| Wheels
of Steel
by Fran Tracey
I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. Why would I? Just
because this chair’s my new means of getting about and my legs can’t
even stagger down the street anymore? So what, worse things happen. And
I get the best seat now at football, right on the sidelines. Within spitting
distance of the manager’s dugout. Makes my mates dead jealous. And
I can move pretty fast too on my wheels of steel. Take the journey I’m
making today. I’ll be there in a flash. I often feel like that guy
from the Bible. Moses. The parting of the waves. Well, some days, it can
be like that down the High Street. Loads of people glance at me as I pass,
admiring my classy chassis, I imagine. They’re top of the range,
on tick for now, to be paid for in full when my compensation comes through.
Crunch. That was the last sound I remember hearing that night. Like someone
smashing a pack of crisps between the palms of their hands. And by all
accounts my bones broke into just as many tiny pieces.
‘Mine’s a pint of bitter,’ I’d called to Jim when
I first got to the pub.
‘Righto, Pete,’ he shouted back over the hubbub. Four months
ago that was the start of it all. From what I’ve heard, most people
who’ve been involved in a serious accident don’t remember
much of what happened just before everything went pear-shaped. But I do.
I’ve got total recall. Our team had won 3-0 that day. A rare enough
event, and one that saved them from relegation. So a few of us went down
the pub that evening for a little celebration. I was only going to have
a couple of pints. I was on an early shift the next day, and could do
without a thick head. But Jim and the others, well they persuaded me to
stay on.
‘It won’t be the same without your ugly mug, Pete. Come on,
one more won’t hurt, and its not as though the Blues bring us this
much cheer every week, is it?’
So I had a couple of pints, then a couple more, and so on. And I wasn’t
the only one. We’d all had a skinful. Not that I can really blame
my mates. You have to take responsibility for your own actions in this
life, don’t you? I could have just walked away from them, there
and then, and picked up a kebab on the way home. But I didn’t. Still,
at least none of us were stupid enough to drink and drive. Daft we may
be, look at the team we support, but we don’t put our lives at risk
by getting behind the wheel drunk as skunks.
Listen to me, preaching away as though I’m some kind of saint. So
me and my mates parted at the pub door. I had a ten-minute walk home,
or a twenty-minute stagger. That night I was weaving across the pavement,
taking tiny steps, then huge lunges. I thought I looked like a dancer,
maybe one of those sexy Latin American types, doing the tango. Without
a partner. But I bet I lacked the grace, coordination or skill. Strange
how you kid yourself when you’ve had a few, isn’t it? And
that’s what I was, just another drunken man out on the streets on
a Saturday night. Then I went over on my ankle and almost fell into the
road.
‘Brucie wouldn’t think much of that move,’ I sniggered.
That night I was a happy drunk. My team had won, I’d had a few pints
with my mates, and I’d swapped telephone numbers with a pretty brunette
who may or may not return my calls, but, hey, at least I saw her tuck
my number into her purse.
I don’t want anyone’s pity. Now I’m outside the pub,
right by where it happened, following the route I took that night. This
journey will take me away from the scene of the accident, down the High
Street, off into Dover Street. Then I’ll manoeuvre through the roads
of the new housing estate until I reach my destination. Last time I was
anywhere near the pub was that Saturday night, back then. The last time
I walked. Now my chair’s my transport. Funnily enough, before the
accident I wasn’t much of a driver. I walked most places. Work,
football, pub. Now I’m in my chair my mates take the mickey, of
course. It’s only what I expect. And I’d do the same if it
was one of them. Shows they care, in a funny kind of way.
‘Hey, Pete, d’you need a licence for that?’
I don’t, of course, though I can get up quite a head of steam on
a downward run.
‘Watch out, Pete, mate. Don’t want you done for dangerous
driving.’
Just out of sheer bloody mindedness I’ve been known to clip the
odd skateboarder, weaving selfishly amongst the elderly, forcing them
to stand stock still for fear of collapsing and breaking a hip.
