And so Denis Myers, unwell, dizzy and very much a learner driver, found himself agreeing to perform the Killing Pits circuit at a speed which would test even the most powerful of sports cars.
Denis, wondering what on earth he had let himself in for, moved around to the front of his father’s car. He began to untie the “L” plate which was tied to the bumper bar but as he stooped, he felt another attack of giddiness. He placed a hand on the bonnet to steady himself, hoping no one had seen his unsteadiness.
“This is going to be a great day for the club,” beamed Gordon. “And as I haven’t got a car today, I’ll be timekeeper.”
CHAPTER X
As Graham Blaketon was endeavouring to establish himself in the best viewing position at Bracken Comer, so his mother was on her way to Aidensfield from Whitby. In her smart, clean car she was driving very carefully, slowly even, because she was admiring the stunning and seemingly endless views across the dramatic windswept moors.
Acre upon acre of heather was spread before her like a huge coverlet and in the far distance, almost shrouded with mist, were the deep dales which contained pretty villages. Almost treeless, these heights were beautiful in the summer and spring, extraordinarily beautiful in the autumn when the ling was in bloom but terrifying in the depths of winter when the snow could obliterate everything. It could isolate villages for weeks on end, it could smother the sheep which roamed these heights and it could fill the rivers with flood water when it melted.
But today, in the middle of March, the day was crisp and clear. The sky, with small white clouds hugging the far horizon, was a delightful pale blue as the afternoon sun bathed the entire landscape in a healthy pale glow. As she drove, Joan could see in the distance on the hill, the three white radomes of Fylingdale Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station.
Like a clutch of giant duck eggs, they rose from the heather, in the manner of a curiously attractive surrealistic sculpture. In the foreground were the sturdy cottages of Aidensfield, a village which nestled in a green hollow surrounded by mile after mile of open and wild moorland. The squat tower of the parish church rose above the houses which were constructed of solid grey moorland stone with blue slates. They were huddled together as the sheep huddled together to protect themselves against the ravages of the harsh moorland weather. She could see the narrow winding road which led from the main highway, dipping and weaving across the heights, vanishing into a deep dale before rising at the far side to cross a lofty ridge. Down there, Joan realised, people were working and resting, enjoying their gardens, going for walks, having fun. It was a far, far cry from the dusty and noisy life of a city and even a far cry from her own suburban world of semi-detached houses and neat lawns in the market town of Pickering.
As Joan drove along, absorbed with her thoughts, she came to understand why Oscar was quite content to remain on these moors. He had never sought promotion, never had any desire to work or live in a larger town. He much preferred the friendliness of Ashfordly. A busy market town, it was smaller than Pickering although it was a market town in its own right, with its own market square, old cottages with red pantile roofs and even a peer of the realm in the big house.
He owned most of the properties in Ashfordly, but the town offered an enviable kind of peace, a homely life style, a community which looked upon itself as a large village. And Oscar Blaketon was in charge of the policing of that town — that was something he loved. He was king of his own territory, master of his own destiny, a man of some substance. No wonder he’d never wanted promotion, no wonder he’d never wanted to be transferred to a larger police station. She smiled at her own thoughts. There were times she’d bullied him, tried to make him leave the area for a more vibrant place, but he’d always refused.
Joan realised he still loved her. In some ways, that hurt. He’d never been one for revealing his true feelings but he’d been devastated by the divorce. He had seen himself as a loving father and husband, working hard to maintain his wife and small son while she’d seen him as a tireless police sergeant who was always at work with no time for her or their son. He’d spent all his life in uniform, working in his office far longer than he need, always checking on his men, worrying about his bosses and making sure the public did not break the law, even when he was off duty.
Dear old Oscar, she thought. So conscientious, so diligent but oh, so boring! If only he’d taken the occasional evening off to visit the theatre or the cinema or a restaurant together…if only. But it was all over now.
She liked him; there was never a question of hatred in her decision to leave him and at the time of the divorce, there was no other man. It was simply that their marriage was over. She’d always been faithful to Oscar and she knew he’d been faithful to her — he was still faithful to her. He’d never found another woman. Even after the divorce, he’d never turned to a woman for friendship or comfort but had steadfastly lived alone, absorbing himself in his work and never complaining. She knew all this from friends whose husbands were still serving and sometimes, she wondered if she’d really been true to dear old Oscar. But if she had remained married to him, her life would have been so boring, so unfulfilled…
After the divorce, she’d met Bruce Forrester; they’d married and had been very happy until his unexpected death last year. A heart attack, a sudden death at the early age of 50. So now she was alone again — except that Graham was living with her, at least until he completed his education and found a job.
It was nice, therefore, to have bought Oscar something for his birthday, especially something he would cherish. His birthday was tomorrow, Sunday, and today she was driving back into Aidensfield, a slight diversion from her return journey to Pickering. She’d promised to leave the joint present at the Myers’ house for Graham to deliver. Graham had arranged to see his father and he would deliver the present along with his own card. Joan found herself beginning to sing.
