Accidental Crime - 21

Dawn

Dawn had found it surprisingly hard to park her car. Still entranced by the ever-developing possibilities of Munch, she had driven largely in autopilot, winding her way towards her usual space before slamming on the brakes just before her bumper kissed the curvy rear of a Citroen C4.

‘Oh,’ was the best she could muster at the time, as swear words failed her and the surprise at seeing her once-guaranteed space occupied left her cluelessly cranking her neck from left to right and back to left again. Her eyes rested on the clock on the dashboard. 8.52. She was, perhaps, two minutes later than usual but that was no reason for the order of the car park to be overturned. She half expected Deborah’s slender, high-heeled legs to slide out of the Citroen but the Blackburn Rovers bumper sticker soon corrected her vision – Deborah had made it quite clear that football was a game for ‘money-mad thugs’ – and at that exact moment she saw her stride confidently towards the front entrance of the building, as her boyfriend’s Porsche screeched around the corner in first gear. The Citroen, in fact, was empty and so she had not only found herself usurped but had also lost the opportunity to win her place back through reasoned argument (the extent of which roughly boiled down to the unmistakably strong claim that ‘I always park there’).

She reversed and began her pursuit into unchartered territory, continuing an extra twenty yards before swinging the car right into a slightly-faded bay.

In her Munch advert, which was continuously being modified, a tank approached a Citroen C4 in a car park, paused, and then drove straight over the car, crushing it and standing proudly in/on its place, before the hatch opened and a lady, probably her, with gorgeous, wind-swept hair, raised a Munch in her right hand and loudly and proudly declared: ‘Munch: enjoy the crunch!’

As she opened the car and felt the chilling breeze on her cheeks, it dawned on her that the advert was remarkably similar to a Snickers advert that she had seen the previous evening and, however much she hoped to be the face of the campaign, she knew it was unlikely that she could compete with the sheer brutality of the comic force that was Mr T. She slammed the boot of her car, a dramatic full-stop to the idea that needed rapid redevelopment if she were to sufficiently impress Nigel at 11.

Armed with the concept of Munch that would propel her into international stardom (or, if not, then local stardom would be fine for now), Dawn felt as though she were Elle Woods from the Legally Blonde film that she had so wanted to like, only without the miniature dog, pink suit and outrageously strawberry-blonde hair, and that this was her Marketedly Blonde moment, the time when all eyes would turn to her, expecting nothing, sneering at her every move, her every inappropriate stumble, until that moment, that blessed moment, when appearances counted for nothing and what mattered was substance, substance that would shine and substance that would sell, turning this previously-unknown and seemingly-incapable marketing trainee into the Elle Woods of the sandwich world.

She came to a pause by the steps into the building and looked down at her feet. She had paused just before her right foot plunged into the surprisingly-large pile of poo that some careless dog-owner had clearly forgotten to pick up. At least, she hoped it was from a dog; this was not an area she could claim to be a specialist in. What mattered was that she had missed it, that her luck was clearly in that day, that this was undoubtedly the day that –

She stopped mid-thought, becoming increasingly aware that a montage of gasps and giggles was filling the air. She raised her head to see a parade of onlookers, all turned back towards the central area of the car park, some with hands clasped over their mouth, others shaking disbelieving heads.

She turned to share the surprise. It was Clarkson. Or, rather, it was Clarkson and his car. And there was another car – her car – nestled against the side of his black BMW, like a child hugging the leg of a parent, eager for attention. However, unlike a child, her car had left a clear dent in the parent, a dent so significant, in fact, that Clarkson had got out of the car, walked around to take a closer look and erupted with a noise not too dissimilar from one that she had heard on Big Cat Diaries last Thursday. He eyed-up the entire car park, freezing people to the spot with accusatory glances that pierced into their very soul, convicting them of the crime despite their apparent innocence.

Eventually, his eyes fell upon Dawn. She found herself voicelessly protesting that she was equally devastated, as her second-hand Vauxhall Corsa sat a full fifteen metres away from where she had left it. Her memory returned to the moment she put the handbrake on and – she did put the handbrake on, didn’t she? – whilst she had dreamt of her Witherspoon-esque moment in the spotlight, her car had steadily rolled down the hill and into the unsuspecting Clarkson and his newly-purchased BMW.

