The Bloodline Will

by A B Morgan

  ‘Your Gianni would never put up with that. Imagine some bloke coming between the two of them? Besides, she gives herself away. It’s definitely a woman.’ Kat stared at the busy road jammed with traffic for a few long silent moments before she let out a sigh. ‘Stuff the stupid thing in the glove box. I’ll deal with it on Monday before the boys get back from France. Let’s try to enjoy ourselves. What did Gianni say when you rang this morning? Judging by his croaky voice, I’m pretty sure Logan was nursing a hangover. He made some passing remarks about having a few beers and a sing-song with a group of Danes in the next camp site.’

  Zoe shrugged, fiddling subconsciously with her wedding ring. ‘I left him a message, but he probably couldn’t hear it over the noise of the car engines. He’ll phone me later.’

  ‘If you’re lucky. We all know what Gee get’s up to when he’s off the leash.’

  Zoe’s mouth hardened as she threw a sideways glance at Kat. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The big day at Le Mans

  Logan’s head was throbbing. ‘Gee, did Zoe pack you any paracetamol?’ he shouted, aiming his voice in the direction of approaching footsteps. ‘I’ve got a stinking headache and I can’t find mine.’ He winced and held fingertips to his left temple. ‘Those Vikings are as mad as a box of frogs. Never again, I swear. Never.’ Holding on to a sturdy central wooden pole, he straightened with a groan. When he bent over his rucksack to look for painkillers the throbbing became a stabbing pain, convincing him that the heat building up inside the tent was contributing to dangerous levels of dehydration.

  There was a crashing noise, followed by a short burst of Italian and English swearing emanating from the same mouth. ‘Cazzo! Bloody bastard thing.’

  A head poked its way through the flap of the bell tent followed by the body it belonged to. ‘That’s our deposit down the shitter. I thought this was called glamping because it’s glamorous. Che palle! The showers are okay but there’s no room to move in there. How the hell do you manage, my giant friend?’

  ‘What did you break this time?’

  ‘Only a couple of things. The shower head came apart in my hands, so that’s not my fault, but I’ve just knocked the table over outside and the leg bent.’ There was a smile. ‘A lot bent. It’s knackered.’

  ‘Oh Gee, man you’re a liability.’

  ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘How can you be so clumsy?’

  ‘Dunno, it’s a gift.’ Gianni probed the depths of his wash kit and then flung a small blue packet at Logan. ‘Here’s a present for you. Next time don’t let them challenge you to anymore of those drinking games. You are not the easiest of blokes to stagger home with. And when you’re pissed you snore, big man.’

  ‘You can always bunk in with one of the others.’

  ‘No thanks, Cheesy Feet, and the Boring Tosser can manage without me. I’d rather stick with you as a sleeping partner. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I shouldn’t make that common knowledge if were you.’ Logan reached for a bottle of water and swigged down several gulps before popping a tablet. He wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Anyway, how come your brother has such smelly feet and you don’t?’

  Gianni was examining his face in a small oblong mirror he’d hooked into an internal loop of cord against the side of the tent. ‘Because, unlike me, he wears crappy trainers,’ he replied, stretching his right cheek to feel how closely he’d shaved. ‘Matteo is a cheapskate. Doesn’t stand his rounds. No sense of pride in his appearance. Neglects that wife of his and doesn’t deserve her undying love and forgiveness.’

  Logan grinned. ‘Terrible. Must be a proper embarrassment to you. Right, I’m ready,’ he said sliding a pair of aviator sunglasses into place on his nose. ‘Let’s see if we can catch the tog and get settled at the ACO for the start of the race.’

  ‘Tog?’

  ‘Yeah, tog. Danish word for train.’

  ‘Oh yeah … your Danish is coming on well, that’s at least two words we know. I’m very fond of that little train, the tog.’

  ‘That’s because it’s made for tiny people like you and children.’

  ‘No need to take the piss. Good things come in small packages as my Nonna would say. I won’t be a couple of minutes. Need to pack my day sack and splash a little Gianni magic aftershave on, for the ladies.’

  ‘Italian stereotype. Pathetic.’

