Sacred Wind: Book 1

by Andy Coffey

  Chapter 3 – Be good for Mrs Perriwinkle

  The little, red MG sports car had been Aiden’s vehicle of choice for five years. He loved the old styling and liked nothing better than driving with the top down, when the often precarious North Wales weather allowed. Humphrey watched out of the window as Aiden got in and fired the engine up. ‘See you later boy, I’ll be back in a few hours.’

  ‘Woof, woof, wuf-wuf,’ said Humphrey, which translated meant ‘I very much doubt it’.

  ‘Be good for Mrs Perriwinkle.’

  The Nova QC phone was a very chic device; ultra-slim, with an extra-long-life battery, touch screen control and Aiden’s new ‘Voiceotronic’ guidance system. He pressed the little ‘on’ button and the screen instantly fizzed into life, playing a classic eighties guitar riff in the process. ‘Navigation,’ Aiden said, which immediately initialised the navigation app.

  ‘Llangollen, North Wales,’ he added, somewhat over dramatically, but it was that sort of day and he had that sort of feeling.

  ‘In one hundred yards, turn left into Llys David Lord, you sexy beast,’ the phone said in the sultry female voice Aiden had programmed in.

  ‘Oh, you flirt, Natasha,’ he replied, using the name he’d given to the phone.

  ‘You better believe it, now just drive, darling,’ Natasha said.

  He cruised up Bright Street feeling in high spirits, his hangover now easing but with pizza occasionally repeating on him. The wind coursed through his hair and his sunglasses became a graveyard for flies.

  ‘In two hundred yards, at the roundabout, take the second exit onto the A483… and then head over to my place big boy,’ Natasha said, followed by a ‘grrr’.

  It was after about five miles of smooth travelling that the car began juddering every so often. ‘Bloody tracking again,’ Aiden thought to himself, as he’d had the same problem before. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he noticed the Nova QC phone. The Navigation app map had disappeared and the whole screen was pulsating with a powerful white light. He moved into the inside lane of the dual carriageway and was just about to pull over when there was a blinding flash… and he found himself heading straight for a traffic jam; which was odd, as several seconds earlier there had hardly been a car on the road.

  ‘You better put that top up, mate,’ a man in a modern-looking blue car shouted out of the window, ‘the traffic wardens will be along any second now.’

  ‘Pardon, did you say traffic wardens?’ Aiden said. ‘I wouldn’t think we need to worry, we’re on a dual carriageway in a traffic jam; I hardly think that’s classed as a parking offence.’

  ‘Don’t make any difference to those beggars,’ the man said, ‘since the deregulation of 2024 they don’t care. My old mum was driving in her little hoverchair last week and stopped to exchange pleasantries with a friend. In a second they were all over her like flies. Twenty two tickets they gave her. Terrible, it was.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous, can’t she complain, or simply refuse to pay,’ Aiden said, before adding ‘hang on, did you say hoverchair?’

  ‘What, and get shot?’ the man said, startled. ‘You mean you’ve never seen one of their firing squads in action? Where’ve you been, mate, Scotland?’

  It started as a low rumble, just behind a hill to the left of the carriageway. Aiden strained his ears trying to identify the source of the noise, which was steadily increasing in volume. The other drivers started to panic, seeming to know the fate that was about to befall them; many were crying and some were praying. As the noise drew closer, Aiden turned his eyes towards the hill. He had no idea what to expect, but it’s safe to say he wasn’t expecting five hundred heavily-armed traffic wardens to appear, their faces resplendent with yellow and black war paint.

  ‘Hells bells,’ shouted the man in the blue car, ‘it’s the Wrexham Posse! We better run for it, they don’t take prisoners.’

  The Wrexham Posse charged down the hill towards the congested highway, roaring and holding their weapons aloft. By now many of the drivers and passengers had left their vehicles, running in blind panic in search of an escape. But it was too late, and the Posse poured over the two lanes of traffic like a monstrous tidal wave of yellow and black.

  Screams began, followed by gunshots and the sound of tickets being indiscriminately slapped onto glass. ‘Have mercy, have mercy!’ someone shouted from nearby, only to be met with maniacal laughter and the blood-curdling cry of ‘You’re illegally parked, say your prayers.’

  One of the more vicious-looking members of the Posse closed in on Aiden’s car, ticket in one hand and Kalashnikov rifle in the other. He was a tall, burly man, probably somewhere in his forties, although with his face painted it was difficult to tell. Thankfully, Aiden managed to get the roof and windows up just before the traffic warden slammed into his car. He pressed his face against the passenger side front window, salivating and staring at Aiden with bloodshot eyes. His identity badge said his name was Mr Peter Twatt.

