= 1 Nightmare Drive
  by T. P. Keating

"My mommy's on drugs," the toddler announced proudly to the supermarket. Mother and daughter were being served in the queue directly ahead of me.

"No need to be noisy," mommy chided.

"I'm not noisy," the infant sullenly replied, then started chattering to her doll.

"No one's perfect," said the cashier, with a sympathetic smile and raised eyebrows.

Mommy crashed a family size tin of creamed corn down on the checkout counter, so forcefully that my ears rang.

She drew herself up to her full height and addressed the startled audience. "Look, here's the deal, I'm not Sophie's mother, I'm her aunt. Got it?" We all kinda nodded. "And her mother is not, I repeat not, on drugs." During the impromptu speech, Sophie had stuck her hand into the pocket of her aunt's coat, retrieving a small container.

"Sophie," cried her startled aunt. The container hit the floor, spilling a heap of red and blue tablets all over it. I set about helping to collect them. The sooner they were back in the plastic tube, the sooner I'd get my own shopping paid for.

"Thanks," said a visibly more relaxed aunt, as I replaced the last oblong tablet. "I'm Denise, by the way."

"Martin."

"How are you getting your stuff home?"

"I'm going to carry it."

"I'll give you a lift then, Martin."

Sophie continued to be a non-stop bundle of noise and movement, even when strapped into the back seat. I felt sympathy for her mom and her aunt.

"Actually, I'm not really her aunt. I'm her mother's therapist. I wanted to see how her daughter reacted in a social setting. Guess I know the answer now. Do you mind if I drop her off? It's on the way."

"No worries."

Niece, or patient's daughter, deposited, we set off again.

"I'm just stopping here for a few things," Denise said. "I won't be long." She left the radio playing Chicago blues while she vanished into a drugstore.

One song later she backed out of the store, her hand clutching a plastic bag, the other pointing a small revolver back indoors. "And stay down," she yelled, sprinting over to the car, throwing herself in and accelerating us down the street.

"They didn't have your pain killers?" I suggested.

"No druggist has ever tried to rob me before."

I digested this for a while before asking "There's nothing more to it?"

She gave me a dark look. "You have a theory?"

"Well, he could be an ex-significant other, for instance."

"Very imaginative." Suburbia flashed by. The god of traffic lights smiled a benign green smile upon us. The driver broke the silence. "He's stuck in a time warp."

"Who?"

"The druggist. My ex. A typical middle class product. He rebelled against his reactionary parents, then replaced their intolerance with his own brand."

"I know the type. His parents hold shares in the company that sells the gun, the lunatic shoots you, then he'll start finding excuses for the lunatic."

"You're worse than me."

"Thanks. I'm a trier."

"He still thinks that smoking dope is a political-slash-subversive act."

"Sad. Are we going to the police?"

"Give me a break, I work for them all day."

"You're telling me that the police have therapists?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

Good point. Like all the other events in the previous half-hour, the explanation teetered on the verge of plausible. Then again, so did I. When I glanced her way again, the hazel eyes beneath the green eye shadow were fixed on mine.

"Hmm," she said, then concentrated on the road. She kicked off her red heels, which matched her red backless dress. The police sure must've relaxed their dress code recently.

"Hmm what?"

"Does it bother you that we're leaving town?"

"Can't say that I like this town too much. The people never did me any favors."

"They've got weird tastes in druggists." We both laughed for a while.

"What first attracted you to the druggist?" Born curious, that's me.

"It's a funny story. We were both working in the Cedars Hill Hospital. One night shift, they brought in a particularly violent patient. Well over six-foot, all frothing mouth and flailing limbs. Anyway, Charlie, that's the druggist, filled a huge syringe with something, goodness only knows what, it looked all kinda mauve and yucky, and jabbed it into the patient's leg while five security guards held him down. And I do mean five. Our eyes met over the sleeping giant's body."

"I can't see there's anything to smile at."

"Funny peculiar, you know?"

"Yeah, funny peculiar." We laughed again.

"But," continued Denise, "in all the months after, he never came out with anything else like it. Anything so right for the moment."

"Anything so mauve and yucky."

"Absolutely. Talking of which, look at that. I like the neon when it flashes through the rain. Late at night. Like now, like that mall sign. Making the droplets shimmer."

"Electricity, yeah. You speak to a friend on the phone, but really you're only talking to an electronic reproduction of their voice."

"I prefer neon. It's more real."

"Whatever."

"Everyone knows how phones work. Did you figure I didn't?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Your druggist boyfriend, eh?"

"Ex."

"You're telling me that if I look in that bag, all I'll find is some purchases from the drugstore? Not the contents of the cash register?"

"What do you think, mister clad in denim with three day's stubble on your jaw?"

"I think that I don't care. I think that I'm more glad to be leaving than I'm interested in the contents of some plastic bag."

"From your uneasy demeanor in the supermarket and your light shopping, I got that in one."

"Very perceptive. That's what drove your druggist boyfriend crazy, isn't it? He couldn't make a move but you analyzed it and got it spot on."

"Very perceptive."

I put on my serious face, beneath the stubble. "So tell me about me."

"Your favorite subject."

"Ouch. Carry on."

"You're a cop. Or you used to be until you skipped bail. I remember your handsome face from the photo in the local press."

"Many people have similar features."

"Doubt if there's many who share the same severe wheat allergy. I happened to see that you bought that indigestible pumpernickel stuff."

"To each one his or her own taste. I didn't know the local press could command such attention. Anyway, I don't need to look in your bag."

"Oh?"

"A couple of turnings ago it slipped over." She glanced around quickly. The bag lay on its side, with greenbacks and coins scattered over the seat.

"So I pay in cash, what of it? Besides, it's only small denominations. It's not like the rest of the bag is stuffed full of money."

"I believe you. But I'm no ex-cop. Look, the first stop we make, I'll have some nice white, wheat-packed, factory-produced toast."

"Yummy, I believe you."

"Can we both be right?"

"Can we both be so trusting?" For the third occasion we laughed together. After all, neither one of us had let the other down, which is crucial in a relationship of any sort.

Because of the driving rain, we didn't see the cop car parked across our lane until we'd driven straight into it. Tyres skidding on the wet surface, we shunted it some way down the road before coming to a halt. We sat dazed in our seats, Chicago blues filling the air and softening the blow. Two cops ran and caught up with us. One of them shone a torch into the car, rain dripping from the hood of his waterproof jacket. His eyes lit up with recognition.

"Thanks for catching the perp for us," he said.

Four other stories by T. P. KEATING appear in Plots With Guns, issues 10, 11 and 16. His e-mail is keatingwrites@yahoo.com, and his website is available at www.tpkeating.co.uk.

Copyrights (c) 2002 T. P. Keating

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