by J Ryan
Staring out of the window, I see Mum’s white face against the black clouds. ‘Tell her I’m alright… I’m on my way back from Bristol.’
‘Bristol! God, Joe…’
‘I’m sorry, Becks. I’m sorry about everything.’
Chapter 2
Duel
The shining lights of the suspension bridge have just disappeared from my mirror when the engine splutters and dies. I look at the fuel gauge and swear. Only total pillocks run out of juice. Clutching my can, I set off at a run through the pouring rain. A middle-aged woman with a headscarf like the Queen is walking her spaniel. She stops and stares at me like she’s going to call the cops to arrest this teenage arsonist. I take a left into a wider street. The Marks and Spencer and the other shops are all closed, but thankfully the Shell garage is open.
As I go in to pay up, a golden Labrador curled up by the counter thumps his tail on the floor. The fat guy at the till must think I look hungry. ‘We’re doing a meal deal, mate. Another one pound fifty, and you get a bacon and egg triple and a Coke, in with the fuel?’
‘I’ve just eaten, thanks.’ At least he’s not interested in my age.
The Lab watches with friendly eyes as I head for the door. OK, it’s a left out of the garage. Once out of sight, I break into a run again. Down to the end, then right. So why don’t I remember this cafe doing Buy A Big Breakfast Get One Free? And where’s the M & S? Rain trickles down my neck as I stare around. Maybe I’ve gone right past the road where I left my car.
I sprint to the end of the street. On the left, there’s a tacky pub doing widescreen footie, and a public toilet next to it. Beyond is a one-way system with a queue of cars in the early morning rush hour. I never came this way. Two men lurch out of the men’s. They’re about the same age as my grandad and they’re looking at my petrol can. The taller man shouts, ‘Goin’ ter torch a car, chav? Why don’cher, then?’
Running on, I turn a corner into Arlingham Row. Is this it? House after house has a battered For Sale sign outside. Sacks of rubbish loll in the gardens. I’m getting this sick feeling that I had on my first day at my new school, when I couldn’t find my way home. I stare at the dark windows.
Then, just as I’m crossing the road, I stop dead. A red Peugeot 206 that looks exactly like mine is parked on the other side. I hurry round the back and check out the exhaust. It’s a sports tail pipe, all crunched up, like mine. But I didn’t leave my car here. And that computes because this is not my car; the reg plates are different. This machine fits the description of the hit and run car, just like mine did. For the first time in this nightmare, I see a small glimmer of hope. My wet fingers fumble for the buttons on my phone. Click/flash. And another. Click/flash. I’m seeing me showing the photos to Detective Inspector Wellington at ten o’clock. Then, my neck starts to prickle.
She must have crept up behind me so quietly. There’s something strange about those eyes, with their cold stare. She’s athletic-looking in her black tracksuit; her hair’s so short it’s almost shaved. ‘What the bloody ‘ell d’you think you’re doin’?’
‘I… I didn’t mean any harm…’
‘Course you didn’t, you little shit. Now gimme that sodding phone.’
I turn to run. Her hand shoots out and grabs my arm. ‘Oh no you don’t!’
She twists until I gasp with pain. I throw a kick at her leg. She loosens her hold, ‘Bastard!’, and I sprint off like my feet are on fire. Seconds later, an engine revs furiously. Tyres spin in the wet, and there’s a thump as her car mounts the pavement. I never thought the hit and runner would be a woman.
My flying feet take me down a narrow alley. At the end, I stop and listen before running on. Street names blur as I dash past. Then, one jumps out at me. Gloucester Close. That’s it! I was in Gloucester Road before I took that turn and ran out of fuel. Maybe I’m not that far away from my car.
Gloucester Way. I run for the traffic lights at the end. And at last I’m in Gloucester Road. There’s the side street; and there’s my car! My twisted arm cramps up as I pour in the fuel. I keep thinking I can hear an engine. As I throw myself into the driving seat, her Peugeot skids round the corner. My engine fires at the second try, and I’m gone.
