by R J Bailey
Think!
I closed my eyes, and summoned up that distinctive south London growl.
‘In the old day, you could bump-start a car with a generator, even without a battery. Now they all got alternators, which need a spark from a battery to wake them up.’
Or words to that effect. And something else. I knew this part myself: you can’t bump-start an engine attached to an automatic gearbox.
I poked my head back into the cabin and rattled the gear lever. I felt a surge of relief. Four-speed manual. Good.
‘OK, Myles, time to do something useful.’
‘What?’
‘Push.’
He looked at the bulk of the car. ‘Push that?’
‘I’m not sure about this, but I recall a friend of mine saying something about being able to bump-start a car with a generator and no battery.’
His look was as blank as a fresh fall of snow. ‘You’re shittin’ me.’
I might have been. Sometimes I only half-listened to One-Eyed Jack when he lectured me on the finer points of mechanics. ‘It won’t work on modern cars because alternators need . . .’ I improvised. ‘They need power from the battery initially to, um, prime them. But once you get a generator turning, you’ve got all the power you need.’
Just don’t stall it, that’s all, because you’ll be dead.
‘Fuck. Who knew? What’s the difference—?’ he began, but I was at the limit of my knowledge.
‘Not now,’ I snapped at him. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
I went back and looked for a set of wire strippers or pliers in the workbenches. Nothing. ‘You’re going to have to help me hot-wire it,’ I told him.
‘How?’
‘All that expensive dentistry you keep flashing.’
Never use your teeth as tools, the army dentists used to tell us. Because if a wire needed stripping, a jammed bottle freed or stitches cut when you had no scissors, we all had a tendency to call on our teeth. Well, sometimes there was nothing else available. Like now. My only tool was a twenty-year-old kid with lovely dentition.
I used the handle of the pistol to crack away at the shroud of the steering column, but the butt began to splinter before it had done much more than put a few scratches on the metal. If there had been a battery there would have been an easier way to do this by rewiring in the engine bay, but that wasn’t an option. I found the screws that held the cowling in place. Slots rather than Phillips or Pozidriv. Not that it mattered – I didn’t have a screwdriver of any description. I’d checked the boot for a factory-fitted tool kit, but there was nothing. Just a couple of red warning triangles tossed in as an afterthought and a spare wheel, neither of which were much use.
I pulled out the ramrod from the pistol. One end of it was flattened, so that it could be used to unscrew the lock plate and the hammer mechanism. It was too big for the ones on the column shroud, but Myles watched and I rubbed it on the cement floor to wear down the head.
One screw came out easily, the second with some swearing and the third stripped. I put my fingers into the gap I had created and pulled. The screw stayed put but the metal around it tore and I twisted the shroud free. Tendrils of wire tumbled out in a faded rainbow of colours.
I imagined the auctioneer at Bonhams blanching at my methods.
‘How old is this thing?’ Myles asked.
‘Fifties.’ I pulled the wires so they spilled out further. ‘I think this is the ignition bundle . . . battery, starter, ignition.’ I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. ‘What we need to do is get a live feed from the generator to the ignition. So, Myles, I want you to bite these two here.’ I pointed at the suspects. ‘Strip the wire, and be generous, we need a good connection, and then twist them together.’
‘Bite?’ He said it as if I’d asked him to eat his own shit. They were pretty filthy. I used my fingers to clean them off a little.
‘Yes. With your teeth. Those two, the red wires. Don’t worry, there’s no power. Not while the generator isn’t turning. You won’t get a nasty little shock.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Check something else.’
I went to the rear of the car and unscrewed the petrol cap. The Facel dated from the days (and the class of owner) when siphoning fuel out of cars wasn’t an issue and so there was no locking mechanism. I put my ear to the aperture and tried to shake the car. It was like moving a stubborn elephant. I couldn’t get it to rock. Still, there were fumes coming out of the tank and stinging my nose and eyes, so there was some petrol in there.
