The road banked left at the top. I could see it easily. Hedges stood close to the left verge but on the right there was a small grassy space with a few trees. Any juggernaut hurtling our way, suddenly coming across an obstruction, would instinctively straighten for a few yards in a desperate attempt to avoid a crash by using the meagre verge, then try to correct for the rest of the curve and continue its downward rush – and all in an instant. Even the best driver would jack-knife his two linked wagons. I’d seen it happen.
Please God, I prayed, as the crest loomed. A sudden crashing blow from behind came again. I felt the crate’s floor judder with the rumbling approach of the unseen vehicle. The black car’s engine notched up half an octave getting ready for the kill. They’d changed gear for even more power. So they were going to take me on the inside at the top, force me to slide to the right and leave me only the tree-crowded space to drive into. All because I hadn’t the power to cut clear. If the tree trunks didn’t get me I’d slam into the high bank beyond. The best I could hope for was having to stop and be at their mercy.
The juddering told me the oncoming juggernaut was almost on us. The booming saloon rammed against my tail with another crash. My engine cut, recovered, howled once, and just as suddenly steadied. Glass tinkled as a side window went. And abruptly I was at
the crest. The black shape swelled darkly on my inside. I saw it out of the corner of my eye.
I wrenched the wheel to the right and stamped on the brakes, wishing to God I’d had the money to get them mended properly. I remember yelling one final insult at the bastards. I heard the saloon’s engine mute. My tyres slithered, gripped, squealed as the crate slid across the narrow road sideways on towards the crowded trees. The trunks thickened horribly towards me. And a beautiful immense juggernaut came hissing on to the hill, its radiator tall as a church surmounted by windows like a liner’s bridge. All in a millisec I banged the throttle pedal down, whining with fright. The juggernaut saw me across its path and bucked. Its engine shrilled. For one second, I thought it wouldn’t see the space, but its impetus was just too colossal. Its front heaved to my right. The sky darkened above me as the gigantic vehicle poised fractionally at the top. Then it jack-knifed. The trailing half clattered loudly into the leading part and swung across towards me, shuddering crazily. I hadn’t the power to get clear. It caught my offside tear wheel. Glass exploded and spattered my neck and scalp like a million needles. I saw twigs and grass. My windscreen went and the steering-wheel crashed against my chest. The world suddenly seemed full of noises and fire and rubbery stenches. I heard somebody screaming and another voice saying Dear God, Dear God, over and over. All the hedgerows on earth seemed to be full of flames. Then the sky was streaming blood, but at least things were steady and trying to stay still.
My vision cleared about fifteen minutes later. I inspected the mad scene from a lady’s lap a few yards
from the crest of the hill. She was dabbing my forehead with a scented hankie and kept telling me how long it was since the accident and that I was going to be all right. Her frock was powder-blue. For a mad moment I thought I was in Paradise, because all I could see at first were five strands of baroque pearls, alternate white and rose. Strung thus they shrieked of Italy before this century. The woman moved. She told me she was on her way to a play rehearsal when they saw the crash. Her husband had phoned for ambulances and police from the farmhouse I mentioned, and now was trying to help to get the poor man out of his car. It was burning, hopeless.
‘I hope nobody’s hurt,’ I said, for the record.
‘Lie still, dear. Don’t you worry.’ She kept dabbing at me.
‘A car tried to overtake on the wrong side . . .’ I let my voice dwindle wearily. It didn’t take much acting.
‘Lie still. Everything’s all right.’
We stayed like this for some time. I saw the police arrive, with Maslow coming in the second wave. Spectators gradually accumulated. Ambulances came and went. I refused to go in one, and struggled erect after a team of tired emergency people tinkered with me a bit. They covered one of my eyes up and turbanned my head. The Bramah lock had been driven into my side. A young quack put six bloody stitches in, but I got the lock back. They padded me up and wound strapping round my middle.
I got the lady’s name and address before they continued to the rehearsal. Her lap deserved better than a half-conscious bloke in it, and her Italian pearl necklace was gold-clasped. I waved them off, wobbling somewhat.
Maslow took a statement from me, a constable doing the heavy paper labour. I reported faithfully how this car had simply tried to overtake on the wrong side, to my astonishment.
‘A juggernaut came round the bend just then,’ I explained. ‘That’s all I remember.’
