by Simon Wood
I worked alone. It helped me decompress. Unscrewing bolts and disconnecting cables made order out of a chaotic weekend. There is no ambiguity in machinery. It does what it’s designed to do and nothing more. The distributor feeds electricity to the spark plugs. The fuel pump pumps petrol to the engine. Components don’t suddenly decide to kill a person because they don’t get what they want.
I had a decision to make: sell or keep the car. There’s no love lost on racecars. They’re tools, and disposable ones at that. In a few months, when next year’s improved cars came out, my trusty steed would be one step closer to obsolescence. Excluding wear and tear, a new car was going to lap half a second faster than my two-year-old Van Diemen. If I wanted to make a bid for the British Formula Ford National Championship next season, then I needed a brand new car. I could only pull it off if I could squeeze some extra money out of my sponsor and save every penny I could between now and next March. I knew Steve would help me out if I got close. He’d done the same with Dad.
I didn’t mind using Steve’s expertise, but I was reluctant to take his money. I knew the financial burden Dad had put on him. Despite winning a Formula One contract, Dad hadn’t lived long enough to be paid and he’d died broke. It almost bankrupted Steve.
I called it a day around nine p.m. I flicked on Steve’s computer in the crow’s nest and looked up the latest news on Alex’s death on the web. The death of a minor racecar driver had failed to make it as a national story. Its newsworthiness certainly hadn’t stretched as far as Windsor.
On the BBC Bristol website, I found RACECAR DRIVER’S DEATH INVESTIGATED and clicked the link. The story outlined yesterday’s events and mentioned that Alex crashed after contact with Derek’s car.
The story featured a quote from Myles. ‘Motorsport is a very safe sport and these tragedies happen very infrequently. My thoughts and prayers go out to Alex’s friends and family.’
Myles’s comment didn’t surprise me. It wasn’t like he was going to admit he could have prevented the crash if he’d expelled Derek from the race for making a death threat.
I read the rest of the article hoping to see what charges they were bringing against Derek. Instead, the police spokesman talked in terms of an accident investigation. Why weren’t they calling it a murder enquiry?
Like most drivers in the lower echelons of motorsport, racing isn’t a full time job for me. It’s something I have to squeeze in around a day job, so I was back at work on Monday. I’m a design draughtsman for a firm in Slough that manufactures industrial mixers. I don’t care much for the job. It isn’t a passion like racing is. It’s just something I do to pay the bills and give me the money I need to race. But the job isn’t without its perks. After hours, I use their CAD software to design my own replacement parts for my Van Diemen and get the parts fabricated for free by a local fabrication shop in exchange for some ad space on the side of the car.
The management cuts me a lot of slack when it comes to racing by being flexible with my working hours. Now that the season was over, they expected me to make up for their generosity.
On Tuesday, I received an email from Myles Beecham with the news that Alex’s funeral was going to be on Friday morning. The email had gone out to all the Formula Ford drivers. I looked for Derek’s name amongst the distribution list, but didn’t see it. It wasn’t much of a surprise. I doubted Derek even had an email address.
I put in a time off request for Friday with my boss. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t refuse.
After work, I drove over to Dylan’s. On the way over, I stopped in at a florist to order a wreath. The place unsettled me. Flowers marking every kind of celebration surrounded me. When I told the woman I wanted a funeral wreath, she brought out a sample book from under a counter as if death couldn’t be looked in the eye. I picked something out and she handed me a card to go with the wreath. I froze with the pen poised over the untouched card. What was the right thing to say? Best wishes? Condolences? All of it seemed so trite.
‘Most people write “sorry for your loss.”’
I nodded, wrote the words, and signed the card.
I arrived at Dylan’s flat in Maidenhead a few minutes before Redline began. Redline is a satellite TV show that rounds up the highlights of the weekly European race scene.
‘C’mon in. It’s about to start.’
