Joe slowly closed his door again and switched off the headlights.
Paul got back in as quickly as he could.
They sat there, staring ahead.
“He’s looking for someone.”
“So what?”
“Maybe it’s us,” said Paul. “We’ll get nicked.” His voice rose in terror.
“Let’s run for it.” Joe sounded uncaring, almost lethargic.
“No way. They’ll cut us off,” said Paul. “What are we going to do?”
But Joe didn’t reply. Instead, he switched on the ignition, put the car into gear and with a sudden scrunching of gravel backed across the car park. Then with lights blazing and tyres squealing, Joe wrenched the wheel around and headed back towards the road.
The police car turned round and the siren began to scream.
Paul closed his eyes. They had been so near to getting away with it, but not near enough. Joe accelerated, turned right, heading off down the hill, breaking at the hairpin bends, the smell of burning rubber filling the car.
“For God’s sake,” Paul yelled.
“Don’t worry.” Joe’s alcoholic breath mingled with the smell of burning rubber. “I’ll lose ’em.”
“No chance.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Joe accelerated again as the siren blared behind them. If we meet another vehicle we’ve had it, thought Paul. This is how fatal accidents happen. He had a brief image of the wrecked Vauxhall, windscreen shattered, blood dripping –
Joe braked hard and spun the car on to a grassy track. The police car followed.
“This isn’t a road,” yelled Paul.
“It’s a way out,” insisted Joe, but his voice was shaking and so were his hands on the wheel.
“You should have carried on down the hill.”
They were now bumping violently over the ruts in the track and several times Joe almost lost control. The police car, meanwhile, had slowed down and was at least a bend behind.
“We’re losing them,” said Joe in triumph.
“Maybe they know something we don’t.”
The Vauxhall was juddering now as the ruts became deeper.
“What would they know?” scoffed Joe.
“That we’re coming to a dead end?”
“Crap!”
Then they came to the dead end.
A screen of bushes reared up in front of them and the track narrowed to a rutted path leading to an old shed.
Joe brought the Vauxhall shrieking to a halt, glimpsed another track, backed up, turned left and for a few seconds drove down an even more rutted surface that once again began to narrow and then turned sharp right at a crazy angle.
The Vauxhall reared up, Joe finally lost control and the car seemed to leap into the air, turning slightly as it did so, shuddering, grinding and roaring like some huge wounded animal. Cassettes hurtled into Paul’s face, followed by a screwdriver, a road atlas and a paperback novel. Then the Vauxhall rolled on to its side, the engine still screaming.
“Turn off the ignition!” yelled Paul. His knee was hurting and he thought he was going to be sick.
The engine died and there was only a hissing sound. Then Joe pushed open the driver’s door which was on the uppermost side of the Vauxhall. “Come on,” he yelled. “The filth’ll be here any minute. We’ve got to leg it.”
Paul struggled to join him, but the passenger seat seemed to have moved forward and wouldn’t go back however hard he tried. His right leg was stuck. No wonder his knee was hurting so badly.
“Come on!” yelled Joe.
Paul realized he couldn’t hear the siren, and for a glorious moment wondered if the police had given up. But why should they? He tried to move again, but there was still a pain in his knee.
“I can’t get out. You’ve got to help me.”
It was like the rock climbing all over again.
“There’s no time,” yelled Joe.
“You’ve got to help me.”
Joe swore and reached down, grabbing at the seat and trying to wrench it back but not succeeding.
“There’s no time,” repeated Joe.
“Get me out!”
“I can’t.”
“Try again!”
“They’re coming. I’ve got to go.”
“You can’t leave me here –”
But Joe was already out of the driver’s door and fast disappearing through the trees.
“You can’t leave me!” Paul yelled after him.
But there was no reply. It was unbelievable, but Joe had gone. He had deserted him. What kind of friend could possibly do that? Paul wrenched again and again at the seat, but it wouldn’t move and he couldn’t release his leg. He swore time and time again, but was trapped. Then he heard the engine of a car ticking over behind him. Pulling, wrenching, swearing, Paul still couldn’t get the seat to move. Making a last effort he pulled again, his desperation increasing the pain.
“Trying to get out?” asked the voice from above and Paul gazed up to see the darkened features of a police officer who had scrambled up on the upturned Vauxhall and was shining his torch into the interior. “You OK?” he asked, more genuinely.
“The seat’s jammed my leg. It hurts.”
“I’m going to call an ambulance. It may take a bit of time to get here.”
“Can’t you get me out?”
“You need medical help. I could hurt you.” The police officer paused while he shouted over his shoulder to a colleague. “One male passenger. About sixteen. The other guy’s done a runner. No point in going after him in those woods. I’ll get a description.” Returning to his original position, the police officer spoke quietly. “Who was behind the wheel? Mate of yours?”
Paul said nothing.
“Come on –”
“No one.”
“You mean you had a ghost driver? We saw two of you.”
