Quick

by Steve Worland

  Sssssssstt. His hands burn. Molten tyre rubber has dripped onto Franka’s race suit and covered the buckle. ‘Shit!’ It hurts like, well molten fucking rubber —

  Fzzzzzzzz. A high-pitched whistle from inside the car’s flaming engine bay cuts across the soundscape.

  Now what?

  It sounds like a boiling kettle that’s about to go ballistic. It could be the battery for the ERS (Energy Recovery System), which is Formula One’s fancy way of describing the car’s Prius-like hybrid system, or it could be the fuel tank. Neither of them play well with fire. Worse, as soon as one explodes the other will follow and they’ll make the grenades he encountered earlier this week seem like a pair of Beroccas. Either way, he needs to get Franka out of this car right now. He grits his teeth and pushes his hands into the cockpit.

  Ssssssstt. His hands burn on the hot rubber as he unlocks the buckle and pulls the straps aside. His fingers sting like Gordon Sumner but he ignores the pain, grabs Franka under the arms and lifts her out of the cockpit, as fast and gently as he can. She’s a bantamweight so it’s not difficult.

  Fzzzzzzzz. The high-pitched whistle rises an octave.

  Where are those fuckin’ marshals?

  Same place as the Frenchman, on the other side of the pit wall. The fire is too big and the chance of a fuel tank or an ERS battery explosion too high so they’ve decided to sit this one out.

  Time to go.

  Billy bends his knees, grabs the extinguisher with his left hand, knows if he leaves it the pressurised cylinder will overheat and detonate too, then turns towards the pit wall.

  Christ.

  A curtain of fire rises before him, the heat so intense he can’t breathe.

  He’s trapped.

  ~ * ~

  16

  Fzzzzzzzz. The high-pitched whistle rises another octave.

  There’s no choice but to get moving.

  Billy grits his teeth, puts his head down and sprints into the flames, runs as fast as possible, cradles Franka’s body as best he can, the heat terrible. It seems to take an age—then he’s through the fire and the worst of the smoke.

  That wasn’t so bad —

  Kaboom. It feels like a nuclear weapon detonated. The ground moves but Billy manages to stay upright. Franka’s car just exploded —

  Whomp. The blast wave slams into Billy, knocks him sideways. He staggers, tries to keep his feet under him, doesn’t want to fall with Franka in his arms —

  Kaboom. Another explosion. Even bigger than the last.

  Thwump. Something hits him hard on the right shoulder, spins him around. He overbalances and falls to his knees, cushions Franka with his arms so she doesn’t hit the ground.

  What the hell was that?

  A magnet from the ERS system, from the look of the flaming chunk of metal beside him. He gently lays Franka on the tarmac, flips up her helmet visor to check her eyes and see if she’s come around. She hasn’t.

  Billy hears footfalls. He looks up as a helmeted figure sprints through the smoke towards him.

  Finally a safety marshall.

  The figure flicks up the helmet’s visor. It’s not a safety marshall. It’s Claude.

  ‘Nice of you to drop by. Didn’t keep you from the hors d’oeuvres, did we?’

  Claude doesn’t answer, just points to Billy’s right. The Australian turns to see what he’s indicating and realises his shoulder is alight. That flaming chunk of metal has set him on fire.

  ‘Oh jeezus.’ Instantly Billy feels the heat through his shirt —

  Kuuushh. White powder blasts into the Australian. It’s cool and refreshing and immediately douses the flames. The white cloud clears and Billy sees the Frenchman holding a fire extinguisher in his hand. ‘Thanks.’ Billy turns back to the unconscious Franka, feels for her pulse again, finds it. It’s faint but it’s there.

  Screeech. A silver Mercedes AMG medical vehicle slides to a halt five metres way. Two doctors, a young woman and an older guy, swing out of the vehicle and sprint to Franka. Billy immediately stands and steps away to give them room. ‘There’s a pulse. She was unconscious and unresponsive when I found her.’ The doctors nod and go to work. Billy watches, concerned.

  ‘And who may this be?’ Billy hears the Frenchman and looks to where he is pointing.

  James Allen, the foremost English-speaking Formula One journalist on the planet, who spends race weekends trawling the paddock tracking news stories for his website, runs towards them from the exit of the pit lane with a camera in hand. He’s fifty metres away and closes in fast.

  Billy is momentarily starstruck, then realises he cannot speak to this man because it will blow his cover. He’s meant to be keeping a low profile and yet he just ran onto the track in the middle of a Formula One race and dragged a driver out of a burning car in front of the world’s media—a media that will want to know who the hell he is. ‘He can’t know who we are.’

  Claude nods. ‘I got this.’ He strides down the track towards the oncoming journalist.

  Kusssshhh. He blasts the fire extinguisher long and hard. The giant plume of white powder billows and obscures them from Allen. ‘Let’s move.’

