Dawn
Dawn had never bunked off work before. She’d never even
left five minutes early at the end of the day. She wondered, as she threw her
bag into the car ready to escape a full four and a half hours early, whether it
all stemmed from her impeccable attendance record at school, as if she
half-expected that she would be awarded a similar ‘Perfect Attendance
Certificate’ to that which she so joyfully received for never missing a day at
secondary school. Undoubtedly she had caused other close competitors to miss
out on her crown by openly spreading her germs around the class, ensuring that
those with a weaker immune system were forced to consign themselves to at least
a day in bed, but, even so, a win’s a win. She had even offered a comical cough
before shaking the headmaster’s hand, somehow expecting further congratulations
for pushing through yet another illness and making it in to collect her award.
Nancy Brown had remarked afterwards that what she really should have done is
taken the final day of Year 11 off, making a last-minute-mockery of the
certificate, but Dawn had been quick to point out that, amusing though that
would have been, there was little point in spending five years securing a
perfect record if you’re going to throw it all away just for a moment’s
awkwardness in the final assembly of the year, especially if you’re going to
miss witnessing that moment as you lie at home on the sofa watching adverts for
sofa sales and life insurance.
Her alibi had come to her surprisingly quickly and she
had offered prayers of thanks to the inventors of email as she seized the
opportunity to craft the sort of watertight excuse that face-to-face
conversation would have rendered impossible. It was at least fourteen years
since her last successful face-to-face lie.
She had read, read and re-read the email three times
before confidently clicking the ‘send’ button and even now, as she strapped
herself into her driver’s seat, she could see before her the words that would
guarantee her an un-punishable fate.
Dear Sir,
I am emailing you
to let you know that I need to unexpectedly leave the office this afternoon as
I have just received a call from my mother informing me that my grandfather has
been taken seriously ill. I know that it is not common practice to leave the
office during the working day but my
mother was absolutely insistent that I came now as he was asking for me and was
likely to have very little time left.
I do hope you
understand that I am left with very little choice but to leave early today but
I assure you that I will come in extra early tomorrow and make up the time by
Thursday at the latest.
Thank you so much
for your understanding.
Dawn Simmonds
P.S. Sorry again
about the car.
She typed, deleted, re-typed, deleted, re-typed,
re-worded, deleted and re-typed the P.S. until she no longer cared whether or
not it was a good idea to remind him of the car at the very moment that she was
seeking his understanding and support for her response to a fake emergency. In
the end, it stayed – although the smiley-face found itself removed at the last
second – and Dawn electronically posted the message that no doubt convicted her
of fraud and perjury, alongside her earlier sentencing for unintentional
vandalism. The day was assuming a far more criminal feel than usual. If Munch did propel her to international
stardom, would this email be brought out as evidence against her, somehow
exploiting a loophole of some sort and bringing an end to her multi-million
pound business overnight? Perhaps it would be a good idea if her grandfather
did actually become ill, her email accidentally becoming truthful as a
perfectly-timed heart-attack struck to save her reputation?
She shuddered as she put the car into gear; she was the
worst human being alive.
Her heart was
beating rapidly, rhythmically competing with the stuttering choke of the
engine. Everything had seemed to make so much sense when she had dialled the
home ‘phone number she had still yet to commit to memory, Jarrod’s confusion
merely strengthening her conviction that something had to be done. Munch had to be a success. What had
seemed hopeful barely three hours earlier now seemed inevitable, something that
simply had to happen. And yet, as she struggled to release the over-tight
handbrake, Jarrod’s initial response of ‘this is crazy’ was all that she could
think about, his crushing verdict brutally exposing her plan to reason.
The plan – to
stop Nigel getting to a patent office to claim Munch as his own idea – had sounded so faultless. It was simply
your typical dramatic chase scene, ending in a nail-biting moment of
life-changing proportions. Not bad for a day that started with staring at a ham
sandwich.
‘This is crazy,’
he had said, with such condescension in his tone, the very idea that someone
would be interested in one of her ideas clearly leaving him clueless as to the
pressing urgency of her situation. He had set about to dismantle every aspect
of her great adventure, questioning the very existence of the location of her
final scene, seemingly dismissing the entire narrative in one foul swoop as the
details threatened to derail the comforting realism of the drama. Yet, as she
slowly reversed out of her bay, Dawn found herself asking the same questions
that she had so readily dismissed minutes earlier; is there a patent office
anywhere near and how exactly will Jarrod know who Nigel is? In some ways, such
unknowns merely made the moment more exciting, the mysteries adding to the
tension of the afternoon rush towards a potentially absent destination.
Her mobile
vibrated. She paused, pulled the handbrake into position and reached into her
bag beside her.
Go to ST4 6QP. See you soon! J
She had requested the text but now that it came she found
herself filled with unexpected apprehension. A postcode meant that there was a
location and a location meant that Nigel would be heading there too, at least
10 minutes ahead of her.
Perhaps she could add speeding to her ever-increasing
list of offences that day?
She threw her mobile back into her bag and turned on the
CD player – Sheryl Crow. It wasn’t exactly the chase music she had been hoping
for but it would do. As the car crawled forwards she glanced at the empty bay
that Kate Perkins had vacated earlier and wondered how she had spent her first
three hours of unemployment, affording herself a moment’s remorse before the
Corsa found itself gliding past Clarkson’s dented chassis and onto the road,
coming to a swift halt behind a Mazda MX-5 and thirty other cars stretching
into the distance.
---------
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