Accidents happen

It was cold and wet. Why was I, a top Formula One trouble-shooter, here in the noise and discomfort of pit lane, shivering and holding a paper plate on a stick? No-one would know me here, in cap, headphones, sunglasses, red outfit. The suit was a little tight, but it was someone else's. And the previous owner wasn't going to complain, not in the car boot where he waited his fate, shivering in his underwear, the zip ties cutting off the circulation to his hands.

The red beast roared into the pits. I sauntered over to the front and nonchalantly dropped the brake sign in front of the driver.

It was the Chin. He wouldn't recognise me of course, but maybe later he'd think back and wonder. Hopefully he'd be nervous.

The fuel was going in now and timing was going to be everything. The rig was cleared, I lifted the lollipop at the critical moment, checking out of the corner of my eye. True to form, the Chin, all machine, trusting to the well-oiled Maranello organisation, went into driving mode.

By the time I heard the impact I was halfway to my car, walking briskly, noticing the heads swivel away from me. "You two clowns deserve each other", I thought to myself as people started moving past me, attracted by the shunt.

"Make it look like an accident Smith", Bernie had said, and I knew he would be satisfied. When I got back to the hotel I would find a fat envelope under my door, full of the readies. When Mark eventually got back to his room, he'd find a thinner envelope. Just a note, no signature, letters cut out of a paper. "Drive slower tomorrow."

"Now", I mused as I slowly rolled out of the car park, removing the red cap and headphones, shoving them on the passenger side floor, "what have I got in store for Jacque this weekend?" I smiled, the thought warming me as much as the car heater, as I wound it out.