Missing Dad

by J Ryan

  The maze of codes stares at me. HLO; Headlamp Offside. RU; Refrigeration Unit. ICES; In-Car Entertainment System. My heart thuds as I imagine the gunman outside my house, waiting for the call. Thirty miles away from him, Big Head watches Leah Wilks, frozen in the passenger seat. Inside a Bentley that’s going nowhere. Nervously, I feed the mics. ‘I think I’ve found the right fuse… at least, I hope I have’.

  Then I see it – CCTVS. Computer Controlled Traitor Vision System? Or Closed Circuit Television System? I yank the fuse out. The green lights that said On have gone off. Now I wonder if the engine’s going to start, as I might also have pulled the plug on Car Control That’s Very Secret. But the lion growls again.

  Her voice is quiet. ‘OK, toe rag, stop once more and you’ll get a taste of the same medicine you got last time.’

  I daren’t try and talk to her yet. I head for the M5. Racking my brains for a way of convincing her that this man she seems to trust wants to kill us both. Praying that he’ll think I pulled out that fuse by accident. I’m still out of ideas as we approach the Worcester junction. The weather’s changing. The sun’s gone in, and dark clouds are ballooning up from the horizon. More and more cars pour onto the motorway.

  I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice matter of fact. ‘Alfredo said we can talk… once we’re out of Birmingham.’

  ‘Shut up an’ drive.’

  Massive black clouds are taking over the sky. Heavy rain is falling up ahead. And now I can see the car behind us, closing so fast. It’s a Jag XKR, silver-coloured, like the one in the basement. It could be any silver XKR, just trying for a burn-up with a Bentley. But I can’t risk it. I floor the accelerator. Precious sounds interested; I can hear the deeper breaths go into the engine. We’re on a run.

  ‘What you playin’ at?’

  ‘I think someone’s after us.’

  Her eyes flick to the passenger door mirror. ‘Which car?’

  ‘The Jag.’

  She stares into the door mirror. ‘Why?’

  ‘They don’t want us to get to Bristol.’

  ‘Then bloody drive faster!’

  Like I’m not trying to. I’m doing 100 whenever I can but the XKR’s gaining on us. There’s so much traffic, my brain’s working like a supercomputer. Then my eye’s caught by a flashing light, up near the clouds. My hands tighten on the wheel. I don’t know if it’s police, but it’s definitely a copter.

  I glance back into my mirror, and go cold. The XKR’s around a hundred yards behind us. There’s an arm outside the passenger window, and a gun that’s aimed right at us. I rocket across the motorway, carving up a totally innocent white van, and we drive into darkness.

  The rain comes down like a car wash at full bore. I switch on the headlights and slow down. Anything over fifty would be insane, even with the awesome grip of those huge tyres. The wipers are on double speed, but I can still hardly see. It’s impossible to make out what’s behind us.

  All the traffic’s piling up, brake lights blazing out red warnings right up the motorway. We’re almost at the Evesham junction, still in the slow lane after my dive away from Hitman. The torrential rain is being swept off the windscreen in bucket loads by the thrashing wipers, as I turn off the M5. A queue of cars follows us, but I can’t see if the XKR is among them. I drive a couple of miles towards Evesham, then slip into a lay-by. There’s no one behind us.

  ‘You got it coming now, shitface.’

  ‘There’s something you need to see.’

  The storm’s easing a bit, but the rain soaks us in seconds as we get out. I push the water away from the bullet hole, remembering Monsieur lightly brushing off the mud that night. Then, I stare at the second bullet hole, inches away from it. Tiny pieces of glass on the rear parcel shelf flash in the headlights of passing traffic.

  Leah Wilks reaches out and runs a finger over the two spider’s webs. ‘So, they shot at us. That what you’re crappin’ yourself about?’

  My brain’s doing a thousand miles an hour. ‘Alfredo said this could happen. He told me what we have to do.’

  Quick as a flash, she’s got me in a headlock so tight I can hardly breathe. ‘Listen to me, scum. I’m the one Alfredo talks to. ’E told me the only way he can get the police off my back is if we stay on the M5 all the way to Bristol. So move your arse!’

