by Andy Lucas
‘That’s a tall order,’ he muttered, not really caring.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, James, but I think you’d better come home and spend the night at my place.’ She paused. ‘At least I’ll know where you are and how to get hold of you.’
It made sense to him, so he allowed himself to be led by the hand across the slowly emptying car park to a large blue Daimler sports. He would need all those things she’d just said and the thought of being thousands of miles away had never seemed more appealing than at that moment. The added bonus of spending more time in her company was simply that, a bonus. Any lustful or romantic notions had gone up in smoke with his possessions.
As they turned out of the car park, neither of them noticed a small van parked on the other side of the main road. If they had been paying attention, they might have noticed the driver watching them intently.
He’d done what he was told to do, and he’d been paid five times the amount he would normally get for an arson job. He had no idea who’d set up the job; orders for this kind of thing always seemed to have passed through many different pairs of hands before filtering down to him. He felt a little sorry for the couple as he watched them speed away.
‘Don’t know what you did to deserve this, you poor bastard,’ he muttered to himself. Satisfied that he’d stayed long enough, he made a quick call on his mobile phone to pass on the good news before starting the van and heading for home.
Fate had other plans, however. While travelling around a sharp bend in the road, only ten miles from the flat, the van suffered a blow out on one of the front tyres. Losing control, it flipped over and landed upside down in a deep, flooded ditch. Knocked unconscious by the impact, he quickly drowned while still strapped into his seat.
Sarah steered the car in the direction of London, turning onto the M25 at Brentwood beneath a sky that was clearing miraculously fast, to reveal teasing glimpses of a star-strewn night through windows opening in the clouds.
Pace wasn’t paying much attention. The silence that tangibly filled the car grew heavier by the moment, with neither willing to break it. Ensconced deeply in the soft leather trim, his eyes blankly registered the motorway signposts as they flashed by with dull regularity.
Sarah headed anti-clockwise around the notorious ring road, at a speed that barely dipped below ninety miles an hour. The motorway was quiet and they pulled off at the A1M junction barely twenty minutes later. A quick two mile trip back in towards London and she pulled off into Borehamwood, passing the Elstree Studio complex and slipping slowly through the well-policed small town centre, accelerating again as she hit the country roads on the other side. Another five minutes saw them safely to her home; to his great surprise a fairly modest, white-washed cottage set back about a hundred yards from the road.
The rain had left the unpaved driveway muddy and flooded at several points. Sarah carefully nudged the car forward and the luxury sports car traversed the slick with an agility and confidence any four- wheel drive cruiser would have been proud of.
The mood changed with the setting. Once released from the car and transplanted into the airy comfort of her cottage, conversation returned as though it had never faltered.
Sarah’s home was tastefully austere. The walls were simply painted in delicate pastels and the floors were of highly polished oak, not the imitation laminated sheets, garnished with deliberately placed rugs. A dark leather three-piece suite in the lounge was large and comfortable. Open plan, the effect was inviting and uncluttered, warming yet calm.
The kitchen was also styled in an old-fashioned way; there wasn’t a trace of a pre-fabricated unit anywhere. One half of the large room held an antique pine dining table and matching Welsh dresser, well stocked with expensive china plates and cups. The other side housed all the appliances, in matching livery of cobalt and chrome.
A free-standing unit by the back door held a double, stainless steel sink with two cupboards beneath and a small work surface ran on top of both the washing machine and drier.
On this short area sat a kettle, teapot and several china jars. Another antique pine unit in the very corner held the food, Pace assumed, but it was closed and its contents hidden. He had imagined Sarah’s wealth would have steered her towards a large house, filled with expensive items, and it was a refreshing failure on his part.
Sarah busied herself making some tea, which they drank at the kitchen table beneath the soft light thrown out by a suspended, three-bulb kitchen light.
‘I could use a bath,’ she said suddenly. ‘I think we could both do with one.’
‘Is your bath big enough?’
‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she said, totally ignoring his suggestive humour, although Pace thought he caught a brief flicker of a smile.
‘You McEntires do love your deals,’ Pace interrupted. ‘Will I need a lawyer for this one?’
‘Funny.’ His heart started to pound faster as his thoughts raced ahead. ‘Why don’t you go and have one while I make some calls.’ His heart slowed in disappointment. ‘If you want some fresh clothing, my bedroom’s the one right next to the bathroom. Just rummage for whatever fits. I have collected a small amount of male clothing over the years, but the choice isn’t great.’
‘You’re sure?’ Pace wasn’t going to turn down the chance of a hot soak but he felt guilty about going first. ‘You could always have the first one.’
‘Then who will sort out all your papers? No, you go first. One thing, though, when you’re done make sure you empty it out and run me a fresh one.’
‘No problem.’
‘Now go, before I change my mind.’
Pace needed no further prompting and soon luxuriated in a deep, round tub of hot water for twenty minutes before even bothering to engage in the mundane task of bathing.