“Yeah.” Paul closed his eyes against it all. He still felt sick.
“Who was he?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t say,” Paul repeated doggedly.
“It’ll go worse for you in court if you don’t tell me.”
“I’m in too much pain.”
“Who was he? Give me a description.”
“I can’t.”
“You know him?”
“I don’t –” Paul grasped at a straw. “That’s it. I don’t know him. I was hitching and this guy gave me a lift.”
“Then why not give me a description?”
“It was dark. I can’t remember what he looked like.”
“You’re lying, son, aren’t you? Come on – do yourself a favour.”
Just then the police officer was called away by his colleague, leaving Paul with the dull ache and the growing realization of just how much trouble he was in.
He still couldn’t believe that Joe had left him. He had run out on his best mate, betrayed him.
What was Mum going to say? It would break her, he knew that. The secret garden wouldn’t be a haven any longer. She would be dragged out of her sanctuary, publicly exposed, the mother of a criminal. That bastard Joe. How could he dump him like this?
Just then the police office returned. “So whose car is this?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I told you. I was hitching a lift and –”
“The vehicle’s been stolen.”
“I didn’t know that.” Paul paused and then said foolishly, “How do you know?”
“My colleague has had the number checked, and the car’s been reported stolen. I’ll give you one last chance. Who was your mate?”
“I told you –”
“Don’t tell me again. You could do time for this.” Then he saw the flask lying on the floor. “Who does that belong to?”
“It’s – it’s –” Paul just stopped himself in time. He had been about to say that it belonged to Joe’s father.
“It’s whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you pass it up to me?”
Paul scrabbled around and managed to do as he had been told.
The officer took the flask and unscrewed the cap. He sniffed inside. “Whisky?”
Paul nodded.
“So you know it’s whisky.”
He nodded again, realizing he had trapped himself as thoroughly as the seat had jammed his leg.
“You been drinking?”
“Not before.”
“Before what?”
“I had some of that.”
“I see.” The police officer paused, seemed to think carefully and then asked, “Was the driver drinking?”
Paul was silent.
“I asked you a question – was the driver drinking?”
“Yes.”
“He offered you some of this –”
Paul nodded.
“You drank the whisky.”
“A little bit.”
“So this guy picks you up, driving a stolen car, and as he speeds down the Queen’s highway he offers you a drink out of this flask and you accept?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, son. You know who was driving this motor. He was a mate, wasn’t he?”
Again Paul was silent.
“Later tonight, when you’re sitting up safe and warm in your nice comfy hospital bed, I’m going to be paying you a visit and I’ll ask you to make a statement. Then I’ll get you to sign it. Do you understand?”
Paul nodded.
“So what I advise you to do is to have a nice little think and then come up with the truth. Meanwhile, you’re under arrest.”
The emergency services cut Paul from the wreckage and an ambulance took him to hospital where it was discovered that he only had a bruised knee – and that it wasn’t very severe. But he was also suffering from shock and was told he would be kept in overnight for observation. The physical bruising, however, was nothing compared to the emotional. Joe had walked out on him and he had been left to take the responsibility. Joe – of all people.
Paul was also deeply worried about what his mother would think, although he was incredibly relieved when she arrived. At least he would get support. But what was he going to say to her? She would guess who the driver was immediately and maybe she had already given the police Joe’s name.
“Laura.” Paul wanted to cry but was determined not to. Surely he was far too old for that? She sat down by his bedside, composed, unemotional. Gently, the stranger took his hand. Why was everyone behaving so differently, wondered Paul. First Joe. Now Laura.
“Thank God you’re safe,” she said.
“You seen the police?” Paul asked.
“Of course I have.”
“What did –”
“It was Joe, wasn’t it?”
“Did you tell them?”
“They’re not interested in guesswork.”
“Thanks – ”
“Don’t thank me.”
He had never seen his mother so coldly logical, so unlike her usual self. It was as if their personalities had been swopped. She was tough. He was weak. It was a strange and unsettling feeling. Had she been tough all along and never shown her feelings? Had he been weak all along and shown his feelings all too often?
“So why don’t you tell them?” she asked.
I can t.
“Why not? He dumped you.”
“I know.”
“So why don’t you tell them? If you don’t –”
“Things will go worse for me.”
“For me too.”
“I’m sorry, Laura –”
“Maybe you should call me Mum.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to have that relationship again. I don’t know where it went.”
“I don’t get you.”
“I haven’t been much of a mother to you – I’ve been too much of a friend. You need some mother’s advice.”
“Don’t you mean control?” he demanded angrily.
“I didn’t say that.”
Paul was very close to tears now.
“Tell them, Paul. Tell the police about Joe.”
“I can’t grass up a mate.”
“Bullshit.”
He stared at her. “I’ve never heard you say anything like that before.”
