Road Kill

Thirteen

The motorway was quiet. Sean kept the Shogun at a steady eighty-five in the centre lane, overtaking a strung out line of trucks. At the same time he was making arrangements for the Heathrow job on his mobile, which was plugged into a hands-free kit on the dash.

I sat in the passenger seat staring out at the countryside flowing past my window. I tuned out Sean going over the logistics of mapping the route they were going to take to the courier’s destination, the possible bottlenecks and choke points, how many vehicles, how many men.

I knew he would have already pre-planned all this meticulously enough not to need to double-check it now. It was just Sean’s inbuilt thoroughness.

That didn’t make it any easier to bear.

With my stomach clenched tight, I was trying not to let my desperation show on my face. But I could feel my chances of getting across half of what I wanted to say to him slipping away with each passing mile.

It had seemed like an ideal opportunity at first. Sean was heading back down to King’s Langley and I needed to collect my Honda FireBlade from my parents’ place in Cheshire. It meant only a relatively minor detour off the M6 for Sean and I’d thought the hour-and-a-half journey would have given us plenty of time to talk. As it was, we were already passing the Blackpool turnoff and had barely exchanged a word.

Before we’d left Jacob and Clare’s I’d had a thorough look at the damage to the Suzuki, just in case it could be patched together to last me a bit longer. It looked a lot worse in daylight than it had in Gleet’s workshop the night before. The back end was a mess. It was pure luck, I considered, that the Transit driver hadn’t wiped my rear wheel right out from under me. I patted the bike apologetically on its dented tank.

“What are you going to do with it?” Sean had asked. “Claim on your insurance?”

“It’s not worth it,” I’d said, shaking my head. “They’d just write it off. No, I’ll ring round some bike breakers and see what bits I can pick up secondhand. It might take me a while, but I’ll get it back on the road eventually.”

“And in the meantime?”

I knew he already had the answer to that one. He just wanted to hear me say it.

“Well, it’s a good job I’ve got the FireBlade,” I said, aiming for lightness.

Sean was well aware of the superbike I’d been given and, without us ever actually discussing the subject, I knew he wasn’t particularly happy about it. He stared at me for a long time without speaking and I felt it have the usual effect on my chin, which was rising almost of its own accord. I suppose we were just as stubborn as each other. Maybe that was the problem.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, Charlie?” he demanded and there was a raw note to his voice I hadn’t heard for a long time. “I know you’re planning on trying out for this Devil’s Bridge Club, despite what’s happened. It was bad enough when you were planning to do it on the Suzuki, but on a ‘Blade . . .”

He let his voice trail off but I didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

“Clare’s my friend,” I said. “Probably my best friend. I know she’s not telling me the whole story and that hurts, but I have to do this for her.”

Sean made a rare gesture of frustration. “Friends don’t ask you to do something for them that could get you killed.”

A microsecond image flashed into my head like a strobe light. A picture of a dark cold night with the looting fires burning, of Sean wounded and vulnerable, of a man with a gun. And of me, putting myself between them without a second thought. Sean would willingly have died rather than have asked me to do it, but it had never occurred to me not to.

“That’s just it,” I said gently. “Friends don’t have to ask.”

***

My parent’s house, on the outskirts of a little village near Alderley Edge, was a gracefully proportioned Georgian pile with a stiflingly manicured walled garden at the back and impressive circular gravel drive at the front.

They’ve lived there since they were married, before the area went stratospheric and all the celebrity Manchester United footballers moved in. My mother pretends to sneer but I suspect that she’s secretly as smitten by their glamour as everyone else.

We arrived a little before eleven o’clock. Early enough that my mother’s beautiful manners didn’t oblige her to invite Sean to stay to lunch. Her barely concealed relief, when he apologised that he didn’t even have the time to come in for a cup of tea, might have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic.

Sean deposited the rucksack containing my bike gear on the old church pew in the tiled hallway and laid a hand on my arm.

“Take care of yourself, Charlie,” he murmured.

“Yeah, you too.”

“I’ll try and get back up again before the weekend.” Undoubtedly aware that my mother was hovering in the doorway at the end of the hall, he bent his head and kissed me, no more than a fleeting brush of his lips. “And remember what I said.”

“Which bit?” I asked, suddenly a little breathless and stupid from the effects of even so ephemeral a contact.

He smiled, a full-blown knock-you-off-your-feet kind of smile. One that had my heart turning somersaults and made me want to beg him either to stay, or to take me with him. Hell, or just to take me.