While he steamed, his mind played out the events of the evening over and over without conclusion. Was it just bad luck that his home had been destroyed? He couldn’t remember leaving any heating on, or using the cooker recently. Something niggled at the back of his mind but it wasn’t clear enough to read. He felt too tired, all of a sudden, to give himself over to deep thought.
At least the race would get him out of the country and give him a positive focus, he finally decided. Finishing up, he dried off and put the now damp towel around his waist, using a smaller one to vigorously dry his hair while the bath water drained away. A quick rinse and the second bath was underway, this time profusely bubbled with an apple and peach concoction he spotted on a glass shelf above the sink. Steam filled the bathroom again and he had to constantly wipe the mirror clear with one hand as he smoothed his hair into some semblance of order with the other. Then came the slightly damp jeans and socks. He had left his boots by the front door earlier.
A laundry basket in the bathroom swallowed his two used towels and Sarah’s wardrobe soon produced a dark green sweatshirt. It fitted him comfortably, so he assumed it had once belonged to one of her lovers. Her bedroom was as plain as the rest of the cottage although Pace made a conscious effort not to snoop. He took in the king-size bed, the treble wardrobe and the single bedside table, before returning to the lounge completely refreshed. Sarah was still on the telephone and gave him a thumbs up sign to tell him things were progressing well.
Anxious to make himself useful, he wandered into her kitchen and made some fresh tea. Sarah joined him a few moments later and beckoned him back into the lounge, where both settled onto the large sofa.
‘First things first,’ she began. ‘I spoke to Hammond. I told him about the fire. He knows a lot of people through the company and he told me to tell you not to worry. You just have to arrive, as planned, at the airport tomorrow morning. He will have a new passport and visa ready for you. You can pick up some new clothing and luggage in the airport shops before you leave. Are you okay for money?’
‘Money’s not a problem. I still have nearly four thousand pounds on me. I was going to exchange most of it into travellers cheques at Heathrow b
ut I can use some of that for now. Besides, I always keep my wallet on me, so my credit and bank cards are still quite safe.’
‘Good.’ Her own enthusiasm had returned. She was used to solving problems at short notice and basked in a job well done. ‘I’m going to drive you to the airport in the morning myself. I’ll even help you shop, so long as you treat me to coffee and a croissant for my trouble.’
‘You don’t have to do that, even though it would be great.’ Pace said quickly. ‘I can grab a taxi from here. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than play nursemaid.’
She laughed. ‘Not really.’
‘Not really?’ he parroted.
‘My father wants me in Brazil to handle a few reported niggles with the local administration, just until he flies in himself. It was always on the cards but he never decides until the last minute. Hammond knows his habits like I do. I managed to book myself a seat on your flight out. I had a feeling this would happen; it’s a good job too.’
‘So you’ll be coming with us, to Brazil?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know. Not long I shouldn’t think. Just a few days then I’ll be flying back here.’
‘That’s good news,’ Pace said. He could now look forward to enjoying her company for a good deal longer. The atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken and he had the urge to loosen a non-existent tie and collar. The earlier electricity of her hand in his own was still a fresh memory and he was painfully aware of how close together they were sitting.
Finally, Sarah stood up and walked down the hall to the bathroom, taking her tea with her. She shouted back that he should make himself at home.
A beautiful burnished walnut corner unit held a television, video and DVD, disguised behind a near seamless false front. Switching on the late film; a classic Gary Cooper western, Pace settled back to watch.
The film was drawing to a climax of exchanged gunshots when Sarah returned. She looked fresh and vibrant in a cream robe. Her hair was washed, dried and back up in a manageable ponytail.
She disappeared into the kitchen and spent five minutes clattering around, returning with two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels on a tray. Another quick trip to the kitchen and she was back with another tray. This one held a bowl of salad and a plate of cold chicken, together with some bread rolls, butter and some cold new potatoes.
Spreading it all out on a rug she got him to hold the glasses and poured a generous shot into each. She turned off the television and they tucked in, both realising how hungry they were as the food hit their tongues. They demolished the spread before collapsing back onto the sofa with a second glass each.
Several glasses later and the clock on the wall registered close on two o’clock. Pace knew he had reached his limit and was happy to agree with her suggestion that they should go to bed.
‘I don’t keep a spare room made up for guests, I never need one. You’re in no state to sleep on the sofa either because you need a good night’s sleep. Busy day tomorrow, so I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me.’
‘Okay,’ he agreed, feeling a little woozy now.
‘Luckily, you look exhausted. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.’ Sadly, she was right.
Sarah quickly turned out the lights, leaving the remnants of their meal until the morning, and led the way to her bedroom. Pace undressed down to his shorts and slipped beneath the quilt, suddenly feeling drained to the core.
Sarah’s dressing gown dropped to the floor and she climbed into bed with him. Her long nightshirt felt cool and smelled of fragrant flowers as she leaned across him to switch off the bedside lamp. He awoke the next morning to find himself alone in her bed. A strong shaft of sunlight filtered through a crack between the bedroom curtains and lay across the bed in a sharp line.
After dressing, he found her in the kitchen, wearing a loose-fitting floral summer dress with a hemline riding well above her knees. She smiled when she saw him and offered him a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. He wasn’t hungry but accepted a steaming mug gratefully.
