Hot Seat

by Simon Wood

  I thought of Jason Gates lying on the ground with his throat cut. Would Rags go that far to protect what was his?

  ‘Has he roughed up spies before?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not the first time we’ve found someone poking around the cars. The other year, this was before I began driving for Rags, a crew chief from Griffin Motorsport quit the team to join Rags. It was all a ploy to see what he was doing.’

  ‘What did Rags do?’

  ‘You don’t see Griffin Motorsport around anymore, do you?’

  I wondered how Rags had brought a whole team down. ‘What do you think Rags will do about Townsend Motorsport? He caught one of their mechanics red-handed and Jason Gates was found dead by our transporter.’

  ‘Are you saying Rags cut Jason’s throat?’

  ‘No, but he’s not the person I thought he was.’

  ‘You don’t have to know a person well to know whether they’re capable of murder.’

  You’d be surprised, I thought. ‘I’ll be honest. Rags spooked me when he strung that guy up.’

  ‘A few body blows are a million miles away from killing someone.’

  A note of irritation was building in Haulk’s voice. Time to switch gears.

  ‘How well did you know Jason?’

  ‘Pretty well. I liked him.’

  ‘What do you think he was doing that night?’

  Haulk frowned. ‘Why all the questions?’

  I shrugged. ‘Just trying to know him, I suppose. I was with him for the last minutes of his life and I’m trying to make sense of it.’

  The tension went out of Haulk’s face. ‘That’s understandable. I hear the police gave you a hard time.’

  I wondered where he’d heard that from. ‘Yes, well, you know cops. Everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise.’

  ‘And even then.’

  Both of us smiled.

  ‘So, Jason was a good guy?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why’d he leave the team?’

  ‘He said he had a better offer from Townsend.’

  ‘Can’t knock that. Did he stay friendly with the crew?’

  ‘Yeah, particularly with Barry Nevin. Barry had taken him under his wing. They were close.’

  Nevin had attended Jason’s funeral. ‘I’ll talk to Barry about Jason.’

  ‘Do that. I think Jason’s death affected him as much as it’s affected you.’

  ‘What do you think Jason was doing with our transporter that night? Do you think he was breaking into it?’

  The frown was back on Haulk’s face. I didn’t care. Right now, I needed answers more than I needed a teammate. ‘Why do you think Jason was killed?’

  The barman came over, breaking the moment by asking if we wanted another round. One Belgian beer was more than enough for me, but Haulk ordered another. Just as the barman turned to pour his drink, Haulk asked for an apple from a basket over the bar. The barman tossed one to him and he snatched it from the air.

  Haulk reached into his jeans’ pocket and brought out a flick knife. I jumped at the sound of the blade snapping open. It was long and thin with a fine edge from years of honing. DI Huston had said the weapon used to kill Jason had a fine edge, probably a cutthroat razor.

  Haulk sliced off a section of apple and popped a slice into his mouth, then he noticed me staring at the blade.

  ‘A product of a misspent youth,’ he said, handing me the weapon. ‘It’s gotten me into a lot of trouble in its time, but just like a bad friend, I can’t bear to let it go. So what was your question again?’

  Lap Fifteen

  Rags and Ragged Racing arrived in Spa-Francorchamps on Friday. I spent the afternoon going through car preparations with Barry Nevin. He talked me through what to expect from Saturday’s qualifying session and how he’d manage me during the race for eventualities such as engine problems, tyre changes, weather reports and telemetry feedback. Nevin also outlined what to expect from the track. I didn’t mention that I’d already driven the track the night before. I glanced over at Haulk in his pit garage next to mine. He winked at me.

  We also practised a tyre change. The weather forecast was changeable. In some races, you could nurse your way through on slick tyres in the rain. Spa was different. Thanks to the ever-changing geography, water cascaded across the track in sheets in all the worst places. In those conditions, you had no choice. You had to switch to wet tyres.

