Lucky Chicken

What a great night, not only did she get all the gossip, but she also won two hundred euro. Two hundred friggin’ euro! The possibilities were endless. Well, okay, not endless. That perhaps, was a stretch. But still, there was potential. A bottle of Channel No.5? Maybe. A foot massage at that Thai place in Portlaoise? Definitely. But Peter would be annoyed; he’d think it was a waste of money.

That was the trouble with being married to a farmer, they thought most things were a waste of money. Unless of course, it was a new oil distributor for the tractor or wire to mend a fence. Colette smiled, she had just known her rubber chicken would come through. Barbara had laughed, said she was going soft in the head. But who was laughing now? Thank you lucky bingo chicken!

Her car swerved onwards towards the village of Clonaslee, each bend and curve a familiar foe. Tuesday night gave her freedom. She was out of the house, away from her children and husband. It was brilliant. Honestly, one forgot how much one needed a break sometimes. And the other girls were lovely; they were genuinely happy for her win. Even the grumpy woman with the coloured pencils.

A list of the week’s upcoming events passed through Colette’s head. The youngest child, Sean, had a doctor’s appointment on Thursday. He’d been poorly ever since their stupid teacher had taken them for that nature walk. Six-year-olds need to wear jackets! Come on, it was common sense. At least her daughter was in better fettle. Her class was holding a Halloween show on Friday. That reminded her; she must fix the hole in Angela’s costume. The Princess of Persia must not go to the ball with her backside poking out of her dress.

Almost ten o’clock, time for her favourite radio show. Colette always loved listening to the car radio at night. There was something soothing about it, as though she were not alone. It made the miles seem smaller somehow.

Tonight’s panel was debating drug crime. The stock answers came quickly: more police, harsher sentences, zero-tolerance; it was pitiful. Colette knew what her answer would be – hanging. Why not? If drug barons are prepared to kill people for profit, why shouldn’t they die for it? Seemed only fair.

No other cars were travelling on that night-time road. It was only her, the radio and the darkness. There had been some headlights a few miles back, but they were gone now. A drizzle fell, teasing the wipers. Colette shivered inside her jacket; one wouldn’t like to be out walking on a night like this.

The game came to mind, slithering inside her head, like it had done many times before – What’s behind the hedges? The rules, if you could call them that were very simple. Namely, guess what demon or ghoul was lying in wait, behind the hedgerows to devour you, to destroy your soul. Everyone knew the monsters were there, wisping past your eyes, scuttling out of your headlights. How many times have you heard people say, “I could have sworn I saw a ghost.” Well, maybe they did. She remembered the time their car broke down outside Mountrath. Her husband telling her to relax that he’d have it fixed in a jiffy. But how could she relax knowing that something unworldly might be watching them at that very minute?

Colette always thought of those monsters as being vampires for some reason. It had something to do with their clothes. Vampires in films always wore good clothes. And they had manners. It was true, vampires had lovely manners. But as to why the undead should be hiding behind hedgerows in the Irish countryside she had no idea. Ghouls were a contender, too. She had learned they were a Middle Eastern creature: one who enjoyed paying night time visits to graveyards. Could you imagine seeing some creature in the middle of a cemetery noshing on bones? No thank you!

The rain fell heavier now. It pounded off the roof and windscreen. Colette looked at the holy medal glued to the dashboard. It was funny how a piece of metal gave her such calm. Maybe St Christopher knew she didn’t like driving in the rain at night? She’d be home soon - just another quarter of an hour. The kids would be in bed and Peter would have tea and biscuits waiting for her.

The radio discussion broke into an argument. One of the guests called the other a woebegone. Colette smiled, when was the last time anyone called someone else that?

“He’s shagging her, you know.”

Colette looked at the radio.

“He’s shagging her, and he’s not using protection.”

The host readdressed the panel.

“Are we all agreed that the husband is shagging the schoolgirl?”

The panel agreed.

Christ! I must have missed something. Colette’s fingers scrambled for the volume control.

“Is the schoolgirl in the family way?”

“Yes, she is,” said the host.

“And does Colette know?”

“No, she is ignorant of Peter’s sordid, perverted affair.”

“To think the silly bitch goes out to play bingo every week – while her husband is fucking a fifteen-year-old girl on their marriage bed.”

“A pregnant fifteen-year-old girl,” reminded the host.

Colette’s body shook. The radio, the bloody radio was talking about her. No, you misheard, you imagined it. How can a radio programme talk about you? Come on, don’t be ridiculous. The headlights of an oncoming car approached her. Its driver was careless, veering onto her side of the road. Shit! They’re going too fast. Shit! Collette swerved to the left. The other car blew the horn, its taillights dazzling her mirror. Breathe, remember what the doctor said, breathe slowly and deeply. This is just some mental aberration, an auditory hallucination. She reduced her speed. There was no point in ploughing into a wall, because of an overactive imagination.

“But minister, you promised there would be an increase in the number of drug-related arrests, and it simply hasn’t happened.”

“The figures for the last quarter are not yet in, and when they are, I’m confident my predictions and indeed, the government’s predictions, will be vindicated.”

Colette turned the radio off.

What had just happened? Maybe it was her game? Her fortune teller had told her to be careful about making things up. She warned it could cause negative elements to coalesce and gather around her auras.

Peter wouldn’t be unfaithful to her. Not Peter of the biscuits and back rubs. Hadn’t be taken her to Paris once for their holidays? Hadn’t he paid for a boat to sail them down the Seine? And that fancy restaurant in Montmartre? They had drunk champagne and everything.

Would he really shag Brigid? Sweet, innocent Brigid, who just always needed a lift somewhere and Peter who was always happy to oblige. But you saw them. That night, when he thought you were visiting your mother. He had his hand hanging over her shoulder, right above her tits. And she was smiling; she and your husband, fucking in your…

Something small and feathery ran onto the road. Colette braked to avoid a collision. However, a wet surface and rapid deceleration was too much for her tyres. The car flipped over four times. Scattered pieces of glass and contorted metal flew along the tarmac. Colette struggled to release her seatbelt, conscious of a rising petrol smell. However, the entangled clasp refused to disengage. She pulled and pulled and pulled and then stopped. It was no use.

Her remaining eye picked out something yellow in the headlights, a child’s toy, a rubber novelty, limp and deflated. She gave one last tug at her seatbelt and gave up. Rasping flames cackled from behind her, preparing to feast. Colette stretched for her cigarettes, lit one and with a level of understanding denied to philosophers, whispered her final words.

Fuck it.