  ‘You’re right. Maybe I’ll lay off it. I wouldn’t want to accidentally attract a sick weirdo like the one you’ve landed yourself with.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from her for over a week now,’ Logan said taking his phone from his pocket and waving it in the air. ‘Let’s hope she’s given up.’

  ‘Yeah. The freaky bitch was beginning to get personal. All that bananas about touching her in her dreams and being the love of her life.’ He quickly changed the subject. ‘Where are we picking up our wrist bands from?’

  ‘Guy said he’ll leave the passes at the main desk of the ACO.’ Logan’s phone rang. He stared at the screen.

  ‘Shall we take a bet?’ Gianni jeered. ‘Soon to be ex-wife giving you grief about abandoning your children… or your controlling new girlfriend checking up on you to make sure you are enjoying yourself. Ve heff vays of making you heff a heppy birthday!’

  Logan turned his back and stepped outside, talking into the phone. ‘Hey, yeah I’m fine...’ He surveyed the damage to the flimsy folding table where he and Gianni abandoned their coffee cups and a brown paper bag full of croissant crumbs twenty minutes previously.

  One aluminium table leg was hugely distorted, and anything previously sitting on the tabletop was now on the grass lying next to the upturned damaged table. Wedging the phone to his ear with his shoulder, Logan righted the table and grinned. ‘Gee is tarting himself up, as per,’ he said. ‘Listen, Kat, I meant to say thanks for the present, but … flowers? What am I supposed to do with them?’

  Logan stopped what he was doing to listen. ‘My mistake then.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No … what are you talking about? Think about it. They can’t be from Suze. Why? Well, because she’s hacked off about me not having the boys on my weekend.’ There was a pause. ‘Must be from the organisers, or work. Someone let slip about it being my birthday. Sorry, I assumed they were from you.’

  He stared into the middle distance. Kat would never have arranged for flowers to be delivered to him. What was he thinking? Why did he even mention it?

  But if it wasn’t Kat, then who’d sent him flowers?

  Try as he might, he could not begin to guess, and neither could he dismiss the niggling thought about the affectionate words used on the small card found along with a large bouquet by the side of his camp bed when he and Gianni had arrived on Thursday.

  He shook his muzzy head. ‘We’re off to watch the racing for the day and most of the night, so text me to let me know how you and Zoe get on. I won’t hear the phone ring.’

  He didn’t want to talk to Kat for too long. The words he really wanted to say to her should’ve been said before he left for France with Gianni, but he’d taken the coward’s way out and procrastinated. ‘Three... it starts at three. What time are you due to get to the place? Cool. Lunch as well. Lucky you.’ Having ended the call, he tucked the phone into the cargo pocket of his shorts.

  He looked up.

  Someone was watching him.

  ‘Hello there. Your boyfriend made a right mess by the looks of things.’ The rotund man with a Scottish accent glanced in the direction of a broken bucket, which previously housed the sunflowers left as a gift. Gianni’s fight with the table had claimed another victim. The bucket was split, and the flowers lay abandoned and unloved on the wet grass. ‘Did he buy them for you as a special present? Birthday isn’t it?’

  Logan sighed inwardly as this wasn’t the first time he and Gianni had been mistaken for a couple.

  ‘Actually, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s a bit touchy-feely. Italian,’ Logan said by way
of explanation. ‘We’ve known each other since we were kids.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to … it’s just the shirts are so incredibly … floral.’ The man shuffled uneasily, and his cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

  Logan laughed heartily, making his head throb once more. ‘Oh, I see. These!’ He tugged at the brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt worn for the second day running. ‘It’s a health and safety strategy, in case we lose Gee.’ He flicked a thumb towards the tent. ‘He’s so short he gets lost in the crowds.’ Logan looked back at the man, a half smile appearing. ‘You’re not the only one to make that assumption. In fact, I’m beginning to regret the whole idea of these shirts.’

  Deciding to make life easier for the man, he made a more formal introduction. ‘I’m Logan, by the way – most people call me Pep.’

  ‘Aye. I recognised you. Didn’t like to say anything, you know, in case you were keeping your sexual preferences a secret but … I was wrong anyhow.’ He held his hands in the air, an apologetic look on his face.

