The Get away driver – mark 2


As i mentioned in my version of the longish short story about Serge ” the blur” D’erbeville, he isn’t really my character at all, but was the creation of a friend and fellow writer, so, just for fun here is his own version of the get away driver story.
Enjoy

STEPHEN WRIGHT / THE GETAWAY DRIVER

“Chris is hit…”

“Fucking cops man…”

“Where’d they come from…”?

Val Kilmer puts the metal to the floor; the car tears off, DeNiro

looks wired and Pacino is doing his eye-rolling thing. Timothy does

his own sound effects…

“Brrrrruummmm, screeeech grrrruugghh”

“Timothy, breakfast’s ready” his mother shouts from the kitchen.

“I’ve told you it’s Serge, not Timothy, Serge!” he shouts back

downstairs, can his mother not remember one simple thing?

He’d been thinking of the name-changing thing for months now.

It was no passing fancy. He spoke it out loud to himself; practised

his new signature; Serge D’Urberville – next he thought he needed

a nickname, what the cops would call his A K A. The Blur, yeah

that was perfect, Serge ‘the blur’ D’Urberville.

At 42 years of age, some would say it was late in the day to find

your calling, but hey getaway drivers come in all shapes and sizes

and ages, look at James Caan in the Driver, and someone whose

name he can’t remember in The Mechanic, a term used by the

criminal fraternity for a getaway driver. They both looked ancient.

Obviously not being able to drive was slightly problematic. He

tosses another jelly baby into his mouth and goes down to eat.

Back in his bedroom, Serge had rigged up an old car seat,

purloined from a partly burned out Vauxhall Vectra at the bottom of

his road. He thought about getting one of those beaded backrest

things for extra comfort, but thought he might lose his edge if he

got too comfortable. Suspended from the ceiling was a rear-view

mirror, which he was checking now. Robert DeNiro and Val Kilmer

were in the bank now, robbing the place blind. He kept the engine

running,

“Brumm, brumm, brummm” he said.

Robert DeNiro and Val Kilmer come charging out the bank.

“Hit it Serge,” says DeNiro. Serge likes DeNiro, he’s not the kind of

guy who forgets your new name after five minutes.

Serge grips his steering wheel, it’s one of those toy ones with a

suction sticker on the end, it is red and had a hooter it’s attached

to his wardrobe. He wrestles with the wheel as they take a corner at

over 60 miles an hour. The cops won’t be far behind, but they’ll

never catch the Blur. In his rear view mirror he watches Kilmer

eating some of Serge’s jelly babies, biting the head off first – what

a guy. Serge promises himself he’ll start eating them like that from

now on, instead of from their little ankles upwards.

“Timothy I’m off to Waitrose, fish-fingers alright for tea tonight?”

“I keep telling you it’s Serge…”

‘Is that nice Mr DeNiro still with you…’?

“He’s not nice, he’s a career criminal, we’ve just robbed a bank,

we’ve got the cops right behind us and you want to know If I want

fishfingers for tea.

“We’ve got bigger fish to fry,” says Val Kilmer. Serge sniggers at

the comment, and shouts down to his mum, “Yeah, like he says,

we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Well I think you are both very rude, it’s not big and it’s not

clever. Do you think Mr. DeNiro would a chocolate fondue, I could

bring one back with me.

“He says yes, could you make it three, Val and I would like one

too.”

“Yes I thought you would, oh and Timothy there ‘s a clean

handkerchief down here for you.”

As the front door closes, Serge falls back on his bed. Tears well in

his eyes. How can he look DeNro and Val in the face again?

Getaway drivers don’t have clean handkerchiefs, eat fish fingers.

They’ll never ask me on another job again. Do all getaway drivers

have days like this he ponders. He paps the horn on the toy

steering wheel and goes down to get the plates out for the

chocolate fondues and puts the kettle on. Mum likes her cup of tea

after her shopping trips and decides Timothy is not that bad a name

after all. Or what about Olaf, Olaf Klondike?”

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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