by Neil Cross
Sam thought he was vanishing.
He walked to the door, trying not to panic. The key turned in the lock without noise. He rolled into the living room as if on castors. Jamie was watching TV and eating a tub of Cherry Garcia. He barely looked up.
‘You’re late,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘Sorry. Stuff to do.’
The explanation could hardly have been less necessary. Jamie’s eyes flicked back to the television.
Sam lay all night with a portable radio close to his ear, an indistinct, ghostly murmur that lulled him into a state that was not sleep but was not quite consciousness either. He rose, exhausted, while it was still dark. He stood before his wardrobe and wondered what he should wear.
The absurdity of the thought made him catch his breath, and stifle a giggle. He selected clothes that would not draw attention, but which could be easily discarded without their absence being noted: an old pair of jeans, through at the knee, a cashmere sweater gone raggedy at the cuffs. (The sweater was a gift from Diane, his mother-in-law. But it was an unflattering beige and clung too tight to his belly and the rolls beneath his armpits. Like all big men, he showed the fat easily.)
He splashed cold water on his face and made a pretence of cleaning his teeth. Then he vomited up a yolky green bile. He sat on the lavatory, shuddering, while the nausea passed. The feeling was familiar. He had vomited similarly on the morning of every exam he’d ever taken, and on the morning of his marriage too.
He marvelled that things could change so utterly and yet remain so much the same.
He cleaned his teeth again.
He moved through the house as he did in dreams. He fought the urge to look in on Jamie. He didn’t want to contaminate him with the deeds of the morning.
He slipped on his jacket and closed the door quietly. In the garden it was cold and still. His breath condensed in clouds. In the sky a number of winking aircraft described an intricate mandala. Speeded up, they would have knitted a golden filigree, a hemispherical net that enclosed the city like a sugar cage. At the gate, he stopped to dry-heave.
There was very little traffic on the roads. He passed a few nightworkers on their way home and a few people pulling an early shift. After so many years as a shiftworker, he could easily tell who was going and who was returning. He saw himself reflected in the puffy, tired faces that sped by in their little bubbles of light.
He drove through Robinwood, past the Dolphin Centre, past Farmer Hazel’s fields. In the shallows of the country, he followed the road that led eventually to the slaughterhouse. Soon the last, trailing edge of the city was behind him. He drove at a reduced speed, until he located the lay-by Phil had told him about. It was a gravelly scoop taken from the side of the road. As instructed, he parked the car and killed the engine. It was cold and he wished he’d worn better clothing. He juddered his legs for warmth, and hugged himself. He muttered songs through inert lips.
The hiss of an engine and the sweep of headlights caused him to start and sit upright. But whoever was at the wheel of the vehicle that passed, it wasn’t Phil.
He glanced into the back seat, as if somebody might be there. Since the previous evening, he had found it difficult to shake the feeling that somebody was with him. Here in the darkness, he was giving himself the creeps.
He convinced himself that nobody was on the back seat. Then he saw movement in the bushes. It was too abrupt to be the wind. He supposed it was a bird, hopping from spindly branch to spindly branch, awaiting the dawn. Or perhaps it was some ground-dwelling mammal, some hangover of an agrarian past: a badger, a hedgehog. Perhaps it was a fox or even a feral dog, attracted here by the permanent spoor of carrion that issued from the slaughterhouse. Sam wondered if the undeviating smell was like pornography to a carnivore.
There was a hiss on the gravel. He glanced up, sharply. In the mirror he saw that a pearly black Renault Espace people-carrier had cruised to a halt behind him. It was the size of a small bus. Already a man he recognized as Phil was jumping down from behind the driver’s seat. Phil wore a donkey jacket and a beanie cap pulled low on his forehead. He buried his hands in his pockets and, breath steaming, he crouched at the driver’s side window of Sam’s car.
Sam engaged the engine to lower the window.
‘All right?’ said Phil.
Sam swallowed and said he was.
