Road Kill

by Zoe Sharp

  “Hey, you aren’t supposed to do that,” objected the man from the car. “What if he’s got spinal injuries?”

  I finished undoing the strap and eased the helmet off. “Sam, is your neck broken?”

  He managed a weak grin. “No,” he said.

  “Good,” I muttered. “Because when you’ve recovered I’m going to break it for you – scaring the shit out of me like this.”

  “Sorry,” he said on the ragged edge of a laugh. His teeth had begun to chatter now, despite the warmth of the evening. Above his beard his face was a deathly white, making those seal-pup eyes enormous.

  The woman from the car walked back, carrying a picnic blanket which she handed over to me despite her husband’s horrified look. I laid it across Sam’s chest and tucked it in behind his shoulders with a grateful nod in her direction.

  “Where the hell’s that ambulance?” I wondered under my breath. I loosened the makeshift tourniquet a little so as not to completely cut the blood supply to what was left of Sam’s lower leg. A fresh welter of blood flooded out of the wound. He turned his head away so he didn’t have to watch himself leaking.

  “I had him, Charlie,” he said, sounding unbearably tired. “Another mile or so and he would have been sucking on both our exhausts, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. I tightened the scarf up again and hesitated before asking: “What happened?”

  “That van. Just came round the corner and wham! I was toast. Matey-boy with the ‘Blade was trying to muscle his way past on the outside of me and I’d nowhere to go. Nearly got out of the way but the fucker caught my leg. Funny thing is,” he went on, voice blurring now as the pain began to kick in, “I coulda sworn he turned the wrong way.”

  His eyelids were drooping. Desperate to keep him conscious, I said urgently, “What do you mean, Sam? Who turned the wrong way?”

  “Hmm?” He jerked his eyes open again. “The van driver, ‘course,” he said. “I coulda sworn he turned into us, not away, like he was aiming right for us . . .”

  Sixteen

  They carted Sam away by air ambulance, a bulbous Aérospatiale Squirrel that the pilot put down on a pocket handkerchief-sized flat spot of grass a quarter of a mile up the road, entirely without drama. I suppose, for him, this was just another day at the office.

  The paramedics already on scene loaded Sam up with practised ease. I stood with the others, shading my eyes against the dust washed up by the rotor blades, and watched the lurid yellow helicopter lift off and wheel away against a bright sky.

  The medics wouldn’t be drawn into giving any predictions about whether they thought Sam would make it or not. I had to comfort myself with negatives. Surely they would have told me if he had no chance at all?

  “Sorry about your mate,” William said quietly, alongside me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We seem to be saying that to each other a lot lately.”

  Now the responsibility for Sam’s immediate survival had been lifted from my shoulders, I was aware of a grinding fatigue, manifesting itself as aching legs and a bad temper that I could feel swelling up behind my eyes.

  The rest of the Devil’s Bridge Club had turned up about twenty minutes after Mark had gone for help. He didn’t return with them. They said he was pretty shaken up, but if the van had been as determined to run the pair of them down, as Sam had claimed, I suppose I wasn’t surprised.

  I leaned forwards slightly to look at Daz, who was standing on the other side of William. He caught the movement and met my gaze. Just for a moment I thought I saw something haunted there.

  “Another van, Daz?” I said softly. “What is it with you lot? Did you rob a cursed tomb or something?”

  “You’ve had a connection to everything that’s happened, just as much as we have,” Paxo shot back, jumping to Daz’s defence before he could answer. “How do we know this isn’t down to you?”

  “Well now, let me see – could I be lying to myself?” I murmured. “Hang on a minute, let me check . . . well, well, it seems not.”

  “Heads up, guys,” William muttered under his breath. “Cop’s on his way over.”

  “Crunch time, Daz,” I warned, my voice low as we watched a young copper approaching across the rough ground. “Either you tell me what’s going on or I give PC Plod over there enough ammunition to get him his sergeant’s stripes.”

  I was bluffing. I couldn’t tell the police half of what was going on without dropping both Clare and Jacob well in it, but I was gambling on Daz not wanting to risk that. Whatever they were up to, it wasn’t legal, that was for sure. And it was high stakes enough for someone to kill for it – or try to – more than once.

  The policeman closed another few strides. I heard Paxo suck in his breath but I didn’t take my eyes off Daz. He was the one I had to convince. Where he led, the others would follow.

  He made me wait for it right up to the last possible moment. The uniform had moved close enough to touch now, pausing in front of me. One second stretched, deformed, and began to peel into the next. Still Daz kept his face blank.

  Damn.

  Anger elbowed gloom out of the way and briefly took charge. I forced my shoulders into a casual shrug as if it didn’t matter either way, started to let my attention slide towards the copper who was impatiently poised to receive it.

  “OK, Charlie,” Daz said, his voice quick and maybe a little uneven.

