by Alec Merta
“I guess I’m on the run with Jane Goodall. Not exactly Thelma to my Louise.”
She laughed at this, but only after a barely perceptible pause.
“Which one are you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, are you Thelma or Louise?”
I said this as the tiniest of jokes. I expected no more than a few seconds’ worth of banter to come of it, and Allie could have avoided that with an arbitrary choice or non-committal shrug.
Instead, for the first time since we had met long those three hours before, I saw Allie thrown off her game. She looked as though she was searching for an answer.
“I don’t really watch movies,” was her reply.
“Oh come on, everybody watches movies. Plus, it’s not like it’s recent. Of course you know it.”
“Well, yes,” she said, “But I probably just saw it once a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but you’ve heard of it.”
“Yes, Carver, now can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. Fine.”
We changed the subject to nothing at all and drove on in silence for a while. I had a nagging feeling that I had just tugged a thread. But why should I have? I mean, the movie had been released, what, twenty-five or thirty years ago? How old was Allie anyway? It was, upon reflection, perfectly understandable that she would have no clue. Yet still it nagged at me.
I changed tactics a bit.
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“We changed the subject,” she replied.
“Not really; we just paused. I’m un-pausing.”
She let out an irritated sigh. I exuded an air of anticipation. Eventually, she capitulated.
“I like old movies.”
“Like Ben Hur old or Casablanca old?”
“Like Fritz Lang old.”
“Who?”
She gave me an odd stare.
“I’m guessing we’re in the late Hanshaw period again. You really have a fetish for things older than my grandmother.” That was never going to be phrased well.
“You asked, I answered.”
“Okay, so you’re favorite movie is?”
“Pandora’s Box.” Before I could speak, “No, I will not explain. Yes, I really do like it. You can look it up. Now, the subject is closed.”
“Well,” I said after the briefest hesitation, “I like comedies. Keep your dramas and your horror movies. I like a good laugh.”
“Great.”
“So, hands down, Allie, my favorite movie, my all time most beloved comedy, well that’s The Godfather. Funniest movie I’ve ever seen.”
I don’t know if I was attempting a lame joke or if I was actually trying to bait her. Remember, I had no reason at all to do so, other than a nagging sensation that refused to go away.
If you will recall, Allie had seemed a little ‘off’ from the first moment I spied her in the pub. Even if she had not destroyed my computer or stolen my property or led me on a foot chase, she would have seemed odd. It is hard to explain what I felt, but I assure you that you would have shared the sensation.
So, Allie was not quite ‘right.’ But what did that mean? We had been acquainted for only a few hours, and I had not exactly had time to get to know her. But, the wrongness was about more than just her demeanor or her clothes or her mannerisms. These were without question a little off. But her preferences for music and movies laying within the same forgotten corner of the last century, pop-culture-wise? That was just weird. It was almost as though her knowledge of the subject just kind of ran out a century ago.
She had to know The Godfather. Had to. If she didn’t then I was going to be genuinely scared.
“Makes sense.”
“I mean, Brando was hilarious, right? And the bit with the horse? Classic.”
“Classic,” she replied. I looked over to watch her delivery. It was straightforward. She was not joking.
I refrain from describing my reaction, as it was entirely predictable. I let the car return to silence.
“So, you’re American,” I said a few minutes down the road. I delivered the words as a statement.
“Got me.”
“Tennessee? West Virginia?” Her accent was decidedly non-Appalachian.
“No, I’m from New York. Rockaway.”
She had me there, but I decided to press on.
“Over here for college?”
“No. It’s family stuff.”
“Oh, so you’re dad’s English.”
“Yes.” This was delivered in the manner of a parent placating an inquisitive child.
“Where from?” I did not mean to say this with an inquisitive lilt, but there it was.
Instead of answering, she let out a little sigh and said, “I got the movie wrong, didn’t I?”
“Utterly. The Godfather wasn’t laughable until the second sequel.”
That she was engaged in a charade was exposed. It was out in the open. I decided to press no further; opting instead to allow her to control the rate of exposition.
“Well, it was bound to happen. Good work, Carver. I was hoping you wouldn’t give me a reason to kill you tonight.”
I began to panic and initiated the production of confused utterances.
“You understand, of course. There’s just no way I can let you live. You know too much.”
“Now, see here, I do not, I most certainly-”
“It’ll be quick, but you’ll have to pull the car over first. You can keep driving, of course, but eventually you’ll nod off, or we’ll run out of gas. If you hold still, it’ll just be a quick pop and then lights out. No fuss. One pop, like taking the leg off a cooked chicken. Only it’ll be your neck popping.”
Hyperventilation threatened to lead to hypoxia which, I knew, would lead to a stopped car and my hasty demise. Allie’s hand slid under my chin. I tried to lurch away, but could not do so without crashing the car. Dead was dead, after all, so I spent the next millisecond thinking of a plan. This was inherently futile. At any rate, I was too gripped with panic to think of anything. I just waited for the pop.
