The Pay-Out

Mike Frost packed the last of the clothes shopping in the boot of his car. It had been another productive shopping trip at the Trafford Centre. He and his wife, Phoebe, liked nothing more than spending a weekend afternoon going round the shopping mall, treating themselves to designer clothes. And why not? They could afford it, well, not exactly, but then, wasn’t that what credit-cards were for?

As he climbed in the car, Phoebe asked what he fancied for dinner that evening. Mike smiled, when she asked a question like that, it usually meant she had already decided what she wanted to eat. She played this game, letting Mike think it was his decision, or a joint decision at the very least.

‘Indian?’ he suggested.

‘Nah, I don’t fancy a curry.’

Here we go, Mike thought.

‘Chinese? That place on Barton Lane?’ he tried again.

‘I was thinking we could try that new kebab place in Culcheth.’

And there we have it, he thought. If that would have been him, he would have suggested the kebab shop in the first place.

‘Yeah,’ he said, pulling out of the car-park and joining the flow of traffic. ‘I could just do a special kebab.’

Phoebe gently patted his thigh, like he was a well-behaved Labrador.

The winter sun hung low in the sky that afternoon. Mike winced as the glare stunned his eyes. He flipped down the sun-visor. Phoebe did the same. Mike drove on, squinting in the sunlight, like Clint Eastwood in a New Mexico showdown.

The traffic lights up ahead changed to red. Mike slowed to a stop, still thinking of the takeaway food. As soon as they got home, he would grab the menu. A kebab on naan, as thick as a roll of carpet, with lots of chilli sauce.

His thoughts were interrupted by the screeching of brakes from behind. Mike glanced in the mirror. The vehicle behind them was reducing speed, but not quickly enough. There was a jolt as the van connected. Mike and Phoebe were jerked forward in their seats, their seatbelts yanking them.

Mike swore, told Phoebe to wait there, and climbed out of the car.

The vehicle that had hit them was an ice cream van. The bright, cheerful lettering on the van seemed at odds with the fact he’d just gone into the back of them.

The van driver slid back his door and joined Mike on the road. He was in his mid-fifties and wore a white coat to protect his clothes from the ice cream, sauces and sprinkles.

‘Sorry, mate.’ The van driver said. ‘I didn’t see the lights change. That sun is blinding.’

‘What are you doing selling ice cream in the middle of winter?’ Mike asked.

‘It’s a bright day. I thought I might do a bit of business today. Are you guys okay?’

‘Yeah, we’re fine. Let’s swap insurance details, then we can get going.’ said Mike.

While Mike made a note of the van driver’s details on his mobile phone, the ice cream man wrote in a small spiral-bound notebook.

‘Thanks, and sorry again.’

Mike said nothing and headed back to the car.

‘Is there much damage?’ asked Phoebe.

‘No, not really.’ Mike said. ‘The insurance will sort it out.’

‘Could have been much worse. Are you having a beer with your takeaway?’

‘I wasn’t going to, but I am now.’

Mike stuffed the last piece of donner meat in his mouth. He sighed in satisfaction, before taking a long swig of lager.

‘That was lovely.’ he said.

Phoebe dunked a bit of naan in a dip and nodded in agreement.

‘I will ring the insurance company in the morning.’ Mike said.

‘The main thing is that we’re both unhurt.’

‘Not that I’ll be telling the insurance company that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If we tell them we’re injured then they’ll pay out. We could get a few grand each out of this.’

‘I don’t think we should, it’s not right.’ Phoebe said.

‘It’s the world we’re living in. That’s why we have insurance. The old dude in the ice cream van won’t be affected. It’s all done through the insurance company. They take care of everything. Everyone does it. If you have a bump, you claim. You tell them you have a bad back, tell them your neck hurts, and they’ll pay you compensation.’

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘I’ll sort it out. All you have to do is stick to the story, fill in a few forms, and then we’ll have a few thousand pounds. Doesn’t that sound good? You can treat yourself to whatever you want. It could even pay for a holiday.’

‘Won’t they check?’