  The rain’s just drizzle now. A pale sun peers through the clouds, a beam catching the rich wood of the dashboard. I stare at the water trickling down the windscreen. Big Head’s end game is way cleverer than I thought. If his hitman didn’t score first time he knew I’d get off the motorway. So he made absolutely certain that Wilks was onside, to give his gunman a second chance. She thinks Big Head is God. I’ll never persuade her to go with me to the police now.

  I shift into Drive, and head back to the M5, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She seems more relaxed, now that I’m doing what Alfredo says. Flicking open her window, she lights a cigarette.

  The closer we get to the M5, the more my brain dodges and weaves, trying to think of a way out of this. We approach the last roundabout before Junction 9, where I gave the XKR the slip. Half of my brain is still on Get Out, and half is on the truck that’s far too close behind me. There’s a petrol station at the second exit of the roundabout. I glance at the fuel level. Quarter of a tank. Plenty to get us to Bristol. If we ever make it down the M5. I indicate right, and slow down to give way to a massive camper van. It trundles past, and Precious swings onto the roundabout. As I check in the passenger door mirror, it explodes.

  My foot hits Kickdown so hard we leave a burst of tyre smoke behind us. The screaming wheels power through the roundabout, and back onto the road we’ve just travelled. I keep my foot clamped to the floor, overtaking cars, coaches, trucks, the second there’s a gap. Ten miles on, the breath rattles in my throat, as I ease off behind the artic in front.

  I risk a glance at Leah Wilks. In a daze, she stares at the tiny shards of mirror glass that sparkle all over her black tracksuit. She tries to brush them off. Then she shudders, as a drop of blood trickles from her right thumb. A piece of glass about the size of a pin is sticking out of it. She stares at the thumb like it’s being sawn off in front of her. Then, her face grey, she starts to retch. She can’t take the sight of her own blood. I pull quickly into the next lay-by. She stumbles out of the Bentley. As I reach for my phone, I can see her throwing up into the hedge.

  ‘Joe, at last!’

  ‘My family?’

  ‘All fine, Joe. Rebecca got straight onto us after your call. The gunman outside your house is now our guest.’

  ‘Becks? They’ll know her number now…’

  ‘She’s here with us. We’ve got an armed car near the house. Now where are you?’

  ‘Four miles from the M5 Junction 9. We’ve been shot at, twice.’

  ‘Is the Wilks woman with you in the car?’

  ‘She’ll be back any time. Something came up.’

  ‘Be very careful, Joe. Don’t try any heroics.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what heroics are, Inspector.’

  He draws in his breath. ‘The copter’s on the case again now they can see, but they haven’t found you yet. Now listen, Joe…’

  Twenty seconds later, I stuff the phone out of sight, as Leah Wilks gets slowly back into the car. I say quickly, ‘It’s OK. We’re going on down the M5. Like Alfredo said.’ I turn back towards Junction 9. DIW’s sending a car to that petrol station. But the XKR won’t be there anymore. It’ll be waiting for us, somewhere out on the motorway. Slowly, I reach out my hand, and flick the switch to close Wilks’s window.

  As we accelerate down the slip road, another raging storm of clouds floods across the sky. It’s as black as night. I give the pedal a giant shove. The lion bellows back to me, as the Bentley takes a spine-busting leap forwards, soaring to 180 with
its massive, sweet music.

  Twenty miles to Michael Wood services. I stamp on the throttle again. The Ferrari in front scoots out of the way like we’re scorching his tail. The Bentley’s powerful headlights are blazing the trail up to a mile ahead, when suddenly I see twinkling helicopter lights above us again. Leah Wilks sees them too. ‘Is that police?’ The voice has an edginess to it.

  The Cheltenham turn-off flashes into view, and disappears into the dark like it was never there. If she tries to break my arm again, we’ll crash at two hundred miles an hour. The end will be so quick, neither of us will ever know about it. Nothing can save you at less than half this speed. Not even Precious. At least there’s no one around to take with us.

  I try to keep my voice calm. ‘It’s Alfredo’s copter. Remember what he said? He’s going to make sure you get to Bristol.’

