Kidnap

by Philip McCutchan

  He must curb himself, control his nerves.

  Wishing he was back at contract cleaning, Mr Blundy returned to his driving seat and reached for the flask of whisky — he’d only just remembered it in all the hoo-ha. He took a big suck at the neat spirit and felt a little stronger, more able to cope with what life was throwing at him.

  Ag came back from the toilet.

  “All right?” she asked.

  “Far as I know.”

  “Let’s get on, then.”

  “I’d better have a pee, first.” Mr Blundy went off. When he came back, the rear offside door was open with Ag’s bottom filling it. Mr Blundy was much alarmed.

  “What’s up? What you doing, Ag?”

  “Heard a sound. Or thought I did.” Ag came out backwards. “And maybe I did, at that.”

  “Is he all right? Is he … alive, Ag?”

  “Yes,” she said with a degree of venom.

  “You sure?”

  “Quite sure. Done a pee.”

  “In the boot?”

  “For God’s sake, where else?”

  “It’ll drip,” Mr Blundy said in a panic. So as to get ahead of the drip, as it were, he drove at once for the petrol pumps. Juice flowed into the tank, close to the inert form of Harold Barnwell. Mr Blundy paid cash and drove on, past a sort of shack with a sign reading “Police”. Outside was a patrol car with the Bill staring him in the face from the window. Staring accusingly, Mr Blundy felt. The Bill always did, but Mr Blundy went deathly cold. The eyes seemed to be following him. But nothing could possibly be known yet. Mr Blundy looked down at the clock on the fascia: 3 p.m., just after, assuming the damn thing wasn’t on the blink. The last race wouldn’t finish till about four-thirty and after that it would take Master Barnwell, had he still been there, that was, a good long time to get back to that posh school of his. No alarm would be raised for a few hours yet, and even when the teachers began to get worried, probably the first thing they’d do would be to contact the kid’s dad, not the Bill. All that would take time. Indeed, if the teachers had taken backhanders, they might even delay till next morning. In any case the Bill wouldn’t begin to search for the boy till quite late that night, by which time Mr Blundy intended to be deep in the Yorkshire Dales surrounded by cows and horned sheep, desolate muddy roads and a good deal of open space.

  Mr Blundy pulled away from the Bill, out of the service area, into the acceleration lane, flicking right. “No more stops,” he said between his teeth.

  “If you say so.”

  “Got to get to Auntie soonest possible, Ag. Though I do think we ought to take a look before long.”

  “At the kid, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What’s the point in that? Nothing we can do, is there?”

  “No …”

  She gave him a sharp, sideways look. “Well, is there?” Mr Blundy sighed. “No … no, I s’pose not.”

  It was soon after this that Mr Blundy’s vision came to him: God, hopping about with angels around the Armco barrier. Quite uncanny, it was. But very real and very frightening, what with one thing and another. Accusing, like the Bill.

  It was extraordinary. It was horribly unnerving, the more so the farther God moved north, keeping in close company. Mr Blundy’s mind somersaulted, was no doubt playing him tricks. He had the thought that God had maybe come to collect Harold Barnwell as the spirit emerged from the boot. The cold fingers of death seemed to settle upon Mr Blundy and for safety’s sake he flicked left and shifted into the slow lane, trickling his speed down to thirty.

  He wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “What’s up? Why slow down?”

  “Christ. Jesus Christ.”

  “Don’t blaspheme. You know I don’t like it.”

  “I wasn’t, Ag.” It had been a simple statement of fact. He was going slower simply because of Christ, who might pounce at any moment. Mr Blundy could already be dead himself, so could Ag, there could have been an accident which sudden transference to the next world had already wiped from his awareness. He’d heard, somewhere or other, Tit-bits it might have been, when he’d been younger, they used to run articles on such things, written by a vicar, sort of agony vicar, he’d heard that death came like that, catching you unawares. It was entirely possible they were no longer on the motorway at all, they could be driving even now into God’s kingdom, complete with boot cargo, heading up for the last reckoning.

  Fanciful?