He slipped an arm around my shoulders and ushered me inside. If Steve is my surrogate father, then Dylan is my surrogate brother. He’s five years older than me and several sizes bigger thanks to a life spent working as a bricklayer on building sites. Our friendship grew out of Dylan’s love of cars. When Dad was still racing, our family rated as minor celebrities. The local papers kept up with Dad’s progress and even did a profile on him and Steve. Locals knew where Archway was located and Dylan used to hang around outside to catch a glimpse of one of Dad’s cars or one of Steve’s restoration projects. When Dylan was thirteen, Steve caught him sneaking into the workshop. Instead of kicking him out, Steve asked what he wanted. Dylan answered that he wanted to learn about cars. Steve told Dylan that cars couldn’t be understood from afar, then tossed him a rag and gave him a job on the spot. I was only eight at the time, but I was already helping out at Archway. At the beginning, we only got to sweep up and put tools away. Despite our age difference, we became tight. Dylan had given me my first misappropriated beer and cigarette and set me up on my first and only blind date. I wasn’t thankful for everything.
I followed Dylan into his living room as the show was starting. I dropped into an armchair as the opening credits, a montage of races, filled the screen.
‘You want something to drink?’
I shook my head. I just wanted to see what I’d missed on Saturday. I needed to witness Derek’s crime spread across the airwaves of Europe. Then, he’d never escape what he’d done.
The show’s host talked over snippets of the night’s show. ‘It’s an end of season bonanza this week on Redline. We’ve got action from the final rounds of the Benelux Formula Ford Championship, British Touring Cars at Silverstone, the French Formula Renault Championship and the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship at Stowe Park. First up, Formula Three action from Hockenheim.’
Hearing Stowe Park mentioned raised gooseflesh. It was going to be hard to watch this. Obviously, Dylan felt the same way since he’d reached for his sunflower seeds.
It was an agonizing forty minutes before Redline got to the Stowe Park race. I went cold when the coverage switched to aerial shots of the circuit. I had an unenviable advantage over all the viewers in their homes. I knew what was about to happen. I wanted to look away when the crash came, but I knew I wouldn’t.
Dylan picked up the remote and pressed record on his digital TV recorder. I wondered if Alex’s family was doing the same. Then more darkly, I wondered if Derek was recording his handiwork for posterity.
‘It’s tight at the top going into the twelfth and final round of the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship. Alex Fanning holds a two point advantage over nine time champion and local fan favourite, Derek Deacon. Here’s how they shape up for the start of this hotly contested series. On pole, we’ve got nine-time champion, Derek Deacon, giving his championship hopes a much needed boost. Alongside Deacon is Graham Linden in the number two slot.’
‘What?’ Dylan said and shot me a glance.
The commentator continued to read out the starting line-up as a computer graphic scrolled up the screen showing the drivers’ names and race numbers. It became clear what was happening before the commentator said my name.
‘They’re not showing the race from the beginning,’ I said. ‘They’re showing it from the restart.’
The commentator ran through the complete grid and didn’t mention Alex’s absence.
‘This is bullshit,’ Dylan said. ‘They have to say something. They can’t pretend nothing happened.’
Can’t they? I thought. I didn’t like where this was going. ‘Maybe they’re going to say something
at the end.’
The race played out from the restart. When it finished, the image cut to Derek shrugging himself from his car and bowing his head to take the winner’s wreath and a bottle of champagne from Myles Beecham. Derek didn’t show a flicker of remorse for what he’d done. The sight of him basking in his moment of murderous glory made me want to punch a hole through the TV.
I waited for the commentator to mention Alex’s death, but nothing was mentioned. As soon as the race ended, the show went to an ad break.
The stink of a cover up radiated from the TV. The sanitized coverage deceived the public, dishonoured Alex, and robbed the police investigation of vital proof.
‘What the hell was that?’ Dylan said.
‘It looks like everyone wants to pretend nothing happened.’