It was, on reflection, not a good idea to still be maintaining eye-contact with the ever-increasing Clarkson, his feet striding forwards with venomous speed, his fists pumping by his side. The ‘you can’t hit me, I’m a woman’ line flashed across her eyes but this was twenty-first century England and this was a one-month old BMW X5 and so, frankly, it seemed as if anything were possible. She could, perhaps, walk confidently towards the Citroen, as if she had forgotten her phone or something, since that was of course where she always parked, sharing Clarkson’s outrage at the carelessness of that Corsa driver who clearly doesn’t know their left hand from their right. Or, maybe she could simply run indoors, showing her eagerness to ‘get on with the job’, declaring that there is ‘not a moment to lose’. On the other hand –

‘Miss Simmonds! Don’t...you...move...a...muscle!’ he shouted through panted breaths. Excellent, it was just like being back at school again, and so once he had gone on about how she had let herself down and how he would need to call her parents, etc, etc., this would all be over and she could get back to Munch and impressing Nigel.

‘Is this you? Is this you?’ he demanded, with increasing voracity, pointing his finger behind him at the unwanted car partnership that had formed. She so longed to say ‘no, it’s a car’ in as patronising a tone as possible, shake her head, smile and walk into the building, all around her applauding her boldness, hopefully quite literally, perhaps accompanied by a quick rally from a string quartet.

‘I...I...I don’t know what to say, sir,’ she stuttered, her cheeks growing redder by the second. Perhaps she could blame it all on the parking space? She hadn’t been expecting to park on a slope and so she could hardly be held accountable when someone else steals her space. Yes, steals was exactly the right word. If she could find the words to balance out the crime then she might just reduce the severity of her car’s actions. And it would be just that as well – the car’s actions – rather than her own mistake. Her father had always been an expert at detaching responsibility away from himself and she was determined to make him proud. If this were Marketedly Blonde, he’d probably be waiting inside the building, ready for a father-daughter hug afterwards, as tears streamed down his face, his croaky voice declaring his love for her.

‘What the hell is wrong with you? What have you done to my car?’ he continued to demand, his questions continuing to be inherently unanswerable. ‘Don’t you know what that car is?’

‘An ego trip? A self-declaration of just how big and powerful you are so that us worthless beings feel even more worthless and wish for nothing more than the crumbs that fall from your table, oh mighty Lord Clarkson,’ she said, although the words sadly remained within her head, while her lips continued trembling, unable to come up with a suitable response to his anger.

‘Well?’ he demanded, increasingly agitated by her silence.

‘I’m so sorry sir,’ she replied, choking back the tears she didn’t want the ever-growing crowd to see. Even Deborah had returned to the car park, probably as the result of a tannoy-announcement letting everyone know that ‘Crusher Clarkson’ and ‘Desperate Dawn’ were locked in a sort of celebrity death-match outside. All work was cancelled while the show was on.

‘Sorry? Sorry? Is sorry going to fix my car?’ he persisted, the questioning irritating Dawn as much as it was upsetting her. Why did he insist on asking such pointless questions? She was rapidly losing respect for the man she was supposed to be learning so much from. Anger seemed to do strange things to people’s selection process when it came to finding the right words to say. She strove to remain calm.

‘I’ll...I’ll give you my insurance details. They’ll get it all sorted out. Don’t you worry. I’m sure it’s not that big a job,’ she reassured him, bringing the moment back to the comforting world of administrative processes. If she could only pull out a card from her jacket pocket with her details on and hand it over to him, the moment would be complete. Somehow, scrambling around in her bag for a scrap of paper and a pencil didn’t seem quite as professional. To compound the moment further, an onlooker to her right decided that the pace of the scene was flagging a little and whipped out a pen to keep the momentum going, pleased that they were able to play a small cameo role in the unfolding drama.

She was amazed at Clarkson’s patience as she scribbled away, reluctant to make eye-contact with the eyes that would no doubt bring tears to her own.

‘Not that big a job?’ he spat between gritted teeth. ‘That’s hardly the point, is it?’ She knew she would need to meet his eyes again. Perhaps if she offered a glimmer of tears he would cool off, wary of causing too much of a scene.

A concerned shout came from the crowd: ‘Are you OK, Dawn?’

It was Deborah. Of course it was. Her feet were shuffling down the steps with concerned haste.

‘Are you OK? Is there anything I can do to help?’

The heroine had arrived to save the blubbering victim. The canteen would be filled with tales of how Deborah sorted everything out, while she would be the one who had the ‘lucky escape’, the one who would have to ‘watch out for Clarkson’ from now on. She had one chance to be the leading lady and she had to take it. She would have to find some way to reverse the roles, to leave the crowds wowed as she turned the situation around, defeating Deborah, clobbering Clarkson and walking into work with her head held high, ready to Munch her way to victory.

Just as she was about to lay the corner stone of her unshakeable cover story, Deborah interrupted with devastating selflessness.