  Mr Blundy’s hands lathered the wheel with sweat. Of course it was fanciful, not to say daft. The wheel was there in front of him, solid and real. Ag was real enough by his side, nagging. But God was still there, haloed and now seeming to flourish something that spelled truncheon to Mr Blundy though it was more likely a shepherd’s crook … nipping along just above the safety barrier, obscured from time to time by Long Vehicles.

  It had, of course, to be just his fancy, his tormented, guilty mind.

  Maybe something he’d eaten.

  “I’m going bloody mad,” Mr Blundy said aloud without meaning to.

  “Eh?”

  “What?”

  “Said you was going mad, you did. Don’t let it get on your mind, Ern. We started this, against my advice if you recall, now we’ve got to finish it.”

  “Can’t finish it, Ag. It’s there. He’s there.”

  “Yes, yes, and probably sleeping quite comfy.”

  “What?”

  “You heard.”

  Mr Blundy sighed. He simply could not confide in Ag, not about what he’d seen. Or thought he’d seen. She’d only call it blasphemy. There was silence for a while. Mr Blundy drove on, worrying now about the kid having peed in the boot. There could be a trail … but not really. All those blankets and the eiderdown would have seen to that, handy moppers-up.

  “I’ll go mad if you don’t drive faster,” Ag said suddenly. “Move over, do.”

  “No.”

  She drew in breath. “What d’you mean, no?”

  “Ag, I’m going to pull on to the hard shoulder. I’ve got to take a gander at the boot.”

  “Don’t be daft. Attract attention, that will.”

  “It’s something I got to do. I just got to.” Sweat poured down his face and he began to plead. “I got to, Ag. I tell you.”

  “Hard shoulders is for emergencies. Any police —”

  “If I bloody don’t I’ll drive into the next car ahead.”

  “What’s up with you, Ernest Blundy?”

  Mr Blundy said no more but pulled left and stopped on the hard shoulder. Ag began a loud remonstration but he wasn’t listening now. He shot out of the car, whizzed round and got in the back. Looking through the window as he reached for the rear seat-back, he had his vision again and at the same time became aware of a sort of low howl, very menacing, like he imagined a pack of wolves would sound as they closed in for the kill. He very nearly screamed: it could be the sound of death, that awful howl, coming at him out of the mists swirling over the river, Charon or Charybdis or whatever it was, Rubicon maybe … then he remembered.

  Tyre squeal.

  Them road-building buggers, why did they have to go and inflict this on him?

  Trembling but relieved Mr Blundy jiggled with the seat-back. Just at that moment he became aware of panic from Ag, who had turned round and was staring through the rear screen.

  “Police,” she said in a shaky voice. “Coming up behind — get the bonnet open for God’s sake.”

  Mr Blundy came out like lightning. He dashed round to the front and flung up the bonnet lid. The patrol car, flicking left, swerved on to the hard shoulder and backed up towards the Granada. The Bill got out and walked back, Bill with a peaked cap of course, the headgear that always made them more menacing and less polite than helmeted Bill. This one was heavy, slow, square-faced and with his cap-peak pulled well down over his eyes.

  “What’s the trouble, sir?”

  Mr Blundy bet the ‘sir’ wouldn’t last long. “Radiator, officer. Getting
too hot.”

  “Ah. Boiling, is it, sir?”

  “Reckon.”

  The Bill gave a nasty, cold smile, looking superior. “Coming round for the second time, are you, sir?”

  “What?”

  “All the way down from the north, and straight back up again? Now look, sir,” the Bill said in a forbearing, patient sort of voice. “You’ve only just scratched the surface of the motorway so far. Cars don’t boil that quick, now do they, sir? Not even bangers of this vintage.” The Bill clearly didn’t like the look of the old car.

  “London traffic …” Mr Blundy said feebly.

  “On a Sunday?” The eyebrows vanished up the cap-peak. “No, sir, it won’t wash. It simply won’t wash. I have arrived at this conclusion, sir, I do confess, not on account of whether or not you’ve driven near or far, sir, but on account of, if I may make an observation, you are manifestly not boiling. And if I may make another observation, sir, I smell alcohol.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Yes, sir. Just wait here a moment, please.”