  I flicked my eyes back to his face but there was nothing more to be gained from it.

  “OK?” he repeated when I didn’t immediately acknowledge his capitulation, making it a question this time, with just a thread of unease weaving its way through.

  “OK,” I agreed, careful not to let my triumph show.

  “You were with Mr Pickering when he came off, were you?” the policeman broke in, wanting to stamp his authority on proceedings. Or maybe he was just tired of being ignored. He had a slightly resigned look about him, as though he knew he wasn’t going to get much out of us.

  “Not exactly,” I said deliberately. “I must have been twenty or thirty metres ahead of him when he was brought down.”

  “Oh, I see.” He whistled, his eyebrows doing a little wiggle of exaggerated surprise. Just for a moment I was foolish enough to think he might be taking it seriously that Sam had been run off the road.

  “Lass on her own bike, eh?” he said instead. His tone couldn’t have suggested more perplexity if I’d been a fish on a multigym. He winked conspiratorially at the others. “So, what kind of speed would you say Mr Pickering was doing when he came off.”

  “I’ve no idea,” I snapped. “Surely it’s more relevant to ask what kind of speed the van that hit him was doing?” I shook my head in disgust. “Have you caught up with it yet? Are you even trying?”

  “I’m sure we’re doing everything we can, miss,” he said. “But considering nobody got even a partial reg number, the only description we can circulate is of a white van. Good job there’s not many of those about then, eh?”

  The not-so-subtle insinuation that it was our fault for being so unobservant jarred. He smiled but I kept my face stony. I didn’t need to look to know that the others had done the same.

  The copper’s smile dwindled. He cleared his throat and pulled out his notebook.

  “I understand there were three of you riding together?” he said, frowning, making it sound like an anarchists’ gathering. “What were you doing on this road, exactly?”

  For a moment I could have sworn I heard the members of the Devil’s Bridge Club hold their collective breath.

  “We were just out for a pleasant cruise in the Lakes on a nice summer evening, officer,” I said blandly.

  He pursed his lips. “So there wouldn’t have been any kind of road racing going on then, eh?”

  “No,” I said sweetly. “Do you also ask rape victims if they were wilfully walking the streets not wearing a burka?”

  He was still young enough to flush uncomfortably at that, but dogged enough not to be deflected.
“Only, we’ve had reports that three bikes were seen going like stink through Glenridding shortly before the accident.”

  “Which three bikes?”

  He frowned again, harder this time, peering more closely at his notebook as though he might have written down the answer in very small type. “Hmm,” he said. “One was black, I believe, and the others were multi-coloured.”

  “‘Multi-coloured motorbikes’, huh?” I echoed flatly. “Good job there’s not many of those about either, isn’t it?”

  ***

  When the police had got as much out of us as we were prepared to give them – which wasn’t anywhere near as much as they would have liked – we mounted up and went back to the Watermillock Arms.

  Quite a lot of the other bikers who’d turned up to watch the Devil’s Bridge Club audition were still hanging around, although the atmosphere had turned a little sour, like a party after a fight’s broken out.

  The other FireBlade rider, Mark, was sitting hunched over one of the benches, his white fingers clutching a can of Red Bull. He looked up, saw me approaching, and made an effort to get back on track, hiding the tarnish of his shock and fear under a gloss of bravado. Then he saw the blood on my hands and the smear of it on the knees of my leathers where I’d knelt in the road beside Sam, and his nerve nearly buckled under him again.

  He got to his feet, knocking back his soft drink like it had a large shot of vodka in it. Maybe it did.

  “How you doin’?” he mumbled. Without waiting for an answer he turned to Daz. “So what happens now, yeah?”

  Daz regarded him flatly. “Nothing happens now.”

  “Is that it?” Mark looked puzzled. “I mean, do we go again?”

  Daz shook his head. “No need, mate.”

  And, just as Mark started to smile, Daz turned to me and said, “OK Charlie. Congratulations – you’re in.”

  Mark took a step forwards, his face a tangle of disbelief. “Hey, what about me?” he demanded. “I mean, I finished, right? Shit, I was the only one who did! So I’m in too, yeah?”

  Daz shook his head again, began to move away. “Sorry mate,” he said, sounding totally unrepentant.

  “But—” Mark broke off, plaintive, a pink flush across his cheeks. “But I won, right?”

  It was William who took pity on him. “Who said it was a race?” he said gently.

  “You—” Mark began, then it sank in that he wasn’t going to win this one. “Oh, fuck you then, right?” he muttered. “Fuck the lot of you!” and stalked away across the car park towards his bike.

  “Wasn’t it a race?” I murmured, watching him go.

  William grinned at me. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Wanting to get ahead is one thing. Leaving a man behind is another. That’s not what we’re all about.”