  In the evening, Rags outlined team tactics with the drivers and pit crew. I took notes. I knew it made me look a novice driver, but for the first time, I wasn’t running the show. I’d called the shots in all my other races and Steve and Dylan followed my orders. Now that I was playing in someone else’s playground, I needed to be au fait with their way of doing things. I kept up with Rags until my head swam from information overload.

  My mechanic, Roy Carroll, was sitting next to me and he leaned over. ‘Rags likes his prep work.’

  So did I. I hated surprises on race days.

  ‘Don’t sweat the details. You can’t. A race has a life of its own. You have to roll with the punches.’

  After the team briefing, Rags dismissed us. Haulk and I chatted over coffee for an hour. Everyone was doing a nice job of making me feel like part of the team and their best to keep my nerves at bay. The more I got to know these guys the less I thought they could have any involvement with Jason’s murder. I went to my room after that and called Steve. We chatted for a bit. He told me he was proud of me and not to overdo things on my first race. I promised I wouldn’t. After the call, I went to bed. I wanted an early night, but was too anxious and excited about the race to sleep. I was frightened of failing, but I was more excited about succeeding. In the dark, I replayed my driving lesson with Haulk. I committed the braking points, gear changes, and every contour, twist, kink and curve of the track to memory before it put me to sleep.

  Saturday was the sharp end of things. The season opener of the ESCC was a tough one – a double-header with rounds one and two of the championship over the same weekend. We had morning qualifying with the race in the afternoon. Those race positions determined the starting grid for round two on Sunday. Screw up in the Saturday race and not only did your team have to repair any damage for Sunday, but you were at the back of the field. I expected cagey performances from the drivers today. I planned on playing it conservatively, focusing on consistency with no fifty-fifty overtaking manoeuvres. I wanted to finish my first race. I could do without the embarrassment and the reputation as a loose cannon. That said, racing conditions might throw the plan out the window. It was dry, but for how long? A blanket of roiling grey covered the sky. I hoped we’d get out before the weather changed.

  A crowd was already filling the stands opposite the pits before morning practice. People waved, cheered and called encouragement to anyone who’d listen. Just being in the pit lane at Spa gave me a lift. There was something about being on the competitor’s side of the pit wall that gave me tingles. I was a racing driver. This was what I did and where I belonged. I didn’t feel superior to the fans, just lucky in a way they’d never understand. Whatever thrill they got from watching paled against the thrill I got from being behind the wheel.

  Nick Ronson stepped out of Townsend Racing’s pit garage, dampening my moment and blocking my path.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I asked. I didn’t bother adding, ‘after your beating.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  Nevin was looking down the pit lane at me. He shouted my name and waved at me to get back to where I belonged.

  ‘Look, I want to talk to you about Jason. I think you might have a point. Can we meet after Sunday’s race when things are calmer?’ I said.

  ‘Sure. What’s your mobile?’

  I rattled off the number.

  ‘I’ll give you a bell.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  I jogged up the pit lane to Nevin.

  ‘Wasn’t that the little tosser we caught spying last week?’ he asked.
r />   ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’d he want?’

  ‘He worked out that it was me who spotted him watching us. He was giving me a little shit for it.’

  Nevin slung an arm over my shoulders and guided me into the garage. ‘Forget him, Aidy. If he gets in your face again, I’ll take care of it. No one messes with my drivers. Anyway, I’ve got something to show you.’

  He pointed at my car. The crew stopped what they were doing and grinned at me. A bath towel hung down over the driver’s door of my racecar, obscuring my number.

  ‘We don’t have time for the Queen and a bottle of champagne to christen this ship, so you’ll have to do,’ Rags said. ‘Do us the honour, son.’

  I grabbed the towel and yanked it away.

  The number on my door was forty-three, my dad’s number. I tried to say something, but the words didn’t come.

  ‘That’s your official number. Now go out there and make it yours.’

  Everyone clapped.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

  ‘You’d better do more than your best,’ Rags said and got a laugh.

