A Heart in the Right Place

by Heide Goody

  “Guess what?”

  “The drink? Go on. Guess!”

  Tony puffed out his cheeks in thought. “Don’t know. Horlicks?”

  “I said something special. Guess. We’re going to Scotland,” he added helpfully.

  “Some sort of whisky?”

  “Talisker! Dad, I’ve only got us a bottle of Talisker!” Nick slapped the steering wheel for emphasis.

  He looked away from the road, wanting to see the expression on his dad’s face. Tony gave a gentle nod of his head and murmured something sounding like “That’s nice. Mind if we turn the heating up a notch?”

  Nick adjusted the heating, feeling a droplet of sweat run down his back and into his trousers as he moved.

  17

  Finn rode in the passenger seat while Adam drove. “I think we can assume they’re not just going to the shops,” she said. They’d been on the road for forty five minutes.

  Adam scowled. Before he could reply there was the warbling of an incoming call through the car’s sound system.

  “It’s our handler,” said Adam.

  “We have a handler?” asked Finn.

  “Let me do the talking, right?”

  Finn wasn’t sure what a handler did, but it sounded way too personal for her liking. This was becoming far more involved than her usual jobs. They amounted to Instructions, Execution and Payment, and certainly didn’t require any handling.

  Adam answered the call. “Hi Col. I’m on loudspeaker in the car. Finella’s with me.”

  “What the hell’s going on, Adam?” came an amiable and lilting Irish tone. “You weren’t on the feckin six o’clock flight.”

  “No. We tracked the target to Birmingham, but he’s currently in a vehicle, heading north on the M6. He might be heading back to Liverpool.”

  “We’re not interested in all that shite. When you going to get the fecker?”

  “We are in pursuit and will intercept when possible.”

  “Which means feck all. I don’t need to remind you about the schedule. You don’t have much leeway here, you see. Be sure you don’t lose him.”

  “No danger of that,” said Adam. “He’s driving a bright red Cadillac with a flag on the bonnet. It’s probably the only one in England.”

  “Good God, I don’t want to picture it!”

  “I’m staring at it.”

  “Get the job done, Adam! ASA-feckin-P. Call if you need further support.”

  “Won’t be needed.”

  “Just feckin get on with it, yeah?”

  “Sure Col, speak later.” Adam killed the call. He glanced at Finn. “Don’t you just love the way the Irish make swearing sound so musical?”

  Finn had no idea what he was talking about. “Who was that?”

  “Col.”

  “So he’s guy’s in charge, yeah?”

  “He’s our handler,” said Adam.

  “You said that. Is he the boss of you?”

  “What? Why does it even matter?”

  “I’m being paid. I have a job to do. I need to know who to listen to. Especially if the two of you say something different.”

  “We’re not going to say something different,” protested Adam.

  “You already did. Col said we’re to fucking get on with it and yet you’re waiting around until it’s possible to intercept them.”

  “How is that different?” said Adam.

  “Well, we could do it now if we were fucking getting on with things.”

  Adam closed his eyes a moment, which Finn thought was a strange move for someone doing eighty miles an hour in the fast lane. “We’re on the M6. Three full lanes of traffic. We could force them off the road so you can get busy with your knife, true; but the chances of not being observed are slim, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Depends if we care.”

  “Adam sighed. “Sooner or later they are going to have to stop and we will take advantage of it. I’m keeping a careful eye on the time, you can be assured of that. You take your orders from me, yes? Col and I are very much aligned, so there will be no problem with you getting paid if you listen to me. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” said Finn.

  18

  “Have you noticed the number of Dacias on the road?” said Tony, pointing at one as they overtook it. “Sign we’re living in leaner times. A more affordable car, stripped of luxury.”

  Nick nodded. “A soulless choice.”

  “Soulless? It’s noisy, rolls on corners and looks like it’s made from recycled Renault parts but … what does soulless mean?”

  “You know, there’s no love there,” said Nick. “You’ve got to feel something for your car. I mean: who buys a car based on purely utilitarian reasons?”

  Tony laughed.

  “What?” said Nick.

  Tony stared at Nick. “What? I thought that was a joke.”

  “What was?”

  “Surely it’s a joke? Everyone buys a car for utilitarian reasons. It’s a car. Why would you do anything different?”

  Nick smiled affectionately at his father. “Emotion is at the core of most of our choices, dad. People surround themselves with things which reflect the image they want to present to the world. Car-buying’s often an aspirational choice.”

  “Jesus, Nick. Really?”

  “Yeah. If I want to tell the world I’m important, I buy myself an important-looking car.”

  Tony shook his head. “The thing you’re overlooking here is a good many people don’t have the money to go around buying aspirational choices. You don’t know how lucky you are you’ve never had to buy a car based purely on whether it will pass its next MOT .”

  Nick thought back to childhood journeys in rusty saloons with window winders which no longer worked. “Yes, that’s true. I accept certain demographics work with severe constraints.”

  “You mean some people are poor.”