Allie did turn my head, but she did so at a speed too slow to bring about an orthopedic decapitation.
“At least you learned a very valuable lesson.”
“What’s that?” I squeaked.
Her other hand delivered a solid whack to the side of my head, turning me back to the road.
“The next time I ask you to change the subject, change the fucking subject.”
I let my foot off the gas and put us into a coast. Turning, I saw her displaying a wicked grin. She may have become my dearest friend and companion in the days since that episode, but the memory is still accompanied by a profound desire to punch that cute little face flat.
I let out a long breath. She sat back into her seat, and I reapplied the gas pedal.
“You really thought I was going to do it, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes, I really did think the crazy woman who robbed me, destroyed my property, and kidnapped me was going to murder me. Yes, Allie, it is so.”
“I didn’t kidnap you. And the property I destroyed was technically the taxpayers’. But I come clean on the robbery. Still though, it’s sort of a compliment. You are officially the only person in the history of, well, everything to think that I’m a cold-blooded killer. That’s kind of fun, now that I think about it.”
“Well don’t let’s go making a habit of it, okay?”
She laughed again, like a little girl who didn’t really grow up but, rather, just got a lot bigger. There goes my punching reflex again. I might actually stop writing for a bit to go find her and deliver comeuppance.
Sensing my indignation and bruised ego, she offered me a modicum of condescension. The good kind.
“Carver, you’ve had secrets before. We all have. What I’m not telling you isn’t so much secret as-” she considered the correct word-“problematic.”
“Problematic.” I repeated.
&n
bsp; “Look, I’m at work right now. I’m not an agent of an enemy government or a terrorist or, intentionally, a criminal. Well kind of. But that’s neither here nor there. But I am at work, and I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing. You have to just accept that.”
“How can I just accept that you’re not any of those things after what’s happened tonight?”
“Fair enough,” she said. “Fair enough, but it doesn’t change anything. I am not going to tell you what I’m doing.”
“Then at least tell me why you went to such lengths to steal my notebook.”
This seemed to strike a note of equanimity, for she gave up a little more.
“You saw something on your trip to the Moors. You saw something amazing and impossible. Most visitors would have walked by without looking twice, and most people wouldn’t even have been allowed to be there. But you slipped in and saw something that only a person who makes maps or studies rocks would notice.
“But maybe you don’t understand what you saw? Maybe you don’t really know if what you saw was real or worth getting worked up about? But probably, you’ll look into it and get very, very worked up. If you do, then you’ll tell someone because it just doesn’t make any sense. If you tell someone, they’ll go and investigate. If that happens, I’m finished. My work is finished. And then we’ve got real problems. All of us.”
“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary,” I lied gamely.
“Bullshit,” she laughed, “You know you did. You drew sketches of it in your notebook. You took photographs of it. That’s why I had to take the notebook and your memory card.”
“My memory card?”
She reached into her pocket and removed the memory card from my digital camera. I hadn’t even realized she’d taken that.
“What else did you steal?”
“That’s all. The rest is in a dumpster back in Albury, she said apologetically,” she said without sounding the least bit apologetic.
“But I already uploaded my data. Anything I saw is already in the system.”
“Right, but when that’s checked against satellite information, it’ll throw an error. When you get the email from your supervisor asking how you screwed up so badly, what will you do?”
“I would have looked at my notes and my photos.”
She did not say “Bingo,” but it would not have been out of place.
“So,” I went on, “you steal both, and then I look like an idiot or a liar.”
“Or a drunk. The idea of having you framed for a drunk driving offense was discussed. In any case, it’s not my problem.”
“You’re sense of social justice is heart-warming.”
“It actually is, you know. You just don’t have all the facts.”
“And I sense that I never will.”
“No, Carver, you won’t. Start dealing with that right now, and then get over it.”
I had a mind to stop the car right there. We had made it as far as Leicester, and I was pretty certain that she could make it the rest of the way. How I would make it home was a problem I could solve after I was away from her.
Being a sophisticated and discriminating reader, you will probably already have guessed that I did not stop the car. I will not say that I was compelled by a sense of nobility or honor. Instead, I had the feeling that if I left then; if I abandoned Allie and returned to my normal life in Albury prior to reaching our destination, then the story would have no end. It would be half a tale that I could never put into context or analyze long enough to produce understanding. It would be a single part never followed up on, and that would drive me crazy. I needed to have an ending.
Also, she may yet have had it in her to kill me.
5
I am a connoisseur of sleep. I approach sleep in the way a wine snob prepares to sample a fine bottle of rare vintage; the way an opera devotee listens to a difficult aria performed by a gifted ingénue. For me, sleep is a great pleasure worth being taken seriously. It is an indulgence that I wallow in.
After hiking many miles, spending nearly eight hours trapped inside a car, being robbed, running after a thief, thinking I was going to be murdered, and engaging in assorted other wearisome activities, sleep became foremost on my mind. As the bolstering effects of adrenaline wore off, I soon became consumed by thoughts of luxurious blankets and soft, downy pillows. Alas, I foresaw little of those in my future.