  Nevin shook my hand then handed me my inspection checklist. ‘Let’s get you out there for qualifying.’

  I called off the inspection points and the crew checked them off as done, then I grabbed my helmet and Nevin fired up my car. It was a gorgeous sound. The garage’s acoustics grabbed the exhaust’s burble and transformed it into a roar. The symphony of sound intensified when Haulk’s car fired up. There was no containing my smile.

  I pulled on my helmet and kissed my mum’s St Christopher before getting behind the wheel. Nevin got into the car where the front passenger seat should have been and belted me in.

  ‘Stick behind Kurt. I want you guys joined at the hip. The slipstream will get us good times. He knows to take it easy during the first couple of laps. After that, he’ll push for his own time. Got that?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Show us what you’ve got and have fun doing it.’

  Nevin clambered from the car and shut the doors. He was a good guy. I hoped he didn’t have anything to do with Jason’s murder.

  A horn blared, signifying the start of the qualification period. The pits were open and the drivers had thirty minutes to set a time.

  Nevin strode out into the pit lane. He waved Haulk, then me, out from our pit garages. On my way out, he flashed me a thumbs-up and I flashed one back. We exited the pit lane as a two-car train. Pride rose in my chest. I was part of a team and I knew how cool that looked.

  I joined the track and boxed away Jason Gates’ murder, Andrew Gates’ threats, the reckless-driving charges and all the trouble that had glued itself to me. None of it mattered for the next thirty minutes. Setting a fast time was all that counted. I stamped down hard on the accelerator and worked my way up the gears.

  As promised, Haulk maintained a pace I could match for the first four laps, then he steadily pulled away from me until he had a sizeable lead. I didn’t let it worry me. I could still set a good time if I focused on my driving.

  ‘You’re doing good, Aidy,’ Nevin’s voice said over the headset. ‘Your times are coming down.’

  Nevin’s words jinxed me a lap later. The car dropped power coming out of Blanchimont. Suddenly, I felt like I was dragging a weight behind me. A sick sounding note accompanied the power drop.

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ I radioed in.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nevin asked.

  ‘I think I’ve dropped a cylinder from the sound of it.’

  ‘Bring it in, Aidy,’ Rags said. ‘We’ll see if we can get you back out.’

  I heard the disappointment in Rags’ voice and shared it. I’d gotten in enough laps to qualify for the race, but I was just finding my rhythm. More importantly to Rags, his showcase team had engine problems before the first race, which was hardly a good image for the number one ESCC team.

  I nursed the car back to the pits. Rags and the team were ready to receive me. The second I stopped the car, the crew removed the bonnet and Rags descended on the engine.

  ‘Keep the engine running, Aidy,’ he barked over the din of cars racing by on the track. The sound of each car whipping by reminded me of the time I was losing. I willed Rags to find the problem and fast.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Rags said, then yanked his sleeve up and plunged his arm into the engine bay. A second later he pulled his arm back with a spark plug lead in his hand. It had come detached from the distributor. Rags pushed it back, then held it in place with a plastic cable tie.

  ‘Let’s get this lad back out while he’s still got a chance of making a time,’ he barked.

  He stood back and let the crew bolt the bonnet back in place. As he rolled his sleeve back down, I saw three parallel scars on his forearm. Neat and straight, they reminded me of army stripes you see on a soldier’s uniform. I was still trying to work out how Rags had gotten the scars when Nevin screamed at me over my headset to go and waved me out.

  I got in another five laps before the chequered flag came out to signal the end of qualifying. I brought the car back to the pits to find Rags handing out a bollocking to the entire crew for dropping the ball. Someone had screwed up on my car and Rags was letting them know. There should have been cable ties holding my spark plug leads on. With all the vibration a racecar experiences, there’s a good chance something will shake loose. Virtually every component is held in place with clips, ties, twist wire and bath sealant – anything to ensure it holds together.

  Nevin broke from the group to help me from the car. ‘By my reckoning, you got tenth. Well done.’