Barely fifteen minutes later, with all the car windows wide open and the radio playing Dire Straits’ Sultans of Swing, they were cruising down the lane, heading back towards the motorway. To any passer-by they would have looked like a normal couple, out for a morning drive to an unknown destination.
6
Heathrow was as busy as every news report or documentary showed it to be. It remained one of the busiest airports in the world, filled to overflowing with every race, creed, colour and religious denomination of human being, each respectively trying to reach his or her destination from the many hundreds worldwide on offer.
They parked in the short-term car park and rode the lift up to the main concourse, Sarah assuring him that a member of the company’s staff would be assigned to retrieve her car. To that end she left her keys with the car park supervisor. Apparently it was all arranged.
Pace carried Sarah’s small suitcase, pulled from the trunk of her car, while she gripped the sports bag that passed as her hand luggage, saving them having to collect a trolley.
Thousands of people were milling around the many miles of airport shops, food halls and financial serveries, and they quickly blurred into one seething mass a few minutes after they set foot from the lift.
Sarah expertly led them to the correct gate and was obviously an old hand at it. Pace, for one, had never used Heathrow before. It wasn’t the sort of airport you used for short charter flights to Europe; Gatwick and Stansted catered for that market.
Heathrow was different. There was a definite buzz in the air. Perhaps it was the accumulated anticipation of thousands of travellers that filled the air with a feeling of excitement. Whatever it was, the place almost possessed its own tangible scent.
They paused only long enough to shop, which took barely half an hour.
Two suitcases replaced the ones Pace had lost in the fire; both sturdy and waterproof. He filled them with new clothes, much to the expressed delight of the young assistant who lived off his, usually paltry, commission-based wage. Several pairs of jeans and slacks went in first, followed by some hastily chosen shirts, socks and underwear. Two jackets and a spare pair of walking boots, almost identical to the ones he was wearing, ended a spree totalling a little shy of two thousand pounds. The smile on the young assistant’s face said it all, beaming as he mentally planned some wild party nights out on next week’s much inflated wage packet.
The next shop added toothbrushes and paste, half a dozen bars of soap, deodorants, a hairbrush, wet razor and spare blades, shaving foam and a couple of bottles of aftershave gel, which smelled all right and contained a moisturiser. This would be useful, given the heat and humidity to come. Above all, he raided the chemist for insect repellent. He understood some Amazonian insects had a ferocious appetite and so armed himself with a selection of bug sprays, creams and topical lotions.
They passed through check-in without a hitch after briefly stopping to change some of his remaining sterling into a mixture of US dollars, US dollar travellers cheques and Brazilian reals.
Hammond was exactly where he should have been, propping up the main bar in the departure lounge. He seemed pleased to see them and quickly told them that everything had been sorted. As proof, he handed Pace a large manila envelope.
Inside were a duplicate passport and visa.
He ordered them all a drink while Pace studied the documents. Everything looked legitimate and he began to relax. All the paperwork needed to get him out of Britain and into the adventure for which he had been paid so much money, was at hand. Up until that point he had been quietly doubtful that anyone had the influence to produce such important international documentation overnight. But the proof was there, in his hands.
‘Ready for the trip of a lifetime?’
Hammond interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see both of them, sitting at adjacent bar stools, watching him intently. Sarah handed him a bott
le of beer, which he gratefully half finished in a single swallow. Although it was barely eleven in the morning, Pace felt in need of it. The taste; crisp and clean, revitalised body and soul and any remaining doubts quickly evaporated.
‘Of course he is.’ Sarah looked straight at Pace, the twinkle in her eyes daring him to contradict her.
‘That reminds me.’ Hammond spoke before Pace could. ‘I’ve put the security boys onto last night’s events. Our company law firm has also been instructed to act on your behalf, in your absence.’ Hammond appeared as confident as Sarah. ‘Don’t worry, they’re the best legal people in London. They’ll handle everything.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Pace.
‘That leaves all of us,’ Hammond pointed to them all in a quick, swirling movement of his index finger, ‘free to concentrate on the race.’
‘I’m glad both of you are so bloody cheerful about all this,’ protested Pace good-naturedly. He ordered a fresh beer from the bartender with a motion of one hand.
‘Everything will be okay,’ promised Sarah.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Pace said. ‘I’m actually looking forward to running over a few things with you both again during the flight.’
Hammond stretched an arm down and patted his briefcase, perched on the floor by his stool.
‘All the final arrangements are in here and there’s plenty of flight time to run over anything you’re not sure about, several times if needs be. Speaking of the flight,’ he added, ‘we’ve only got about thirty minutes or so before boarding. If there’s anything else you need you’d better run and get it now.’
‘No, I’ve got everything I need. Anything that springs to mind later can be picked up in Rio.’
He couldn’t think of anything else he needed to buy and the thought of spending some time browsing through balmy streets and bars, with all the normal tourists, was one not to miss. After all, he thought, how many times am I going to get to Rio de Janeiro in a lifetime, even with all that money in my bank?