What am I up to now??
I'm writing a British detective mystery series.
Here's the prologue.
RAW AND UNEDITED.
SOFTLY, HE DIES.
PROLOGUE
Dicky Braithwaite jacked up his Buick and fetched the bowl
to catch the old engine oil. He pushed with his legs, the creeper bed and slid under
the motor. He started to undo the bolt to drain the oil when he heard a noise.
He looked over to the side door, his line of sight hampered by the classic MG
with running boards beside him, and found the door still closed. "Who's
there?"
It was
probably the wind. He got out from under and started the motor so the oil could
drip out quickly, wiped off his hands on a rag. Went over to the far end of the
eight car garage and opened the side door so he didn't die of the exhaust fumes.
The wind drove the fine rain just inside. A bit of water didn't matter on the
concrete floor. He swept the floor often and he even Hoovered it sometimes too.
Some of his Vintage Automobile Club friends confessed they did this as well.
He stood at
the work bench and smiled as he stared all the tools he neatly had hung up on
the wall. He remembered where and when he'd bought or been given each one.
After
washing his hands in the little basin set at the end of the bench, he ate his
breakfast bacon butty he'd prepared earlier and washed it all down with a cup
of lukewarm tea.
He'd turn
off the engine in a minute but first he'd check to see if the oil had entirely drained
out. He lay on a creeper bed and slid under the motor.
The side
door slammed shut.
"What
the blazes? Is someone there?" He looked over to the door.
A scraping
sound this time. Rats?
Shit, they
were probably making nests in the walls. He'd told the gardener to set more
traps.
But, a gust
of wind or something made him glance at the door again. It was now ajar. "Is
someone there?"
No answer.
Just maybe,
the door blew open. But, no, he heard, no he sensed someone was in the garage
with him. "Stop playing games. Is that you, Smelly?"
Smelly was
supposed to visit later that day not this morning. "Come on, Smelly. I
know it's you. Stop it."
He lifted
his head from under to see who it was, when the vehicle hoist crashed down.
He was
pinned by eight hundred pounds of engine and in pain. He screamed. "Help
me!"
Struggling
was no use. It only amplified the pain in his chest. Some of his ribs must be
broken and he was struggling to breath. "What have you done? Help!"
As the door
opened wider, he saw the back of a person wearing a mackintosh, wet with rain, exit.
"Help me!"
The door
slammed and the running motor filled the silence.
"You…."
Each gasp for air sent knives into his chest. "Fucken… bastard!" May God forgive you.