Her headlights are blazing in my mirror. I don’t believe this, it’s a car chase now; well, at least the odds are more even. The traffic lights turn to green just as I reach them. I take a right for the motorway; she’s still horribly close behind me. Then a double decker stops right in front of me and I get round it, but she can’t because of oncoming traffic. All the way to the motorway there’s no sign of her. A coach is filling my rear view mirror as I turn onto the M5 slip road so I can’t be certain I’ve lost her. And now I’ve got another problem: eight litres doesn’t look like that on the gauge.
The fuel needle’s been jammed on zero for ten minutes when I reach Michael Wood services, but nothing follows me off the motorway. Sweating, I fill up my car, and empty my wallet. With a cheerful smile, the blonde-haired woman at the till says, ‘You know, we’ve got this meal deal going? If you put in…’
‘Another one pound fifty… thanks, but I’m eating out.’
The door of the service station closes behind me, and I stare around the forecourt. There’s not a car in sight. My phone goes. ‘Joe, are you alright? We thought you’d be home ages ago… ?’
‘So did I… I’ve got to go, Becks.’
Back on the M5, two sets of headlights are following about three hundred yards behind me. The clock on the dash says six twenty. I could be home before seven, just when Grandad usually gets up to make a cup of tea for me and Jack. But he and Mum have probably been waiting by the phone most of the night. What am I putting them through?
One of the cars behind me overtakes, and powers away in the fast lane. Now there’s only one pair of headlights following. Have I passed the Dursley turn-off? I can’t remember. My right arm stabs as I rub my eyes. They feel gritty. It’s hard to keep them open.
Suddenly, my rear view mirror blazes with headlights that just keep coming. With a huge BANG, someone drives straight into the rear of my car. My head jerks back and the crash barrier comes towards me so fast I can’t brake in time. I bounce off it, fighting to get control. The car’s spinning round. Lights flash all over the road, the night sky, and in my head. Then, they go out.
I can smell something hot, like burning rubber. My head throbs. Dimly, I hear the door of my car being wrenched open. She chucks me onto the hard shoulder. ‘You just don’t get it, do you, shitface?’ She lands a kick in my ribs. ‘Now gimme the phone, or I’ll break your bloody neck.’
My head’s banging so hard, I can’t think what to do. Suddenly, I hear a voice that I know, whispering in my brain. With my good arm, I reach inside my pocket, and hold the phone towards her. Her hand darts out; not quite quickly enough, as I hurl the phone far out onto the motorway. She sprints after it.
Dragging myself into the driving seat, I glimpse a bright glow of headlights on the horizon. Must be about a mile away. Probably a truck, doing eighty. Maybe, thirty seconds before it arrives? She crouches to pick up my phone.
Not expecting much after that smash, I turn the key in the ignition. The engine roars into life. I shift into first. Then, I can’t help glancing back. She’s still crouching there, in the middle of the motorway, busily pushing buttons on my phone. She must be looking for the pics of her car. The truck’s headlights get bigger and brighter as it thunders towards her. I can see it now. It’s a massive thirty tonner. But she’s still just pushing those buttons. I’m sure the truck driver can’t see her, or he’d be slowing down.
My hand reaches out and hits the horn. She looks up and makes a dash towards me. With a blast from its air horns, the truck howls past the place where she was stood less than a second ago. Her hands tug at my door handle, but the doors are locked. Accelerating back onto the motorway,
I look in my mirror. She stands there on the hard shoulder, beside her Peugeot that’s the twin of mine. I’ve thrown her my only chance to prove it wasn’t me who did the hit and run. But I’m alive.
Five minutes later, I stare at those headlights again. Chill, idiot. We haven’t passed a junction yet. She’ll turn off at the next one. The Dursley exit comes and goes, and she’s still there, getting closer. The phone’s not enough, is it? She wants to punish me, for daring to kick her leg, when she wanted to break my arm. For making her run after my mobile, like a dog after a bone. That voice in my head whispers to me again.
