“Linkage! You haven’t the foggiest bloody idea what you’re talking about, woman.” Willett was unable to prevent his voice ascending in both pitch and volume. “You pressed the wrong bloody pedal—and you haven’t even the bloody decency to apologise.”
“Apologise!” Muriel faced up to him and, far from being apologetic, her eyes were bleak and baleful in a way that was outside his previous experience. “Why don’t you get in and drive the car yourself? Why don’t you prove me wrong?”
“That’s easily done,” Willett shouted, aware that the steel hoop was remorselessly crushing his chest. Ignoring the pain, he got into the driving seat, slammed the door and switched on the engine with the key Muriel had left in the lock. He revved up loudly to express his fury, put the car in gear and sent it surging out of the garage. Halfway along the drive he stamped on the brake, intending to give a spectacular demonstration of the car’s stopping ability, but to his horror the vehicle leapt forward with frightening power.
Willett was unable to control the reflex which caused him to bear down on the brake pedal with all his strength. The engine roared and the car hurtled between the gate posts, gaining speed all the while, crossed the avenue in an instant and mounted the opposite footpath. Willett barely had time to see the stone wall which spanned the view ahead, before the appalling impact drove him against the steering wheel. Two sources of pain, one external and one from within, fused in his chest, going beyond what was humanly endurable as his body bounced and broke and finally came to rest in a grotesque kneeling position beneath the dashboard.
Willett found himself with his face almost jammed against the instrument panel, and the car—as though rewarding him for all the attention he had lavished on it—began to put on a light-show to entertain him during the final seconds of his life. One by one the lights came on, plastic tablets glowing with cheerful colours, and there among them was the oil pressure warning light with its picture of an oilcan. Seen from a distance of only a few inches, the symbol loomed large in his field of vision, exhibiting fine details he had never noticed before. Very oddly—for an oilcan—its spout ended in what looked like the perforated spray head of a watering can.
Muriel, don’t do this to me, Willett pleaded inwardly, drowning in blood, as he saw the can begin to move. It tilted itself and sprinkled droplets of water over a stylised daisy. The daisy became invigorated, with Disney-style quiverings, and strained up towards the sun…
But by that time Willett was dead, and Muriel was hurrying to telephone her mother.