Perfect by Rachel Joyce Page B

over the wet pavements and ice mounts in dirt ridges at the kerb. He heads towards the roundabout in order to cross safely when a maroon Ford Escort rattles past. A sticker is pasted on the back window – My other car is a Porsche . With a screech and a metallic smell of fireworks, the car slams to a halt at the give way markings on the road. Jim steps out behind it.
    There is no obvious reason why a car that is stationary should change its mind and reverse; but this one does both. With a roar and a suddenshot of smoke, the Ford appears to jump backwards, and then brakes with another jolt right against Jim. He realizes that something significant has happened and then that it is pain. It bolts up through him, starting from his toe and flashing the length of his leg into his spine.
    ‘Whoa,’ a male voice shouts from across the road.
    The passenger door flies open and there she is. Or rather, there her face is, at a slanted angle. She must have jumped across from the driver’s seat. Blaze of sticking-out orange hair. Wide eyes. There is only her car between them.
    ‘What the—?’ There is no mistaking her.
    Jim raises his hands. If he had a white flag, he would wave that too. ‘I-I-I. Your car – your car—’ He has much on his mind and 1,105 kilograms of Ford Escort on the end of his boot.
    Eileen stares at him and the look she sends is one of bewilderment. He doesn’t know why but, staring back at Eileen, an image pops into his mind of a hydrangea he found in flower only that morning, so pink it was vulgar. He remembers how he wanted to cup its head and hold it safe until spring.
    Eileen and Jim continue to stare at one another without moving, him thinking of hydrangeas, her murmuring ‘Fuck,’ until the voice from across the road shouts again: ‘Stop! Stop! There’s been an accident!’
    For a moment the words mean nothing. Then, realizing what they signify, Jim feels a flood of panic. He doesn’t want any of this. It must stop happening. He calls out, ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ People are beginning to notice. He flaps his arms as if Eileen is wedged in his path and, with vigorous hand movements, he can waft her free. ‘Go away!’ he shouts, or something close to that. ‘Go away! Go on!’ It is almost rude.
    Eileen’s head withdraws, the door is slammed shut and she drives forward. Her passenger wheel cuffs the kerb as she takes the turning.
    The man who shouted now dashes across the road, dodging cars. He is young, dark-haired, wearing a leather jacket, face like a skeleton. His breathhits the cold in small plumes of smoke. ‘I got the registration number,’ he says. ‘Can you walk?’
    Jim says he is sure he can. Now that Eileen’s back wheel has parted from his shoe, he feels surprisingly light, as if his foot is made of air.
    ‘Do you want me to call the police?’
    ‘I-I—’
    ‘An ambulance?’
    ‘N-n—’
    ‘Here.’ The young man hands Jim a scrap of notepaper on which he has apparently scribbled the car’s details. His writing is childlike.
    Jim folds the paper and pockets it. His thoughts are struggling to connect with each other. He has been hit and he is hurt. All he wants is to remove his boot in the privacy of the van and examine his toe, without anyone else running him over or threatening to fetch people who terrify him. And then he realizes that he has only folded the young man’s note once. It should be twice, and then once. After all, there has been an accident. He should be performing the rituals, even here on the pavement. But he has done it now; he has done a wrong thing. Despite the cold, a rush of sweat showers his skin. He starts to tremble.
    ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ says the young man.
    Jim tries to refold the piece of paper in his pocket, only somehow it is caught round his keyring. The young man stares.
    He says, ‘Did the car knock your hip as well?’
    There, it is done. The paper is folded twice. ‘Y-yes,’ he tells himself because it is safe now.
    ‘It