dealership’s floodlights. That such a woman would even speak to such as he beggared belief.

  “This Mini,” she said, brushing her long, dark, shimmering hair from her face. “Is it the later one with the turbo? Or is it the earlier one with the supercharger?”

  Brian blinked, completely taken-aback by the question. Without sounding sexist, most women who came into his workplace were more concerned with the colour and the number of doors of their prospective purchases.

  “It’s the supercharged one,” he told her, gulping.

  The woman nodded, slowly, a satisfied smile on her face at his words. Her teeth, he noticed for the first time, white like ivory and slightly pointed, putting him in mind of a cat, albeit a tremendously sexy one.

  “Good,” she purred, further adding to the uncomfortable illusion. “I love the noise of a supercharger. The whine. Puts one in mind of flying a Messerschmitt, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I’d say a Spitfire,” he stuttered. “But each to their own, I guess.”

  She laughed, sending a strange tingle down his spine that lingered uncomfortably somewhere about the midsection.

  “Any chance of a test-drive?” she asked.

  “Sure. Let me grab the keys.”

  Neil gave him a fist bump the instant he walked in the office.

  “You’re in there, mate. Deal in the bag.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I can see enough,” the youth whistled, looking out of the window once more at the figure that still prowled about the Mini. “She’s an actual, full-blown babe.”

  “I know,” Brian replied, nervously, fumbling through the key-cabinet for the right keys. He found them and turned back to his friend. “Back in a few.”

  “Drag it out, bud. Take her the long route. Not every day you get to ride with a ten out of ten like that. Especially you.”

  Brian paused, unsure how to take that, before nodding and making his way back out of the office. The woman was waiting, eyeing him like a cat a mouse as he strode closer, legs all-of-a-wibble. He unlocked the doors, before handing her the keys. Her fingers lightly brushed his; they were soft yet strangely cold, the mere instant of skin-to-skin contact sending a shockwave of nerves through his lanky frame.

  “Let’s, erm, take her for a spin,” he stuttered.

  “Yes,” she drawled, fixing him with a smile. “Let’s.”

  Chapter Two:

  A Hugh Jackman Movie

  They climbed in from either side, Brian posting his form through the door and into the passenger seat. The car was too small for him, his neck cricked as the top of his head brushed the roof. His customer had no such problem, sliding into the bucket seat with cat-like grace, before inserting the key, switching on the headlights to illuminate the morning gloom, and starting the engine. She revved it a couple of times for good measure, her eyes half-closed almost in ecstasy as she heard the turbine whine of the supercharger.

  “It’s, err, best to let the engine warm up a bit on these forced-induction cars,” he murmured, pathetically.

  “I know,” she replied with a mischievous grin. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides, does it matter if I’m going to buy it anyway?”

  “Well, I suppose not,” he admitted.

  She snicked the car into first gear and lifted the clutch, rolling them to the front of the forecourt.

  “Which way?” she asked, her luxuriant voice causing him to all but want to jump out of the car in discomfort. Her perfume was strong, sweet, flowery.

  “Right,” he told her. “Towards St Ives. We’ll turn left at the roundabout, head through Lelant to St Ives, then take the back roads to Penzance, making our way back here.”

  She smiled and nodded, before turning her attentions to the road. A gap appeared, smaller than a gnat’s tadger, but all it seemed she needed. She gave the car some throttle and dropped the clutch, the supercharger howling as the Mini lunged forwards onto the road with a squeal of tyres, snapping Brian’s head back in the process.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed.

  The woman laughed.

  “Gotta test the car how you mean to drive it day-to-day,” she told him by way of explanation.

  He had to agree, there was a certain logic to her argument. But that still didn’t stop his sphincter from tightening as she gunned the throttle once more, supercharger whining as the car thrust them past a lumbering Volvo in front. He gulped as he stared at the comically huge speedo in the centre of the dash. It was a sixty limit down here. She was doing eighty.

  “It’s your licence on the line if we get stopped,” he reminded her. “Not mine.”

  She laughed, as though finding it amusing, and once more he wondered at her cool, easy confidence. Though to be fair, he found anyone with any measure of confidence to be an enigma, for he himself was lacking quite majorly in that department.

  “Roundabout coming up,” he gulped, gesturing with a trembling finger out of the windscreen, spying a stream of headlights worming their way about it. “I’d slow down a tad.”

  Fat chance; even as they sped towards the large roundabout that led one way to St Ives, the other way up the A30 and off to England proper, she kept her foot welded to the carpet. Brian grasped the door handle with white knuckles. They were going to crash! So much traffic, the roads greasy from the drizzle night before. Lewis Hamilton wouldn’t have got this car round the corner at such speed, not in these conditions!

  “Jesus Christ!” he managed to gasp, his exclamation merely causing her to laugh once more.


  One-handed, almost casually, the lunatic woman flung the Mini onto the roundabout, the back end skidding out, tyres squealing. A disconcerting feeling he’d felt many a time on his ‘ped; that of tyres refusing to have anything to do with the road surface whatsoever,as though they’d had a heated argument and both refused to back down. But then suddenly, traction again, tyres catching and the car speeding round the corner and down the road towards Lelant and, beyond, St Ives. Brian turned to the woman, his eyes wide, mouth open but no words coming out. Beads of terror-born sweat glistened on his pasty forehead.

  “We’re going through villages now,” he finally managed to stutter. “I’d, err, slow down a bit. Y’know – kids might be running about.”

  The woman pouted like a child, before eying him mischievously out of one corner of her eye.

  “Spoil-sport,” she murmured with a smile, before dabbing the brakes.

  Slower now than before, though still faster than he was comfortable with, Brian gulped. He should say something, he knew. Should chastise her, tell her to go back to the dealership. How much commission would he get on this five grand car? Twenty-five quid? It wasn’t worth the terror. But try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to confront her; he wasn’t good with confrontation at the best of times, but there was something about this woman that made it seem pointless. She had an air about her, a distinct lack of fear, seemingly no respect for the laws of the land or the opinions of others. It was intimidating. And almost ridiculously sexual. Almost as if she could hear his thoughts, the woman turned to him, eyeing him with obvious humour in her eyes, eyes which should have been watching the road ahead.

  “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I, err, tend to keep myself to myself,” he admitted.

  “Very few friends, I’m assuming?”

  He frowned. What an odd, personal question. Rude, in fact, and he had half a mind to tell her so. But the way she was biting her painted bottom lip caused words to die in his throat.