I start to veer from side to side, as though I’m losing control. Then I slow down, like my engine’s about to blow up. She’s still getting closer. But this time, if she tries it again, I’m ready to snap down a gear and get away from her. Now I know she’ll follow me wherever I go. And I know where I’m taking her; it’s not far now. My eyes never leave the mirror.
Junction 13. I indicate left; the car behind does the same. I don’t know how long it takes to reach Stroud; my head’s drumming so hard I’ve lost all track of time. I vaguely remember turning up Magistrates Road. She’s still right in my boot, so out of her brain, she hasn’t noticed.
I turn into the steep down-slope of the police station carpark and slam on the brakes. Hit the horn. And keep hitting it, bracing my arms against the steering wheel. There’s another huge bang as she shunts my Peugeot right into the back of a really fancy Vauxhall chase car.
A twirling splinter of bumper flying up into the dark is the last thing I see. The last thing I hear comes from a long way off. Detective Inspector Wellington says, ‘A bit early for your appointment, aren’t you, Joe?’
Chapter 3
Shadow on the Wall
My neck’s itching, but I can’t get at it. Slowly, I open my eyes and stare at a white ceiling. My head thumps. I move my right arm cautiously; it feels like it’s been mauled by a lion.
‘How are you doing, Joe? Don’t move your neck; it needs to rest.’ The nurse’s voice is soft and friendly as she smiles anxiously.
‘I’m… good.’
‘You’ve had a nasty case of concussion, Joe. Your family have visited several times, and your sister came in again yesterday, but you weren’t quite with it, I’m afraid. I’m sure they’ll be in again today.’
I wonder how a sister was born to us while I was away. I don’t ask if she had red hair and green eyes. ‘That’s family for you. Never there at the right time.’ I’d kill for a Big Mac or cheesy chips. ‘Can I have something to eat?’
‘I’ll get you some ice cream.’
Just after I’ve had my third bowlful, DI Wellington comes in and sits down next to me. He looks a bit like Grandad, with his balding head and bushy eyebrows. ‘How’s it going, Joe? You up for a chat?’
‘I’m up for it.’ I tell him everything, right up to the Car Wars finale in his back yard. ‘That woman… she had my phone…’
‘We’ve found your phone, Joe. And the photos.’
‘Of her car? She didn’t delete them?’
‘Her lookalike Peugeot was on your phone, in glorious technicolour. We’ll soon be able to identify where it was parked when you took the photos.’
‘But… was it her? Was she the hit and runner?’
‘We’ve traced her movements from her phone. We know where she was when the hit and run happened. Right on the scene.’
‘So… it’s official? It wasn’t me?’
‘It wasn’t you, Joe. Fortunately, the lad who was hit is making a good recovery – which doesn’t, of course, make things any less serious for our culprit.’ He gets up. ‘I’ll be in again tomorrow. We’ll know more about her by then. And there’s certain to be more questions I have to ask you.’
He’s gone, just when I have so many more questions to ask him. Then the room explodes as my noisy family fills it up. My new sister stuffs a brown paper bag into the cupboard beside my bed. ‘Grapes, Joe. Vitamins for the invalid.’
I can see it’s a box of chocs, so I forgive her slightly sarcastic tone. ‘Thanks, Becks. You always know what’s best for me.’
Jack grins, in his usual annoying way. ‘Love the neck gear, Joe. Looks, well…’
‘You’ve had your hair cut, then? Looks a bit less girly.’
He runs a hand proudly over the commando-like crew cut. ‘It got me three detentions, so it has to be well cool.’
‘How’s your poor neck, love?’ Mum puts her small hand on my forehead; it feels like a butterfly.
Grandad pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up onto his bald head, then takes them off and gives them a polish with the corner of his jacket.
I swallow. ‘I’m sorry, I really am.’
Mum’s brown eyes glisten while she smiles. ‘The main thing is, you’re safe, love. And now the police know you didn’t do it. We never ever believed you did.’
Grandad clears his throat and puts his glasses back on. ‘There’s still the driving underage, Joe. It’s a serious business. You’ll have to face up.’