I first began to grow noticeably weary somewhere around Doncaster, and I was seriously nodding-off just north of Castleford. Eventually, I was weary enough to miss our turning onto the A64 toward York. Enough was enough. Over Allie’s protestations, I brought the car off the motorway at Wetherby and called upon the services just north of town. She put up only the barest resistance to this. I suspect she was just as ready for a break as I was.
I avoided the petrol pumps, as the little Fiat had far more fuel than was necessary for the remaining hour’s drive. I parked on the forecourt of the main building and opened my door.
“Are you coming?” I asked.
“This is a mistake. We should be on the road.”
“We still have another hour to go, and I’m knackered. I require coffee.” I considered her. “When was the last time you ate anything?”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“It’s on me. How about a candy bar? What’s your favorite?”
She continued to avoid my eyes, and I instantly knew why.
“You don’t have a clue what sorts of candy they sell do you?” I actually laughed as I said it.
She declined to answer. It was absurd, really, that she would be so ignorant. Could a spy working for China or Russia really expect to operate in Britain with such glaring gaps in her knowledge? But then, I wondered, were China and Russia the most likely candidates? She did sound American, after all. Was that the state our world had come to? Was an American spying on Britain? Considering this, the oddity of it all increased tenfold. A hundredfold.
Another line of thinking came to me. I honestly do not know why I had failed to consider, up to that very moment, the possibility that Allie was quite literally insane. Having then done so, I considered her while she sat pretending to ignore my presence. She did not, well, look insane. But then again, do the crazy people ever look crazy?
So I was left to consider how a person could, absent questionable sanity, fail to be able to chose between a Mars Bar and a Snickers.
“I’ll just get you a Twix,” I said gamely and ventured inside.
I will never know quite why Allie trusted me in the strange moments like that one at the service station. I have looked back on the trip many times and have asked her why she felt comfortable letting me out of her sight when it would have been so easy for me to denounce her. Her reply, steady and consistent throughout the intervening months, has been ambiguous. She was tired; she wasn’t thinking right; I didn’t seem to have it in me. Allie was and remains, I am both happy and annoyed to say, Allie.
For those of you who are American, I should probably explain a bit bout motorway services in England. Having been to America once (predictably, this was to Florida when I was a child), I know something of American service stations.
These are, and feel free to correct me if you can find me online, rather dismal institutions. They are typically dirty, usually off-putting, and nearly always drab and utilitarian. American service stations tend to be little more than overflowing toilets gaudily dressed in the corporate logos of petroleum corporations. Just dreadful.
That’s a shame because America is a nation that has long appreciated the needs of travelers, particularly those on extended trips. Long before the era of the great American road trips of the nineteen-fifties and -sixties, America was a land built on the concept that travelers covering long distances needed and expected certain accommodations and refreshment as they put miles behind them.
Hence, the roadhouses and hitching-post towns that sprung up throughout America virtually from the beginn
ing of its Westward expansion. In the above-mentioned era of the classic American road trip, the country responded by instantiating a golden age of motels, rest stops, tourist traps, and “filling stations.”
How then, America, have you let it come to such a state? You really should all demand an improvement to the situation.
Britain is a little better in this regard. There are no shortage of unsatisfactory service stations, but the motorways are increasingly dotted by large and impressive facilities that feature all manner of convenience desired by road-weary travelers, whether they know it or not.
The services near Wetherby included, to name a few, a gas station, a coffee shop, and a Marks and Spencer grocery store. It had recently added a decent, if cosmetically appalling, hotel. More on that in a bit.
I crossed the forecourt and up to the main building. I walked past a large sign that reminded me of the many-arrowed signpost from the M*A*S*H television series. Only instead of pointing me toward Toledo or Boston, it let me know where I could find a Burger King and a WH Smith.
I paused to look at the building. Part of me felt an instant pang of sympathy (empathy? I can never remember.) for the architect who designed the place. I say that because clear evidence existed that he or she had put some effort into the building’s design. It was functional in the extreme but not altogether unsightly.
Essentially, the interior was an ‘L’ design that funneled those calling upon the services past a small but decidedly robust selection of shops. Of these, which included up-, mid-, and down-market food, coffee, and commercial options, my favorite was the miniature casino located near the mid-point of a capacious common area. How wonderful to be able to win (or lose) all the gas money you need for a long trip while sipping on a Costa coffee and eating a sandwich by Marks & Spencer.
The air of functionality continued in the main portion of the ‘L’ with an amply sized seating area. This was enclosed on one side by an out-sized glass wall roughly two stories tall.
The architect had capped all this functionality off with a modest but impressive cantilevered roof that was angled back and up. It gave the impression of a wing attached to a lofting aeroplane. Outside, and also covered by the wing, was another more modestly sized seating area. The late hour and approaching foul weather meant this was nearly vacant.
