O.N. STEFAN

 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.