For this week’s piece of horror flash fiction, I get behind the wheel of my car. Don’t think that’s horrifying? You haven’t seen me drive!
Because I got the angry driving examiner.
Just my filthy, bloody luck.
Frank, my driving instructor, had told me to cancel the test if Mrs Rathbone was assigned as my examiner for the practical. Her fail rate was through the roof, so I’d have little chance of passing anyway, and the drivers were trying to “boycott” her, until she either changed her approach or got fired.
As if I wasn’t nervous enough already
I didn’t mind so much about the waste of money (no refunds on booked tests!), but I’d just changed jobs, and promised my new boss I had a driver’s licence.
Frank took me on the “usual” routes that the examiners went, so we could practise them, but Mrs Rathbone made up her own routes on the spot. And one time, she didn’t leave the mall’s parking lot at all, just had the guy go around and around for an hour, backing in and out of parking spaces.
He failed because the parking lot has a speed limit of 10 mph. “You know how hard it is to stay under 10mph for an hour?” said Frank.
I said yes, because Frank is half-Italian and gets excited.
The test centre has four spots on the top of the mall, and when Mrs Rathbone pointed me down the ramp to get onto the street, I thought, well, at least I’ll fail the test properly.
And I knew about the first trap.
There’s an extra “do not cross” line before the stop sign at the bottom of the ramp. It’s faded, so it’s easy to overlook, and even when you see it, it’s natural to associate it with the stop sign. So, that’s a fail if you don’t stop twice at the bottom of the ramp. And the stop sign announces the pedestrian crossing, and then you have to stop again after that before driving onto the actual road. Three stops before you even make it to the road.
Frank had prepared me for it, however, and although I ground the gears at all three stops, the car shuddered instead of stalling. Mrs Rathbone groaned as if it pained her, but I couldn’t fail for that. She shook a finger towards King Street, instead of Marrickville, which was a surprise, but I practised on King Street, so things were going my way. It’s a lot of stop-and-go traffic, but otherwise easy.
She said nothing else, and I just kept going straight ahead.
Should have been easy.
The thing is, though, King Street is easy until the University. That’s where I normally turn left towards the hospital. Turn around in the parking lot there, and head back home.
Go any further and you’re suddenly on City Street, which takes you to Broadway, which leads you onto Pitt Street. Then you’re in the city centre and God help you.
I cracked.
As we came up to my usual turn, I put on the indicators and made my way to the hospital. Mrs Rathbone said nothing.
She was dead.
So, that, kids, is why I’m such a nervous driver.
I should have listened to Frank about not doing the test with Mrs Rathbone.
And I should have listened to his advice to use the test centre’s car.
I hadn’t wanted to spend the time learning the feel of an unfamiliar car, though, so I used my own.
And now I can’t get rid of Mrs Rathbone out of the passenger seat.
She never says anything, but she’s always watching.
Didn’t I say?
She hadn’t been scowling at the road.
When she’d died at the bottom of the ramp, she’d been scowling at me.
This one is for Frank, my actual driving instructor, who played Gary Numan on the way home, after I passed my test!