It took me a while to fashion a small leather cup out of what was left of the harness of the four-wheeler carriage and make a handle from the wire springs in the mouse-chewed seats. By that time Myles had finished the wiring and was looking thrilled with himself. I didn’t mention the smear of dirt and oil that now streaked his face or that he now had what looked like Shane McGowan’s teeth.
I undid the top of the air filter – thanking God for the wingnuts as I did so. Then, using my makeshift ladle, I carefully extracted a scoop of petrol from the tank. I slopped a little as I poured it into the bowl of the carburettor, but enough got in there for my needs. I dropped the bonnet and replaced the petrol cap. I couldn’t think of anything else.
‘I think we’re good to go,’ I said.
Myles frowned.
‘I’ll help you with the initial push, don’t worry. We’ve just got to get it rolling.’
‘It’s not that. Listen.’
I listened.
‘There’s a car coming.’
TWENTY-TWO
Monday
Yesterday started really well. There was Dieter, Aja, a guy called Theo who owned the yacht and his girlfriend who was called Rose. And two local crew who never spoke, just served drinks and snacks all day, when they weren’t putting sails up or down. We left harbour really early – it was about eight o’clock. I had been up since SIX. We had to drive for an hour to get to the boat. Such a trek. It is a pretty big boat, a sailboat, called Princess Mona. All white. We had to motor out before we could do the sails. Well, I didn’t do anything. Rose, Aja and me just sat below while the men did it all. The girls were really nice but spoke a lot in their own language. Tagalog – they are from the Philippines. It’s funny to listen to. Like birds chirping. They gave me a coffee and then insisted on rubbing like factor 50 all over me. They said it could get really hot up top.
Once we were under sail we went back up and the girls moved to the front of the boat (the foredeck) where there were loungers and a fridge full of drink and cold towels. The guys stayed at the back for the most part, smoking and drinking.
When we lay down Aja and Rose both took their bikini tops off. They didn’t say anything. But I could feel the pressure. But they both had lovely brown boobs. I’m still flat as an ironing board. Well, compared to those two. It was a bit cringe.
But I am so relieved I didn’t because the men came up then with champagne. They talked to me for a bit about how they knew my dad – they met Matt on Ibiza years ago. Said he was a real character – used to party for weeks on end. But his party days were over now he had me to care for. He was all grown-up and sensible. Then that one Theo, who I didn’t really like, said something about me being a shy girl. He was looking at my top when he said it. Dieter elbowed him in the ribs and told him to stop being a creep.
I drank a glass of champagne (OK, maybe two!), but with the up and down of the boat it made me feel a bit sick. Well, more than a bit. I threw up. So I didn’t feel like eating when the crew said that lunch was ready. I went downstairs and lay on a bunk. Dieter and Aja came to check I was OK. I was but still didn’t feel like eating or drinking anything, even though there was tons of food.
I only came out on deck when we were heading home. The girls were back on the sunloungers, giggling like mad. I knew why, of course. I could smell it. Theo offered me some because it would ‘settle my stomach’, as he said, but I didn’t fancy going round and round as well
as up and down. Every time I have it, it makes me so dizzy. I think they were a little disappointed in me. I don’t think I was much fun. But if they were disappointed, they didn’t show it and Dieter said we could do it again, I just had to get my sea legs. Aja gave me a kiss on the cheek when they dropped me off, probably to show there were no hard feelings. All I wanted to do was clean my teeth and go to bed.
Sarah was at the house when I got back. Her and Matt said they were discussing my education.
Yeah, right.
TWENTY-THREE
Normandy, France
I pulled the doors to the stable shut and pulled the tarp back over the Facel, leaving the passenger side uncovered for now. I peered out through the crack in the stable doors. The sound of the car’s engine had stopped. Whoever it was, they were outside the chateau. Or perhaps in it by now.
The crows rose from the trees again in alarm. A bit bloody late, I thought.