  ‘Get out of the car, now. You’re illegally parked and you’re going to get a ticket, you bastard,’ Mr Twatt spat, the saliva running down the window like little rivulets.

  ‘Now, look, er, Mr Twatt,’ Aiden said, noting the name on the badge, ‘I’m sure that being in a traffic jam doesn’t actually count as illegal parking, you know.’

  Mr Twatt’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘Don’t you “Mr Twatt” me, nobody calls me that anymore, and if I say you’re illegally parked you’re bloody well illegally parked, you toe rag.’

  ‘Well what should I call you?’ said Aiden, hoping the small talk might buy him some time.

  ‘Spine-splitter,’ spat Mr Twatt.

  ‘Ah, yes, a splendid name,’ Aiden said, in a conciliatory tone, ‘and why have you adopted that particular moniker?’

  ‘On accounts of me record of breaking the backs of people that won’t pay,’ replied Mr Twatt.

  ‘And just how many would that be?’

  ‘One hundred and six, at the last count,’ Mr Twatt/Spine-splitter said, proudly. ‘I’m looking to make it one hundred and seven today, maybe more.’

  Another tortured scream attacked his ears and Aiden jumped out of his seat, as a second face pressed against the driver side window, yellow teeth grinning maliciously. ‘This one’s mine, Bogpaddler. I saw him first,’ Mr Twatt/Spine-splitter shouted to the second traffic warden, whose badge identified him as Mr Frank Todger.

  ‘Now, there’s nothing wrong with sharing, Spine-splitter. Let’s just cut him straight down the middle,’ Mr Todger/Bogpaddler said, producing a large, blood-stained cleaver from beneath his jacket.

  ‘Bugger off and get your own. I ain’t sharing with nobody, not least a toilet-breathed, wee-wee panted fart like you.’

  For a few seconds an uneasy silence fell, as both men stared at each other over the top of Aiden’s car. ‘Wee-wee panted?’ said Mr Todger/Bogpaddler.

  ‘Yes, wee-wee-panted,’ replied Mr Twatt/Spine-splitter.

  ‘Toilet-breathed?!’

  ‘Yes, toilet-breathed.’

  ‘Fart?!!’

  ‘Yes, fart.’

  ‘Wee-wee-panted?!!’

  ‘Yes, wee-wee-panted… with stains!’ shouted Mr Twatt/Spine-splitter.

  ‘With stains?!!!’ Mr Todger/Bogpaddler yelled.

  ‘Yes, with stains!!’

  ‘Nobody calls me ‘wee-wee panted with stains’ and lives!!!’ screamed Bogpaddler, vaulting over the bonnet of the car.

  Aiden watched dumbstruck as the two men grappled, hands around each other’s throats, whilst all around was chaos, blood and an exorbitant amount of parking tickets. A scream came from the side of the car and Spine-splitter stood up, bits of flesh dripping off his blood-stained teeth. ‘Your turn,’ he said to Aiden, banging on the window with his gun.

  Aiden had never thought about meeting his maker before, but at this moment in time he began to give serious consideration as to what he would say. However, even before he could decide on
the proper form of address, the QC Nova phone sent out another blinding flash of light and he found himself on a clear road, driving at about sixty miles per hour. ‘In one hundred yards take the slip road to the A539, you naughty boy,’ purred Natasha.

  Had he momentarily fallen asleep at the wheel? That had to be it; there was no other logical explanation. He laughed out loud and shook his head. A dream, and how ridiculous; traffic wardens with painted faces acting like merciless, roving criminals, gunning people down for not paying. It was preposterous. Although he did admit he could see them going in that direction in the future, if left to their own devices.

  As he approached the slip road he recognised the turn off for the A539, and could see the sign that read ‘Llangollen’. ‘At the roundabout take the second exit and I’ll tell you what I’m wearing,’ Natasha said.

  Aiden had driven down this road many times and had a reasonable memory of the region. Landmarks were thankfully familiar and he recognised the old pub coming into view. ‘Stay on the A539 for five miles,’ Natasha said as the Nova phone began to glow once more. ‘I’m wearing stockings but I’m not wearing any…’ and then she went silent for a second. ‘Data connection lost. See you later darling,’ she said, as the phone flashed and the road turned from smooth tarmac into a narrow dirt track.