  I turned that tenth-place qualifying spot into a fifth place finish in the race. It was wet and the rain proved to be a good friend to me and an enemy to others. Haulk won. Our collective results put Rags in a good mood after the morning’s setback and he threw a big dinner for the team back at the hotel. Part way through the dinner, Rags stood.

  ‘I’m very pleased with today’s performance. We put a lot of points on the board and what do points mean?’ He spread his arms wide and waited for the answer.

  ‘Prizes!’ the team answered in a collective roar.

  ‘That’s right. Prizes. We’re in good shape for tomorrow. Be confident, but don’t screw it up. All right?’

  He made eye contact with everyone at the table.

  And we didn’t. The next day, we rewarded Rags with both of us on the podium. Haulk took the win and I claimed third. When I made it back to the pits, the crew dragged me from the car and pounded the top of my helmet with their hands.

  Nevin grabbed me by the shoulders and put his face in mine. ‘Fantastic. See, that’s how it’s done. Just keep it up, son.’

  The second I had my helmet off, Rags swept me over to the podium where Haulk, second-place finisher, José Molina, Claudia, Easter and his camera crew were already waiting for the presentation. A cheer went up when the wreath was placed over my head. For the first time, I was experiencing the glory my dad experienced for most of his career. It killed me that Steve and Dylan weren’t here to enjoy the moment with me.

  George Easter moved in with his camera crew. He started with Haulk since he was the winner. Easter’s question played out over the circuit’s sound system and on the jumbo TV. His words bounced back over the PA system in the pits and spectator stands a moment after he asked them. Easter talked to Molina before turning his attention to me, while Claudia stood back and flashed me a smile.

  ‘Aidy, you’re proving to be a chip off the Westlake block. A podium position in your second saloon-car race. That’s got to feel good.’

  ‘It’s more than good.’

  ‘I bet it is. But do the finishes today and yesterday take the pressure off you?’

  ‘Not really. Everybody is going to expect this performance every time. Now that’s pressure.’

  ‘Well said. I want to bring your boss in here.’

  Rags joined me on the podium and slung an arm across my shoulders.

&nb
sp; ‘Rags, how much has this young man impressed you this weekend?’

  ‘Immensely. He grows in confidence and ability every time he gets in the car. Spa is no cakewalk as tracks go. Aidy has done something special this weekend.’

  ‘No argument here,’ Easter said. ‘Aidy, before I let you go celebrate, I should ask you if there’s any truth to the rumours that you’ve been charged with reckless driving. If so, how will that affect your season?’

  Rags’ hold around my shoulders tightened.

  Lap Sixteen

  Easter’s question left me speechless. Who had talked to the press about the reckless driving and why the hell did George Easter have to bring it up now?

  Rags jumped to my defence. ‘You got proof of that, George?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Easter stammered. ‘It’s just something that was reported to me.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you keep remarks like that to yourself, unless you’ve got proof to back them up. And for the record, we don’t comment on unsubstantiated rumours.’

  Claudia moved in swiftly to help end the interview and Rags pulled me off the podium. The second we reached the pits, he marched me into the back of the transporter and slammed the rollup door shut, sealing us in.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Rags barked. His question echoed off the walls, hitting me again and again. He paced back and forth like a caged animal as I filled him in on the details. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?’

  ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘No, you bloody didn’t. If you had, you would have come to me straight away.’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone’s business.’

  ‘You’re wrong there, buddy boy. The day you signed for me, your business became my business.’

  ‘The charges aren’t going to stick.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if they stick or not. What you do has an impact on me and this team. There’s Honda to consider, sponsors, the ESCC and Ragged Racing’s image just to name four. If you’d come to me with this the second it happened, I could have done something to protect you. I would have had an official statement in place as soon as this went public, instead of looking like a prize tit in front of a European audience.’ Rags put his face in mine and tapped the side of my head with his index finger. ‘Is any of this getting through?’