Why do I always get job interviews on days like this? A hot, dry, dusty day. I feel uncomfortable in my dark suit. I don’t like wearing suits anyway. What should a clinical psychologist look like FFS? Always after the first fortnight into a job I start dressing down. By the end of six months into probation, I’m looking like lead guitar in Spinal Tap. My hospital patients seem to appreciate my quirkiness. Somehow it helps make them feel that they’re slightly more normal than me. Hospital personnel bureaucrats always ‘’ttchhh” and say that I should be setting professional boundaries. I always tell them, ‘’wait until you’re a patient of mine, then tell me how you feel about that’’.

My shirt is already beginning to stick to me. At least I have a change in the boot of the car. I’m making good time. I have all the windows open but still hot fetid air is sailing through my custom interview haircut. Bang! At first I think it’s a farmer’s gun, then I feel the rear end of the car dip. Shit. Blowout. I’m miles from anywhere, on the rural road than runs parallel with the London express railway line.

This road doesn’t see much traffic but those that use it bomb it like crazy. I don’t want to end up being a casualty today. I edge the car off the road, onto a dirt track. I slip off my trousers and shirt. In the car boot I have a pair of overalls I slide into, and begin dissecting the brace kit and spare. It’s straightforward. The only annoyance is the buzzing insects that drop by to taste my sweat.

I’m almost done when I look up. A very fashionably dressed lady, county type at a guess, is walking past my car. “Hi“ I say as if I need to explain.

“Are you alright?“ she asks with an air of detached concern. I study her. Very attractive, about 40, very country fashionably dressed, looks like she’s walking back from a Women’s Institute meeting. Her eyes look very distant somehow, blue as the sky but with almost a hint of clouds. Inexplicably, her right hand is clutching a litre can of lager, which she drains in front of me. Most unladylike. From the movement in her shoulder bag I hear the soft clunk of more cans.

‘’I could use one of those!’’ I say, trying to ease the tension.

‘’Would you …?’’ she reaches down.

‘’No its OK, I interrupt, I’m driving, and anyway I’m on my way to a meeting’’.

“Aaah she sighs’’ then thoughtlessly drops the empty can right there in front of me.

I feel I should respond but I’m running late now. Something in her face tells me all is not well here. I say ‘’May I offer you a lift?’’

I am thankful when she says ‘’No, I’m fine thank you, I don’t need a lift, I’ve nearly reached where I’m going’’.

I nod and she gives me a smile, then I see her wander off down the road-track and onto the old stone pedestrian bridge over the railway. I tinker about clearing up the repair and even stop to deposit the discarded lager can in my car.

I hear the whoosh of an approaching express train. I am putting my wheel change kit back in the car, and look up from the boot. I am just in time to see the lady jump from the bridge direct into the path of the train. A cry gets stuck in my throat like a peach stone. It seems like time stands still for a second.

This is followed a few seconds later by the sound of a soft sickening thudding crump of a noise. I look up. A few seconds after, the screech hits me. Not from a human voice, too late for that, but from the shards of sparks and smoke flying from the burning wheels of the train as it locks into emergency brake. My ears burn with the noise and the day’s heat. The train comes to a shuddering stop several hundred yards down the line.

My mind unblocks and I jump in the car, turn over the ignition, and head off by the farm track towards the train at full tilt.

On days like today, I feel like a career change.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...