Phil nodded. He seemed quite cheerful.
He patted the bodywork and said, ‘Couldn’t you have brought something more conspicuous?’
Sam shrugged, embarrassed.
‘It’s new,’ he said.
‘You don’t say,’ said Phil. He stood, dug his fists into his kidneys, and bent backwards. Then he looked round himself: a slow, broken spiral of vapour followed his mouth. He rested his splayed hands on the roof of the Chrysler.
‘How is it?’
‘How’s what?’
‘The car. Does it handle like a bus?’
Sam recalled Mel and Jamie’s excitement when he agreed to buy the car. He felt protective of that moment.
‘It’s surprising,’ he said. ‘It handles all right.’
Phil was smiling.
‘I’m still getting used to it, though,’ Sam said.
Phil nodded.
‘It reminds me of a taxi,’ he said. ‘A proper one, a black cab. It’s surprising. Those things can swivel on a sixpence.’
He clapped his gloved hands.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Are we ready, then?’
Sam looked up at him.
‘What do I have to do?’
‘First thing,’ said Phil, ‘I’d nudge your car along a few feet. Just so it’s a bit more hidden from the road. Nudge it behind those bushes up there.’
‘What about my tyre tracks?’ said Sam. ‘Should I rub them out with a branch or something?’
Phil laughed obligingly, then he saw that Sam wasn’t joking.
He smiled.
‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ he said. Then he rapped on the roof three times, a signal that Sam should get under way.
Sam nosed the Chrysler six or seven feet forward. Getting out of the car, he had to fight past a tangle of bushes. From the tip of one there hung a short length of used-looking toilet tissue. Sam edged past it with extreme care.
‘Look at that,’ said Phil. ‘That’s disgusting.’
He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and scuffed his feet on the muddy gravel.
‘I hate the fucking country.’
He offered Sam his hand. The shake was friendly enough.
‘You can sit in the front,’ he said. ‘With me. Since you’re the guest of honour.’
Sam did as he was told. In the doorway, he paused to nod hello at the two men who sat silently in the back seat. The Espace smelt new.
Phil made himself comfortable behind the wheel. This took a good deal of squirming and seat adjustment.
He said, ‘I see you’ve met Hinge and Bracket here.’
One of the men told Phil to fuck off. Phil smiled all the more broadly for it.
‘Boys,’ he said. ‘This is Sam. Sam, this is the boys.’
Sam turned in his seat. He nodded a second hello, still more awkward than the first. The two men in the back didn’t look like thugs picked up for a few quid in some terrifying inner-city pub. They had the businesslike air of soldiers or policemen. One of them was perhaps a gaunt forty, with cropped curly hair and a bitter rash of ancient acne scars. The second was younger, with a chubby face and short, fine hair that looked blond in the half-light.
The younger, blond man leant forward.
He said, ‘I’m Damien. And this is Terry.’
‘Hello,’ said Sam, for the third time.
He faced the front. Damien sat back. Phil had turned on the radio and was fiddling with the tuning.
He said, ‘No fucking pre-sets,’ and turned his head. ‘Any preferences?’
Nobody answered.
‘What, nothing? You don’t care?’
He waited. Still no answer. He turned off the radio and crossed his arms, as if sulking. Then his mobile telephone rang. Sam had noticed it when he got in—an outdated model, perhaps five years old, that lay on the dashboard. Phil answered it. He said ‘yes’ a number of times, then terminated the call. Immediately, he engaged the engine.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We have lift-off.’
He suggested that Sam put on his seat belt. Then he struggled with the steering until the Espace faced the road at 90 degrees.
A car passed.
‘Second one after this,’ said Phil. ‘It’s a whatsit …’
He clicked his fingers.
A sense of unreality closed in on Sam. He wondered what he was doing here.
Phil stopped clicking his fingers.
‘… a Golf,’ he said. ‘A flash one.’
‘GTI?’ said Damien.
