Monday, 18 February 2008
He kept his speed up, to no avail. It was difficult to drive any faster than he already was, with these coastal roads winding the way they did. If I can only make it to the lay-by, he thought, recalling the last time he had taken this route back to London. He had been with Miriam, it was two years ago now. They had stopped on the channel for a better view of the orange sunset on that rare cloudless summer evening. It seemed only yesterday she sat next to him, wafts of her perfume on the green chiffon scarf wrapped about her head, slapping his left cheek now and again in the brackish breeze. Peter had difficulty accepting her death and the unknowns that had brought it about. Now, it seemed someone was trying to end his life. The Ferrari coupe inches away from side-swiping him into the cold water below, Peter swerved onto the lay-by with only seconds to spare, his heart deep in his throat.