“All of it,” he said.

Then he walked out of the front door and climbed into the Shogun without looking back. I watched him turn out of the gateway at the end of the drive and disappear from view before I closed the door. I turned to find my mother had moved up into the hall, as though it was safe to venture closer now he’d gone. She was wearing pearls and a summer dress with an apron over the top of it, and wiping flour from her hands on a tea towel.

“You’ll stay for lunch, Charlotte, won’t you?” she said and although her voice was coolly gracious there was something a little despairing in her eyes.

In a moment of pity, I nodded. “I have to get back up to Lancaster this afternoon, though,” I said quickly, forestalling her next question.

“Of course,” she said, more brightly. “I’ll just go and check how those rhubarb pies are doing. We’ve had so much of it this year I’ve been baking for the WI market but I’m sure I can spare one for dessert.” She waited until her back was towards me and she was halfway to the kitchen door before she delivered her killer punch. “Your father will be so pleased to have caught you.”

I’d forgotten. I froze in the middle of picking up my rucksack and it bumped against my hip. “Excuse me?”

She paused then, turned to give me an anxious smile. “Oh, didn’t I say?” she said, artfully casual. “He rang earlier to let me know he’s on his way home. If the traffic isn’t too bad we should all be able to sit down together at one o’clock. Now, why don’t you go and wash your face and get changed, darling?” She gave my jeans and rumpled shirt a slightly pained glance. “I’m sure there are still some lovely dresses in your wardrobe.”

***

My father rolled up on the dot of twelve-thirty, as though he’d been waiting in some lay-by down the road in order to arrive at such a neat and precise time.

I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and crossed to my bedroom window. When I looked down, I could see the roof of his dark green Jaguar XK-8 just disappearing into the garage. After a few moments, the car door thunked shut and he walked out carrying a small overnight bag and a briefcase. The garage door slid smoothly down behind him.

He looked tired, I realised. From this angle I could see the slight drag to his shoulders. As I watched, he paused and seemed to take a deep breath before climbing the two low steps to the front door more briskly.

It was interesting, I thought, to learn that even my father had to brace himself before he could face my mother’s company.

Not to put off the inevitable, I came downstairs straight away to greet him. I reached the half landing just as he was setting his luggage down on the pew in the hall. He heard my footsteps and looked up.

“Charlotte,” he greeted me distantly and his gaze skimmed over my clothing.

I had, as my mother suggested, washed my face and changed – into my bike leather jeans, ready to beat a hasty retreat as soon as lunch was over. Rather childishly, I’d been skulking upstairs until my father arrived, knowing she wouldn’t make a big production about it in front of him.

Now, I thought I saw a fractional smile tug at the corner of his mouth, as though he knew exactly what my motives had been.

My mother appeared out of the kitchen at the end of the hallway and came forwards to welcome him. He put his hand on her arm, almost exactly the way Sean had done with me but, when he bent to kiss her, it was a sterile little peck on the cheek.

She stepped back and caught sight of me descending. Her face registered her disappointment but I didn’t have time to feel ashamed of my petty behaviour.

“I’d like a word with you before lunch, Charlotte,” my father said. He inclined his head politely. “If we have time?”

“Of course,” my mother said. But she would have said that even if she’d been keeping the food warm for an hour already.

My father smiled at her and led the way into his study. I followed. He closed the door behind us. I expected him to cross to the antique rosewood desk and take a position of authority behind it, but instead he moved to the silver tray of drink bottles on the sideboard.

I took one of the wingback leather armchairs standing at right angles to the desk.

“How’s Clare?” I asked, before he had chance to get a shot in.

“Doing as well as can be expected,” he said, professionally neutral. “The last procedure went well. I have one or two things to attend to here, then I’ll be going back up on Thursday.” He caught my expression. “It’s all going to take time, Charlotte,” he went on, gently. “The human body is a remarkable machine when it comes to repairing itself, but it isn’t quick.”

“I know,” I said, “and I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for her. Without you . . . well, they were talking about amputation.”

He nodded, a regal acceptance of his own brilliance. “Sherry?” he offered.

I calculated the time until I was due to hit the road, and the fact that the mighty lunch my mother would undoubtedly serve would sop up the worst of the alcohol.

“I’d rather have a whisky,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me, “if you still have any of that rather good single malt?”

He raised an eyebrow but poured a finger of rich golden liquid into a pair of crystal tumblers without comment. As he handed one across he clinked his with mine before perching on the edge of the desk beside me.