With the gorgeous spread of the moors ahead of her, she started to sing Englebert Humperdinck’s Last Waltz as she turned down a narrow lane signposted “Aidensfield”. She knew she would have to drive carefully along this lane because it was extremely narrow in places with sharp comers and steep inclines. Some of these hills had gradients of l-in-3 and in some places, it was impossible to pass another car. You had to reverse to special passing places, so great care was needed.
She reduced her speed by a fraction.
*
Denis was drawn No. 5. Seated nervously at the wheel of his father’s old A40 with the “L” plates hidden beneath the seat, Denis awaited his turn. Gordon, using a yellow duster as a starting flag, had waved off No. 4 and so Denis eased his car forward to the starting point.
“Half a minute to go, our Denis,” shouted Gordon. “Get your revs up!”
Denis settled into the seat and depressed the accelerator to rev the tired old engine but as he moved, another attack of giddiness and nausea began to sweep over him. No one seemed to notice. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the engine revving and hearing the activity around him. He really ought to withdraw, he decided; he wasn’t fit to drive let alone race through the lanes. But a girl, Lucy Benson, tapped on the window and said,
“Good luck, Denis, you can do it!”
He smiled at her. She was nice, was Lucy. Maybe in the pub tonight, if he beat the time limit now, he could buy her a drink and talk to her…she was obviously keen for him to succeed. So yes, he would beat six minutes! He would get around the course in less than six minutes, he would show he was as good as the others, he would become a member of the Killing Pits Club and then he’d get a car and a girl like Lucy!
“Fifteen seconds,” called Gordon Turnbull, raising his yellow duster above his head and not looking at the worried Denis. Denis engaged first gear, keeping the clutch depressed as the countdown began.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven…Ready, our Denis…five, four, three, two, one. Go! Go! Go! Give it some welly.”
And so, with the engine revving at its lim
it, Denis Myers tore away from the grassy edge of the moor and the old car hurtled along the village street of Aidensfield. Out of first gear, into second, more revs, more acceleration, a racing change into third…watch that silly ewe and twin lambs…a woman with a little girl…now top. Nearly missed top…it grated…got it. Ooops, a dizzy spell again…ignore it…keep going, keep that speedo needle on sixty…
And Denis was racing through Aidensfield towards the distant moor as the speedometer flickered around the sixty miles an hour mark. The road was deserted, there was good visibility, the surface was dry…and he found he was enjoying the experience.
He wasn’t dizzy any more as he pressed the accelerator just a little further to the floorboards.
*
Graham Blaketon was standing on an elevated portion of moorland. Below him was the steep twisting road; it came down from the heights at each side of him, from left to right, dropping into a dip in the road with a sharp comer at the very bottom. Narrow, deep and blind, the comer was treacherous. From his vantage point, he could see both ways but from the bottom of the dip, from the actual road itself, you could see nothing. Even for drivers who were familiar with the road, it was the sort of comer you had to crawl around just in case something was coming the other way.
For young men driving to the limit, this was the most testing stretch of the circuit. By slowing down to a speed which was necessary to take the comer in safety, precious seconds were lost but by taking the comer at speed, danger was created. The best way of negotiating that comer in a car rested with individual drivers, based on the prevailing conditions — even on a motor cycle, it was difficult.
Anything might be coming in the opposite direction — another car, a motor cycle, a pedal cyclist, a band of hikers, a single moorland sheep or a flock of them, a dog, Arnold Merryweather’s bus on one of its mystery tours, anything.
High on his observation point, Graham watched the Killing Pits Club members as they tackled the bend.
Out of the first cars to come through, three had reduced their onwards rush to a safe speed and they had safely negotiated the bend even if they had lost a few precious seconds. They were local lads who knew the comer well but another, Don Castle, had raced around at full speed to clip the nearside verge and veer across to the offside as his front wheels had been thrown out of line. But Don was a good driver — he’d not panicked. He’d corrected the error, changed down two gears and roared away with a toot of his horn for Graham.
Graham looked at his watch.
Another car was due any second now. He had a piece of paper ready to record the registration number and the time it passed the sycamore tree at the far side of the road. That tree was his marker — he timed them as the bonnet reached that point. He heard a car in the distance, a noisy vehicle, and it was heading this way. It didn’t sound as lively as the earlier ones.
Graham settled down to his task. It was just after four o’clock, he noted, but the oncoming vehicle was not yet in sight. He rose onto tiptoe to peer across the stubbly heather, wondering which of them had such a noisy old vehicle. It sounded something like Denis’ dad’s car, a bit rough, in need of some attention to the engine or piston rings…and then he saw it. It was Denis’ dad’s car and it was hurtling towards the dip in the road as if it was heading for a straight, level length of a race track. It was going far too fast…
Horrified, Graham looked at the other side of the dip. A car was coming in the opposite direction! God! It was heading into the dip too, heading towards Denis. It was like his mum’s car…the same colour, same model…a woman was driving.
