Missing Dad

by J Ryan

  Big Head paid me that visit because they’d found out it was me who handed their driver to the police. Maybe he was planning to do more than just check me out. DI Wellington must have thought so when he brought in Dave. But Big Head didn’t get the chance that night; nor the night outside the cinema either.

  So he reports back to Monsieur le Directeur, and they dream up a far more fun way of revenge. As if by magic – except there’s no magic in this life, there are just plans that work or don’t work – the ad appears on a website that I’m almost certain to find. Lenny tries to warn me off, because he knows about L’Étoile Fine Wines, and he’s scared for me. Lenny’s brother is in prison, and when you’re locked up there I bet you find out about all kinds of things you didn’t know before.

  I must have given Monsieur such a buzz when I walked into that interview, just like a human target wandering into his gun sights. When I fell for everything – the car, the money, that blue-glass palace and the amazing glamour of it all. If Dad ever saw me now, I would want to die of shame. Monsieur is one of the criminals he’s hunting. And I work for Monsieur. But if that’s true, then something doesn’t compute…

  The corner of my eye catches a flicker behind me in the lanes. Headlights. And the drone of an engine. Seconds later Precious and I are rocketing through twists and turns. It’s half one in the morning, and these narrow country roads are quiet, but I’ve never driven them before. Hedges jump up at me out of the dark as I swerve round sudden bends. The headlights are getting closer, blazing in my mirror. I have to turn, somewhere, and get back on the motorway.

  There’s a sign ahead – Waterhouse Farm? – and a track on the left. I clamp my foot hard on the brakes, praying that I won’t have another rear end shunt, and swing up the tight entrance. The headlights veer on past. Precious bumps wildly through potholes as I stare ahead to see where I can turn.

  Is that a farmyard on the right? We dive through the open gate into a yard surrounded by old stone barns, and suddenly we’re in mud so deep and rutted it’s like a ploughed field. I snap into reverse and those huge wheels spin, clumps of mud flying around us and spattering over the windscreen. For a split-second, I have a vision of me being towed out of here by the farmer’s tractor. Or ducking, as he lines up his 12-bore because he thinks I’ve come to steal his cows in a Bentley.

  Precious gets a grip, and we slither sideways out of the gate. The suspension crashes and bangs as I drive back down to the road, my hands greasy with sweat on the steering wheel. If Pursuit Car has found a place to turn, I’ve set the perfect trap for myself. There’s no sign of headlights.

  I blast back through the lanes, remembering the turns I took, in reverse order. Still nothing in my mirror. But I just know I’m going to see those headlights again. They’re incredibly bright and blue, like Xenon types. So Big Head was right. I am being followed.

  Then the thought explodes in my head, and I nearly drive into the ditch. Is it Big Head himself behind me? ‘You see someone following, you don’t go back till you lose them.’ That would give him as many chances as he wants to finish me off and leave me by the roadside, pockets stuffed full of white powder to make it absolutely clear to my family, my friends and the police what I am.

  I shove the accelerator and the lion growls. It’s easy now getting back to the M4, there are signs at every junction. That makes it easy for Pursuit Car, too. He knows where I’m going, I’m sure of it. I join the M4 at Reading, and hit the Precious pedal harder than I’ve ever done. I know the Bentley Continental is the fastest saloon car around because Jeremy Clarkson says so. It can do two hundred and two mph, and that’s what the speedo’s saying now. But what’s chasing me could be faster.

  Twenty miles have flashed past when I see the glow of those Xenon headlights again. The beast behind me is very fast. Between us, we ought to be attracting some police attention. But there’s not a blue light in sight. Then I remember where I can definitely attract some attention and get this dude off my back. We’re heading for Swindon, home of speed cameras that actually work, and Very Efficient Cops.

  At Junction 15 Precious sweeps up the slip road. We take a right, and enter these roadworks that are still there, more than a year after Grandad got papped. He was so annoyed with himself, doing forty two mph in the forty limit in return for three points on his licence. There’s a left turn I can take to Highworth, just before a speed camera that will take a photo of Pursuit Car. IF I’m doing forty, and he isn’t. If not, I’ll get snapped first, and I don’t need that.