“So,” I said, inhaling the smoky earth tones in my glass, “what have I done now?”

“Why should you think you’ve done anything?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

“Oh, habit,” I said, not to be deflected. “Why else the cosy chat?”

He took a sip of his whisky, savoured the taste and sidestepped the question. “Your mother said you’ve come to collect your other motorbike – the new one,” he said then. “Can I ask why?”

I shrugged. “The Suzuki got trashed last night,” I said shortly. “I need transport.”

If I’d been hoping to shock him into a reaction, I was to be disappointed. Instead, his eyes tracked over my leathers and I realised, belatedly, that they still bore the scuffs and scars of my Transit encounter.

“I would ask if you are all right, but clearly you are,” he said. “This was in addition to you banging your knee yesterday, I assume?” he added dryly. “You were never so clumsy as a child, Charlotte.”

“Sometimes,” I said with a smile. “But back then it was usually ponies I was falling off.”

“Hmm. Strange that you should suddenly become so accident prone just as Sean Meyer makes a reappearance, don’t you think?”

Ah, so that’s what this was all about. I sat up straighter in my chair, the smile fading.

“No,” I said baldly. “Sean came because I called him after Clare’s accident, because I asked him to. Don’t go blaming him for any of this.”

“Any of what?”

Damn. I glared at him, as though he’d set out to deliberately trick me. Silence was the best card I’d got and I played it with a flourish, taking another mouthful of whisky.

He set his own glass down carefully on the leather blotter, folding his hands together in front of him. “I understand you’ve stopped seeing Dr Yates.”

“Oh, and what happened to patient confidentiality?” I threw back at him. “Or doesn’t that apply when it’s one of your golfing cronies?”

His moment of stillness signified his irritation. “That was unworthy of you, Charlotte,” he said. “Dr Yates agreed to see you as a personal favour to me and he would no more discuss one of his patients with a third party than would I. But, since I’ve been footing the bill for his services, he thought I ought to be aware that your last session was six weeks ago and you have failed to make any further appointments. Would you care to tell me why?”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, flashed with genuine contrition for my lack of gratitude. “Maybe I’m just not the type who responds well to psychotherapy. I didn’t feel it was doing me much good.”

“Perhaps that is precisely why you should have continued.”

“Perhaps I will,” I said, noncommittal. “But if you were hoping he’d talk me out of working in close protection – or working with Sean – you’ll be sadly disappointed.”

He regarded me for a moment longer, then sighed and got to his feet. He went over to the tall sash window and seemed lost in contemplation of the garden. “This wasn’t quite the future we envisaged for you, you know,” he said, without turning round.

“It wasn’t quite the future I had mapped out myself,” I agreed. “But I’m here now and it would appear to be something I’m quite good at. It’s not everyone who finds their niche.”

My flippancy was a mistake. He turned and the expression on his face held surprising bitterness. “Good at?” he repeated, his voice slipping uncharacteristically into harshness. “At what? Killing people?”

My hands gave a quick convulsive clench. I set the glass down before I was tempted to throw it at him.

“No – at keeping them alive,” I said with quiet vehemence. “By whatever means necessary.”

He moved to the other side of the desk, leaning forwards and resting his fists on the polished surface, staring at my face. “Necessary in whose opinion? Yours? Meyer’s?”

“Leave Sean out of this.”

He made a gesture of impatience with one hand. “How can I, when you persist in connecting yourself to the man? He’s dangerous and he’s leading you down a very dark path. What happens when your judgement fails you and you take a life when it isn’t necessary, hmm? What happens then?”

Into the silence that followed his outburst, there came a quiet tapping at the door and my mother stuck her head into the room.

“I’m sorry to disturb your discussion,” she said, with enough emphasis on the last word to make me wonder how long she’d been eavesdropping, “but lunch is ready.”

“Thank you, we’ll be through directly.” My father nodded briefly in dismissal. He waited until she’d gone out and closed the door behind her before he launched his final warning.

“If you stay involved with Sean Meyer you will end up killing again,” he said, calm now but certain as stone. “And next time, Charlotte, you might not get away with it.”

***

Lunch was a subdued affair. My mother chattered brightly into the vacuum, doing her best to play the perfect hostess even under the most difficult circumstances. By the time we reached the rhubarb pie, however, even she had lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

As soon as was decently possible afterwards, I gathered my kit together in the hallway and prepared to leave. Surprisingly, perhaps, both my parents came out onto the driveway as I unhooked the trickle-charger from the FireBlade’s battery. I wheeled the bike out of the garage and fired it up to let the engine warm through.