‘What if it’s Mom?’ Myles said.
‘Shush. Keep your voice down. That was a diesel. The Peugeot was petrol.’
‘They might have switched cars. What if it is her and Konrad and they’ve come for us?’ he whispered.
‘Well, they have some explaining to do, that’s for sure. Like why I was drugged and stripped naked.’
‘There might be a simple explanation.’
‘I’m all ears.’
He kept quiet after that. I watched the building, but there was no sign of movement. And then, something on the first floor. Curtains being pulled back. A silhouetted figure, but there was sunlight reflecting off the window and I couldn’t make out any details.
‘Look, if it’s the cavalry, I’ll go out. You stay here, OK? Lay low until I say it’s all right. It might just be a caretaker. Hold up.’
‘What?’
One of the French windows at the rear of the property had opened up. A second later a man stepped through into the gardens. He had close-cropped hair, with a well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a leather blouson, jeans and black trainers. He had his hand in one pocket of the jacket.
He looked from right to left, scanning the grounds. When his head stopped moving, he was facing the stable block. I froze, resisting the temptation to snatch my head away from the crack. Even at that distance, some movement might register.
I heard a voice shout something in the house and he turned. I backed away from the stable doors and herded Myles towards the car. He started to protest and I hissed in his ear.
‘It’s not the cavalry, boy. It’s fucking Cochise and his Apaches. OK?’
It took me a second to find the release catch, but I pulled the seat forward and pushed Myles in the back. I returned it to the upright position and sat in, getting ready to pull the tarp down, when I realised I had left the pistol on the cement floor. I rolled back out, found it and my home-made leather cup. The latter I slid under the car, but I put the pistol on my lap, once I had managed to close the door and pull the tarp down. I was relieved this model didn’t have electric windows, which would have made life more difficult. I cranked the door glass back into place and cradled the sharpened ramrod like a knife.
‘Do not say a word. Do not breathe,’ I warned. Although, given the sharp-sour smell emanating from his booze-and-sick-spattered clothes, it was good advice all round. ‘No matter what happens. You understand?’
Myles let out a small groan, which I took as a yes.
I reached over and touched his arm. He was shaking like a wet puppy. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I said.
His hand found mine over the back of the seat. It was clammy. I felt our fingers intertwining. I squeezed, as reassuringly as I could.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
‘What for?’
‘Being an a-hole.’
‘When?’
A pause. ‘Pretty much up till now, I guess.’
‘We can all be arseholes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I was so hard on you. Water under the bridge. We’re in this together now. And I’m glad you’re here. Now shush.’
The leather squeaked as he leaned over and rested his head on my shoulder. It was all I could do not to ruffle his hair. Maybe I should get a dog when I got back. Or was that my mythical maternal instinct cutting in? I untangled my hand from his. I just might need both of them very shortly.
Apparently time slows when your brain is making fresh memories, trying to store all the details of a trip, an accident, a fight, a new lover. It speeds up when it is deprived of fresh stimulation, running like an engine at fast tickover. It’s why the journey back from a new destination can seem so much quicker than the trip there – the memories have already been made and to the brain the landmarks are now numbingly familiar. Your nervous system is like a junkie for new experiences, an attention-deficient organ.
So, theoretically, time should have dragged its feet while we were sitting there in a greenish gloom, waiting for someone to come. But it seemed to me I had only just got the window back into place when the stable door creaked and I heard tentative footsteps on the cement.
Times like this you always imagine your heart is banging hard enough to be heard several villages away, so I ignored that. It was only that loud in my ears.
I heard a sniff. Of course, he would smell the petrol I had spilled. Then, the flap of a corner of the tarp being thrown back.
I placed my hand on the door handle, ready to put my shoulder against it and knock anyone who might be standing there off balance.
‘Jules!’
The shout came from or near the house.
‘Jules?’
I heard a little grunt of annoyance. Steps moved away from the car.