  The Bill marched back to its car. Mr Blundy’s stomach turned to churning liquid. The cargo in the boot seemed almost visible, as though the boot lid were made of glass. If that nosey, sarcastic bugger poked about … or if Harold Barnwell began to come round … In sheer terror Mr Blundy watched the Bill coming back, with his mate this time, more Bill carrying the breathalyser outfit.

  The gear was set up. “Now, sir. If you wouldn’t mind just blowing in here, please.”

  Wilting more than ever, Mr Blundy blew. The Bill examined the result keenly, then looked disappointed. It hadn’t been a very large suck at the flask, after all … Mr Blundy almost fainted with relief when the Bill said, “Well, sir, that seems to be all right. No excess alcohol in the blood. But I’d like you to remember it’s risky to take any drink, however small, when driving. Now. The hard shoulder is strictly for emergency use. I’d like to know the nature of the emergency, sir. The emergency that is or was.”

  Mr Blundy gazed about himself, then saw Ag’s distraught face glaring through the windscreen towards the group: it gave him the idea. He said, “It’s the wife, officer. She wanted to go to the toilet … I didn’t like to say …”

  “Ah. Now, the service areas provide facilities for that purpose, sir. And out here?” The Bill waved an arm around, even more superior and cold. There was, all too plainly, no cover. “Out here, sir, that could lead to a charge of indecent and insulting behaviour. As it is, I could charge you with using the hard shoulder improperly, you do realise that, don’t you, sir?”

  Mr Blundy gave a humble, supplicating nod. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s good. Driving licence, please, sir?”

  Mr Blundy produced it from his wallet. It was scanned. “Thank you, sir. Certificate of motor insurance, please.” This also was produced from the wallet and scanned. “Thank you, sir. MOT certificate, sir, please.”

  Mr Blundy’s heart missed a beat then he remembered he had it with him. He fetched it from the glove compartment and it was duly scanned and handed back. “All seems to be well, sir, I’m glad to say.” Bloody liar. “If you’ll take my advice, sir, you’ll drive on to the next service area. It’s not that far. I daresay the lady can wait.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Er … you’re not making a charge?”

  “Not on this occasion, sir, no,” the Bill said, looking into the distance over Mr Blundy’s head. “Don’t do it again. The motorway is for driving, not going to the toilet, sir.”

  “It’s very good of you, officer.”

  “Life’s too short, sir, and it’s not a vital offence seeing as how an act of indecency was not in fact committed. If you saw all we see on the motorway, sir, you’d pack it all in and die. Good-day, sir. Kindly get back on the carriageway at once.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mr Blundy scuttled back into the driving seat and pulled out into a nice clear stretch with his heart badly a-flutter. If that Bill had seen … if that Bill only knew just how close he’d been to getting his sergeant’s stripes … but he hadn’t seen and Mr Blundy knew he’d been dead lucky. In his mirror he saw the patrol car pull out behind and stay behind.

  Watching.

  But that Bill had been very decent really. Mr Blundy went hot and cold when he wondered whether or not his registration number had been noted. Probably had, in case he stopped again farther along. But it didn’t signify, surely. There was nothing whatsoever to connect him or the Granada with reports that would emanate shortly from Brands Hatch.

  Beside him Ag expelled a long breath. “Didn’t I just tell you, Ernest Blundy. Don’t you ever go and do anything like that again, give me a heart attack, you will. Now we’ll have to go into the next service area and waste more time.”

  “Why, Ag? We don’t have to.”

  “Use your loaf. That cop patrol’s following — and I want the toilet, don’t I, according to you?” She added witheringly, “Just shows your mental capacity, does that. Why didn’t you say you wanted to go? Bit different for me, isn’t it?”

  Seven

  After Ag’s purely publicity visit to the Ladies, they lost the Bill.

  Although Mr Blundy hadn’t had the chance to look at Master Barnwell, they had had no actual untoward incidents when, some hours later, they left the M1 and carried on north along the M18 and then the A1(M). Just after Boroughbridge they turned off for Ripon. In Ripon Mr Blundy managed to become temporarily lost in the one-way system but eventually emerged on to the A6108 for Leyburn, whence they would head west for Wensleydale where Ag’s Aunt Ethel lived her remote, lonely life.

  On the road up from Ripon Mr Blundy at last had his way. It was not a particularly busy road and there was a nice lay-by not far out of Ripon.