  “Very chivalrous,” I said dryly. “If you’re Porthos can I be D’Artagnan?”

  William laughed out loud. Mark looked round sharply at the sound, face flushing darker at the imagined insult. He rammed his helmet on, jerked the bike off its stand and ragged it away across the car park.

  William watched him go with a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he’d been proved right about something. He gave me a playful slap on the shoulder that I tried not to reel from.

  “Welcome to the Club, Charlie,” he said. “I hope you don’t regret it.”

  I hitched my hip onto the edge of the nearest bench. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Daz smiled and shook his head a little. “What’s to tell?” he said, defiant. “We’re just going for a fast weekend in the Emerald Isle – take in the scenery, sample the Guinness, chill out a little. Simple as that.”

  “I could still go to the cops,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, you could – but you won’t,” he said with annoying certainty. “If there’s one thing people tell me about you, it’s that you stand by your friends.”

  “That depends who you’ve been asking,” I said. “And what makes you think you’re my friends?”

  The smile spread into an outright grin. “I’m not talking about us,” he said. “And besides, we’re booked on tomorrow afternoon’s boat out of Heysham. William can sort you out a ticket if you’re up for it. It’s your choice.”

  No, I thought, it’s not my choice. It’s not my choice at all.

  I looked round at the other faces. It was hard to see anything beyond Daz’s bright hard smile. William was watching me with mild interest, or perhaps disinterest, like it made no difference to him one way or the other. Paxo and Jamie were the easiest faces to read. They didn’t want me along, full stop, and it was a toss-up which of them wanted it less.

  Daz correctly read my silence and nodded, looking almost smug now. “Fancy a game of pool before we head back, Pax?” he asked.

  Paxo gave me a last lingering look and turned away, his expression lightening as though he’d flicked a switch and I was instantly forgotten. “You putting any money on it?”

  “With you?” Daz laughed and flung an arm round his shoulders. “You bloody hustler. I’m not that stupid. The only cash I’m prepared to lay out on a game of pool with you are the coins that go in the slot, mate.”

  “What about you, William?” I asked as the other two moved towards the pub doorway. “You going to keep me in the dark, too?”

  “Dark can be good,” he said, eyebrows dancing. “Baby, I do some of my best work in the dark.”

  “Don’t call me ‘baby’ unless you want me to puke milk down your back.”

  He laughed. “Oh Charlie,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t care what the others say. Ireland’s going to be a ball with you along.”

  I would have asked him more about that, but Jamie had come sidling up and was hovering nearby, looking like he had a question burning a hole in the roof of his mouth. William glanced at him and caught the urgency.

  “I believe I hear the little boys’ room calling to me,” he said to nobody in particular, and strolled away after Daz and Paxo.

  Jamie didn’t launch in immediately, just stood looking awkward with his hands in his pockets. I waited in silence for him to find his purpose. It took him a moment or two of staring out at the little boats creaming across Ullswater on a stiffening breeze.

  “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re doing this, Charlie,” he said at last, his voice quiet and meaningful.

  “Oh yes,” I said mildly. “And why am I doing this?”

  He batted the question aside like a wasp. “Look, the last thing I want the others to know is that my fucking parents don’t think I can look after myself, all right?”

  “What about Clare?” The question was out before I’d time to think about whether I really wanted to ask it or not.

  Jamie’s face flamed, almost as good as an answer.

  “Look,” he said again, his voice as tight as the face it came out of. “If you mess this up for me . . .”

  He broke off, flicking a little sideways glance at me as though he realised I wasn’t likely to respond well to threats.

  “If I mess it up for you – you’ll do what, exactly?” I said softly, deliberately pushing him to see what would happen. I expected him to fold but to my surprise he didn’t. He pushed back.

  “I swear – you mess this up for me,” he said, shaking his head as though to clear his ears, “and I’ll bloody kill you!”

  ***

  The Royal Lancaster Infirmary was beginning to look depressingly familiar. The receptionist even recognised me enough to give me a faint smile as I passed her on the way in. I’d taken the time before I’d left the Watermillock to wash the worst of the blood off my hands and leathers and I’d obviously managed to avoid looking too scary. I stopped to ask about Sam, only to be told that he was still in theatre.

  I found Clare on her own for once. She was lying reading a magazine inside her wire and steel cage-like frame.

  “Hi Charlie!” she said, sounding pleased to see me but there was somethin
g else too. Something bleeding through in the background like a slightly off-tune radio. It took me a moment to put my finger on it, then it clicked. She was nervous. My being there made her nervous. I tried not to let that hurt.

  I pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down on it, leaning close so we could talk without being easily overheard.

  “You look very serious,” Clare said, cautious. “What’s up?”

  “I passed the audition for the Devil’s Bridge Club,” I said, without preamble.

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly breathless, “so . . . are you still going to Ireland?”