James couldn’t get the car door open. The sun had barely risen over Aberystwyth and he was already fighting with an inanimate object. But the bloody thing knew he was pissed, it did. It was trying to judge him for drink driving his way to a school and he wasn’t having it. He was tugging at the handle with his backside poking out into the road in a most unattractive manner whilst trying not to think about what he’d been up to the night before. He could still smell it. The smell of shame was wafting off him and despite all the lynx he had in the house it was still pungent. He just hoped his pupils would fail to notice. His teeth were still red wine stained, his shirt was the same one he’d had on yesterday, minus the tie that he’d lost in the chippy. His suit was wrinkled.
‘You pile of useless... you little.... just stop it’ he threw his briefcase at the door with a thunk. He clicked the open button on his keys repeatedly, and whilst the locks flew up and down teasingly in the windows, the door’s would not yield. He ran around to the passenger side, looking at his watch as he did so, 8.45am. Good grief, the drive to work would take twenty minutes on a good day, but he was drunk. Surely he should drive with a little more care than usual? He pulled at the door to no avail. For the love of God, this was becoming ridiculous. He glanced back at the house considering calling for a taxi, and saw his cat sitting in the window looking at him. He could have sworn the cat had a raised eyebrow. Bastard thing.
He dropped his briefcase to the driveway, and perused the situation. The Reno was not working out quite as well as he had hoped. The one time he needed it to operate, it wouldn’t. A three door car and both doors were completely... wait. He walked around to the back of the car. He opened the boot, and glanced up and down the street of suburbia. No one seemed to be watching. He glanced back at the house. The cat looked at him for a few well considered seconds before turning its back on him. Sod it. The cat was already judging him, and he had to get in somehow. He clambered into the boot and crouched there considering his next move. He tested the panel above his head, which seemed surprisingly solid, unlike all of the essential components to the Reno. He tried pushing it a little harder with his fist, now sitting cross legged in the boot of his own car attempting to break in. He heard a strange sound behind him, and was beginning to turn around to inspect the cause of the noise when it became swiftly apparent he was in great trouble.
The boot closed in his face, catching the edge of his shirt as it did so. He simply sat there like a child for minutes on end.
‘Oh’. He gave the boot a test poke, but of course it didn’t move an inch. He felt about in the darkness, but of course the boot cover didn’t give either. ‘Bollocks’. And he began to laugh hysterically in the boot of his own car.
Soon the smell of lynx became too much to bear and he realised he had to either get out of there or die in an aroma that claimed to smell like Africa. It seemed unlikely that the smell in the boot had anything to with Africa, but a lot more to do with his sixth form’s common room. He spun his body round, using his behind like the base of a turntable and tried to find some sort of a button that released him. Surely after years worth of movies in which people were locked in boots to die the makers had thought to include a safety release? Why on earth not? Did they think that peoples shopping might come back to life and attempt to escape, disgruntling many Reno buyers? He spun around grabbing at pieces of upholstery trying to pull, push, twist or generally prod at all of them. Nothing seemed to work as a secret release button, but he did manage to locate a handful and slightly fluffy and aged chocolate raisins which he ate most of. The other half he put in his jacket pocket, he couldn’t be sure how many hours he’d be trapped.
He lay down in the boot of the car and considered the events of the night before. Morag was clearly some kind of a she-devil. She’d encouraged him to get drunk. They’d drank the bar dry, literally in the case of the Penderyn Whisky. She had insisted on getting her card out and between them they’d finished an entire bottle in two hours. He recalled running to the bathroom and being sick. And then... well... oh God.
He didn’t want to think about it. If he did, he’d laugh, and that was most irresponsible given the seriousness of the situation. He couldn’t help but smile at his recollection of the look on her face when he’d whipped it out.... but never mind that. He had to find a way out. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out some half-melted chocolate raisins. There had to be a way. But this wasn’t so bad, why did people get so uptight on TV about being locked in boots? Other then the fact that they were generally on their way to an inevitable death. He couldn’t understand really. He sat up and hit his head on the rock solid boot panel. The blow seemed to set off a chain reaction in his head.
‘Fucking fuck. Holy christ of fuck. Oh my good god.’ He began gasping for air and clutching at the corners of the boot. He’d remembered why people became uptight in boots. There wasn’t a great deal of air in boots.