Killers and sadists drive grey Mercedes

Evil approaches in a grey Mercedes.


Unsurprisingly, I associate death and pain with a grey Mercedes. I've seen someone killed by a grey Mercedes and I was knocked over by one.

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We were on our way to church near Shepherd's Bush in 1989. We were late. Just in front of the church was a four lane highway with a central reservation. The lights had changed to orange by the time we reached the middle and so we stopped. But a thin woman, about 57, standing next to us decided to carry on walking across the last two lanes of the highway. Before she could reach the other side, the lights had changed to green and she was hit.

I saw the bloated German saloon approach. I saw it speed up 50 yards away from the crossing. The woman must have been clearly visible in her beige gabardine. I shouted in panic, but a second later she was caught by the Mercedes.

The driver was short, balding and portly - he too was in his late fifties. He was dressed in a grey suit. I saw a small sort of rictus on his mouth as he hit her glancingly and drove on.

We came up to help. She was groaning but trying to stopper her groans and so her whole chest and torso gave a deep complaining humpbacked rumble above the sound of traffic.

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"We'll take you to hospital. What's your name? We'll call a taxi and take you there."

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She gave us her name. She was Irish, by her accent. Her arms felt thin under the coat, her breath smelled of cigarettes and her greying hair was newly out of curlers.

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She seemed very embarrassed. And she also seemed irritated. As if circumstances were forcing her to associate with people she normally would not associate with. "

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"My son will come and take me," she said, and hobbled away in the direction of the church. We came up behind her to help her, but she brushed us off as if we were being importunate.

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A man whom she seemed to know, approached us from the right and she allowed him to lead her into the church holding her by the arm. We left our address with him in case the police needed witnesses.

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Next week we heard the priest call out her name:

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"We pray for Mrs. Kelly that she may recover soon."

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"Could that be the Mrs. Kelly from last week?" I asked Tere.

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"Shhhh." she said. But the following week we were asked to pray for her again. Only this time after her death was announced.

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"That's is the woman," I said. "That was the name she gave me."

"We don't know" said Tere. "Shhhh."

The police came round to get our witness statement.

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"And what did you see?" the policeman asked. "I saw the man accelerate towards the woman. I think he meant to hit her," I said.

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The policeman said nothing. He didn't seem interested. That was that. .

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When I was a student, once, near Euston station, I went down a one-way road on my bike by mistake. A grey Mercedes appeared from a side road and hit me. I was knocked into the road. The radiator of the Mercedes hit my bike and my leg and side and I lay on the road squirming in pain.
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While I was lying on the road the driver - a short, bald and portly man in his late fifties wearing a grey suit - got out and carefully inspected his radiator for cracks before turning to look at me on the ground.
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He stood there without saying anything. There was almost a smile there.

I wanted to say: "Fuck you you bastard." and "Help!" But it hurt too much. It came out as a growl followed by "Ouuuuu, God Jesus Christ ouuuuu."
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Enraged, in pain, but knowing that it was my fault, I stood up, and went over to inspect his radiator. There was nothing.
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He asked me for my address. Two months later I was notified that I had cracked his radiator beyond repair and consequently his insurers had decided to replace the whole radiator grill.