Neville

Neville was seventeen years old and passed his driving test on his first go. His Father, a professional driving instructor, was proud to tell anyone that his son was an exceptionally  good driver. On the dashboard of Neville’s car, at his Father’s insistence, was a notice warning that the car only had third party insurance and that you travelled at your own risk. This made me smirk. (I smirked a lot back then.) It had taken me four attempts to pass my driving test yet I was a far safer driver than Neville. His foot was always pressing down on the accelerator, speeding up to lights and then slamming on the brakes at the last moment. If not for seatbelts we would have gone flying through the front window many times. After being knocked about more than usual one time,  I remember getting out of his car slightly shell shocked and telling him, “One day, Neville, you’re going to kill all of us.”

But we were great friends. We had met working backstage at the Theatre. He had brown hair, a large face and the biggest smile. He still had puppy fat and like a puppy was always excited whatever ever we we were doing or talking about. Punctuating every sentence with “Wow’ and “Amazing.” We used to watch late night horror movies. On the way back to my flat in Islington we would reenact each blood curdling scream. Sometimes he pretended to be genuinely scared and would insist that we left the lights on all night.

This is the (first draft) opening of a short true life story.

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