Harry gawked at his own watery eyes in the rear-view mirror of the car. His heartrate was off the scale and his face burned brightly. He wasn’t to blame, it wasn’t his fault; he repeated aloud but there was nobody there to listen. The humiliation ate into him. He would never live this down. He would be a laughing stock when news got out. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. If he couldn’t keep control of himself he could do some serious damage.
He loved his new car. He loved the colour, the heated seats, the custom exhaust system. It was the perfect replacement for the one that had been stolen from outside his home. It was well worth the money he just paid for it.
Now, his joy turned to grief. His first clue that something was wrong had been finding the familiar spanner in the boot. Then it was the ballpoint pen in the glove compartment. The clincher was the sweet wrappers and Tesco till receipt in the central storage section.
It was all too familiar.
With fumbling fingers he set about checking the car’s on-board GPS. His head pounded, his throat choked. The GPS couldn’t lie: the car had previously been to his house, the business park where he worked and even to his favourite pub on the A43.
Tears flowed freely down his face as he headbutted the windscreen over and over. He couldn’t escape the fact: he had paid £25,000 for his own stolen car.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 