  Through the drifting cloud of fire retardant Claude and Billy sprint to the pit wall. They scale it as a fire-engine finally pulls up beside Franka’s car, then they drop to the pit lane, cut through the Marussia garage, pass a number of surprised team members, then exit onto pit road and head for the Iron Rhino HQ.

  Billy keeps pace beside Claude. ‘Why didn’t you help me pull her out of the car?’

  ‘Because we had no business being out there.’

  ‘What? We’re police officers. It’s our job to help.’

  ‘It’s not our job to save someone who chooses to partake in the most dangerous sport on the planet. You could have died and what would have been the point of that?’

  ‘I was fine.’

  ‘Sure, right up until the part when your shoulder was on fire.’

  They enter the Iron Rhino HQ through the side door, make their way down the walkway then slip into their office. The Frenchman turns to the Australian. ‘Look, if you choose to put yourself in danger, fine. Go ahead and kill yourself. But I’m not required to do it as well. And I won’t. I’ve told you before, the reason I’m alive is because I don’t do the crazy stuff and I’m certainly not going to start doing it for someone with a death wish who I’ve been partnered with for two weeks.’

  Billy studies him. ‘What happened?’

  Claude’s confused. ‘About what?’

  ‘To make you like this.’

  ‘To not take stupid risks and die? I thinks that’s just common sense —’

  ‘No no, don’t change the subject. What happened?’

  The Frenchman regards him for a long moment. ‘This happened.’ He pulls up his left trouser leg and shows Billy a fat, keloid scar from his knee to his ankle. ‘And this.’ He drops the trouser leg and pulls up his right shirt sleeve to show a wide scar that circumnavigates his forearm. ‘And this.’ He pulls up his shirt to reveal a large scar on his abdomen which could only be a bullet wound.

  Billy takes them in, shocked. ‘They didn’t all happen on the same day, did they?’

  Claude grins at the thought. ‘No no, different days. Different years, but they all made me cautious.’ He studies the bullet wound for a moment. ‘Especially this one. Being dead for four minutes will do that to you.’

  ‘Jeeze.’

  ‘And I’ve been driving a desk for five years because of it.’ He looks up at the Australian. ‘That’s why I’m so rusty, if you’re wondering.’ It’s clearly difficult for the Frenchman to say.

  ‘You just saved my burning arse so you’re not that rusty.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Anyway, the thing is, when you start out you’re young and full of piss and vinegar and you think nothing can hurt you, then you reach a point where you have wives and responsibilities and they’re jus
t more important than the job. And as much good as you think you’re doing you realise it’s not worth dying for.’

  Billy nods, remembers that he felt something similar about Franka when he was being chased down the stairs by that grenade in the Mall of the Emirates.

  Self-conscious, the Frenchman changes the subject, glances at the Australian’s hands. ‘Looks like you’re going to have a few scars of your own.’

  Billy studies them. Large white blisters have already begun to form on his fingers. ‘They’ll be fine in a few days.’ He gingerly strips off his shirt, moves into the bathroom and looks at his right shoulder in the mirror. It’s red and tender from the flames, like a severe case of oops-I-totally-forgot-to-apply-the-sunscreen-before-I-fell-asleep-on-the-beach sunburn, but again, it’s not that serious. Somehow he’s managed to get out of that inferno with relatively minor injuries.

  Did Franka?

  He moves back into the main room and flicks on the television. A graphic says the race has been red flagged, which means stopped, and will not be restarted because of the surprisingly large crater in the pit straight created when Franka’s car exploded. Replays of the accident show the shunt started on the main straight when Vandelay’s Iron Rhino blocked Alonso’s Ferrari as he tried to pass, clipped its front wing and sent both cars spinning across the track. Vandelay’s vehicle then hit Franka’s, who was minding her own business off the racing line while being lapped.

  Alonso then dragged Vandelay from the burning wreckage of his vehicle, a nice gesture considering Vandelay was to blame for the accident. Apparently the guy was semi-conscious when he was put into the ambulance. On the other hand, Franka was unconscious when she went into her ambulance after an as yet unknown person, though some suspected it was a shy track marshal, pulled her from her Evergreen’s burning chassis. Their medical conditions are not currently known.

  I hope to God she’s okay.

  The television image cuts to a shot of the large medical chopper as it lifts off from the infield heli-pad. Billy hears it thunder overhead on its way to the Abu Dhabi General Hospital in Sheikh Khalifa Medical City, the name of which crawls across the bottom of the screen as the chopper’s destination. Billy grabs a fresh Iron Rhino shirt and pulls it on as both his hands and shoulder start to really sting. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the hospital.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see how she is.’

  Surprised, the Frenchman searches the Australian’s face and realises something: ‘That’s why you did it.’

  ‘That’s why I did what?’

  ‘Pulled her out of the car.’ Claude studies him. ‘You love her.’

  Billy flinches. ‘I’ve known her for like a week, mate.’