  We scorch along the single lane with cones either side. Just before each camera that flashes at everything doing more than forty, I slam on the brakes, and dude behind gets closer every time. Now I can see the sign, and there’s the yellow camera. The needle’s on eighty when I stamp on the brakes like I did on that test track, then yank the wheel hard left. The tyres scream as loud as any heavy metal gig. For one moment, I think we’re going to become close friends with the hedge opposite. But the Bentley holds the line.

  And Pursuit Car has no choice but to go straight on. I glance in my mirror as soon as we’re through the turn. It’s too late to see what’s been following me, but there’s a flash from the camera. I bet the driver’s seen it. He knows that the Swindon police now have his number. I don’t feel sorry for him.

  A dull throb plays a drumbeat in my head as I drive back onto the M4. All I want to do is delete everything that’s happened tonight, curl up in my big bed, and get on with my amazing new job tomorrow. As if.

  Blue lights flash suddenly in my mirror, and my heart jumps. It’s an ambulance, it passes, and I drive on, watching it disappear. I don’t know how fast I dare go; there could be battalions of police chase cars out here now.

  But the common sense part of my brain has switched to Survival mode. ‘Look, Leah Wilks didn’t give up, she came right back again. And so could this dude. Because he’s faster than you. And it could be Big Head. He’s in a different league from her.’ Wearily, I agree with Survival Brain Department, come off the M4 at Bath, and set the sat nav for a B-road route back to Bristol. Takes two hours. But there are no more Xenon headlights behind me.

  When I’m nearly in Bristol, the voice in my head gives me another prod, and I pull into a bus stop. White packets, fat cigars and fake straw are scattered all over the boot. Carefully, I put everything back where it was, and tap the lid down. I stare at that box. I wish I could chuck it into the ditch, and throw a grenade at it.

  At half past four in the morning, I hit the remote, open the entrance doors and pull into the cave. As I slide out of the driver’s seat, my legs feel like concrete. I take a look at Precious. In the half-light from the lamps on the cave walls, it looks more like a Land Rover, with its new mud-and-gold colour scheme. And I’m not like your usual Bentley chauffeur. Sweat is pouring off me, and I’m shaking with cold and hunger.

  With a shock, I realize that a shadow with silver glistening hair has approached soundlessly, and is right beside me. ‘This journey has taken you a long time, Joe.’

  His voice is as quiet as ever, but I can hear a tension in it. Monsieur knew, just like Big Head, that I’d be followed. So there’s no point in lying about that. I tell him everything about my trip back; except for the stop on the lay-by where I took a look at The Rest, and the next stop, where I tidied it up.

  Monsieur’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, ‘There’s a part of your story that is missing, Joe.’

  I’m so horrified by the idea that somehow he knows I took a look in the boot, I can’t think of anything to say. I just wait for him to give me the news about what happens now.

  Monsieur walks round to the back of the Bentley, and passes his hand lightly across the rear screen. Some of the mud falls off, and in the dim lights of the cave I can see a small hole, towards the right hand side, with glass rippling away from it, in a kind of spider’s web pattern. The hole is in line with
the driver’s head rest. It doesn’t look like a stone’s hit the rear screen. Whatever hit it was travelling way faster than a flying stone. My dull brain tells me that this was a bullet.

  Maybe it was fired when the brakes were screaming so loudly in my sharp exit from the roadworks that I just never heard it. When Pursuit Car was so close, before I turned. I don’t know. But the rear screen glass is as thick as the door window. It must have stopped that bullet, or at least slowed it down. Stopped it from going straight into the back of my head.

  I can’t see Monsieur’s face in the shadows. His words come to me quietly out of the darkness, his voice sounding as grave as it did when he told me about the slaves. ‘You did well to shake off that driver, Joe. You have brains, and you have courage. This is not the only time you will need both, while you work for L’Étoile Fine Wines.’

  And in my bafflement and my rage, all I want to do is yell at him, ‘You were on the same side as my dad, once! What turned you?’