  ‘Thanks. That was very thoughtful. My friend, the mad Italian puppy is Gianni. He’s not proper Italian. Third generation. But the genetics are rather unmistakable I’m afraid. Sorry if we disturbed you last night. You enjoying the camping?’

  ‘Aye. Not too bad, although my wife isn’t nay impressed with the queues for morning ablutions. I’m Jim. My wife is Vena.’

  Logan couldn’t remember seeing Jim’s wife and there was no sign of her at that moment. With so many other distractions, he hadn’t taken much notice of either of his nearest campsite neighbours.

  Jim nodded to the tent opposite. ‘Fair number of us Brits here. That lot must have a boy scout with them.’

  The field they were in bore a strange resemblance to an historical re-enactment of a jousting tournament where the actors had yet to be provided with period costume or horses. There were six rows of identical beige bell tents, and campers had individualised their accommodation by adding flags on long flexible poles, flying the emblems and logos of their chosen racing team, or their country of origin.

  There was a jovial atmosphere across the site that morning, excitement building for the start of the Le Mans twenty-four-hour race. Deep laughter could be heard coming from two rows back where a Welsh stag party were organising their day and mocking each other’s choice of costume. ‘Oi, Spiderman, how are you going to take a piss in that outfit? And where the hell is Evan? Evan, get up you lazy bastard.’

  Logan turned his attention back to where Jim was looking, admiring the cooking facilities and sociable circle of chairs outside the two tents opposite his own. ‘They’re a good laugh actually,’ Logan said. ‘We met them in the Danish bar last night. I’m quite envious. We had some stale croissants this morning while they munched toast and marmalade. Smelt lovely. Did you see the barbecue they used on Thursday night?’

  Jim nodded. His jowls rippled.

  ‘You know the two women?’ Logan asked. ‘The lady always in the Porsche cap? She’s mother of one of the drivers.’

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘Nick Tandy. I’d never heard of him, but he’s in the programme alright. Drives for Porsche.’

  ‘I know. Saw him at the parade yesterday. I was here the year he won with Nico Hulkeburg and the Kiwi Earl Bamber. 2015 it was. They were here to make up numbers for Porsche who hedged their bets with Webber in the other car…’

  As Jim launched into a detailed account of exactly whom he’d seen in the city centre at the parade de pilotes, Logan regretted being so affable. The man was a first-class motorsport encyclopaedia and intent on demonstrating his admirable knowledge. Bored, Logan switched off.

  Wendy, the mousy lady from the organisers’ tent was heading their way with another altogether more fearsome woman at her side, whose high-pitched Glaswegian squawk reminded Logan that paracetamol takes longer to work than he would’ve liked.

  ‘There’s no enough light. Fairy lights are for Christmas, dear, not for seeing at night. Now come and see what I mean by damp. The mattress most definitely feels damp. Out of the way, Jim! Wendy said she’ll address this immediately.’

  The representative of Glamping Global, hesitated as she reached Jim and Logan.

  ‘Well, I didn’t actually say that, but I’ll certainly assess the situation.’

  ‘Aye ya will. Come with me.’

  Wendy gave a shy knowing smile to Logan as she ducked through the tent flap, where Jim and the brittle Vena had made their temporary home for the extended weekend.

  Logan felt sorry for Wendy. She’d been very helpful since his need for a vase had arisen and she’d supplied the bucket for the sunflowers. Being a few years their senior, she was a great deal more efficient than the spotty university students employed to make the customer service experience a good one. Logan noticed how they constantly fiddled with their mobile phones, leaving Wendy to man the laptop and deal with enquiries. He wanted to catch her to ask who’d left the flowers for his birthday but decided it would wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Setting up the hide

  The dawn chorus was putting the finishing touches to the last chirpy overture as Ella headed out of Ribble’s Garage forecourt and onto the lane, with Barney driving the tractor. Mal was sitting beside him in ‘farmer’s clothes’ in an attempt to blend in. For Mal this meant a pair of jeans, a checked shirt, and a baseball cap.

