Chase of the Tail

Richie had begun the day in a very good frame of mind, mainly because the hospital had finally given him a clean bill of health the day before, when he returned as requested, for a check-up. He felt fit and ready for action, but he did not have in mind the ordeal of joining in the seasonal shopping spree. It still seemed to Richie that almost every move he made these days ended in some disaster or other. He browsed the main market stalls, thankful he had no-one to buy presents for, although he was considering getting a token gift for old Shirley. He finally found a con-man selling watches from a suitcase, at startlingly low prices. Undoubtedly an unsecured lorry job. The guy had an element of style about him, sitting on a stool, drinking champagne from a proper glass, and giving the punters endless reams of jolly cockney-accented patter. Richie wanted to buy from him just to pay for the entertainment. Picking out a gold-coloured digital watch, he handed over a ten pound note, and received enough change from it to feel able to either have a drink at lunchtime, or maybe even hit the football ground in the afternoon. Eventually he found the ideal solution. Do both. If he could cadge a drink from one or two of the regulars at the ‘Crest’, he would still have more than enough to be able to get to the match. He grinned with satisfaction, looked at his new watch, and strode out for home, which was within walking distance of the city centre. As he left the traffic-free concrete jungle, he noticed a bit of a commotion in the street. A crowd of people had gathered around some injured or sick person, on the corner of a main street and a narrow service road leading to the rear of some of the shops. Richie, curious, approached the scene. He overheard an elderly man telling another man what had apparently happened. It seemed to have been a hit-and-run accident. The very thought of it brought a stab of nervous pain to Richie’s groin, as he recalled his own bad experience in November. The elderly chap’s description became more interesting when he explained to his companion that it did not appear to have been accidental at all. The vehicle which hit the fellow – a mini-van or something similar – had swung round in a tight circle before striking the victim, then bolted into the main road at a dangerously fast speed, almost causing another collision with a car as it did so. Suddenly a couple of people in front of Richie moved away, and he saw two things, neither of them welcome. Firstly, there was a police officer approaching the scene on foot, which convinced Richie it was time to leave. But the second thing astonished him. He caught sight of the victim, lying in agony in the gutter. It was a young man of similar age to himself. In fact, it was a young man who looked remarkably like Richie. Same fair hair, cropped short as Richie’s was. More importantly, an identical grey ‘bomber’ jacket, and old jeans like his own. The lad was even wearing dark spectacles as Richie did. Richie was looking at him and feeling as if he was looking in a mirror. The thought again brought the stab of nervous pain. He turned away from the still figure and the gathered crowd and hurried along the street. As he hurried, he broke into a trot, then ran. He had suddenly been gripped by an irrational fear, as if he had just witnessed a re-run of his accident in November. It felt as if the guy who had hit him then had been trying to kill him, - and had now come back to finish the job.