  ‘’E never told me ’e had a copter.’ I can hear a trace of resentment. Suspicion.

  ‘He only uses it to look after his favourite drivers. You must be one of them. I know I’m not.’

  The flattery works, too well. Now, she’s looking up at that copter like it’s her VIP escort. I wish she wouldn’t. Because it’s going to drop down from the sky long before Bristol.

  The motorway’s almost empty as we tear past the Gloucester exit. Just beyond, there’s a wide area on the hard shoulder. I usually slow down here. Quite often, there’s a cop car with some motorist who’s been pulled over. But the car there isn’t police. As we fly past, the Bentley’s headlights gleam on the silver metal of a long cigar shape. Looking back, I see its lights snap on.

  At first we lose the XKR completely. The mirror’s dark. Then, there’s a faint glow, maybe two miles behind. This is no ordinary XKR. It must be doing 250 to catch up so quickly. It’ll be on us well before we get to Michael Wood. I move into the fast lane. ‘Get down on the floor.’

  Her voice is as tight as a wire. ‘What are you up to now?’

  ‘See those lights in the mirror? It’s the Jag again.’

  ‘But Alfredo’s copter…’

  ‘The copter can’t stop the Jag shooting at us again. Now get down. Or you’ll get it in the head, like you nearly did last time.’

  She’s seen the lights closing on us. Wordlessly, she slides onto the floor and crouches, her hands gripping the seat as we rocket onwards. The glow turns into a blaze of headlights. I haven’t the brains to work out how close the XKR needs to get before we take another bullet. My foot hits the Precious brakes, harder than ever before. We go from two hundred to twenty in a few rib-tearing seconds. Wilks’ knuckles are white as the huge deceleration drags her into the footwell. Her nails rip into the leather seat.

  There’s a scream of tyres behind us, and lights fill the mirror. I brace myself for another shunt. Then the XKR swerves around us, still braking hard. It’s ahead of us now on our left, in the middle lane. That gun pointing out of the passenger window can’t fire at us yet.

  I pull alongside the Jag, and swing the wheel hard left. Precious slams into those sleek silver panels. Metal clashes against metal, again and again, as I keep on shoving the XKR towards the hard shoulder. A few feet to my left the driver’s hands flail around on the steering wheel. I can’t see his face. Keeping level, I swing the wheel again. Another sideways collision, and he’s on the hard shoulder. I give him another shove. Mustn’t let him get control back.

  Suddenly, the gun barrel is aiming right across the driver’s face, at me. A dull thud paints another spider’s web, in Wilks’s inch thick window this time. Furiously, I swing the Bentley out then charge back at the weaving XKR. There’s a long graunch of tearing metal as I keep contact. Braking, because the Jag’s slowing. I think only two wheels are on the ground now, but I have to make sure. I take another sideways smash at it and now I can see its underside, wheels in the air.

  The XKR rolls over in slow motion. Then it crashes onto its roof, slides a few yards with a scream of metal, and stops, like a giant upside down beetle that can’t fly anymore.

  My whole body’s shaking and sweating as I ram the accelerator to the floor. Headlights blazing skywards, the wreck disappears from my mirror into the dark. We’re back in the fast lane doing two hundred again. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes, and stare ahead at the sign. Two miles to Michael Wood. There’s a movement to my left, as Wilks slips back into the passenger seat. I hear the click of her seatbelt.

  Seconds later, the turn off hatches flash into view. I leave it right to the last nanosecond before changing course. We zap across the lanes and Monsieur’s beautiful, battle-scarred Bentley swoops off the motorway like a Lear jet coming in to land. I jam on the brakes. It’s as though we’ve got parachutes behind us. Not a chirp from those fat tyres.

  We’re down from two hundred mph to around ten. Three chase cars wait, blue lights flashing, headlights blazing. The copter hovers at around sixty feet, rotors thundering like machine gun fire. Armed police run towards us.

  ‘Bastard!’ Leah Wilks’ hands are round my throat. I can’t breathe. The pain rips down my spine and up into my head. She’s going to break my neck. The darkness comes down. I can feel the Bentley veering wildly, as my foot fights to stay on the brake pedal.