‘It was my fault, sir. Entirely my fault. I...leant my car to Dawn for the day – hers is in the garage at the moment – and it never occurred to me to let her know about the dodgy handbrake. She never normally parks on the slope, you see, and so she wasn’t to know. It was stupid and reckless not to get it sorted, I know, and I take full responsibility. Here’s my card, sir. It’s got all my details on. Everything you need to know. Please...please don’t blame Dawn. It wasn’t her fault. It really wasn’t.’

It was a remarkable lie and for a moment even Dawn was entirely convinced by it and began to feel a little put-out by Clarkson’s harshness towards her, adamant that she was free from blame and did not deserve such treatment.

It was Clarkson’s response that shook her out of the fabrication and made her realise what an astonishing personal sacrifice Deborah was so unnecessarily offering: ‘So, you drive a Corsa, an M-reg, do you?’

She took a step back; he had surely seen her climb out of Henry’s Porsche. Dawn found it incredible that this was the part of the story that seemed most implausible.

‘It’s my old car,’ she confidently replied after a moment of recomposing herself, ‘I never use it anymore but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I forgot about the handbrake when I leant it to Dawn. I just thought I could be helpful, that’s all. I never meant to cause such difficulty.’

Dawn didn’t have a hat but if she did she would have taken it off to Deborah. She was simply amazing.

‘Is this true?’ Clarkson asked her, seeking the final word of falsehood that would secure Deborah’s lie.

Dawn stood still. What was she supposed to do in such a moment? If she accepted Deborah’s story, she was forever in her debt, probably bound to perform some hideous task for her at any given time. If she rejected the tale then she was back in the firing line – possibly quite literally – and Deborah’s reputation would be in tatters. Sure, that would have brought great satisfaction five minutes ago, but one act of sacrificial lying later and suddenly bringing down Deborah felt like the ultimate act of betrayal; from Elle Wood to Judas Iscariot, in one swift fall.

The poo that remained by her foot continued to provide a potential elaborate escape route but she was yet to settle on something she felt happy with and so she returned to the muddy terrain of her words.

‘It’s not Deborah’s fault,’ she began, dismissing any potential for denial with a swift hand in her direction. ‘You see, I knew the handbrake wasn’t great. I’d discovered that on my drive home last night, but then this morning something changed, something drastic that affected everything else. You see, my space, well, the space I usually park in was taken and - ’

‘Your space was taken?’ he interrupted, clearly not impressed by the developing story.

‘Um, yes,’ she continued, slightly shaken but determined to finish what she had begun. ‘It threw me, sir.’

‘She usually parks on flat ground,’ Deborah chipped in.

‘I usually park on flat ground,’ Dawn reiterated, regaining the lead, ‘and this morning I was forced, unexpectedly, to park on a slope.’

‘And?’ Clarkson contributed, becoming increasingly exasperated at the extended nature of what he had assumed would be a rapid confrontation with instant results when he had marched across the parking lot four minutes earlier.

‘Well, you see, sir, I didn’t really know that it was a slope. Not one that led down, unobstructed, to the centre of the car park anyway. There were no signs you see, nothing indicating danger, nothing warning you of the potential pitfalls of a dodgy handbrake. So, really, if you think about it, the main fault has to lie with the company’s health and safety officer. I’d have a word if I were you, sir. Your car can be like a case study or something like that to help bring improvements in our car park.’

Clarkson wasn’t impressed but Dawn sensed smiles in the onlookers and Deborah’s look of condescending pride reassured her that she had probably squeezed every possible drop of dignity out of the scene that she could muster. She prayed earnestly that he might now turn away, retreat to his slightly-dented car, gently slide into his specially-apportioned bay by the front door and carry his briefcase into the building as if nothing had happened. She would, of course, need to endure the humiliation of re-parking the Corsa – probably finding a patch of level-ground to maintain the dodgy handbrake story – but that would be entirely bearable if she could complete this unexpected mini-victory after such an unpromising start.

‘You’re going to sort that and I want it done today. You hear me?’ he insisted, confusing Dawn for an expert dent remover, before marching back towards the BMW, rapidly dispersing the group of hyenas encircling the black beast in lustful wonder.

There was no applause – that was surely too much to have expected – but the ever-diminishing crowds seemed satisfied that Clarkson had been duly pacified, whilst Deborah’s left foot had just landed squarely in the poo as she went to rest her reassuring hand on Dawn’s steely back.

With the Corsa repositioned, Deborah hunched over her £200 shoes with reams of tissue scraping off the sticky mess, and Clarkson sitting alone in his newly-parked BMW, weeping over every inch of the dent, the day was looking up.

It was 9.05. For the first time, she would be late into the office.

---------

Check back tomorrow for the next chapter!

If you can’t wait to read the rest, the novel is available to buy here.

Many thanks to everyone for their support! If you enjoy the novel, please consider leaving a positive review on Amazon.