‘You got something?’ our man yelled back. French, with no foreign accent as far as I could tell.
‘No, it’s empty. You?’
‘A nice car.’
‘We’re not here to look at nice cars. He won’t be happy.’
‘Fuck him.’ This, though, was said under his breath. His chum at the house would never have heard. Then louder: ‘We’re wasting our time.’
‘What did you say?’
‘It’s a waste of time.’
‘You want to tell the boss that?’
‘No.’
‘You coming?’
‘Sure.’
He walked back into the stable and I heard the scrape of the heavy material on the Facel’s body once more. But he was pulling it off further, not recovering. A strip of daylight appeared at the bottom of the windscreen. I flattened myself against the seat, staying as still as I could, while I watched a sliver of the man move around the bonnet. He placed a hand on it, as if checking for the warmth of a recently run engine.
‘Jules!’
‘Jesus.’ Then, louder: ‘OK, OK.’
The thin corridor of light disappeared as the tarp was roughly pulled back into place. The stable doors’ hinges gave their little squeak as they were closed again and I heard a tuneless whistle, fading as the man walked back towards the chateau.
‘Stay where you are. Say nothing,’ I said as softly as I could.
Now the brain did what it was supposed to do. Time stuttered and stopped. I counted my heartbeats to keep some kind of score. Five hundred and I’d go. That would be enough time.
At just before one hundred I heard the cough of a car starting and then the gear change as it drove away.
‘OK,’ I said eventually, ‘you can breathe.’
Myles exhaled and then gulped a big lungful of air. ‘Thank you.’
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to be thanked for. Hiding isn’t the most pro-active option for a PPO.
‘Who were they?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea. I didn’t like the look of the one I saw, though. I think he was carrying. A gun, I mean. And he was dressed as if he binge-watched The Sopranos.’ That got a polite laugh. ‘They could have been cleaners sent by Konrad.’
‘Cleaners?’
‘Yeah. Not the kind who come with hoovers and J-cloths. The other sort
.’
It took a while for the penny to drop. ‘Oh. But it’s only a guess, eh?’ There was a tremor in his voice.
‘I don’t know. I think Konrad had this set up all along. To get your mother here and make her his prisoner.’
‘Fuck. Why?’
‘I hate to keep saying the same thing, but I don’t know. Did she say anything to you? About enemies?’
‘No. Well, she has said there are people who are jealous, but, fuck, no. Nothing like someone . . . will he hurt her?’
My silence told him yet again, I didn’t have a clue.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We have some options. I need to get us out of here. I need to speak to the Colonel. I need some clothes and we need some money.’
‘OK.’
‘You up for this? Getting this monster going?’
‘Yeah. Fuck, bring it on.’ He banged the back of the seat. With his fist. It was pure bravado. He was scared. I was worried, verging on scared. But it seemed to me we had very little choice in what to do now.
I felt his hand grip me and squeeze. ‘It’ll be easier if you don’t have your hand on my shoulder.’
‘Sorry.’
By now it must have gone nine and the heat of the day was building. After extracting myself from the Vega, I threw open the stable doors once more and dragged the cover off. Myles emerged blinking like a newborn lamb. ‘So, how do we do this?’
I didn’t answer for a while. I surveyed the house again, making sure we really were alone and they hadn’t left a watchman behind. After all, I only heard two voices. That didn’t mean there’d only been two of them.
Once I was satisfied I turned to the boy.
‘OK, we try and roll it. The main problem is breaking the inertia. When we are out of the stables, the slope of the garden will help momentum. I’ll aim for that path there.’ Which wouldn’t be easy without the power steering I hoped the brute had when it was up and running. If it got up and running. ‘I’ll jump in, gravity should do the rest, I’ll put it in second, drop the clutch and if you’ve wired it properly—’
‘Hey. I only did what you said.’
‘Myles,’ I said quietly. ‘If this doesn’t work, we’re going to need a scapegoat. You’re it. So man up.’