  Claude sees the flinch. ‘It wasn’t a question, and I only knew my second wife for a week before we got married and we were together for seven years. Do you love her? That was a question.’

  Billy takes a long moment, then comes clean: ‘I don’t know her, mate. I mean—I’ve only met her thrice—three times—in an elevator was one of those times—I’m not sure what I feel—you know? I like her ...’ He trails off. It’s a relief to let it out.

  Claude grimaces. ‘You don’t talk like that when you’re with her, do you?’

  Billy’s head slumps to his chest. ‘That was better than anything I have ever said to her. She makes me nervous.’

  ‘And yet running into a blazing inferno doesn’t. That’s really quite odd.’

  Billy turns for the door, doesn’t want to discuss it any longer. ‘I have to go.’

  Claude follows him. ‘I’ll drive.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘So I can give you some pointers.’

  ‘Pointers? About what?’

  Claude mimics Billy: “‘I don’t know her—I mean I’ve only met her thrice—I’m—not—sure—what I feel—you know ...” Good God, you’re an affront to masculinity. You need to learn about women and I’m going to teach you.’

  ‘No you’re not —’

  ‘Too late, I have already begun.’

  ~ * ~

  17

  The Abu Dhabi General Hospital in Sheikh Khalifa Medical City is a vision from the future. Not a bleak, decaying dystopia where healthcare is only available to the super rich, but a bright, gleaming tomorrowland where it’s accessible and affordable for all.

  ‘Really, please, I’ve heard enough.’ Billy walks briskly through the busy lobby towards the sleek reception desk and tries to put some distance between himself and the Frenchman. Undeterred, Claude keeps pace. ‘And another thing, you ask her out once and once only. Any more than that and you come across like some insecure so—so, how you say—so —’

  ‘So and so?’

  ‘So—so —’

  ‘Son of a bitch?’

  ‘Soft-cock. If she says no, pfftt, move on. You hear what I’m saying?’

  Billy looks round, mortified. ‘Everyone in the hospital heard what you’re saying.’

  ‘And if she does say yes, you must never apologise for you masculinity. You are a man, be strong like bull. If she does not understand that, pfftt, move on.’

  ‘How many times have you been married?’

  ‘And no more with the namby-pamby —’ Claude mimics Billy’s voice: ‘Ummm, ahhh, ohhh, I don’t know what to say because—my feelings are all mixed up and I’m so unsure of myself that I—have to—speak—like—this—all—the—time.’ His voice turns strident again: ‘Say what you mean and mean what you say! Use your sexual charisma to seize what you want. You’re a man!’

  ‘I think you said that already.’

  ‘It cannot be said enough! If she does not like it, pfftt —’

  ‘Move on. Yes, you’ve been very clear on that.’

  ‘You are not a soft-cock.’

  ‘As you keep saying.’ Billy turns from the Frenchman and realises they’ve reached the reception desk—and a striking-looking middle-aged nurse has heard everything they’ve said. Mortified, Billy notices her shocked expression. ‘Sorry about that —’

  ‘Never apologise. You’re a man.’

  Billy ignores the Frenchman and leans towards the nurse, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, I’d like to—is, how is Franka Edlebrock? I’m a—friend. Of hers. Billy Hotchkiss.’

  ‘Have you heard nothing I’ve said? Speak clearly and in complete sentences when you talk to a woman.’

  The nurse regards Claude curiously for a moment, then answers Billy: ‘She’s currently under observation.’

  ‘Has she regained consciousness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she okay? I mean is she —’

  ‘She has a mild concussion.’

  Billy brightens. ‘And that’s it? There’s nothing else?’

  ‘That’s it. The press release just went out.’

  The Australian takes a deep breath and a great calm washes over him. He’s extremely relieved to hear this news.

  Claude turns to the nurse. ‘Can he see her?’

  Billy shakes his head. ‘Oh no no no, that’s not necessary. I just needed—wanted to find out if she was okay, I don’t —’

  ‘Nonsense. You could have done that over the phone.’ That’s Claude again. He studies the nurse, drinks her in, then flashes his pearly whites. ‘Is there any chance he can see her?’ He then whispers conspiratorially: ‘Young love.’

  Billy elbows Claude hard: ‘Would you shut up?!’

  The nurse nods matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ She picks up a phone to make a call. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll let you know.’

  Claude shoots her a smile and a wink. ‘Thank you so much.’ He leads Billy away and whispers: ‘You see how much she wants me? I can’t take credit. My sexual charisma has a strong gravity. It draws in all kinds of foreign bodies.’

  ‘Oh please. Are we talking about the same woman? She’s just doing her job.’

 
; Claude studies the Australian, incredulous. ‘It’s worse than I thought. You have no idea about women at all.’

  ‘Do so.’

  ‘Do not.’

  ‘Do so.’

  ‘Do not —’