Choose Your Parents Wisely (Joe Grabarz Book 2)

by Tom Trott

  ‘What are we talking about, gang?’ I asked.

  The conversation stopped instantly. They all stared at me. I tried to keep the grin on my face. Price looked as incredible as ever, her athletic body piercing through her blouse and tailored jacket. Parker looked even more like a corpse. He hadn’t looked so bad at Saturday’s press conference, but he had probably been wearing makeup. The other too officers were doing their Serious Man act like McCready. Only Mr Tothova looked like he wasn’t about to stab me with a wine glass.

  ‘Thank you very much for inviting me,’ I told him.

  He was confused, but calm. ‘That must have been my wife,’ he apologised, ‘what is it you do?’

  ‘Mr Grabarz is a detective,’ Parker answered in the tone of a Victorian schoolmistress, ‘according to his business card.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ I told Mr Tothova, ‘anyone can get them printed these days. Roy’s says he’s a policeman.’

  ‘At least I didn’t have to pay postage and packaging on mine,’ he sneered.

  ‘Perhaps this isn’t the best time to throw insults around,’ Price interjected, ‘I’m sure Joe just wants to help.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and gave her a little smile that she didn’t return.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what leads have you developed? Any information you can give us?’

  That bitch. I had nothing to give them, and she knew it. And I couldn’t put it to her the other way around because we were all here to help the police, that was the point. She stared at me through glacial blue eyes, her blonde curls hanging loose off duty, her ski-slope nose, those thin pink lips. She was fierce like a vixen. My god, we could have been something fantastic. In bed, I mean.

  ‘Not at present,’ I stated matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh,’ she offered in mock-disappointment so subtle that those who didn’t know better would think it was genuine. ‘Any theories you can offer instead?’

  Now she was just being mean. ‘Not at present,’ I repeated.

  ‘Shame. Maybe the bogeyman took her. What’s his name? Matt? Mark?’

  ‘Detective,’ Roy said in quiet reprimand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Price apologised to Mr Tothova, ‘but you see, Joe has a theory, don’t you? About crime in the city. Do you want to tell them?’

  The other officers sniggered. Price pretended to wait for an answer, I did everything I could to keep the embarrassment out of my face, but now people were staring at me and I felt my cheeks getting hot. Stupid fucking cheeks.

  ‘He’s a conspiracy nut. He’s even managed to convince some of the more tragic officers: Richard Daye is one your believers, isn’t he? And Daye’s old DS, Andy Watson, down in his little basement. Not that they would be stupid enough to tell anyone, would they?’

  ‘Only someone they trusted,’ I told her.

  That hurt her, I was glad to see. But she shook it off: ‘So you see, Graham, he’s exactly the sort of level-headed individual you and Maria should be listening to. If only he had anything to say.’

  I stayed calm and quiet enough to look like the decent one. Then I raised my glass in farewell to Mr Tothova and stepped silently away. I couldn’t help but smile at how upset Price must me. I was supposed to argue back. I was supposed to be unreasonable. But now she looked unreasonable. Maybe not telling people what I think was going to be fun after all.

  The garden was as hot and humid as a bayou, so I hid under the shadow of the house.

  Everyone hates me. With good reason. I was glad at least they hadn’t invited Tab, otherwise I might never get away. Small mercies. I went to drown myself in Mimosa but spilt it on myself as I did a sudden dance on the patio. It was dotted with glass tiles. They were only a few centimetres square but dangerous enough. Who the fuck has glass patio tiles? I thought. Fucking deathtrap. But the lid on this thought was slammed shut by a voice that seemed to come from another world:

  ‘Mr Grabarz.’

  I could only see her silhouette. The sun was streaming through a tree behind, obscuring her in golden haze. I inched closer, moving the sun behind a tree, revealing her.

  Golden blonde hair that ran straight down to her stomach. Ever so pink wind-chafed cheeks with the tiniest dance of freckles. White layers of thin silk. Around her neck and in her hair, dark silver jewellery studded with marcasite. An opera necklace disappeared behind her high neckline but between the layers of silk; you could see where a pendant figure hung below her petite breasts. An angel.

  ‘Mrs Tothova.’ I almost bowed. ‘Thank you. For inviting me.’

  ‘I was told that when the police can’t find someone, you’re the person to see. Why waste the time?’

  ‘Why indeed.’

  ‘You will of course be rewarded, as will everyone who contributes to finding Joy. We’ll share the money fairly.’

  ‘I’m sure your charity could spend that money in a much better place than my bank account.’

  She blushed a little. ‘Let’s hope everyone is as generous as you, Mr Grabarz.’

  ‘Call me, Joe.’

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘I do appreciate you inviting me, Maria, although I don’t think many of your guests do.’

  ‘Who cares what they think?’ she asked calmly. ‘She’s my daughter. I’ll spend all my money, all these people’s money, let cameras into my house, I’ll even whore myself out—’ she stopped suddenly, ‘I’m sorry.’ A single tear had escaped.

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ I told her, ‘not enough parents care as much as you do. Believe me.’

  I don’t know what gave me the nerve, but I leant in and wiped the tear from her cheek. Her eyes floated up toward mine. They seemed to contain the entire universe, anything there was to know could be learnt by gazing there. I wanted to step inside them. Her teeth showed beneath her lip as she inhaled a hushed, excited breath.

  Then her eyes shot off behind me. I looked round. There was a flurry of black and silver as ten or more uniformed officers flooded into the garden, surrounding Parker and Price. I moved to wade into the mess. But as I did they broke and disappeared like starlings, scattering back down the side of the house at speed, Price and Parker’s heads bobbing in the middle, people whispering in their ears, Price pulling her phone out.

  Bill was running after them, also on the phone. I grabbed him.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Some kid who works at the school has a blue van registered. They’re on it now, he’s tearing up the city centre.’

  Tearing up the city centre?

  ‘It’s an actual, genuine police chase—this is the story we’ve been waiting for!’ he squealed, and he was gone.

  I tried to calculate the dread I was feeling. A panicked boy, with marijuana in the back his van, and the police chasing him. Adrenaline shot into my veins. Not good. Not good. Jesus Christ! This is not going to end well.

  16

  This Is Not Going to End Well

  i broke into a sprint. Down the side of the house, out the front, across the road, onto my bike, helmet on. I fired it up. Town centre. Town centre? Time to play follow the sirens. Got to find them first. Engine revving. Let’s go!

  I shot down York Avenue, posh houses zipping past each side, left onto Lansdowne Road, narrow, but wide enough for two cars. Don’t want to die today. Thinking ahead, this becomes Upper North Street, running parallel to Western Road, the high street, that cuts right through to the clock tower at the centre of town, should be able to pick up the scent from there. Already on Upper North Street. Think faster. Sirens! They were near, but where? I shot a glance down each connecting road as they whipped past my right, giving me a brief window into what was happening on Western Road. The sirens were loud now, but each glance was empty. There was no traffic. Nothing. Where are they? I twisted the throttle open, letting out a deafening roar and shooting round the car in front—truck!—and back onto the left, just missing being pancaked by a removal van. I had fifty metres of clear road now and I ate them up in a single bite
. Montpelier Road cut across at traffic lights ahead, they were green—lean forward, look to the right—the wide avenue zipped past and for just a second I saw blue lights. Found them!

  I was running parallel with them now, weaving, dodging, at the next road and the next and the next I saw the flash of blue and heard them wail. I needed to ride even faster to try and catch their quarry. Traffic ahead! I had to brake, switch onto the pavement, thank fuck it was empty, I did not want to kill anyone today. Back onto the road, I kept looking right, but I couldn’t see the blues anymore, the sirens were quieter. Fuck! I came out at the end of Upper North Street onto Dyke Road. Shit! I had to turn right, head down onto North Street, the middle of town, I was going to be even further behind. Pedestrians! Near miss, bloody tourists! I zipped down past the clock tower, onto the high street, expecting to hit the usual stationary buses, but they were all squeezed against the side of the road, everything: taxis, vans, the lot. The usual summer crowds filled every inch of pavement but all had the backs of their heads to me, staring down the road the way I was heading, toward the blue lights that had just disappeared. I leant forward into my bike, opening the throttle as far as it would go and rocketing down the hill, the streams of vehicles and department stores just blurs, my visor giving me only what was in front of me. Clear, clear, clear, zebra crossing! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Too fast! Don’t step out! Clear! Traffic moving. Shit. Slowly they were beginning to wake up, the chase had passed, and the buses and the vans were pulling out from the side and closing in on me and—but I was out. Onto the Steine.