  “Yes. Let’s just pretend the people on this motorway don’t have severe financial difficulties and bought their cars because they liked them. You can tell a lot about a person based on their choice. Like the Audi over there. Who do we think it belongs to?”

  “You could just overtake so we can see,” suggested Tony.

  “We could…”

  “Go on, tell me what you think.”

  “Well,” said Nick, warming to the game, “it’s a cabriolet. So it’s most likely a woman. She’s asserting her independence by choosing something with a high social status, so perhaps recently divorced. It’s not a cheap car, so she’s more likely to be forty plus.”

  Tony shook his head, smiling. “Is this what they teach you in marketing school?”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” said Nick.

  Tony scoffed, not unkindly. If anything he sounded uncharacteristically tolerant. “Maybe it works sometimes,” he said. “But I think a lot of people buy cars for their features. Practical things. Like modern heating. You and I could have different heating settings in a lot of newer cars, did you know that? Save you wearing a thick coat while you’re driving.”

  “I like to wear it.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s a fashion thing,” lied Nick. “But that’s sort of the point, don’t you think? Most modern cars all have the features you want. Very little to choose between them in terms of features.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. If a car manufacturer came and asked me what I wanted, I would have a few things to say to them. If I’m honest, I think sometimes they get a bit carried away with their own cleverness; they go backwards in terms of features I actually want.”

  “Like what?” asked Nick.

  Tony counted off on his fingers. “Let’s start with cup holders. I used to be able to put my cup up there, on the dashboard, where I can reach it while I’m driving. Now I have to scramble around down by the gearstick. Who decided to put a cup holder there, where I can’t even reach it if I’m looking where I’m going? Worse is all the nonsense they put in modern cars like refusing to start the engine until
I’ve got my seatbelt on, or I’m pressing on some pedal or other. I liked it much better when I was in charge of how I drove, and not the car.”

  “Ah, that would be safety by design,” said Nick. “There’s a Japanese word for it, poka-yoke.”

  “That’s those little cartoon things people chase around on their phones.”

  “Not Pokemon. Poka-yoke. The idea is to prevent behaviour which could cause an accident.”

  Tony rolled his eyes. “See, the idea of someone wanting to prevent me behaving how I want to behave makes my blood boil. If I start my car and I need to reverse out of a space, I want to do it with my seatbelt off. Perfectly legal, and the safest way to do it in my opinion.”

  Nick nodded, acknowledging his father’s words, but wondering if there was a generational problem. Research had proven older people were more resistant to change. “Eyes sharp. Audi.”

  They pulled past the car and turned their heads to look at the driver. A bearded man glanced across with a scowl. Tony and Nick both looked quickly away.

  19

  “Have you ever killed someone?” asked Finn.

  “No,” said Adam.

  “Have you ever hit someone with the intention of killing them?”

  “Not a realistic intention, no.”

  “Stabbed anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Smashed someone’s head in with a bottle or similar.”

  “What? Like you did to that guy in Liverpool? No.”

  They had been driving north for nearly two hours and were almost back in Liverpool. If Oz was heading back to his grimy flat, he’d find an unpleasant surprise inside, and get another when Finn got hold of him.

  “Kicked someone in the balls?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had fight with anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “When I was eight. My friend Karim broke my Lego car and—”

  “Shit. Are you gay?”

  He cast a sharp glance at her. “What?”

  “I asked, are you gay? This is the yes/no game. You said it would be a way of getting to know each other a bit better.”

  “I’m more concerned you asked me if I’m gay because… Is it because I owned Lego or because I’ve not had a fight since I was eight?”

  “It’s just a question.”

  Adam cleared his throat irritably. “Listen. Can we change the rules of this game? The answers can be yes, no or stop asking offensive personal questions.”

  “Fine,” said Finn. “Are you gay?”

  “That was one of the offensive personal questions I meant. What’s wrong with you?”

  “And that’s not a yes/no question. So, you never killed anyone?”

  “No.”

  “But you work with people who deal in death?”

  He stared at the road. “I guess.”

  “Doesn’t that make you a bad Muslim?”

  “For fuck’s sake. Right. Stop it, seriously. My turn to ask you some questions.”

  Finn shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Are you gay?”

  “No,” she said after a pause.

  “You hesitated.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “If you were gay or not?”

  “Yes.”

  Adam looked the ceiling of the car in exasperation. “Have you killed people before?”

  “Yes. You know that.”

  “How many?”

  “Directly or indirectly?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Of course it does. Just by living in a Western country, we’re part of the system which causes all those Africans to starve, and those people in the Middle East to get blown up in wars. Indirectly, I’ve probably killed fewer people than the average person.”

  “How so?”

  “Never had kids,” said Finn. “Do you have any idea the kind of environmental damage just having kids does?”

  Adam chuckled. “I never had you down as an environmentalist.”

  “I’m not. You just asked me how many people I’ve killed. In my entire career, as a killer I’m saying, I’m probably going to cause less pain and suffering than a woman who selfishly pops out three sprogs the world doesn’t need. I’m actually behind everyone else on the kill-count.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Does this mean you don’t see anything wrong in the things you do?”

