Left You Dead

34

Ducking his head against the cloying, misty drizzle, Larry Olson gently eased his tall frame into the passenger seat of the low, squat BMW. He winced twice from the shooting pains of his prolapsed disc as he did so, then pulled the gull-wing door shut with a reassuring clunk.

Turning to his customer, he said with a beam, ‘That sound, Mr Goodman, that’s the build quality of German cars. Other manufacturers around the world have strived for decades to achieve it, but the Germans still do it best.’

Christopher Goodman was chewing gum, barely listening. He was looking around the interior, sinking his head back against the rest. He opened his door and pulled it down, closing it again. Clunk. He nodded.

Olson knew that after a long spell of dry weather, what you needed was a prolonged heavy downpour to clear the road surface of rubber and oil residue. The worst thing you could have was this kind of drizzle, which would turn the road into a skating rink.

With an output of 368 brake horsepower when both petrol and electric motors kicked in, this car was a phenomenal machine, with experienced hands on the wheel. But on a slippery surface, with someone unused to the power it unleashed, even with its four-wheel drive it could very quickly turn into a pendulum attached to a rocket.

‘Be very gentle on the throttle in these conditions, Mr Goodman,’ he urged, trying to sound calm. ‘She can really bite back!’

Goodman kept his foot on the brake and tapped the start button, and the dash instantly came alive, but he looked momentarily puzzled by the lack of engine noise. He sat for some moments, holding the wheel.

‘In D the petrol engine will kick in when you press the accelerator.’

‘Got it!’ Goodman released the brake and put the car in Drive, and it glided slowly forward into the quiet street.

Gently does it, Olson thought. Prayed. He pointed out the wipers as the screen was fast blurring over, and Goodman compliantly switched them on. He pressed the accelerator and a split-second later there was a roar as the petrol engine fired, the back twitched and the car very nearly swapped ends.

‘Whoahhhhh!’ Goodman said, swinging the leather-rimmed wheel wildly, just catching the twitching car one way, then the next. Getting it under control, more by luck than talent, he said, ‘Bit of a tank slapper, eh?’

With his voice trapped somewhere down the bottom of his gullet, all Olson could do was nod.

They stopped at the T-junction with the wide, smart residential street of Westbourne Villas, then, very gingerly on the pedal now, Goodman turned right and drove slowly (Thank you, God! Olson thought) up to the next junction, with the wide and relatively busy New Church Road.

‘OK if we head out into some open countryside to exercise her legs?’ Goodman asked.

No, not OK, not at all OK, a voice cautioned inside Larry Olson’s head. But you need the sodding money badly, very badly! another voice in there shouted more loudly.