He was going about forty when Colin pulled up along the driver’s side.
“Pull over!” Colin shouted.
Neal tapped the gas pedal and the Keble shot ahead.
Colin kept up with them.
“Pull over!” he shouted. He was soaked, flushed, and furious. His white suit clung to him.
Neal tapped the accelerator again, forcing Colin to speed up. Neal knew the bike was no match for the Keble.
Trouble was, he was afraid to go too fast, in this rain. Colin could probably win a game of chicken. Oh well, he thought, what the hell.
He stepped on the pedal again, getting a good head of steam and bringing Colin speeding up beside him. Then he hit the brakes.
The back wheels skidded and turned out and the car sped sideways for a good hundred feet. Colin sped right past it, twisted the brake handle, and flipped the little bike over the top of himself.
Neal remembered that old driving-school bit about turning in the direction of the skid, but didn’t remember what it meant, so he just kept spinning the steering wheel back and forth until the car pointed ahead again and came to a stop. He looked in the mirror and saw
Colin disentangling himself from the bike-very slowly. He fought off an insincere urge to go back and see whether he was all right. Then he put his foot on the gas and took the Keble for a ride as fast as he dared.
All this action actually woke Allie up for a second.
“We there yet?” she asked.
“Just looking for a place to park.”
Colin watched the taillights of the little car disappear over the hill. It had been a very bad night. He had lost the book, the money, the dope, Alice, Neal, his bike, and about a pint of blood. He was well and truly fucked.
Neal eased off on the pedal until the Keble slowed to something less than the speed of sound. Now that he didn’t have to shift, he felt okay driving the thing, his heart was settling back into his chest, and he was headed for a place he could actually hear it beat.
Part Three
A Place You Can Hear Your Heartbeat
25
Simon’s cottage was made of stone.
Neal felt stupid when he thought about the third little pig who was safe when the big bad wolf came huffing and puffing, but figured he was glad to be thinking at all, tired as he was. Allie was asleep as he pulled the car slowly up the dirt trail that led through the moor and up to the cottage. Far below and behind, the chimneys of the small village peeked above the last line of trees. They had driven north out of the rain, and the ground beneath the wheels was hard and firm, so he had no trouble pulling up to the cottage.
Leaving Allie in the Keble, he got out, stretched his sore legs and back, and looked around him. He’d never been anyplace like this. The view commanded miles of the barren moor. The cottage sat on a plateau beneath a sharp, rocky slope. The moor ran fairly level to both his left and right, and in front of him, the hill ran down to a small stream and a copse of frees, and a mile or so beyond that, the village. Faint purple heather, scrub grass, and rock covered the ground. It was windy up here, and the cool breeze that dried the stale sweat on his face felt wonderful. His eyes ached from fatigue, and as he took a deep breath of the fresh air, he knew he wanted sleep… needed sleep.
He looked back to make sure Allie was still asleep, and then walked up to the cottage. It was a two-story affair, gray stone built around thick wooden beams. He found the old skeleton key under a rock, right where Simon had said it would be, and let himself in. The first floor was low-ceilinged, and he stooped even though he really didn’t have to. A large fireplace dominated the front room, which had a stone floor, an old wooden table, and two old overstuffed chairs. A small bedroom ran off to the left. It was filled with books, no surprise there, and a small bed covered with old quilts and a thick army blanket. A kitchen of sorts ran off to the back. It had creaky wooden counters and a few shelves and cupboards, and a wood-burning stove. There was a basin but no tap. A narrow wooden door opened onto the slope of the hill and a stone retaining wall. Someone had made a weak attempt at gardening out back, and a sad rose trellis marked the effort. A narrow staircase led from the kitchen up to the second floor, which contained three bedrooms. Each was furnished with quilted beds and cane chairs.
The whole place had that comfortable discomfort of the beloved getaway. Old framed photos of Simon and family and friends decorated the walls and bedside tables. Cheap paperbacks and slightly moldy hardcovers lay scattered about. Neal went back downstairs and out front. He found the generator shack, read the carefully printed directions thumbtacked to the wall, and started it up. He might as well, he thought, have such comforts as electricity. An outhouse stood near the generator shack, and a cottage. He solved the mystery of water when he noticed the well about thirty yards in front of the cottage. He cranked the handle and, sure enough, a bucket of water came up, just like in the old movies when the city slicker goes to the country and learns real values. He took a sip of the water: It was clean and cold and tasted great. He hoped he wouldn’t die from it. A true New Yorker, he believed that water should come out of faucets.
Hmm, well water, outhouses, a bathtub set in the open air. He could get used to this, he thought. And the quiet. He noticed it just then. The complete and utter absence of mechanical or human sound. He listened. Way off in the distance, perhaps over the hill, he could hear the faint sounds of what might have been sheep. He could hear the soft gurgling of the brook below him. That was all. That was it. He could hear his heartbeat. This was all new stuff to Neal Carey, who thought he had seen it all.
Remembering why he was up here, he walked back to the car and opened the passenger door. Allie was curled up, her head resting on the top of the seat. She was sticky with dried sweat and her face was puffy and pale. The next few hours would be bad, Neal thought. But he had to get it started. No more candy for baby Allie.
“Hey, wake up,” he said, shaking her. She mumbled a few dark threats and cuddled up into a ball.
“Alice, c’mon, up.”
“Donwanna.”
“I don’t give a shit what you wanna,” said Neal, who was damned if he was going to carry her anymore. He still hurt from last night.
He pulled her out of the seat and let go. She tumbled out onto the ground.
“Hey!” she said, with more indignation than wit. She sat on the ground looking up at him, and then looking around. It took her only a minute to realize they weren’t in downtown London.
“Where the fuck are we?”
Which reminded Neal of an old joke about pygmies that he didn’t bother relating.
“We’re ’on the lam,’” he said. He watched her search her memory. He watched real carefully. How much did Allie remember?
“Where’s Colin?”
“I don’t know.”
She got up from the ground and brushed herself off. “I want to go back to London.”
“No.”
“Right now.”
“Forget it.”
She brushed past him and headed for the driver’s door.
I didn’t want to do this, Neal thought. He grabbed her by the elbow, stuck his foot behind hers, and threw her down. She got over her surprise in about half a second and started to get up, but he lifted her up by the shoulders and tossed her down on her back. She landed hard but got up and headed back toward the car. He stood in her way and she took a swing at him, a clumsy, looping swing that he caught easily, turning her wrist and bending her arm in back of her. He grabbed her hair with his other hand and forced her to her knees. He bent her over until her face grazed the ground.
It shocked him that he wasn’t sorry, that this felt good, and he wondered whom he was so goddamned angry at, and he wondered where his mother was and whether she was even alive, and he wondered whether Allie was the only fucked-up person on this barren, beautiful hill, and why he had taken this job in the first place.