The Boat House

TWO

By nightfall, Pete had made it as far as a window seat in a motorway services cafeteria overlooking three lanes of northbound traffic. He could feel that he needed a shave, and his dark suit now looked and felt as if a family of dogs had been using it for a bed. Wayne had told him the previous night that he'd had the appearance of someone who'd just emerged from prison, but Pete now reckoned that he looked more like somebody who was heading for one. The worst of the day was behind him; before him on the formica tabletop were a cup, the remains of a sandwich, and the key that Mike had given to him.

He'd an address to go with it, for some place that he knew nothing about. Mike was in the property business — buying, leasing, renting, renovating — and for Pete it was simply a case of getting whatever happened to be going through the books at the time. Pete didn't know exactly what his brother's business entailed, but it enabled him to run three cars and to spend two months of the year in an apartment in the Canary Islands. Needless to say, that was one key that Pete was unlikely to be offered. Their mother had always said that Mike was the worker, Pete the dreamer; but Mike's true knack was in finding the free ride on the back of someone else's labour, while Pete's dreams had more or less burned themselves out in an adolescence of fast secondhand cars and Marvel Comics. The cars had given him a few saleable skills, the comic books he'd sold off to a market trader a long time ago. The old girl had been proud of Mike, but she'd worried for Pete; he'd been irritated by it then, but he realised now that it was something else and he missed the feeling already. Even though they'd been miles apart, just knowing about it had somehow been enough. He wondered if there would ever be anyone who'd worry for him again.

Family funerals. The only bright thing about them was that, unlike at weddings, the family didn't tend to end up fighting.

Pete glanced around. The cafeteria was quiet at this time of the evening, the empty tables around him uncleared and one whole section across the way roped off and unlit. There were a few people down the far end, but not many. Airport traffic, at a guess; the airport was only ten miles on and they had the look of late arrivals heading for homes with empty refrigerators. Some had ski tans, others were in loud shirts from some tropical beach. Beyond them, a young woman in a mid-length coat stood reading the menu.

He lowered his eyes, and looked at the key.

It wasn't as if he had a guarantee of a four star hotel, or anything. For all that he knew, Mike was probably expecting him to camp out amongst dust sheets and bags of plaster. It's costing you nothing, the logic would go, you ought to be grateful. Pete's brother could make a personal favour seem like a tip to the bellboy. He was tempted simply to press on, see if he could make it back to the valley by morning; the Zodiac was still giving him problems, and this way he wouldn't have to cope with a cold engine after a night in the open.

Turning the key around on the tabletop had made a faint pattern in spilled sugar. Strange, how he felt more attached to the valley as home than he did to the area where he'd been raised. But then, the old town and its suburbs were barely recognisable now. New roads, new buildings, a shopping centre that was down-at-heel less than five years after it had opened. He dusted off the key, and pocketed it. Then he glanced out at the endless river of lights that he was soon to rejoin.

A wraith stood at his shoulder.

It was a trick of reflection, of course, but still it startled him. He turned to face the woman who stood by his table, and the shell of darkness became filled out and real.

"Excuse me," she said. "Do you have a car?"

At a distance she'd hardly appeared to be more than a girl, but now he could see that she was probably closer to his own age. Her face was clear and hardly lined, but her grey eyes had a depth that could only have been earned. And she had a trace of an accent — not one that he could immediately identify, but enough to transform a simple question into something strange and unexpected.

"Yes," Pete said, guardedly; given the location, he could hardly say anything else.

"And you're alone?"

"I suppose I am." He was looking her over as he said it, half aware of what was coming. His usual response to roadside hitchhikers was the same as that of ninety-nine per cent of the population, which was to zip on by, feel bad for a while, and then forget all about it. But this kind of approach was different. For one thing, it was personal. And Pete, when it came down to it, knew that he was your basic and average Nice Guy; couldn't help it, that was the way he'd always been.

What the hell, she seemed okay. Sane, clean, and probably decent company. Maybe she could even help him to stay awake.

"Can I have a ride?" she said.

"You don't even know where I'm going."

"It doesn't matter."

And then she smiled; and Pete's momentary suspicion faded, like a drowned sailor returning to the deep.

They walked out through the big glass doors and into the night. The parking area was well lit and, like the cafeteria, almost empty; there were a couple of dozen vehicles in the bays before them, but beyond these lay an acreage of line-marked space running all the way out to the landscaped boundary hill and the trees. Motorway noise was a continuous background drone, the sodium-glow buzz of the airport just over the horizon. Pete led the way across the paved area and onto the asphalt.

The Zodiac stood alone. It was as if the cars on either side had waited until nobody was looking and then quietly rolled away.

"This is it," he said when they were close enough for it to be obvious which one he was talking about. "Want to change your mind?"

She didn't even take time to think it over. "No," she said, and she took in its battered old lines as if it was as good as anything she'd become used to. "Is it American?"

"No," he said, unlocking the door, "this is one of ours. It's the kind of car they're usually talking about when they say how they don't make 'em like that anymore. This is just before they cross themselves and say, Thank God. Any luggage?"

"Just this," she said, showing the yellow carrier bag that she'd brought out with her. "Where are we going?"

"You really don't care?"

"I'm kind of touring around. I haven't decided where I'm going to settle, yet."

Well, it was probably none of his business, but it struck him as a dangerous kind of thing to be doing. There could be some pretty weird people around, and at this time of night they came into their own. But what was it to him? She was over twenty-one, and at least with him she'd fallen on her feet and would be safe for the next couple of hours. He checked all the doors, and then he got in beside her. She was all ready to go, hands folded in her lap.

The Zodiac played for sympathy a little, but started anyway. Without looking at the woman, Pete said, "Where are you from?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she said.

"Try me."

There was no reply for a moment, and when Pete glanced up from switching on the headlights he saw that she was looking across at him with an expression that he couldn't make out in the half shadows of the car. It might have been mischief, but it looked like something more.

"I'm a Russian," she said. "I came here tonight on a stolen passport. I think they may have caught the boy I was with, but I carried on."

She watched him for a few seconds longer, until he was the one who turned away.

"Sure," Pete said as they rolled forward and he swung the car around toward the motorway sliproad.

After all, he could take a hint as well as anyone.