‘Look at me, Lovejoy.’ Maslow’s voice cold as a frog.
‘I’m trying,’ I said. ‘With my one good eye. Will I still be able to play the piano?’
‘If I thought . . .’
‘Good heavens!’ I sounded really quite good, properly horrified. ‘You’re surely not suggesting –’
He flapped a hand wearily. ‘Go home, Lovejoy.’
‘Wait.’
I went to look at my crate. It was a hell of a mess, but maybe rescuable. On the other side of the road the juggernaut stood, its driver still dictating trembling answers to a woman copper, poor bloke. The black saloon was still burning. A fire engine was there, a few helmeted firemen standing about. There wasn’t much more for them to do now. I felt Maslow join me.
‘Reported stolen,’ he said morosely. I didn’t look at him.
‘From anybody in particular?’
‘Chap called Fergus, London. An antiques dealer.’
‘How terrible.’ I shook my head sadly, then had a theatrical afterthought. ‘Oh, Inspector. Who was driving?’
‘Your friend, Nodge.’
I gazed back at him then with my one eye steady as a laser. ‘Tut fucking tut,’ I said evenly. ‘The things people do.’
I stepped closer to the smouldering motor and its unspeakable inner mass. ‘God rest, Nodge.’ I’d broken
more than his finger, as it turned out, but what else could I have done? It hadn’t been my fault, not really.
They got a police car to run me home. On the way I asked the copper to stop a minute. We pulled in. I reeled out and vomited spectacularly in the hedge. I retched and retched. The peeler asked if I was all right. After a few minutes I wiped my mouth on a handful of grass and got back in.
‘You’ll be fine,’ the lad said kindly. ‘It’s just reaction.’
‘Thanks,’I said back.
But fear isn’t got rid of as easily as that. I should know.
T
HE SPECTACULAR SUNRISE
surprised me. A mist covered our valley so densely I could have walked across to Lexton on it. Trees close to my cottage projected through it like small mountains. It was a gentle, unassuming and blissful picture. Then the sun bounced up quite suddenly. The valley mist showed red. Gold tinted the world’s edges. I’d never seen such a sight. And in this lovely daylight I was black and blue. My face was bloated. The skin bulged green and purple. I was sore as hell. I could hardly stand up from the wall where I’d been sitting most of the night. But I was alive, solid and breathing and beating. Even aching was pleasant.
Last night before going the bobby had asked if I needed help. I’d said I was great. They’d come back today. They always do. Good old Fergus must have lent Nodge his car then reported his car stolen to keep himself in the clear. Maybe they’d made some telephone arrangement before Nodge was sent off to do me. I didn’t blame myself for not sleeping much, because the Girl-in-a-Swing piece was ground to powder in my jacket pocket. I’d only found out when I tried to get undressed. I won’t admit whether or not I wept at
odd times behind my darkened cottage thinking of Nodge, or maybe the porcelain. Once anything’s gone it’s gone for good, but the passing is too much to take sometimes. I mean, in one go, as it were.
Once I’d got the sun properly up I went in and got in a blazing temper trying to brew up. I needed help. Things were starting to move and I had to move with them. But who to ask? Tinker’s not on the phone, which narrowed the choice. He’d be caylied until opening time anyway. Sue’s tough husband probably wouldn’t prove co-operative if I tried to borrow her for a few days, selfish sod. Helen only wakes slow – pretty, but slow. Margaret was up in the Smoke for her weekly spending spree on the Belly, Portobello Road street market. I can’t really rely on Jill, Jean or Lily like I can the rest, so they were out of it. And Miss Haverill would have me sprinting to Friday Wood and back when I couldn’t raise a trot. I couldn’t even think that far.
Painfully, I dialled Moll. She lifted third ring.
‘Lovejoy here,’ I told her, trying to speak through split oedematous lips.
‘Oh, Lovejoy!’ she cried. ‘I’ve just heard about your accident from –’
I cut in. ‘Busy?’
‘No. I was just about to ring you.’
‘Get your coat on and come over.’
‘This instant. Don’t move.’
‘I promise. Oh,’ I added. ‘One thing. Bring some grub, partner. I’m starving.’
She paused, then said of course, partner, politely.