  Chapter 10

  Mind Games

  Hoping that the alarms haven’t been set, I start to plod up the stairs to my flat, groping for the rail. A torch suddenly lights my way.

  ‘You OK, son?’

  I can just see the dim figure of the security guard. ‘Yeah…’

  ‘You look done in.’ He walks behind me, shining his torch all the way up the stairs, and onto the lock of my apartment. The light guides the key in my unsteady hand.

  ‘Thanks…’

  ‘Look out for yourself.’ He disappears into the darkness.

  Without the energy even to grab a glass of water, let alone take off my sodden uniform, I crash onto my king-size bed. All the rest of the night, dreams blast through my head like bombs going off. I’m driving endlessly in the dark across muddy wastelands; gun fire rattles behind me, and headlights blaze brighter than the sun in my rear view mirror. Someone’s sat beside me, but I can’t tell if it’s Dad or Monsieur. Once, when the car starts to skid towards a huge drop, my passenger grabs the steering wheel and pulls us back on course. And a voice in my head, like Dad’s when I was with the Wilks woman, whispers ‘You must drive faster, Joe.’ So I do, and slowly those relentless headlights start to fade.

  When I wake up, I’m parched and starving hungry, and my uniform’s soaked with sweat. The alarm clock says eleven in the morning. I grab my mobile, and punch in DI Wellington’s number. There’s no signal. I roll off the bed and try the landline. It’s dead.

  My legs feel so heavy, it’s like I’m waist-deep in water as I stumble down the back stairs to call with my mobile from outside. The door’s locked, and I still don’t have the key that Madame promised me.

  Email! I force my legs to take the stairs back up four at a time. The chair wobbles as I crash onto it in front of the computer, and hit the keyboard with my password. No internet, just an error message.

  I whack my hand onto the screen and get up, knocking over the chair. My head starts to throb again as I pace the room, and kick the fancy sofa with its stupid cushions. There’s a soft thud on the window behind me. Thinking that a bird’s hit the glass, I spin round, and see just bright blue sky.

  Then, a small, twirling pink teddy pops up in front of me just outside the window, and plummets out of sight. I look down at the docks. And stare.

  By the waterside, about ten people are grouped around Becks, looking on with interest as she whizzes the teddy round, about to chuck it again. She spots me, and starts jumping up and down, arms waving manically, one hand still clutching this pink teddy. The little gathering is a mixture of pensioners and Japanese tourists, and they look up at me as Becks does her windmill thing. I wave back at her, and point downwards. She runs off towards the side door.

  The Japanese tourists clap appreciatively, and trot after her. They must think this is some kind of street theatre. Most of the pensioners wander back to their seats, shaking their heads, but two more hardy ones set off at a brisk walk after the Japanese dudes. I head back down the stairs.

  Becks is tapping on the door. ‘Joe, are you there?’

  ‘Just HOW many people are listening in to us?’

  She says to her audience, ‘It’s cool, thanks guys. I.. lost the keys to my apartment, and my mate’s going to let me in now. Thanks… thank you… What?… Oh, you want to buy it as a souvenir? But there’s loads of them in St Nicholas market, just up the road. I bought this one there, two pound fifty. Only, I had to stuff some stones into it, so it won’t be quite the same…’

  ‘Becks!’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You’ll give me ten pounds, if your friend takes a photo of me with teddy and you?’

  ‘BECKS!!’

  ‘I couldn’t take ten. Make it five. Big smile!’ Finally, she hisses through the door, ‘It’s OK, they’ve got their pic and wandered off.’

  ‘Oh, right. You’re sure they’ve not asked you to take them on a guided tour of the docks?’

  ‘Stop wasting time, Joe! I couldn’t get past Reception. They’re not letting anyone in. Can’t you open this door?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Then, WHAT’S going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t make any calls and my email’s down. How come… ?’

  ‘I worked all night and got my History coursework in a day early. I didn’t like the way you sounded. Are you OK, Joe?’

  I look behind me. Can’t see anyone in the dark stairwell. But I remember how quietly Big Head’s shadow slid into my hospital room. ‘I’ve found out… something. It’s not how I thought it was…’

  ‘What d’you mean? What have you found out?’

