Crazy Paving by Louise Doughty Read Free Book Online

glass everywhere, over the dashboard,
in his lap. Directly in front of him, sitting sideways, was the driver of the BMW, his car crumpled around him like cooking foil. His head was twisted forwards against the wheel and blood cleaved a
neat line down the centre of his forehead and along his nose. His eyes and mouth were open.
    Richard tried to turn in his seat. He couldn’t move. The door on his side had folded inwards and his arm was trapped. His legs could move two inches either way but no further. It was
raining harder now. He could hear shouts, a groaning sound and, from somewhere, a woman’s voice calling weakly for help.
    He thought to himself, very clearly, I must breathe deeply. That is the important thing, to stay still and take deep breaths. He began, but it seemed to make his chest shudder alarmingly. He
could feel air rushing past the back of his throat. He tried to work out if the sensation was one caused by physical injury or panic.
    Gradually, his breath subsided. I am alive, he thought distinctly, I am alive.
    Gillian. He spoke the word silently to himself. There was nothing else he wanted to say. He just wanted to hear her name articulated, as if conjuring it up would procure her warmth, her
steadiness, her hands calming him. Gillian. Now that he was certain that he was alive, he found himself already noting how he felt, so that he could tell her later.
    A face appeared at the side window, which was still intact but somehow skewed out of place. ‘Are you alright?’ asked the face.
    Richard nodded. He pointed towards the BMW driver with his free hand.
    ‘He’s had it mate,’ said the face. ‘Someone will be here bloody quick. I think they’ll have to cut you out. Oh, hello Richard.’
    Richard turned his head slightly. The face had broken into a warm smile of recognition. He blinked and his sight became a little clearer. It was only then that he realised it had been blurred.
The face belonged to Nobbie Patterson, a leading member of the clay pigeon club where Richard and Gillian had gone for a shoot last Whitsun weekend. Gillian and Nobbie were distantly related.
    ‘Nobbie,’ said Richard.
    ‘Well I never,’ said Nobbie, shaking his head with a would-you-credit-it grin. ‘Fancy meeting you like this. You never know do you . . .’
    Richard was still struggling to free his trapped arm. He was afraid to pull too hard amongst the glass and twisted metal. ‘Er . . . Nobbie . . .’ he began.
    Nobbie was still shaking his head. ‘I was on my way home, about a hundred yards back,’ he said. ‘I had to skid to avoid the guy behind you. He’s alright so I thought
I’d come up here and see what I could do. And here you are. Amazing.’ He chuckled, then made a clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He shook his head again.
‘Amazing . . .’
    It was nearly an hour before Richard was cut out of the wreckage. The emergency services arrived in a flurry of wailing sirens and spinning lights. An ambulance man rushed over and asked him
questions. Was there any pain? Could he feel his legs? He put his hands either side of Richard’s neck and asked him to turn his head. Then he told him not to move and ran off.
    Nobbie chatted to him while they waited. He was glad that he and Gillian had enjoyed the shoot. Why didn’t they come again? Richard listened and nodded occasionally, watching the dead face
of the dead driver of the BMW. He had never seen a dead man before.
    Nobbie was saying, ‘You wouldn’t believe what I found out yesterday Richard. Do you know, there is a company somewhere in Essex that makes the British Standard turd? Honest, honest
to God.’
    Richard recalled that Nobbie was in fixtures and fittings and had talked of crossing over to bathroom and sanitary equipment.
    ‘The toilets all have to be tested of course, and to conform to the Standards inspectorate they have to be able to flush a turd of a certain size, shape and density. Sawdust, I think. I