‘Probably,’ said Phil. ‘Something like that. A prickmobile of some kind.’
A second car passed them. A Nissan Micra.
Inside the Espace, it had grown tense and silent. In the back, both Damien and Terry had engaged their seat belts.
Briefly, the brow of the low hill was illuminated by an oncoming car. As yet unidentifiable behind the glare of headlamps, it came accelerating towards them.
‘Blimey,’ said Phil. ‘He’s going some.’
Surprise made him fumble with the unfamiliar controls. The Espace lurched forward. Then it stalled. It stood laterally across the tarmac, blocking the road.
The oncoming car was travelling greatly in excess of the speed limit. Sam heard its brakes. He noticed that Phil was struggling to restart the Espace’s engine. Then the car hit them, side on.
The Espace was slammed sideways. It hung in the air on two wheels for a long, uncertain moment, then righted itself with a juddering crash.
For several seconds they sat, staring straight ahead. Then Phil slapped the steering wheel.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
He turned in the seat and yelled at Damien and Terry.
‘What are you waiting for—a confirmatory fucking email?’
Sam stared ahead while Damien and Terry got out of the van. He pretended not to watch them as they hesitated on the road, checking themselves for injuries. It seemed to Sam that things were not going according to plan, but it didn’t seem appropriate to ask.
Phil gritted his teeth and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The Espace screamed and pitched a few feet forward. Its rear wheels seemed to lose purchase.
Sam looked out the far window. He saw that a Golf GTI convertible with a crumpled front end and a shattered windscreen had attached itself to the Espace like a pilot fish. When Phil gunned the engine, the Espace dragged the nose of the Golf with it, giving off a migrainous shower of blue sparks.
Damien was dragging a bloodied man from behind the wheel of the Golf. The bloodied man was Dave Hooper. Once he was free of the car, Damien took Dave Hooper by the armpits and hauled him towards the Espace. Meanwhile, the older man—Terry—was using his weight to bounce the front end of the Golf free of the people-carrier. Terry gave up. He got behind the wheel of the Golf and threw it into hard reverse. The Golf parted from the Espace with a metal shriek. Terry reversed again. The Golf curved backwards, into the lay-by. Terry parked its remains as deep in the roadside bushes as time would allow. A few bits of it—a hubcap, the front bumper, tyre-shreds—were scattered over the road. Terry considered this shrapnel, decided to ignore it. Instead, he ran to assist Damien, who was still heaving Dave Hooper towards the Espace. They hoisted him and threw him inside like a side of beef.
Sam looked at Phil for reassurance.
Phil saw the look.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The situation’s a bit fluid, but we’ll be back on course in a minute or two.’
Phil pulled away before Damien had fully closed the sliding door. The Espace travelled faster than Sam might have believed possible, and Phil didn’t seem especially perturbed. The slaughterhouse flashed by on their right. They followed the road deeper into the countryside.
Sam swivelled. Dave Hooper lay on the floor behind him. His eyes were open. He was breathing noisily through his mouth. Small nuggets of windscreen were embedded in his forehead and scalp. His nose appeared to be broken.
Without reducing his speed, Phil twisted in the driver’s chair.
‘You,’ he said.
Dave Hooper looked at him.
‘Yes,’ said Phil. ‘You. Do you know what? You drive like a cunt, mate.’
Dave Hooper tried to say something.
‘Yeah,’ said Phil, and mimicked the wordless, fish-like opening and closing of Hooper’s mouth. ‘I hope you’re fucking brain-damaged. That’ll teach you to use a seat belt.’
Damien produced a roll of duct tape and proceeded to wrap it around Dave Hooper’s mouth. Sam didn’t look, but he heard the ripping sound of unspooling tape. There were noises in the back, a confused banging and thrashing and muffled grunts, some frustrated swearing from Damien and Terry.
Phil glanced sideways, examined Sam’s fixed expression. He turned on the radio. Terry Wogan’s breakfast show was just beginning.