Lap Five
Alex’s funeral was held at a stone church on a rainy Friday in Guildford. Dylan came with me. The church’s small car park was reserved for the hearse and family, so I parked on the street. The service hadn’t started yet so everyone was milling around in groups in front of the church.
The scene sent me back to mum and dad’s funeral. I had felt so alone despite my grandparents’ presence. It didn’t seem possible that I’d never see my parents again. The funeral seemed to take place around me, as if I was invisible. The vicar talked about a future that couldn’t be true. I cried more out of confusion than loss.
Graham and about a dozen of the championship drivers stood huddled together in the graveyard, away from the congregation in what appeared to be self-imposed banishment. Derek was the notable absentee, which was understandable under the circumstances. Dylan and I joined them.
Our banishment wasn’t entirely self-imposed. I felt a number of the mourners staring at us with disgusted looks. I couldn’t blame them. We were an unpleasant reminder of what had killed Alex. If they only knew what we knew about the death threat, they would be chasing us off with pitchforks and torches. At least Derek had the good sense not to show his face.
‘Did anyone catch Redline on Tuesday?’ John Barshinski asked.
We all nodded.
‘Why’d they cut the crash out?’ John asked.
‘Out of respect?’ Graham said.
‘Cutting the crash out is one thing. Ignoring what happened is another,’ I said.
‘I don’t think they ignored it,’ Graham said.
‘Redline excised the crash and all mention of Alex,’ Dylan said. ‘That’s wrong. They didn’t have to go into details, but they should have said something about Alex.’
‘It could have something to do with the police investigation,’ Tony Hansen said. ‘The cops have been all over the track.’
Tony and Pete Hansen ran the race school at Stowe Park for anyone who wanted a spin around the track. They operated out of a small office at the circuit.
‘Have any of you been interviewed?’ I asked. It seemed natural that if they were investigating the crash, they’d interview the drivers.
Everyone shook their head.
‘I know they interviewed Derek and Myles,’ Tony said.
I hoped the police planned on widening their investigation, but maybe they didn’t have to. They might have a strong enough case against Derek already. That could explain Redline’s edited coverage of the race. Essentially, it was evidence the police wouldn’t want on display before a trial. That might explain why both Pit Lane Magazine and Motorsport News had limited their mention of Alex’s death to only a sentence.
‘Have the cops mentioned charges?’ I asked.
‘Why should they?’ Tony said.
‘Why do you think?’ John said. ‘Derek’s death threat.’
‘That was just talk,’ Graham said.
‘Was it? Alex is dead, isn’t he?’ I said.
‘Jesus, keep it down,’ Dylan said. ‘We’re at a funeral for Christ’s sake.’
I took a breath and dropped my voice. ‘There’s no way this was coincidence. Derek said he’d kill Alex and Alex died.’
‘That’s a pretty big accusation, Aidy,’ Graham said.
‘Are you really going to stand there and defend Derek?’
Graham shrugged. ‘No, but you can’t accuse the guy of being a killer without proof and you don’t have it. You were back in the pack and couldn’t have seen anything.’
‘But you could, Graham,’ I said. ‘You were behind Derek and Alex. You had the best view.’
Graham glowered. ‘They were a hundred yards ahead and I was more interested in the pack behind me than Derek and Alex. I didn’t see anything.’
‘OK, let’s calm down. We’re all friends here,’ Jerry Watt said. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what we think, saw or heard. This is a police matter. We don’t know where they are with their investigation. They probably know all this.’
‘And if they don’t?’ I asked. ‘Don’t we have an obligation to tell the cops what we know?’
‘Which is what? Rumour and innuendo? That doesn’t help anything.’ Tony said.
I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting from everyone, but it wasn’t this reticence. I understood it though. No one was under any obligation to come forward. It wasn’t their place.
‘Can we talk about something else?’ Jerry said after a long moment.
‘Has anyone seen the car?’ John asked.
Pete Hansen nodded. ‘It’s locked up in the scrutineering bay. It’s a mess.’