  Someone tears open my door, grabs the steering wheel and stops the engine. Those deadly hands are pulled from my neck. A voice says, ‘You really shouldn’t have done that.’

  At first, I think he’s talking to me. There are so many things I really shouldn’t have done. Then, I’ve got air again, and I can see. She fights like a wildcat, as three cops struggle to drag her away.

  ‘No time to waste, Joe!’ DI Wellington rushes me into the back of a Vauxhall Omega, yelling, ‘Go!’

  The car takes off like the start of a Formula One. I slide back in the seat, part of my brain expecting the click of handcuffs round my wrists any time. But an iron grip clasps my hand, and a familiar face grins at me. Robocop Dave says, ‘Been getting around a bit, haven’t you, mate?’

  As we pull up outside my house, there’s a dull weight in my stomach. In spite of all Dave’s light-hearted banter, this still feels so much like that first night when I came home in a police car.

  Dave looks at me as his hand goes up to the doorbell. ‘You alright, Joe?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘Lighten up, mate. Your mum’s just glad you’re in one piece.’ He pushes the bell, then gives me a whack on the back that would deck a horse. ‘And, off the record, you could give our chase drivers a lesson or two, know that?’

  I’m still reeling when the door opens, and Mum’s stood there. She looks at me for a second, up and down, like she wants to make sure it really is me. Her eyes are bright, but her hair looks as if she’s not washed it in a week.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ The words come out in a croak, like my voice hasn’t broken yet. She takes a little step forwards on tiptoes, and her arms reach up and go tightly round me. I hug her back. She feels so small. How was she ever strong enough to carry me around when I was a kid?

  ‘You didn’t know what you’d got mixed up with, love. God knows how you got out of it alive. Your grandad and I think you’re incredibly brave!’

  ‘I… what?’

  Grandad appears in the doorway. He’s got a sticking plaster on his chin, and half of his face is shaved while the other half is all bristly. He clears his throat awkwardly, and puts on a frown. ‘Are you two going to stand outside all night?’ He turns to Dave. ‘Thank you for bringing him home safe, Officer. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll be getting on. Still got two hours shift.’ Dave jams his police cap back on his head. It reminds me of my chauffeur headgear that I must have left in the Bentley. He slaps my back again, not quite so hard this time. ‘You take care now, mate. And your people are right – you did OK.’

  As Dave’s car pulls away into the night, Jack belts down th
e stairs. ‘Hey, Joe, guess what! Those cop cars’ve got panels that drop down from the doors when they open. Stops the hit man shooting at their legs!’

  Mum explodes. ‘Jack! The police told you to keep away from the windows while that horrible man was out there!’

  Grandad says wearily, ‘Let’s all have a cup of tea. Then can we please go to bed?’

  My room looks so cosy after that big, lonely apartment. Fats is curled up on my pillow like a black and white furry cushion. I run my hand over his smooth coat. He opens amber eyes and yawns, showing his small pink tongue, then tucks his head back into his paws.

  Jack pops his head round the door. His hair’s growing back so fast from the crew cut, he looks like a hedgehog. ‘Did you actually get shot at on the motorway, Joe? Mum and Grandad were just whispering into the phone when the police dude called… I couldn’t catch all of it.’

  ‘I got shot at. How are the angel fish? Still making a meal of their kids?’

  ‘The female died.’

  ‘Oh crap!’

  He shrugs. ‘It was fungus, not grief for the eggs the male ate. And she was quite old, for an angel. We gave her a good funeral in the garden. Night, Joe.’

  As the door closes behind Jack, I take the photo of Dad out of my drawer. ‘What would you make of all those wicked people, Dad?’ And that ache comes back so badly that I have to sit down on my bed, my head in my hands, just gazing at his laughing blue eyes. There’s a light tap on my door. ‘Joe, are you still awake?’

  ‘Come in, Mum.’

  She’s wrapped in her dark blue dressing gown, carrying an envelope. ‘I found this while I was sorting through your father’s photos, Joe. And I thought that, given the extraordinary qualities you seem to have inherited from him, you should have the last letter he wrote to me.’ She holds it out and I take it slowly.