  Here Mr Blundy opened the boot.

  He peered in, scared stiff at what he might see, but was very greatly relieved at what in fact he did see: Master Barnwell was alive, breathing rather hard it was true, and had a much better colour. He wasn’t going to die, that seemed certain enough, and Mr Blundy flew back to the driver’s seat on air.

  He reported to Ag. “Still unconscious, like, but I reckon he’ll be round soon.”

  “What did I tell you?”

  Mr Blundy started up and pulled back on to the Leyburn road.

  “Been out a long time he has, Ag. Could have given him more of the dope than you should.”

  “Why worry now, eh? Kid’s all right, you said.” She paused. “That Bernie Harris … he could have got the dose wrong. Not that it matters now, like I said.”

  “No, s’pose not.”

  “He’s a weak-looking kid, innee? P’raps that’s it, why he’s taking so long to come round.”

  Mr Blundy nodded, feeling sorry for the kid. He’d be in a right flutter when he did come round, but he would be well looked after. Mr Blundy promised himself once again that he would see to that. Feed him up, too, on Aunt Ethel’s good country fare, good Yorkshire fare. That school couldn’t have done a proper job, skimped on the nosh probably, lining the head teacher’s pockets. In Yorkshire they knew how to eat, none of that tinned muck. Happier now, Mr Blundy let his mind roam on food. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, lovely fresh greens, thick ham, plenty of milk and cheese and that. As for the food that passed for top-class nosh in the south — Greek, Eye-tie, Indian, Spanish, Frog — they could stuff it and welcome. When Mr Blundy got his cut from the Loop he might settle up here and eat good solid farm nosh, free-range eggs and all, in good, fresh Yorkshire air. If Aunt Ethel had lived down south, why, she’d have had more than gas in her rectumy … Mr Blundy laughed at his own unuttered little joke.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing, Ag. Just thoughts.”

  Ag grunted irritably but said nothing further. On the way to Leyburn they went past a number of fine-looking houses, and Mr Blundy pondered on that aspect. Really lovely houses, well built, sturdy in their Yorkshire stone, very beautiful, standing in their own large grounds, very different
from Bass Street, Paddington. Butlers — they’d be sure to have butlers, and chauffeurs and maids and things. They’d have whole villages, too. Squire Blundy, good-humouredly patronising the villagers at Christmas, him as Santa Claus giving the kids presents from the Christmas tree in the big, baronial hall, with the skivvies waiting in short skirts. Mr Blundy knew that squires, after eating their Christmas fare of roast beef and oxes frizzling away on spits, and plum duff with cream and brandy … after all that lot, they rogered the female staff, who didn’t dare complain. Already Mr Blundy could feel the huge log fire warming his bottom as he stood before it, big cigar in hand, wearing a dinner suit. No doubt these big country mansions were expensive enough, but then so was Harold Barnwell, and they really did look like getting away with it now. Yorkshire was such a vast county for the Bill to comb, and chances were that the Bill wouldn’t even think of looking in Yorkshire at all. Mr Blundy had no past experience of kidnapping to fall back on, but he did have a vague idea that the victims were usually spirited out of the country — how, he wouldn’t know, but there it was. France, Spain, Belgium … anywhere, really. Far East, Australia, USA. Ports and airports watched but they still made it out. It became an Interpol job, of course, but plenty of jacks from the Yard would be living it up on their expense accounts, lucky buggers. Probably they looked forward to a really good overseas kidnap.

  They passed the sign for Jervaulx Abbey. They didn’t see the abbey itself but Mr Blundy knew it was a ruin and he’d visited ruins before — Fountains Abbey, also in Yorkshire, when he’d been just a lad himself, on holiday with his mum and dad, a week in a Dormobile. The place had much impressed the young Blundy with its size and antiquity, like St Paul’s Cathedral only more so, and with its peace and beauty and its former total obedience to the man in charge, who his dad had said would have been like a head teacher plus extra. That day, Mr Blundy remembered now, he’d been Abbot Blundy, ruling the monks and lay brothers and whatnot with a rod of iron, really chasing them hard when they slacked off at the spud-peeling or the sluicing-down of the latrines or buggered up the making of liqueurs and that.