‘Can it be rebuilt?’ Jerry asked.
‘Bloody hell,’ Dylan muttered.
‘I’m just asking.’
‘Repairable or not, the car shouldn’t be raced again,’ John said.
Few people would want to drive in a dead man’s car, but this had more to do with respect. The car had taken a life and it needed to be retired from the system. Steve had told me about a Formula Three driver killed in the seventies. Every one of the drivers and team owners put money together to buy the car and have it scrapped.
‘We should buy the car and have it crushed,’ I said.
‘That’s a good idea,’ John said. ‘If all the registered drivers chipped in, it wouldn’t cost too much. And I really don’t want to see that car make an appearance somewhere next season.’
John’s willingness ignited unanimous approval. Between us, we formed a plan to get in contact with the other drivers. I would talk to the family about purchasing the car.
The hearse pulled up with two Bentley limousines containing Alex’s family. Alex’s parents climbed out from the first one. Mr Fanning had to lift his wife from the car. No one should witness this level of human misery. It was private and it should be kept that way. Seeing Alex’s mum reminded me of how much I’d lost and I touched my mum’s St Christopher.
My parents had died thirteen years ago. I’d been without them for over half my life, but my memories of them remained vivid. I remember squeezing the hell out of Mum’s hand as we cheered Dad on at tracks around Britain and Europe. I remember Dad lowering me inside his various cars and telling me that I’d be following in his footsteps. I loved the attention the teams and other drivers gave me. Dad’s exploits made me popular at school. They were fun and exciting times.
The years since hadn’t been so fun. I grew up without parents. My grandparents were great, but they weren’t my mum and dad and when Gran died, Steve was all I had left.
I thought of Alison and Alex’s parents going through their version of this; visiting a graveside to reminisce their loss. Nothing could have saved my parents, but I could have saved Alex. If I’d stood up to Derek, I could have prevented this family’s pain.
Alex’s dad guided his wife up the path into the church. He’d always carried himself with Cary Grant-like composure, but Alex’s death seemed to have snuffed out that youthful spark.
Alison and her family got out of the second Bentley. Alison followed behind the Fannings, flanked by her parents. She kept her gaze forward, not taking in her surroundings.
The funeral director called everyone into the chu
rch.
Dylan and I filed inside. Ushers directed family and friends to different seating areas. If it wasn’t for Derek’s selfishness, these same ushers would have been directing people to seating areas for Alex and Alison’s wedding.
The racing fraternity and acquaintances were directed to a section at the rear of the church. I had no problems with our second class status.
Myles and Eva Beecham came in and joined us in the pews.
When the congregation was assembled, the vicar asked for everyone to remain standing while the coffin was brought in. The pall-bearers carried Alex in with practised ease and placed his coffin on a stand in front of the altar. Alex’s mum broke down. Her tearful sobs bounced off the stone walls.
I thought about the day of the crash. When Derek sent Alex careening off the track, had Alex known he was going to die? I never thought about dying when I had a shunt. Repair costs and the disappointment of not finishing were at the forefront of my mind. Mortality never entered into it. I hope Alex hadn’t seen it coming.
‘Are you going to continue racing?’ Steve had asked me over breakfast this morning.
I’d said, ‘Yes,’ but it was said without mourners and a body hidden from everyone in a coffin. I asked myself the question again. Did I want to continue? My answer remained the same. I still wanted to race. Racing was a part of me. Alex’s death didn’t and couldn’t change that.
The vicar gave an eloquent service. He’d done his homework on Alex. He tied his tribute, even down to the hymns, to a racing and sporting theme. It could have come off as hackneyed or insensitive under the circumstances, but it was a touching and fitting send off for any driver.
When the service came to an end, Alex’s body was carried back outside. The burial itself was to take place at the family plot across town. This part of the service was for invited guests only and the drivers weren’t included. The congregation filed back outside as the pall-bearers loaded Alex back into the hearse.