  The car bumped and shuddered over the rough terrain. Aiden grasped the steering wheel tightly and hit the brake, narrowly avoiding one of the larger water-filled pot holes that were scattered about. The car scraped along the hedge on the right hand side of the road, scattering little twigs and leaves into the air. Applying the brake even firmer he stopped the car, turned off the engine and breathed a very long sigh of relief.

  There was a bottle of water in the glove compartment and he drank deeply as his mind continued to race. He checked the Nova phone. No signal, no GPS. Outside it was peaceful. The narrow lane was flanked by high hedges on both sides, regularly interspersed with tall oak trees. A rabbit scuttled across the road, giving him only a passing look before diving through the hedge. He got out of the car and looked around. There was no sign of any traffic at all. Behind him the lane stretched for at least a mile, its contours and scenery consistent with what lay in front of him. ‘But that’s impossible,’ he thought.

  He couldn’t have driven more than a hundred yards since the road changed dramatically, and that meant he should easily have been able to see the A539 from where he was standing. Yet the only visible roadway was the narrow, hedge-flanked lane stretching off into the distance. There was also no sign of the old pub.

  Perhaps he’d underestimated the distance he’d actually covered? That could have been a possibility, so he locked the car and began to walk back to where the A539 should have been. After about half a mile he stopped. ‘There’s no way I could possibly have covered this distance,’ he said aloud, as the peaceful lane continued to wend its way into the bright countryside.

  Back at the car, the little rabbit had reappeared through the hedge with one of his friends. Both were sat upright, looking at Aiden as he opened the car door. Then, without any warning, they both scuttled away again, followed by a large congregation of sparrows who had been perched in the nearby trees. That’s when Aiden heard the roar and looked up into the sky.

  He estimated it must have been at least fifty feet long, its wing span perhaps half as much again. Enormous flames poured from its nostrils, its red, scaly skin looked thick enough to withstand bullets, and its talons appeared sharp enough to cut through anything in their way. And in their way currently were Aiden and his car.

  ‘What the bloody hell is that!’ he shouted, as the huge beast sailed overhead, missing him by no more than a few feet (and ironically those were the exact words that Dave the Dragon was thinking as he soared by). Aiden started the motor and drove as fast as the road surface and pot holes would allow. He didn’t look back.

  Now, interestingly, Aiden wasn’t the only person whose morning wasn’t quite going as planned. Half-blind Ron was having a bad day. His attempts to steal a chicken from Farmer Pigwhistle’s coop had been thwarted by the farmer’s fat, but persistent, Labrador dog, which had chased him all the way to the edge of Flopmarsh Lane. Fortunately, the dog refused to cross the boundaries of the farmer’s land, which allowed Half-blind Ron to nip through the hedge and fire off some choice insults at his potential assailant. ‘Fat git! I’ll have your bloody ears off next time, you flea-ridden, mush-for-brains, lardy mutt!’

  So, with fresh chicken off the menu, a new strategy was required to ensure lunch would be obtained with minimum fuss and minimum danger. However, as he wandered down the lane, a variety of cunning plots forming in his head, his train of thought was rudely interrupted by a noise from behind.

  Aiden spotted him at the last minute, as the car hurtled round a bend. He slammed on the brakes, skidded and stopped with little room to spare between the car’s front bumper and Half-blind Ron’s backside.

  ‘Oh, you’re alright, puss. Thank god for that,’ Aiden said, as he watched the scruffy grey and black tabby scamper off to the side of the road.

  ‘Yeah, I’m bleedin’ alright, you flippin’ idiot. Watch where you’re going with that thing, you almost had me tail off!’

  Aiden heard the words as clear as day in his head and looked at Half-blind Ron with disbelief, noticing the cat’s eye patch for the first time. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Pardon?!’ screamed Half-blind Ron. ‘You nearly squash me old nuts and chop me bloody tail off, and all you can say is “Pardon”!’

  ‘Er, I’m very sorry.’ Aiden said, contritely.

  ‘Oh save it, you prat,’ Half-blind Ron said, his thoughts reaching angrily into Aiden’s mind. ‘I suppose you haven’t got any chicken have you?’

  ‘No, sorry again,’ Aiden replied.

  ‘Well bugger off then, you scruffy-haired, monkey-brained, lanky git. I’m off to find me some lunch, and me day’ll be all the brighter for not seeing you again.’

  And with that, Half-blind Ron darted off down the lane in search of lunch.