‘We’ll be sent to a doctor, who will also know the score. We tell him what we’re claiming for, and he signs a few forms. They will be getting a fair few quid for this too. It’s an industry, love. It’s just business. And I’ll be with you, we’ll do it together. All you have to do, is say nothing, and wait for the cash to roll in.’

Phoebe chewed nervously on a fingernail, saying nothing.

‘This is what insurance is for,’ Mike insisted. ‘what it’s all about. Brian at work, his house was burgled a few years ago. The insurance sent him to the shops to get replacement items. He had his telly and his games console stolen. The guy in the shop was like, what about your record player? Brian was about to say he didn’t have a record player, when the guy winked at him. He ended up getting his house kitted out, surround sound speakers, the lot. All we’re doing it telling a little white lie, that they’ll be expected. We would be daft not to claim. The insurance company will be expecting us to claim and offer us a pay-out. Are you really gonna say you don’t want it?’

‘Fine.’ Phoebe said.’ You can sort it all out, though.’

‘Of course, all you have to do is stick with me, and decide where you want to go on holiday.’

Mike raised his beer glass. Phoebe reluctantly clinked his glass, in agreement.

The next morning Phoebe called round to her parents’ house for a brew and a catch-up. When she got back, just before midday, Mike was hanging up the phone.

‘That’s it. I’ve done it.’

‘The insurance?’

‘Yeah, I explained all about the accident.’

‘Go on.’

‘I said that your neck hurts and you’ve been having headaches.’

Phoebe simply tutted at the thought of having to fib about being injured. She really didn’t like it. The way she saw it, they were lucky to have come away unscathed so to report fabricated injuries just seemed in bad taste.

‘They will be in touch in a month or so, to send us to the doctors for analysis and treatment.’ Mike said.

‘What about you? What injuries did you say you had?

‘The more severe the injury, the greater the pay out.’ he grinned. ‘I’ve told them I’ve broken my arm in six places.’

‘You are unbelievable. Do you really think you’ll get away with it? When the doctor sees your arm isn’t broken, they’ll call the police.’

‘This happens all the time, love, I’ve told you. If the doctor is on the make, I’ll slip him a few quid and he’ll say my arm is broken. If he’s a stickler, he’ll reject the claim. It’s a win-win.’

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘It’s done now.’

Just over a month later, Mike and Phoebe had almost forgotten about the accident and the pending claim when he got a call on his mobile phone.

‘Yes,’ Mike said. ‘Speaking.’

Phoebe muted the television, feeling sick as she realised what the call was regarding. Mike repeated the false injuries with conviction.

‘Tomorrow morning?’ he gave Phoebe a thumbs-up, ‘Yes, we can come in tomorrow for the consultation.’

When he hung up, Phoebe jumped to her feet in outrage.

‘We won’t get away with this.’

Mike crossed the room and gave her a hug. She’d come round. She could be a little straight-laced about things but he usually managed to talk her round. As he went upstairs for a shower, he told himself that Phoebe would admit he was right when they were on holiday somewhere hot, with the claim money. Things would work themselves out just the way they should. They just had to get through the faff of the insurance claim and they would get the pay-out.

He whistled to himself as he showered, deciding that things were definitely looking up. He changed into jeans and a t-shirt, humming a little ditty. At the top of the stairs something startled him. The world slipped out from under him. He tumbled down the stairs, feeling like Alice falling down the rabbit-hole.

He hit the bottom step hard, crying out in agony.

Phoebe found him at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his arm.

‘What happened?’

‘I lost my footing.’

‘Are you okay?’

Mike shook his head. His arm really hurt, feeling ice-cold yet red hot at the same time.

Hours later, Mike and Phoebe were sitting in Accident and Emergency. The nurse came back with his X-ray results.

‘You have broken your arm in six places.’

Phoebe gasped at the coincidence. That was precisely what they had told the insurance company. Was this Karma, fate, kismet, of some sort? Mike just looked stunned, numb, shocked by the whole thing.

‘Can you tell me anything about the fall? Did you trip? Did you black-out?’ the nurse asked.

‘I was distracted by a noise, it seemed to come from right behind me.’

‘What kind of noise?’

‘It sounded like the chimes of an ice-cream van.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom