by Gordon Brown
We’ve hardly picked up speed when the truck turns sharp right, stops and the engine dies. I crawl away from the door but it stays closed. The engine fires up again. I figure Graham has just delivered Muzzle his package.
I crawl back to my seat. Graham picks up the pace. I’m in for a few hours of rock ’n’ roll.
Out of curiosity I reach into the nearest box, root around and pull out a wooden carving.
It’s about a foot long, a few inches wide and feels like the wing of a plane. I run my hands along the surface. Smooth and curved. One side swoops in, while the reverse sweeps out, giving the wing a fat belly. A small rod protrudes from the bottom. I scrabble around in the box and find a clutch of bases, each with a hole in the middle. I put two and two together and slot the rod home.
The carving is a superb tactile experience. Along the edges it’s carved in small waves and the whole item rotates twenty degrees or so from top to bottom. It’s too dark to see it properly but I find myself turning and stroking the object.
I lie my head against the truck wall, rubbing the carving, and try to sleep.
Chapter 20
I wake to the sound of the engine winding down as the gentle deceleration of the brakes being applied kicks in. Check my watch. Midday. I’ve been out for eight hours. I scramble towards the cab, away from the door.
We rumble to a stop. I wait for the door to open. Nothing happens. I wait a further five minutes before crawling back over the boxes.
A little light creeps through the seal on the doors but I have no idea where I am. I do some math. Eight hours at sixty would put us almost five hundred miles west. San Antonio or maybe Houston.
I need a whizz and I don’t fancy relieving myself in the truck. The thought of sloshing around in my own urine lacks appeal.
Reaching out, I pull on the handle of the truck door and the catch gives. The door starts to move up. I hold it an inch from its home. A breeze blows in. Bathing my face. I open the door a little further, roll under and drop to the ground. As I stand I find myself facing a brick wall. Reaching back, I grab the sports bag, push the door down and twist the handle to lock it. The sports bag is lumped onto my shoulder as I walk round the truck.
The skyline of Houston dominates the scene. My math was spot on. The driver has pulled into a truck stop a few miles short of the city. Semis and trucks are spread around like discarded toys in a kid’s bedroom. A low-slung building with plate glass ground-to-ceiling windows holds a diner. To the right there are signs for the washrooms. I choose the latter and a few seconds later I’m emptying my bladder.
I pop the sports bag on the toilet lid and rifle through it. Wash kit, fresh white shirt, boxers, jeans, socks, a lightweight blue rain-jacket and a baseball cap. I pull them all out. The bus driver matches me in height but not in girth. There are pay-as-you-go showers at the back of the washroom. I repack the bag, pay the attendant, grab a towel and scrub myself raw.
The driver’s wash kit is small but on the money. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthwash, deodorant, aftershave, mini shaver – the works. I dry myself before putting on the driver’s clothes, wincing a little at using someone else’s boxers.
A shave and a splash later and, with the help of my belt pulling the oversized jeans tight, I’m feeling a little more human. I check my reflection – if the suits have a description of me it isn’t in a white shirt, jeans and blue jacket. I ram the baseball cap on.
I’m no longer the me that walked into the washroom.
Now for some food.
The diner is busy. I spot Graham in the corner tucking into some serious cholesterol. I order up coffee and a meatball sub, paying with my dwindling money supply. A slip of paper falls from between two tens, drifting to the floor. I pick it up.
‘2234 Irondale Lane, Fairway Oaks, Hudson. Key in the pelican’s beak.’
It’s written in Charlie’s scrawl. I take my food to a window seat and check that there are no black SUVs before eating. I study the piece of paper. The address is alien.
The first bite of the meatballs floods my mouth with taste. Rich and thick. Just the way mother would have done them. I slug some coffee, letting the caffeine get to work.
I finger the index on the pilot’s map.
The only Hudson I can find is about forty miles north of St Petersburg on the Gulf coast. If Graham is Tampa-bound, he has to skirt the town. If he takes US 19 he’ll almost pass through it. If he opts for the freeway, he’ll pass about five miles east of it.
Maybe my luck is changing.
I weigh up the piece of paper. If the suits have decided to ride Charlie, he might have given up the address. It’s no mistake it’s bundled in the cash though. Charlie’s giving me somewhere to hide out.
The meatballs give way to sweet onion and I wonder if the suits will have leaned on Charlie. A few questions, sure, but would they get heavy? Maybe. If so, Hudson is a no-go. But I need a destination and Charlie’s address is the only place I have at the moment.
I swallow the last of the sub, then drain the coffee. Graham is reading USA Today. The waitress is refilling his coffee. My lift seems in no hurry to get back onto the road.
A small shop sits at the entrance to the diner. I go inside to stock up on chips, Coke and a large bottle of water. It’ll get warm in the truck. I need something to drink and something to piss in if we’re in for a long drive. An inflatable neck rest, a blowup cushion, a packet of Lifesavers and I’m set.
The Houston sun is on bake mode. I’ve no desire to cook in the rear of the truck before I have to. A coffee refill sounds good. Graham has yet to pay for his food.
Outside, the drivers are playing Tetris with their vehicles in the parking lot. My eyes keep a lookout for SUVs or Regals. More than once a black car catches my eye, but when Graham stretches and pays the bill there’s still no sign of the suits.
I’m in the back of the truck and crouching at the rear before he has left the building.
As the engine fires up I blow up the cushion and neck rest. I have a thought. I clamber to the back and, as we start to move, empty the sculptures from one of the boxes into the others. Once it’s clear of wood I get in. I’m fairly sure that I can’t be seen from the door if someone looks in. It’s too cramped to stay in for long but it’s a better hiding place than crouching at the back.
I crawl forward and lie down, letting the rocking movement play over me.
*
Bang…
My head hits the side of one of the boxes and I’m awake. Despite myself, I’ve been out for the count again. We’ve either hit something or come close. The truck has stopped moving. I sit up to check my watch. The luminous dial tells me it’s gone four.
The heat is intense. I crawl to the back and get into my box. Once settled, I pop a Coke, downing it in three gulps.
The sound of a siren cuts in.
The police.
My heart lurches into the starting blocks. I try and bury myself deeper in the box. I can hear talking before the door rattles up and light floods in.
‘See,’ says Graham. ‘Wooden carvings.’
The vehicle rocks as he climbs into the truck. I hear him root around in one of the boxes.
‘OK, sir,’ says a voice used to giving orders. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’
‘Be my guest.’
The truck moves as another body gets on board.
‘Look, officer,’ Graham adds, ‘I just lost concentration and slipped onto the meridian. No big deal. There’s no damage.’
‘Could you jump out, sir?’
The truck moves again.
There are six rows of boxes in the truck, from back to front. I hear the police officer dig into a box followed by the click of wood on wood. Then the truck rocks and I realize that he’s crawling over the boxes to get at the ones in the back. Something has wound up his radar.
He stops to check a few more boxes before crawling a little nearer. I can smell stale sweat and long-since applied antiperspirant. His breathing is labored. I imagine a g
ut hanging out over the police-issue gun belt.
‘Fuck.’ The word spits out as the truck rocks again. It sounds like he’s fallen into one of the boxes. He’s onto the last but one row. I know what he’s after. If the driver is hiding anything it’ll be at the back.
I wait for a face to appear over the lip. I grab at my breath, holding it tight, burying my head in my lap. But that won’t prevent me from being seen. I tense my legs. If he appears I have one choice. Up and away. I just hope I can take him by surprise.
More rooting and he’s in the box next to mine. My muscles are starting to ache with the tension, ready to leap. My hands get ready to grab him. Click. He drops one of the carvings back into the box.
‘Anything?’ A new voice.
‘No.’ The police officer’s voice is so close that I jump a little.
‘We have a call,’ says the new voice. ‘A 10-67 on Starling Street. We’re the nearest.’
‘OK. Coming.’
I let go of the breath as the police officer moves back to the door. There’s some chat, then the door slides down. A few more minutes and the truck starts to move again. We bump and grind to exit the meridian before smoothing out as the road takes over. I climb from the box. My back clicks. Bones find other bones to play with. Once back at the door, I place the cushion at my head.
I try to settle down again. There will be no sleep this time.
Chapter 21
The dim light from the gap in the door is gone as day drops to dusk. The driver is on a mission. No stops, foot down. He’s smooth as well. No sudden turns and since the incident with the meridian we are, if anything, moving faster. I had expected him to pull in after the bump with the grass but he’s on his second wind.
The truck slows. We swing to the right, tumble over something rough and come to a halt. I crawl into my box. Nothing. I crawl back, flipping the door handle. The air outside floods in. My sweat dries in the coolness.
A Holiday Inn Express sign lights up the parking lot around me. I jump out and spot Graham at the reception desk, checking in. One of the comfy beds inside could be mine too. But I’ve no idea when he’s likely to set out, and rides to Hudson could be thin on the ground.
I really don’t fancy spending a night in the truck though. An hour slips by before I approach the check-in desk.
The sign over the door informs me that I’m in, or near, Mobile. Graham’s not hanging around. A young lad, maybe a couple of years past the peak of his acne, is manning the desk. He’s neat in the company uniform but his hair is a mess or, more likely, it’s his way of rebelling against the corporate world.
He looks up as I approach. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Sure can. A friend of mine checked in an hour ago. He’s driving the small truck.’ I point as I say this. ‘I’ve to meet him in the morning but I don’t want to disturb him tonight. Will you be on in the morning?’
The change of direction with the last bit of the question throws him a little. He nods. ‘Eh. Yes.’
‘Good. I’d like to check in but I’d also like a wake-up call when my friend is ready to leave. Would that be possible?’
‘What is your friend’s name?’
Good question.
‘Graham.’
‘Graham what?’
Good question. I don’t answer. ‘Do you have a room?’
He checks with the computer and it confirms what is obvious from the lack of cars outside
‘Yes, sir. Will that be one night?’
I nod.
The phone next to him rings and he picks it up. ‘Certainly, Mr Laidlaw. 7.00am and Mr Laidlaw, I have a friend of yours here…’
I violently shake my head as he says this. He looks confused as hell. ‘Eh… Sorry, Mr Laidlaw, my mistake. 7.00am. Have a good night.’
He replaces the phone.
I lean forward. Trying to make it look friendly. ‘It’s a bit complicated but I don’t want to see him right now.’
He nods. ‘Do you still want me to call you when Mr Laidlaw checks out?’
‘You know what, just leave it. I’ll phone him in the morning.’
The young man finishes checking me in and doesn’t blink when I take the cash option for paying.
*
Once in my room I strip, placing the bus driver’s clothes on a hanger. I run the faucet to hot, fill the basin with water and take out my own boxers to give them a wash. I do the same for my socks. I throw in the shirt for good measure.
Once washed I wring them out as best I can before hanging them over the shower rail. Change my mind and hang them over the TV to take a shower. Change my mind and fill the tub for a bath. I make myself a coffee. Change my mind. I slip on my trousers and old shirt. Skipping to the lobby I empty the vending machine of three Cokes. Return to the room, strip and slip into the tub with a glass, a bottle of Wild Turkey sitting on the floor next to me – cola cans at the ready.
The tub is a touch too small for me to spread out in but it’s luxury compared to the back of the truck. As the hot water works its magic on the outside of my body some Wild Turkey does the trick inside. I’m hungry but, despite the sleep I have squeezed in today, I’m too tired to get dressed and hunt down food. Breakfast will have to be a big one.
The constant roar of traffic makes me wish I had flipped on the radio but now that I’m up to my chest in water I’m not for moving.
It dawns on me that I don’t know where I am. It also dawns on me that no one else knows either. Of course the smartass suits may have me all figured by now. SUVs rushing to the scene. Plastic cuffs at the ready. Waiting outside the door as I lie in the tub. Metal battering ram at the ready or, to be less dramatic, a master key from the receptionist. Six of them – me dragged naked into the parking lot and back to Lendl.
I hear a bang from the corridor. The water chills around me. I strain to catch another sound. A man and a woman laughing. I try to relax. How the hell could the suits know I’m here?
But the relaxed mood is gone. I climb from the tub and towel down. The bed is inviting but I do the good boy thing and brush my teeth first, only to undermine the action by pouring another drink. One more and I’ll call it quits. I don’t want to miss my ride in the morning.
I prop up a few pillows, lie down and wonder how Lorraine is. I want to call but can’t figure a way to do it without giving away my location.
Not for the first time I’m left wondering at the lack of people I can turn to. LA is a desert as far as friends go. My old army colleagues are few and thin on the pond. My mom and dad are long since gone. My brother could be on the Moon for all I know. I laugh. He really could be on the Moon. He works for NASA – a trained astronaut. Home boy made good – unlike me.
I let my head wander over recent events.
The truth is something I don’t want to face. Am I a catalyst freak of nature? An emotion engine driving people to commit acts of random violence? Or could it all still be a wave of coincidences. An unprecedented set of episodes. Unrelated. Unconnected. A mathematician’s statistical nightmare.
The last of the Wild Turkey slides down my throat. I pick up the phone and put in for an alarm call to the receptionist for 6.00am.
Perspective is difficult when you have no one to talk to. My head has no fresh place to go. It drags up the same old, same old. Playing it out in a disjointed order. Lendl. Who is he? Why is he? The deaths. The alley in Iraq. The plane. The ‘go for it’ stewardess. The underground office. The sheer mass of people trying to maim and wound. The Mystery Mob. The fate of the Bouffant King and his friend.
How many days since Iraq? Four? Five? A lifetime of events for anyone. Yet it’s not going to stop soon. How can it if I’m the architect of my own downfall?
I shuffle the pillow, willing sleep.
My head is ready for sleep but my body isn’t. I scramble around the bed like a lovesick spider. I move my drying clothes, flick on the TV and find CNN, expecting to see my face above a caption telling the nation: Do not approach this man.
He’s dangerous. If you see him inform the police immediately.
The top-of-the-hour headlines slide into view. As usual the world is in a shit state. I wonder when it wasn’t a turkey shoot. I kill the TV, get up and pull back the drapes. The parking lot sits beyond my window. I can see the truck from here. Beyond it a strip of badly rutted road leads to the highway. A car pulls in, U-turns and exits. A run of trees blocks out any other view.
I’m pulling the drapes shut when I catch sight of movement. Two men pass under the Holiday Inn Express ad sign, both dressed head to foot in black. They walk to the front of Graham’s truck. They’re too far away for me to make out much detail but both look short of six feet and skinny with it. One of them flips at the handle of the truck. His friend tries the other door, before they wander back to the hood. A chat and they’re off to the rear.
Shit.
It never rains but…I can’t let them do the truck over. My little ruse with the receptionist is stacking up to be a bad idea. I see what’s coming. The two thieves raid the back of the truck. The next morning my driver discovers the break-in. The police are called. They interview the receptionist and I appear on the police note pad. The police ask after me. I’m gone. On the run. They have a description and I’m wanted. If the suits are worth their salt, then I’ll pop up on a screen somewhere and they’ll know where I am.
Strike that. Scenario two. The two thieves raid the back of the truck. The next morning the driver doesn’t do a check. Somewhere between here and Tampa he checks the load. He calls the police, mentions his stop in Mobile. A phone call and I’m there again. The suits close in and know I am somewhere around.
Scenario three. Same as scenario two but my driver doesn’t check until he reaches his destination. I’m history as a stowaway but he calls the police, mentions Mobile and there I am once more. The suits close in and know I’m somewhere between Mobile and Tampa.
Whichever way, the truck getting done over is not going to help me stay on the run. How difficult can it be to just vanish? Don’t thousands of people do it every year? Why the hell is this so hard?