  The Steine is just two long stretches of grass with statues and flowers and stuff in them and the roads circle round them clockwise in a one way system. I skidded left, moving sideways, barely in control of my front wheel, zipping past the Pavilion on my left. Bus lane in a second. Another blur of tarmac and amber lights, then the bus lane gave me mostly empty road to bomb down and when I had made it within sight of St Peters I could see the ocean of blue lights ahead, flowing like a torrent of water after a single white van less than twenty metres ahead of them. They must have thought he resprayed it after the press conference, still it was clearly too old.

  The sound of ten angry sirens was deafening. Faster, faster, faster! I was within twenty metres of them. What the fuck are you going to do if you catch up to them? Shut up! Onto London Road, another high street, single lane, down the narrow gap of traffic. Red lights! Through. Everyone alive. Two lanes now, the circus ahead, we were about to go past my window. Who cares!? The road splits here, one way again. Holy fucking shit! I don’t know how it happened but metal crunched, glass smashed, cars were jerked in directions they shouldn’t go. Some kind of accident, police cars smashing into each other, one on the pavement, no time to pay attention—avoid dying!—onto the wrong side, through the sea of lights. Now we really were going past my window. Oncoming traffic! Shit. Pavement! Narrow escape. Under the viaduct. I was alive and still moving but I was on the wrong side of the block. Think, where does he come out? Left. If he has any sense he’ll stay down London Road! Left, wrong way round the corner, dodged more oncoming traffic—Bus!—almost dead, missed, still alive. There’s the van! He’s not smart, he’s veered right, into Preston Park Avenue, running along the top of the park. He’s trying to lose them.

  I skidded right, let out a roar catching up, got in close behind, my front wheel almost kissing his back doors now. If the police had got this close surely they would have seen the paint job was done years ago, the white layer was shedding all over the road. Not that it mattered, he was driving like a madman and they had to stop him whatever colour his van was. Too narrow! I pulled back two metres, there were parked cars along both sides, the van filling the road in front of me: one piece of traffic and that unlucky driver is dead. One football from the park, one child not looking, and they are dead. And so am I. This has to end. I accelerated, I had to pull level with him, maybe if he could see me he would stop. He had to know this wasn’t about the drugs. Doing sixty miles an hour, at least, I slipped into the sliver of space to the right of the van—breathe in—pulling level with the driver’s door. Maybe I should bang on the door! Maybe I would fly off my bike! Finally he saw me, for a split second. He was scared. He was confused. Then I realised all he could see was a maniac on a motorbike riding dangerously down his side, he didn’t know who I was. Was I police? Did he care? Shit, shit, shit! Got to take off my helmet. Too dangerous! Fuck it, this is all too dangerous. One hand off the handlebars—too late! He inched the wheel to the right, closing the gap between me and the parked cars, I had to brake, didn’t I? Brake or die!? Brake or die, Joe!? I braked, slipping down the side to the back again. He was metres ahead of me once more, heading toward the crossroads at the end of the street. I looked in my mirrors: no sign of blue. Just me and him. And the crossroads. Traffic from the left. Traffic from the right. This was the gauntlet, right here. Blind entry, it was like driving through a meat slicer, if one of us was going to die it was going to be here. Here we go! He made it. So did I! Fuck. Me.

  Surrenden was next, and much safer: uphill, dual carriageway, massive houses, grass and trees in the middle, few pedestrians. There was a college further up, but I remembered with relief it was the holidays. Sirens. I checked my mirrors; all I could detect in my glance was a shimmer of blue. They were back. And they were gaining on us. The arrogant bastards were putting their pursuit driving course into practice. They lived for this.