‘Sorry mate,’ I say, feigning innocence, not really feeling
sorry at all.
Going past the pub is hard. I see skid marks on the road and pavement,
tiny squares of glass glinting with blood. I close my eyes, momentarily,
to shake the image away. This is purely my imagination. Of course those
things are long gone. And even on that night I didn’t see anything.
I was out cold by the time the blood had seeped around the glass.
Thud. This was the sound I imagined my body made as it slid off the car
and fell to the ground that night. But that’s where my total recall
fails me. I do remember hearing a car horn, from what seemed like miles
away. A long, angry sound. As I skipped on and off the pavement I was
oblivious to the fact it was for my benefit. And what must have happened
so quickly, seemed to take so long, and it lengthens each time I replay
it in my head. Which is often. I remember turning my head, slowly, grinning
at first, wondering who was the poor sod on the receiving end of the noise.
But there was no one else around. Just me and the car. The driver slowed
as he approached me. I saw his face clearly, and he didn’t look
happy. He held a phone to his ear. Didn’t he know that was against
the law? Idiot. My happy drunkenness was ebbing away. This driver was
spoiling my evening. He gave me the finger. Taunting me. Charming, I thought.
He was crawling alongside the pavement by then, right by me. I took a
swipe at the car, some flash sports model, slapping the rear windscreen,
and kicking the bumper. I was too uncoordinated to do any damage. The
car stopped. Bloody hell I thought, that’s upping the ante. He might
have a gun. Or a knife. I began to run, my flight instinct kicking in.
I heard him rev his engine. He was coming after me.
They taught me a lot in re-hab about how to be street savvy in a wheelchair.
How to negotiate pavements, approaching the dip in the kerb from the correct
angle, that kind of thing. It was a brand new skill for me. And at first
it was a bit of a rough ride.
‘Hey, let’s have a go in the chair, Pete,’ Jim begged
when he visited. He was dead loyal, Jim, came every week, even when I
was still out of it. Played David Essex to me. Said it was to bring me
round.
‘Hearing him sing Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining one more time
is more likely to kill me off,’ I protested. ‘Thought you
were my mate, not my tormentor.’ But Jim just laughed.
I cross a road. There’s not far to go now. I carry flowers.
Silence. Moments before the impact the whole world seemed to have stopped
turning. We looked at each other, just glass separating us. His face was
contorted with rage. He still held the phone and I noticed he was shouting.
At me, or to whoever was on the other end of the line? And I still don’t
know what made me do it. His face, my drunkenness, devilment? Who knows?
Although at some level I must have known I was taking a huge risk. Maybe,
sub-consciously, I thought I could feint a move, pull back at the last
minute. But I under-estimated his speed and my lack of agility after eight
pints. Though I should have known, shouldn’t I? I’d hardly
been Fred Astaire when hopping on and off the pavement earlier. So I jumped.
And he hit me. Our eyes met as I landed on his bonnet. Then I slid away,
finally falling under the wheels, my legs and spine crushed. There was
a screech as he hit his brakes and a metallic crash as his car hit the
wall. Then silence again.
Finally I arrive at the house. I wait outside for a few minutes. I am
afraid. They teach you all kinds of practical things in re-hab. But they
don’t teach you how to cope with guilt. Maybe that was because I
had never told them the whole truth.
‘He was an idiot,’ everyone said at the time. ‘He was
on the phone, no seatbelt, classic case of road rage.’ I nodded
my agreement. After all, I’d lost the use of my legs, would need
a wheelchair for the rest of my life. But at least I’m alive, I
thought. I haven’t ever said this out loud.
I manoeuvre up the path to the front door. It isn’t easy, the paving
stones are uneven. But I make it. The house belongs to the woman he was
talking to when he died. I lay flowers on the doorstep and leave. Maybe
another time I’ll have the courage to talk to her. I hope she’ll
have the courage to listen.
I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, because I killed a man.
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