  She grunted. “No one cares about right and wrong these days. People whinge about their rights and they get a right bee in their bonnets if you do something illegal. But when was the last time someone said you were doing something wrong. Not illegal, or inappropriate, or unfair, but actually wrong? No one cares about that kind of crap anymore.”

  Adam seemed to take a time to digest this. “Weren’t you brought up in a faith?”

  “A faith?”

  “A religion.”

  “We had to go to church on Sunday at the school I was in as a kid.”

  “You were in school on Sundays?”

  “Boarding school. I was privately educated. Why are you laughing?”

  “I was smiling,” said Adam. “Just trying to picture it.”

  “We had church on Sunday. Well, chapel is what they called it. It was a cold place. Hard wooden seats and people trying to stop you having a proper look around. Sit up straight, face the front. Why would you trust a deity when you’re not even allowed to look underneath his altar cloth?”

  Adam’s brow knitted.

  “The first person I killed was a vicar,” said Finn, thinking back. “Indirectly.”

  “How do you indirectly kill a vicar?”

  “He had a heart attack in his… What do you call the little room in the back of the church where the vicar puts his robes on and stuff?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

  “He was having a heart attack. I was the only one there. I could have gone to get help. I could have run and told a teacher.” She unzipped the lapel pocket of her Muubaa and pulled out a thick pile of Polaroids. She always kept that particular photo with her. She sorted through and pulled one out. It was old now: the colours drifting towards yellow and brown. She held it up to show Adam.

  “Don’t show me a picture of a dead priest while I’m driving! Jeez,” he muttered. “What is it with you and that camera? And why did you have one on you when the priest – vicar, whatever – had his heart attack?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “It was his.”

  “It was…” Adam fell silent. His lips worked silently and his face twitched. For some reason Finn couldn’t understand, a grim expression came over him. “How old were you?” he said, quietly.

  “Hey,” she said. “These are meant to be yes/no questions. You’re cheating.”

  Adam swallowed, nodded, and returned his full attention to the road.

  “I’ve a yes/no question for you,” said Finn.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you realise we’ve gone past the turning for Liverpool?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Oz going?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Adam.

  20

  “So tell me,” said Tony, “if a car says so much about the person who chose it, what on earth does this weird car of yours say about you?”

  “Weird? Why would you say that?” asked Nick, caressing the Cadillac’s steering wheel: green to match the rest of the interior. “It’s a design classic, and yet relatively unusual here in the UK. A win-win.”

  “So, parts are easy to come by, are they?”

  “No,” said Nick, remembering some of the car’s lengthy and difficult repairs. “No, parts can be a bit of an issue, but this car gets admiring glances wherever I take it. I like to think it speaks of someone who does things a little bit differently.”

  “Oh, it definitely does that,” said Tony. “It speaks of someone who likes to take public transport instead of driving while his car’s off the road.
It speaks of someone who stumps up more money for fuel in a week than most people would pay in a month. If you ask me, I want a car which does great mileage, one I can fix without the aid of one of those computers they have at the dealership, and for which parts are readily available.”

  “Why would you ever need to fix your car yourself, dad? There are people for that.”

  “When all else goes to pot, you’ve got to be self-reliant. You can keep your pokey-dokey designs and your emotional purchases. I want a car which will last for years and which, push comes to shove, I can maintain myself.”

  “I had no idea,” said Nick.

  “No idea?”

  “That my dad was Mad Max.”

  Tony laughed.

  “It’s a great ride though, isn’t it?” said Nick. “Amazing interior.” He ran his hand over the quilted velour upholstery.

  Tony gave a begrudging nod. “Yes, your mother and I had a sofa like this years ago. The green colour was all the rage for a while.”

  “Maybe that’s why I like it so much,” said Nick. “I have fond memories of that sofa.”

  “You really remember it?” said Tony, surprised.

  “Saturday mornings, Simon and I would flip up the cushions and wedge them along the front, to make a wall between the two arm rests and we could be inside. Like it was a castle or a boat.”

  “I don’t remember that,” said Tony.

  “You were always at work on Saturday mornings.”

  Tony grunted and tilted his head, side to side. “Okay. This car’s got some charms. Nice solid chassis. Won’t crumple like tinfoil in a crash like modern cars.” He looked round at the dog on the back seat. “Nice legroom. Big boot too, I guess?”

  “Massive boot space. Or trunk space as our American friends would say.” Nick glanced at his dad. “You’d have no problem transporting a body with a car like this.” Nick wondered if he could possibly have an entirely hypothetical conversation about the disposal of a body. Hypothetical. Betraying none of the horrible truth. Oh, his dad would have lots of good, practical ideas about body disposal.

  “Well it’s big enough for a body,” Tony conceded, “but the catch has gone, remember? You’ll be in trouble if you find yourself suddenly in possession of a body to transport.”