“Take care of yourself, Charlotte,” my father said gravely as I zipped up my jacket. “I would rather not meet you in a professional capacity, if it can be avoided.”

I nodded briefly and swung my leg over the ‘Blade, but hesitated before I slid my helmet into place.

Ah well, I thought. In for a penny . . .

“By the way, who’s Mr Chandry?” I asked.

“He’s the consultant gynaecologist at Lancaster, I believe,” my father said and I saw his eyes flicker over my mother’s face, as though concerned about embarrassing her. “Why do you ask?”

“When we went to see Clare yesterday he was with her and she was in floods of tears,” I explained.

“Clare has been through a good deal of physical and emotional trauma,” he said sharply. “Under those circumstances it’s hardly surprising that she will be subject to emotional outbursts. It’s a normal reaction.”

I shrugged, diffident. “I just wondered what he might have told her that would upset her so much.”

My father sighed. “Your friend suffered severe damage to her pelvic area,” he said, spelling it out. “Besides anything else, there’s the possibility it may prevent her from having children in the future. She’s a young woman. Naturally she would find that information very distressing, don’t you think?”

***

Thrashing back up the motorway, dicing with the thickening traffic over the Thelwall Viaduct, I was concentrating too much on getting used to the bike again to ponder much over the discussion I’d had with my father in his study. Once I got onto the stretch north of Preston, however, things quietened down enough for it all to creep back into my mind, unwelcome as a thief.

I tried to tell myself that he was overstating Sean’s effect on me and the dangers he represented, but my father had never been much prone to exaggeration. Besides, after the last few days I couldn’t refute his allegations with a clear conscience.

That seemed almost as bad as agreeing with him completely.

It wasn’t Sean’s instinct to kill that troubled me, even though in the past I’d seen him give it free rein with results that had shocked me to the centre.

It was the fact that, given time, I knew I could be just like him. And, more than that, part of me wanted to be.

Maybe that was why I’d stopped going to see my father’s tame psychotherapist. Just in case he managed to dig deep enough to uncover that shameful little secret.

Ahead of me a car abruptly pulled across into my path in the right-hand lane, oblivious despite the fact that you need a welder’s mask to look at the FireBlade’s black and yellow paintwork, and my headlight was on. I cursed under my breath as I dived on the brakes and hit the main beam switch.

When the car had drifted out of my way I drew level, with just enough time to glance sideways at the driver as I did so. A woman, I’m sorry to say, still too busy talking to her passenger to have noticed me. There was a young kid in the back who was paying more attention, though. As I came past his nose was pressed against the glass, his mouth open as he stared out at the bike. I gave him a tiny wave and snapped the power on hard, just for badness.

The FireBlade catapulted viciously forwards like a jet fighter leaving a carrier deck. I held on tight, crouching behind the screen to cut down the buffeting from the wind, and grinned fiercely under my visor. The Suzuki was a toy compared to this, I thought, with gross but triumphant disloyalty. This was the real thing.

I flicked my eyes down at the speedo and found I’d romped up to a hundred and thirty. Vehicles in the centre lane disappeared behind me like they were going backwards. Sooner or later one of them was going to step out in front of me again. Either that or I was going to get nicked.

I rolled the throttle off until I was back down somewhere around the legal limit and sat up, still grinning. Probably made that kid’s day. One thought sparked another and my smile withered.

Clare had never expressed any particular desire to have children, but maybe she always thought there’d be plenty of time for that later. Maybe being told she might not be able to have them at all had proved something of an epiphany for her.

Then I thought of Jacob, who’d done the family thing and moved on. Did he really want to start again with sleepless nights and nappies and baby buggies and all the rest of that stuff? Besides, by the time the kid was old enough to want to go play football in the park with Daddy, Jacob would be collecting his pension. That wasn’t going to be fair on anybody.

Think of it as trading him in for a younger model . . .

I shook my head to try and get Tess’s sly words out of there but they were stuck fast. And once I’d thought about them, I couldn’t seem to shut them out.

Because, there was always the possibility that it wasn’t Jacob Clare was contemplating having children with, but someone who was much closer to her own age and in a much better position to start a family. Someone who was so similar to Jacob it was like he’d stepped into a time machine and gone back thirty years.

His son.