Oh my God, he breathed. It was his mother! Graham looked at Denis, but Denis was not looking around himself. His entire concentration was locked upon the dangers ahead. He was keeping the car on the road, hurtling towards Bracken Comer far too fast. Graham ran higher to warn his mother. He reached a hillock and stood there waving his hands and shouting…she was not looking away from the road either, doubtless concentrating upon the difficult comer which lay ahead.
And then she saw him. The movement of his arms attracted her attention and, for a second, she took her eyes off the road and stared at him. Her son! Here? What was Graham doing in the middle of the moor, waving his arms like that? Had he been stranded? Lost on a walk?
In those puzzling, awful but extremely brief moments, Joan took her eyes off the road and this small but crucial action caused her car to veer to the wrong side of the carriageway. It was a narrow track, but it was just wide enough for two cars to pass if each took care, if each drove slowly and if each took to the verge with their nearside wheels. But when two cars were heading towards each other with one racing and the other on the wrong side of the road, horror lay in wait.
“Mother, stop! Stop, stop, stop!” shouted Graham, but his words were wasted on the crisp air of the March afternoon and as Mrs Forrester entered the final stage of that severe bend, so did Denis.
It was too late when Denis saw her coming. She was fuzzy, he was dizzy, she was on the wrong side of the road and he was going too fast…he braked, she braked, the two cars skidded towards each other in what looked like slow motion and then there was a sickening crash.
Denis felt metal work crushing him, he smelt petrol, he heard screams and the noise of rending metal, of roaring engines and then a deep, calming blackness descended. And as he blacked out, the last thing he saw was Mrs Forrester’s head, bloody and shocking, as it crashed through the windscreen of the car which was embedded in his.
*
On the hill above it all, Graham had no idea what to do. The sickening thud of the two cars made him feel ill; the sight of his mother’s head crashing into the windscreen…Denis lying there, white and not moving, and the awful tangle of metal, the smell of petrol, the hiss of a split tyre.
Crying with anguish, Graham Blaketon ran to help his mum. And somewhere above him, a skylark began to sing.
CHAPTER XI
Graham had no idea what to do. If only his father were here, he would know. He would take control and remain calm and do all the important things, like first aid and calling for ambulances and stemming the flow of blood and switching off petrol supplies and, well, just coping…but Graham realised he had no idea how to do those things, how to do anything.
He tried to reach his mother, tried to speak to her, to give her comfort, but the mangled wreckage of the two cars, interlocked in their hissing, creaking world of metal, prevented him. Her door was jammed, she was lying at a grotesque angle and he daren’t move her anyway; she seemed to be partially hidden among the tangle of metal, seat fittings and luggage.
In the dim recesses of his mind, he’d heard his father saying how dangerous it was to move badly injured people. You could do a lot of harm by moving the seriously injured if you were inexperienced. That was the doctor’s job, casualties had to be moved so very carefully to prevent further damage and so he knew, in spite of his concern, that he must not attempt to render any first aid or move his mother. She was alive, that was one consolation, because she was groaning softly to herself. Her head looked terrible because it had crashed against the windscreen, though. There was a lot of blood too.
She was now lying with her face among shattered pieces of glass with her blood seeping out from somewhere.
Graham ran to Denis…he was trapped too. He was groaning as well but there seemed to be no blood around his head or body…but that didn’t mean anything. Serious internal injuries could occur without any sign of outward bleeding — that was something else he’d learned from listening to his father talking about the many incidents he’d had to deal with over the years. But all that listening hadn’t prepared Graham for this; nothing had. This was the sort of thing that happened to other people, not to you and your family.
Leaving the casualties, Graham ran to his vantage point, seeking a telephone kiosk or a house or a farmstead or a passing car or a hiker or a cyclist — anyone who would call the emergency services. There was no-one here now, not a solitary
person, not a house in sight. One of his mates from the Killing Pits Club would be along soon, he knew that; it would be the person who was due to leave Aidensfield one minute after Denis. Graham dithered…so where the hell was that lad and his car? Surely a minute had passed by now?
He didn’t know whether or not to leave the scene, to abandon his mother and Denis in their agony but his instinct told him to stay. Sooner or later, a car would come along this road, and that would be quicker than rushing off to find a telephone in this deserted part of the moorland. Who knew what might happen if he left the scene?
He couldn’t leave his mother to her fate, could he? Then he heard a car. It was coming from Aidensfield and judging by the sound it was making it was the Killing Pits Club member who would be following Denis. Graham ran into the road and the moment he saw the car hurtling over the horizon, he waved his arms and shouted for it to slow down and stop.
It was Charlie Stephens doing the Killing Pits circuit; his face was a mask of concentration as he forced his big Vauxhall to the limit along these lanes but the moment he saw Graham, he slammed on his brakes. The car slewed across the road in a terrifying skid but Charlie, a garage mechanic by trade, was sufficiently skilled to bring it to a safe halt.
“What the hell are you doing, Graham?” he shouted from the window. “Trying to get killed or something? Jumping into the road like that…”
“In the dip, a hell of a collision,” gasped Graham, the words having difficulty in forming. “Head-on. The road’s blocked. It’s my mum in her car and Denis…it’s awful Charlie, we need the police, ambulance, a doctor…”
Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 9