  Ella thought he looked completely out of keeping and more like an overly clean hillbilly in the wrong footwear. She wedged herself firmly in the gap left between the rusty blade of an old plough and that of a moss-covered concrete trough. Her legs dangled over the side of the trailer as the three of them bounced along in happy chugging tractor rhythm.

  It seemed to take an eternity to get to Top Field Farm, during which there were two heart-stopping occasions when the trailer lurched violently, threatening to catapult Ella into a ditch.

  Barney was unfazed by the ruts in the track and carried a merry tune as he sang a personal compilation of old sing-along favourites, “Roll out the barrel”, “Ten Green Bottles” and “Oom pah pah…”. Joining in enthusiastically, Ella was in her element, but, unusually quiet, Mal seemed embarrassed at not knowing the words; evidently show tunes were not his thing. He made an effort to nod his head in time with the beat, clinging on to the edge of the seat with one hand and whatever he could with the other.

  They fell silent as they approached Top Field Farm via a rear gateway. Barney had the keys to this and to the padlock on the container.

  ‘If you can’t trust Barney Ribble, then who can you trust?’ he reminded Mal as they pulled up, keeping an eye out for any other early morning activity in the yard.

  Once unloaded, Barney set off back the way he had come, with Tinkerbell the tractor belching black diesel fumes into the bright morning air. Wisely he left the trailer in front of the shipping container as a screen from behind which Mal could set up camp.

  Having opened one of the doors to the battered blue metal container, Mal set to work. From inside, he removed a few useful items of camouflage for their day of surveillance at Top Field Farm. A pile of orange sea-fishing net was a most unexpected and helpful find. Added to this some dilapidated old wooden barrels of various sizes and the spy-hide was ready for action, bar the deckchairs and a cup of coffee from a flask.

  ‘Well this is cosy,’ Ella said as she gingerly lowered herself into a multi-coloured striped deckchair next to Mal. He placed his binoculars down beside him and took a sip from his coffee.

  ‘Very civilised,’ he said, leaning back to rest his head. ‘We can’t be seen from any angle. Reminds me of the most excellent den me and Ahmed built down at Jones’s Scrap Yard when we were kids.’

  ‘Talking of childhoods,’ Ella said, ‘I listened to Konrad’s Desert Island Discs on playback last night. Did you know he had two older brothers?’

  ‘Can’t say I did. How was it anyway? Full of classical delights and snobby books no one’s ever heard of, I bet.’
/>   The sun was breaking through and the warmth of the mid-June day landed on their faces. Ella copied Mal’s relaxed pose, slid down into the chair and closed her eyes, recalling what she could of Konrad’s choices for the iconic BBC Radio Four programme.

  ‘No. Nothing stuffy about his choice of music. I was pleasantly surprised. He chose a couple from his early adolescence; The Clash was one.’

  ‘”London’s Burning”?’

  ‘No. “Rock the Kasbah”. Then one called “The Shadow of Love”—’

  ‘The Damned.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Ella said, opening one eye and grinning to register her amusement at Mal’s music knowledge. ‘He waffled on about the nineteen-eighties and caused a bit of kerfuffle when he requested Kate Humble as his luxury item. It was rejected, so he changed it to some sort of expensive sun hat. Most bizarre.’

  She went on. ‘Then there was a track by Paul Young, which I didn’t particularly get. After that he chose another 1980’s song by one of the Beetles because it was playing when he kissed his ex-wife on their first ever date. I thought that was an odd moment to reflect on. But what got me, were the two tracks he chose last of all.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mal said, not sounding much enthused.

  Ella sat more upright, recalling the emotion in Konrad’s voice when he talked about Lorna, declaring that she was better than Kate Humble by far. And although he had been playful and humorous throughout the show, this was when he revealed a more earnest side to his nature.

  ‘At their wedding he and Lorna played Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon”, know it?’

  Dozing, Mal gave a gentle grunt. ‘Not my thing really,’ he conceded.

  ‘I didn’t think it was mine either but Kon urged listeners to take note of the lyrics, which were about still being in love when you are older. It brought a tear to my eye, I can tell you. But then…’

  ‘And finally…’ Mal said in his best radio DJ voice, ‘“Always look on the bright side of life” sung by that chirpy chappie from Monty Python...’