‘I know it was wrong.’
He gives my arm a gentle pat, like it could fall off any time. ‘We’ll be with you, Joe. See it through together.’
Mum plants a light kiss on my cheek. ‘Now, we don’t want to tire you, love…’
Jack sticks his head back round the door before he goes. ‘Don’t bin the scarf, Joe. I’ll write the first line of my new song on it. It’ll sell for millions when I’m famous.’
They must think I want to talk to Becks. But I’m not at all sure about that. Because Becks is stood there, hands on hips, and her eyebrows are joined up. ‘If you’d just come home when I said, you wouldn’t be here now, you idiot.’
‘I didn’t look for this, Becks, honest. It found me, when I found my car.’
‘Your car – again! How many more times is your driving going to get you into trouble, Joe? God, I sound like your Mum, except she…’
‘Didn’t have a go at me. Nor Grandad. But someone has to, I s’pose.’
‘They’re too relieved to give you a good kicking! It’s what you deserve, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Joe, or I’ll pull that neck brace off, really quickly!’
Slowly, I fish inside the cupboard for the brown paper bag and hold out the box of Heroes. ‘Simon Cowell wouldn’t dare patronize you, Becks.’
She tips the whole lot out onto the bed, sits down and grabs all the solid Dairy Milks. Unwraps two and munches on them, handing me a toffee. ‘What’s the food like in here?’
‘It was good till I cleaned them out of ice cream.’
She looks around the room. ‘No TV. How are you coping without Top Gear?’
Cue for a slightly pathetic grin. ‘The nurses make up for it, Becks. White is definitely the new black.’
She scoops up the rest of the Heroes and chucks them straight at me. Then she leans forwards and gives me a hug. Her hair tumbles in long curls all over my face, and tickles my nose. Well worth the shooting pains in my neck.
The next day, Mum comes in alone. She still looks pale, but she smiles brightly as she sits on the chair next to me. ‘They said that you’ll be home in a couple of days.’
‘Mum… is it alright if I ask you a question about Dad?’
Her face tenses. ‘What kind of question, love?’
‘Did he take me to Bristol once? To the suspension bridge, just him and me?’
Her brown eyes look beyond the room we’re in. ‘Yes, I remember. He was home on leave. He said a colleague of his had sailed over in his yacht from Marseille and was going to be moored for a few days in Bristol Marina. They planned to meet up, and he thought you’d enjoy coming along. You were probably watching the yacht from the bridge as she went up the river to
the harbour.’
‘How old was I?’
‘Oh… let’s see… maybe four?’
‘Mum, do you know where Dad is now? If he’s alive?’
She takes my hand. ‘It would have been cruel to make you hope that he would come back one day. I wondered if I should tell you he was dead… but that would have been wrong too, because I didn’t know. I still don’t.’
‘Why don’t you know, Mum?’
‘After he disappeared, I was told that even talking about your father could put him in greater danger… and could be harmful to us as well.’
‘What kind of danger? I mean, you told us once that his job was very secret, and he had to be very brave and clever… Was he some kind of warrior or spy?’
Mum looks at me long and hard. ‘All your father could tell me was that he was a commander in an elite group working against some very powerful criminals. Every day, I have to live with the thought that they might have captured or even killed him. And now, I’m afraid you share that burden too, Joe.’ She gets up and goes to the window.
‘Aren’t they trying to rescue him? I mean, they can’t just abandon him…’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m sure they’ll never give up on your dad. But that’s not the kind of information they can share with us.’
‘Is that why we moved?’
‘I was advised to, yes, just in case.’
‘And is that why our last name is St Aubin now, and not Grayling?’
‘They felt it would be wise for us to use my maiden name rather than your father’s name.’ She turns from the window and her face is drawn. ‘I’m so sorry, Joe, but you and Jack were both far too young to understand. Even now… I wish there was a way of protecting you.’
‘How can you bear to live like this, Mum?’
‘What else can we do?’
I think for a bit. ‘Mum, there is something.’
She winces, like I’m going to ask her another impossible question.