“I should have said it more often. I don’t know much about this Joe. You’ve never brought him home. Were you ashamed of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“You didn’t want him to see the weird old girl doddering about in her garden, did you?”
Paul was silent.
“I often wondered if the reason you spent so much time round Joe’s house was because he had a dad.”
“He’s walked out.”
“So why did you go round Joe’s house so much?”
“He was a mate.”
“You felt they were a proper family and we weren’t?”
He had felt that way. Of course he had. But Paul couldn’t possibly tell her. It would be so hurtful. Besides, there was the other business, the unspoken business. The way he and his mother had been together. The way he had felt.
“So what are you going to do? Go on shielding the little bastard?”
Paul gazed at her in amazement. First “bullshit” and now “bastard”. Did he really know her? This wasn’t the Laura of the secret garden with whom he watched TV, with whom he had wanted to be alone for a reason that had worried him.
“I’m not grassing,” Paul said stubbornly.
“If you don’t tell the police, I will.”
“You can’t.”
“They’ll soon find out anyway. It was obvious that you weren’t behind the wheel.” She paused. “They told me everything. The booze. The lot.”
“I hate him!” snarled Paul suddenly, and his mother gazed down at him, startled by the sudden change in his attitude. “He fitted me up. He’s no friend of mine. I’d like to kill him.” The bitterness and hatred came pouring out. “We were mates. We aren’t now.”
“So you’ll tell the police?”
He didn’t reply and his mother tried another tack.
“Why do you think he abandoned you?”
“He did stuff to his other mates too.”
“What stuff?”
“They won’t say. We’ve never talked about it.”
“Why not?”
“We didn’t want to spoil anything.”
“Spoil what?” she persisted.
“Joe,” he blurted out. “I only know he messed up Jake’s running, and he pinched Barry’s girlfriend. He’s never done things like that before. Never in his life.”
“Until his dad went –”
“He wanted to pass it on. Joe said he didn’t want to see his dad again, and he’d hit him for what he’d done to his mum.”
“So it’s Joe rejecting him. Not the other way round.”
“I dunno.” Paul sought refuge in being negative.
“So why pass it on? If he’s so much in control?”
“He wasn’t in control.” For the first time Paul began to cry, not a flood of tears, only hard, dry, broken sobs.
His mother tightened her grip on his hand, but resisted the temptation to put her arms round him.
Eventually the sobs became silent, only his shoulders heaving.
After a while Paul asked, “Do you really think I should start calling you Mum again?”
“What do you want?”
“You were getting like my girlfriend. Now I want you to be my mum again.”
She stared at him, not able to speak. Then after a long while she said, “Oh, God! I didn’t think –”
“Neither did I. But it was turning out a bit like that, wasn’t it?”
“I can see what you mean.” Now she was close to tears. “I’m sorry. I never –” She couldn’t get the words out.
Paul squeezed her hand. “It’ll be OK, Mum,” he said quietly.
She nodded, still deeply
shocked by what he had said, needing to change the subject. “What are you going to do about Joe?”
“I’m going to grass him.”
“You’re really –”
“He needs to know.”
“Know what?”
“That he can’t pass it on and he can’t blame it all on his dad.”
“Do you want me to fetch that police officer? He’s down the corridor.”
“Go and get him, Mum.” Paul released her hand. “Let’s get it over with.”
After making a statement, Paul was bailed by his mother and discharged from hospital the next morning. Directly he got home, he found the atmosphere was very different. Laura had gone and, in her place, Mum was busy clearing up his room, tidying the house and talking about renting an allotment so that she could grow her own fruit and vegetables. “There’s quite a little club up there,” she told him. “I need to meet people.”
“You’re not looking for a husband, are you, Mum?” Paul asked, self-consciously using the name. She assured him she wasn’t and they grinned at each other.
Most of the time, however, Paul remained either depressed or angry or both, dwelling on what had happened, wondering when he would have to go to court and what the actual charges would be.
His hatred for Joe increased and Paul told himself over and over again he was pleased to have grassed him. But his real feeling was guilt and he couldn’t talk about that to anyone – except Joe. He wondered where he was hiding or if he was hiding at all. Had he gone home? There seemed no way of finding out. He couldn’t face ringing his house and Paul’s knee was still stiff, so he didn’t want to go out on the streets and check the local grapevine. In fact, he didn’t want to do anything. His sore knee was a distinct advantage.
One morning when his mother had gone shopping the telephone rang and Paul answered.
“It’s Joe.”
“Christ!”
“Just Joe.”
“What do you want?” asked Paul, his hand shaking as he held the receiver.
“A talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“I thought we’d meet.” Joe almost sounded like his old self, confidently commanding him.
“Why?”
“Just to get our stories straight.”
“I’ve already made a statement.”
“So have I.I thought we’d compare notes.”
“You mean you gave yourself up?”
“I went down the nick this morning. I expect the police will be in touch with you soon.”
Finding Joe Page 9
