screech... smack... vroom...

Almost home, I was sitting behind the wheel after an otherwise uneventful day, waiting for an oncoming car to pass before I could make the turn into the car park next door.

I had realised a car was coming up rather quickly behind me, but I’m not entirely sure what registered first: the fact that he was unlikely to be able to stop, or the sickening screech of his brakes. I just remember thinking to myself, “not too hard… please don’t hit me too hard…” Time seemed to slow before the inevitable thud of metal on metal. I remember hearing a high-pitched squealing noise, but that may have come from me. My poor old car was flung forward, and I was thankful that the seatbelt worked. I realised I was OK and sat there cursing the dumb fucker for crashing into me, before seeing that he was about to drive off. As he sped away, I saw the registration plate on the rear of his car and memorised the number. I repeated it to myself over and over, as I got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, found paper, found a pen, and scribbled it down.

Slightly shaken, I walked round to the back of the car, and checked the damage. The bodywork was dented in the middle of the now-shattered bumper, but it didn’t look too bad. Glass strewn in the road hinted that his car may have come out of the collision in worse shape than mine. I smiled as my eye was caught by something else: face down in the road I saw what could only be his licence plate. I picked it up and checked the number against my notes… I’d always wondered if I’d have the presence of mind to take details in a case such as this, and I felt rather self-satisfied that I'd got them down correctly.

By now, there was small crowd. Passers-by agreed that the guy was both culpable and a total cunt, and offered me their details as witnesses. Neighbours I’d never seen before had rushed outside to see if anyone was hurt; after checking I was OK, a couple of them invited me in for a cup of tea. Some guy rang the police, and put me on to the operator, who told advised me to report it my local police station, taking along my license, MOT certificate and insurance details. Geoff, who owns the car park, found a brush and swept up the glass from the road.

I bitch about many of the people in this transient and over-populated neighbourhood… I only seem to notice the smack-addicts, the ASBO'd chavs, and the drunken students who insist on regurgitating their donor kebabs on my door-step. I never realised I had such nice neighbours, and I was both surprised, and surprisingly touched.

Later that evening, I walked to the police station, and filled in an accident report. I wasn’t even that angry that the guy had hit me, just that he’d driven off. I didn’t know if the police would give even half a shit, but the desk clerk was sympathetic, and gave me the form to fill in. She asked if I got his licence plate. I nodded, and said, "it's a little grubby though," as I took it from a plastic bag and handed it across the counter. The look on her face was almost worth the damage to my car.

Some time later, I heard back from the police. They'd questioned the owner of the car, who denied he was driving it at the time of the crash. After they had stopped recording the interview, he offered up the name of a "friend," who he alleged had been behind the wheel. The police said they couldn't find him. I offered my assistance, but they wouldn't give me his details.

Bastards.

I would like to have spoken with him.

Preferably with a hockey stick.