  The blackness in the stairwell seems to shudder slightly. ‘Have to go. Listen up, Becks.’

  ‘Joe! D’you want me to call DI Wellington?’

  Her piercing whisper follows me past the twitching shadow, as I fly back up the stairs to my flat.

  When I head into Reception five minutes later, I can’t see Justine. The other movie star gives me a friendly smile.

  ‘Hi Claire, is Justine around?’

  Her phone rings, and she says as she picks up, ‘No, lucky girl. She’s off to Mauritius to top up her tan.’

  I go into Madame’s office. She looks up at me, taking in my crumpled uniform, as she taps away on her keyboard. Monsieur must have told her about last night.

  ‘Is there a trip coming up soon, Madame?’

  ‘Not at the moment, Joe, but there’s never much warning, is there? There could still be a delivery tonight.’

  ‘If I’m not needed right now, Madame, I’d like to go out and do some shopping?’

  She stops tapping. ‘Joe, Monsieur will tell you more soon, but we’ve had a bit of a security scare. None of our key staff are going out on the streets at the moment. If you need anything, just tell Claire, and she’ll get it delivered.’

  I wander back out into Reception and look at those glass doors. They can only be opened by a switch at the Reception desk. And there’s a CCTV camera that films everyone going in and out. No quick exit there. But as I go back up the stairs, I have a plan. They can’t block my calls when I’m on a delivery. I wait for the next shout, downing three bowlfuls of Cheerios to stop the hunger pains.

  Eleven at night, and Madame hasn’t called.

  If this goes on, I can’t get to the trial. It’s only one week away now. I booked three days off for it. Now, I realize that Monsieur must know those are the dates when Leah Wilks is going into that courtroom. I’ve GOT to get out of here!

  My soggy chauffeur’s uniform makes my neck itch, as I try to think of my next plan. The itch turns into an idea. I tear off the uniform, change into jeans, and chuck it into the laundry trolley outside. Grabbing a load of towels from the bathroom, I climb inside the trolley and pull the whole lot on top of me.

  It feels like hours later, a
nd I’m almost suffocating with all this stuff on my head, when someone gives the trolley a shove. I’m pushed along miles of corridors, before we stop, and I hear a door hiss shut. We must be in the lift. My stomach somersaults as we go down, then jolt to a stand-still. The trolley’s pushed along, then it stops again. Someone pulls all the towels and the uniform off me. Lights blaze into my eyes. And there is Monsieur.

  What’s weird is, he’s not looking at me the way I thought he would. Not like I’m a rat in a trap that he’s set for me. He looks at me like Mum and Grandad did, when I came home that night with a policeman at my side, and the policeman told them I was in big trouble. His voice sounds like theirs, too. It’s worried. ‘Come and sit down, Joe. We need to talk.’

  We sit down in that huge room with the chandeliers. Monsieur rings through to Madame, ‘No calls please, Françoise, until I say.’

  Claire brings in a tray of coffee and biscuits. I try not to eat them all during the conversation that follows, but I’m so hungry there are no survivors.

  When Claire’s gone, Monsieur says quietly, ‘The events of last night must have been terrifying for you, Joe.’

  I open my mouth, then shut it again, as Survival Brain Department gives me a kick up the backside. One hint that I couldn’t agree with him more, and I’ll never leave this place alive. So I put on a broad grin. ‘It was quite a buzz, really, like being in a Bond movie.’ Then, I do aggrieved teenager. ‘But tonight, I wanted to go clubbing, Monsieur. I’ve worked an awful lot of hours, but the door was locked, and Madame says no one’s to go out at the moment. That’s why I thought I’d try another way, that’s all.’ I give Monsieur a sheepish look, like, ‘It’s what teenagers do…’

  ‘The reason the door was locked was because of a security alert, Joe. The phone system and email were also shut down, because we believe there is an organisation trying to hack into our IT network. We don’t know yet who they are, or how dangerous they could be. We’re protecting all our staff, including you, by keeping you here, until we know it’s safe.’