Capture. Flora Dain
does the rest.
Soon I relax and let the powerful engine sing to me as I take it up through the gears and lean on the gas.
‘Hey, slow down. You’re speeding. We don’t want to get pulled over.’
I laugh, high now on power and wind and speed. ‘Who’s going to pull us over? There’s nobody for miles.’
I rest my hand on his thigh, thrilling to the hard muscles I feel as I give him a squeeze. Quid pro quo. He was doing it to me, all the time we drove over here …
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
His angry snap sends a little ripple of desire through me that mingles with the light and the speed and makes me laugh. But as I check in the rear-view mirror my knuckles stiffen on the steering wheel.
Shit. In the distance I can see a motorcycle. It’s bearing down fast, like it wants to catch us up. Someone’s spotted us so soon?
I almost jerk the car as I stand on the brake to slow us down to the state limit. Now the bike is closing in. It’s almost on us …
‘Pull over. He wants to pass.’ Darnley’s shout scares me so much I jump.
The steering jolts us dangerously close to the roaring machine, barely a foot away from my door as it starts to overtake. A furious blast from his horn makes me jump again and we ricochet, the sensitive steering over-reacting as the tires hit the loose stones along the edge of the dusty road.
And now I see something else – this is no state trooper. He’s clad head to foot in black leather and he’s wearing goggles. Worse, he looks mad. He thought I did that on purpose.
I lean over the lowered window to grin an apology and I see he’s peering at me with a broad grin, his teeth firm and white, and he’s leaning out towards me.
At that moment there’s a ghastly scraping noise and an angry yell from Darnley. ‘Pull over, dammit. He’s crunching into you. And for fuck’s sake slow down.’
Panic had jammed my foot on the gas. Now I ease it off, but I’ve lost control of our balance. All at once we’re all over the place and we veer dangerously close to the side of the road.
With a terrifying jolt the tires lose their grip and we career off the road and head into the scrubby landscape lining our route to the highway.
After a few terrifying bumps and jolts we halt in a clump of bushes.
Behind us the motorcycle roars off into the distance, its rider yelling with laughter and hooting his twin klaxon in triumph.
I lean over the steering wheel, panting, my hands still locked on it. I can feel sweat trickle down my back.
‘You OK?’ Darnley’s low voice stirs me to a shudder.
‘Sure,’ I say, hoping I’ll sound less squeaky when I’ve breathed in a few times. ‘Here. You drive.’ I snatch the keys out of the ignition and dangle them.
He takes no notice.
I stay where I am, still panting, as he gets out of the passenger seat and comes round to inspect the damage. He regards it in silence for a moment and then looks back at the road, his nostrils flaring. ‘He made a mess of the door. OK, we better go back. Start the car and reverse out.’
I stare at him in panic as he takes a few steps back. ‘Wait. Aren’t you driving?’
‘Nope. You are.’
‘I can’t.’ I lick my lips.
He leans over the door and puts his hand around the back of my neck, folding his fingers lovingly so that his thumb grazes the tip of my ear. ‘You must, Ella. If you don’t you’ll be too scared for months. Just do it. Take it slow. You’ll be fine.’
His tone and his look are so gentle, and the kiss he drops on my damp, clammy forehead so hot, that I take a deep breath and turn the key.
‘OK. But don’t blame me if we get lost.’
We almost do as I finally edge out of the clump of bushes. Still on autopilot I make for the lane we were on before.
‘Turn left. Back to the complex.’ His sharp command makes me wrench the wheel.
Rattled, I spin the wheel in the other direction. ‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’ His mouth settles into a grim line.
He phones ahead. When we finally pull up a reception committee is waiting for us. Darnley instantly leaps over the side of the car and strides up to them. ‘Show us the transport hangar. We missed it before. Now.’
He glances back at me, his look angry. ‘Ella, get your ass over here.’
I gather my doting fiancé wants me to join him. As I do so he grips my arm but his anger’s focused on Freda.
‘Which of your machines just came back in?’
To my intense satisfaction she actually looks scared. ‘What? None of them. Why?’
I swear she’s changed colour. In answer he strides off towards a long, low shed we’d missed on the tour. I’d thought it was empty but as we walk inside I see it’s full of machinery – motorcycles. Two gleaming rows of them are lined up in the pale, dust-filled space where the afternoon sun slants in through the skylight. There must be around thirty machines here, some of them large and very powerful.
As we walk in a pale-faced mechanic walks towards us, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He’s stocky, his dark hair limp and greasy. His mouth slumps badly at one side. ‘Sumpn’ up, y’all?’
Freda glances at me. ‘This is Chet Newson, our mechanic.’ She strides forward and he shrinks back, instantly cowed. ‘Any of the bikes been out today?’
‘Nossir. None of’em. I bin workin’ here since breakfast. Sir. I mean, ma’am.’
Darnley glances at me. ‘Feel the motors. See if one of them’s hot. I’ll take the row on the left. You take the right.’
I do it, marvelling at the massed power in here. The machines are all gleaming BMWs or Harley-Davidsons, shiny-new and arranged in order of size. The little mechanic clearly takes pride in his work.
They’re all cold.
Freda stays near the door, pinning the mechanic with her steely gaze. ‘Chet? Are you sure about that?’
He mumbles a reply and she continues to question him, her voice low. When we rejoin her he seems close to tears.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth. He’s a good kid. That right, Chet?’
She ruffles his lank hair in a sudden fond gesture. He’s clearly an apple or two short of a picnic, but I look at her with new respect.
The little mechanic certainly seems to like her. His eyes follow her like a devoted puppy’s as she heads for the door, now talking earnestly to Darnley, her voice low.
‘Whoever it was, they can’t have come from here. You can see these machines are still cold …’
‘Ma’am?’ I jump as Chet leans close to me, his gaze anxious. Close up he smells of motor oil and sweat.
‘Hi, Chet. What is it?’ I smile, still shaky.
‘You wus swimmin’ this morning, right?’
My smile vanishes. Oh, no, not another … ‘Yes. You swim too?’
He takes a step back, fear in his eyes. ‘Nossir. Tain’t safe. There’s a troll down there.’
I frown. ‘A what?’