  After ten seconds the road took a sharp turn to the right, and got steeper. The weight of the van slowed it, and I took my chance. I pulled up my visor, wind in my eyes, and pulled level with him again. I banged on the window. He paid attention this time. Pull the fuck over! I said with my squinting eyes. Or at least I hoped I did. But it didn’t matter: if he recognised me, he recognised me as the man who knew what was in the back of his van, and it wasn’t until this split second that I realised I was probably the one person he wanted to see less than the police. I am so much worse. He moved his hands to the left of the steering wheel and gripped it tight.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted.

  No time. I tapped the brakes as he wrenched the wheel to the right, trying to ram me onto the grass, but I was too quick, I dropped behind him again, sandwiched between him and the police cars that had finally joined the party. He put his foot down again, revving the thing raw, and rivalling my Honda for noise.

  The van screamed its way over the top of the hill, and onto Braybon Avenue, a steep and winding roller coaster. The road rolled back down over the hill, we swang to the right, then to the left, the sirens were quieter now, the police had slammed on the brakes. They knew what was coming.

  Then the road was steeper, and our speedometers jumped, then it curved back up. A dip. A step. Whatever you want to call it, my stomach did a somersault. Then I watched in horror as the road dropped away from the van. One wheel was in the air. Then two, then three, a pirouette. Then four. It was floating. Then my bike was floating. And I was floating away from it. The van was turning gracefully through the air, heading for a bungalow on the right. Number 48. Then my head hit the tarmac.

  Everything was quiet. Everything was dark. It was a long dark that stretched away from me, full of wind and storms. Out in this deep darkness someone had rung a bell. A giant one the size of a house. It reached me as the deep reverberating hum of a bell rang centuries ago atop a monastery in the Himalayas, the sound still bouncing off the mountains of my mind. Then the darkness was on my face, and there was no depth, no world, no bell. I felt around. I could feel grass in both hands. But my feet pushed against stone. Or concrete. A step of some kind. Then I knew I was lying face down on a verge, my legs dangling off the kerb.

  I was wearing my motorcycle helmet. I pulled it off. Everything was sirens, and screaming, and bright lights. I pushed off the ground, hurting my arms, slowly up onto all fours, hurting my knees. Then I breathed, hurting my chest. Had I been in an accident?

  I looked up. What I saw didn’t make sense. Half bungalow
, half building site. Half building site, half van. Ambulances. Police. A howling woman being held back from the rubble by two officers. Around the rubble, paramedics worked, and around the van. The road was closed both ways.

  I saw all this through the windows of a car. Had no one found me? Or seen me? Or they didn’t care. What had I been doing? I tried to walk myself through today’s events. I got an invite? Yes, that’s right. From who? The Tothovas. I took it forward moment by moment. My flat. My office. A barbecue. Lots of meat. Stupid salads. People. An old man in a suit. Hacker. Ben McCready. Roy Parker. Price. Bitch! Glass patio tiles. An angel. Fuck! My heart was going to break my ribs. I had no idea what I was doing here when there was a girl to save.

  I leant on the bonnet, then finally got up onto my feet. I still seemed to be invisible. A small boy was being loaded onto a stretcher. A small girl onto another. The driver of the van was slumped over the steering wheel, bloodied. He seemed to be invisible too.

  I looked around for some way to sneak off. Something silver glistened in a front garden. My Honda was upside down in someone’s garden! I limped over and righted it, poor thing. It was hurt, but it wasn’t fatal.

  I looked around again. There was no way I could push it through the road blocks unseen. There was only one way out: Steve McQueen style. I put my helmet back on. Ok. Ok. Here we go! I fired it up. Heads span as I launched out, onto the road, uphill toward the roadblock, up along the side of someone’s wall, into the air, over a police car; over the craning, unbelieving head of a uniformed officer on a radio; and back onto the tarmac. Out! It was pretty damn impressive.

  Siren’s wailed, but they were too late, I would be lost in ten seconds. I headed right, onto Woodland Way, and from that into Withdean Park, bombing downhill through the trees and across the grass toward London Road. Toward Hove. A strange, whimsical thought had mutated, festering in my mind, in the darkness. It possessed me: Nobody has glass patio tiles.