I set to on the Bramah lock in my shed. You’re sure to see a genuine one if you go to any antique shop, but
don’t write them off just because lock-and-key collectors are pretty rare folk. The Bramah lock is a delightful piece of wondrous engineering in lovely warm brass. Its precision and delicacy are exhilarating. They are the only honestly important antiques
you can still get for nothing.
Junk shops round here still chuck them out, like this one at Virgil’s, but the time will come . . .
Joseph Bramah was a Yorkie, and a genius at that. His legendary lock patent is dated 1784. Nowadays we can only imagine what a sensation his new design caused in Georgian London. A real furore. He thought up some radial sliders, with the key pin pushing in against a spring. In his description he claims it is infallible, but even the addition of a metal ‘curtain’ inside it failed to protect it against the breathtaking (and quite legitimate) lockpicking skills of that quiet American A.C. Hobbs. Knightsbridge was in uproar for half a century in lockpicking contests, as locksmiths battled night and day to keep one step ahead of burglars and people who claimed they could pick any old lock any time. Groups of gentlemen assembled to referee claims. There were even lawsuits. Public competitions were arranged, with multitudes gasping and applauding every flick of the wrist.
In those early days locksmithing was centred in Willenhall. People still call the place ‘Humpshire’ because the Staffordshire men were practically deformed from filing locks on the bench. They walked the streets with their hands frozen around an imaginary file and their shoulders hunched. Nowadays the manufacturing is spread around a bit, especially since young Linus Yale gave up portrait painting and set about explaining how good his dad’s lock design really was.
The Bramah lock’s simplicity is so stylish you tend to forget that Joe’s innovation was the first major step forward since the locks of Ancient Egypt.
I made myself stop admiring the masterpiece and get myself going. I got the key in. It turned with a succulent click. No sign of anything hidden, though. They key emerged with traces of carbon which smudged my fingertip. Somebody, presumably Chase, had seen to it that the lock was properly cared for. No stupid dollops of oil to harden with the passing years, but careful gusts of powdered graphite blown into the lock aperture once every ten years.
Even though the escritoire itself was gone I had to summon all my nerve to damage the wood sliver on which the lock was fixed. I finally fixed the wood in a vice and lifted the lock’s brass plate off after a struggle. It took half an hour to get it away undamaged. I’d have done it quicker but for my one eye and getting the shakes from the bruising. The plate came away. I was quivering with eagerness. I’d put a folded car blanket underneath the vice to catch the precious clue I knew would undoubtedly be concealed behind the lock. Gingerly I lifted the plate away. A small disc fell on to the blanket. That was all.
I peered at the back of the plate with a lens and along the wooden recess. Nothing. Disappointed, I found the coin and examined it slowly. Even there any hopes were dashed. It wasn’t gold, or even silver. It wasn’t even a Roman copper denarius. Not even a coin. I took it to the shed door and peered at it in direct daylight. It was a measly train pass, a grotty Victorian common-as-muck passenger chit. You can find even the rarest ones for a few quid. They’re often in what we call the tuppeny tray, that little box you see set
outside junk shops, filled with duff buttons, jettons, tokens and neffie modern foreign coins. An interesting collecting field if you like that sort of thing, but even a hundred of these cheap little tokens won’t make your fortune. It was blank on one side. The other bore the words
THE RT WORTHY JNO CHASE
–
NO
1 –
MT ST MARY RLWY GRAND OPENING
. Not even a date, either. Mount St Mary is not far. I knew for a fact there was no railway there. It was probably just some sentimental child’s play by old Doc Chase, him concealing his ancestor’s train pass and playing secrets. Some people do this sort of thing for a giggle. Or maybe another decoy? If so, it had worked.
‘Big deal,’ I told the little disc in disgust.
I’d just finished tidying the shed as Moll bowled in. You can imagine the scene we had, Moll doing her nut at the state I was in and me saying oh leave off for gawd’s sake. She unloaded a ton of stuff and made us breakfast. I’m always amazed at how little grub women eat. Beats me how they keep going. Anyhow, we became more or less friends. By the time she’d washed up and I’d put the things away we’d stopped jumping a mile whenever the other spoke. I told her about the accident and kept very few details back.
‘Was Nodge trying to . . .?’ She had two attempts at it. ‘We’ll never know,’ I said gravely. I couldn’t forget she was a peeler’s wife.
‘You poor man.’ Her eyes filled. ‘And he was your friend.’