Phil shifted gear.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said.
Sam swallowed.
‘I’m all right.’
Phil grinned at him, not unkindly.
‘I knew a bloke once,’ he said, ‘who would’ve done this all by himself. He’d be finished by now. One word by the side of the road and Mr Cooper there would’ve spent the rest of his life treating you like the Queen of Sheba.’
Phil’s grin turned into a broad, private smile.
Sam said, ‘Where’s this bloke now?’
‘Oh,’ said Phil. ‘He’s not around. You know how it is.’
Sam was beginning to.
‘Shame,’ he said.
‘Not for Mr Cooper.’
‘Hooper,’ said Sam.
‘Whatever.’
Phil swore and braked. He’d missed a turning. He reversed, then nosed the Espace into a road that was little more than a country lane, bordered on either side by thick hedgerows. Sam saw that the sky was beginning to lighten.
He risked a look in the back. Dave Hooper’s mouth was bandaged in silver-grey tape. He was breathing with difficulty through his broken nose. Behind his back, his hands had been taped at the wrists. Terry and Damien were resting their feet on him, crossed at the ankles.
Hooper’s eyes met Sam’s and widened. He whinnied and bucked.
Sam looked away.
They drove for perhaps fifteen minutes. They passed no other vehicle. Finally, Phil turned the Espace on to a narrow track barely wide enough to accommodate it. Twigs and low bushes brushed its bodywork. By now there was a definite strawberry-milkshake smear across the base of the sky.
Eventually, the track opened up into a scruffy glade. Three wooden picnic benches were arranged close to a small river. Sam could see the road by which the picnic area was more commonly approached: it ran off to a motorway access road. About half a mile downriver was a bridge over which ran some early-morning traffic.
He said to Phil, ‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’
Phil brought the van to a stop.
‘Once or twice,’ he said. He opened the door and got out. On the damp grass, he yawned and stretched and knuckled the small of his back. He walked round the van, examining it, kicking its tyres.
Then he said, ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get on with it.’
Terry opened the door and leapt out. The ground was soggier than he’d expected. He corrected his balance and looked with distaste a
t his mud-splattered trousers.
Phil leant against the bonnet and lit a cigarette. Smoking, he stared at the river.
Damien and Terry pulled at Dave Hooper’s ankles. He fought hard to stay in the van, kicking at them. They slapped his flailing feet from their faces and laughed, then hauled him down into the mud.
Hooper struggled to his knees. Damien kicked him in the stomach. Hooper curled in the mud. He made urgent choking noises.
Sam looked away. He got out of the car. The air was colder than he’d expected. He saw that the side of the Espace was punched in, as if by a fist. Then he walked to the edge of the picnic area. He crossed his arms and watched.
Dave Hooper lay on the ground. Damien lined himself up and took a penalty kick at Dave Hooper’s head. It made a lonely, hollow noise in the stillness.
Sam reached out for the cool solidity of the Espace. But without being aware of it, he had continued to approach the scene. The van was some way behind him.
Terry hoisted Dave Hooper to his knees. A flap of the tape had come loose and hung like a bandage. Thick, intermittent streams of vomit were expressing themselves through Dave Hooper’s nostrils. Between them, he struggled to breathe. Damien and Terry laughed at his bulging eyes.
Terry caught Sam’s eye and winked. Then he kicked Dave Hooper in the throat. Hooper was chopped to the ground. He began to fit. His legs kicked like a baby’s. His fingers, taped at his back, formed straining claws.
Terry and Damien bundled Hooper face-down and began to unwind the tape around his mouth. Hanks of hair adhered to it. Hooper opened his mouth and released a wad of vomit. He lay in the mud, trying to breathe.
After a long time, he laboured to his knees, then his feet. His head hung low. He coughed up more vomit, blew it from his nostrils. Then he just stood there, swaying, hands tied at his back, dripping blood and mucus and vomitus. Terry kicked him in the testicles.
