'Very bad,' he agreed. 'Reckon there are dead people here, Dad?'
'Hope not, Davey.'
'Reckon there might be?'
A traffic cop, with a peaked cap and yellow fluorescent waistcoat, came up to the driver's window. Phil wound it down and recognized the officer.
'Evening, Brian. This looks a mess.'
'There's a vehicle with lifting gear on its way for the lorry. Can you handle the van?'
'No worries. What happened?'
'Head-on, Transit and the lorry. We need the van in the AI compound.' 'Consider it sorted.'
Davey took his flashlight and climbed down from the cab. While his dad talked to the cop, he shone the beam around, down at slicks of oil and foam across the road. Then he peered inquisitively at the tall, square ambulance, its interior light shining behind drawn curtains across the rear window, wondering what might be happening in there.
It was almost two hours before they had all the pieces of the Transit loaded and chained onto the flatbed. His dad and the traffic cop, Brian, walked off a short distance. Phil lit a cigarette with his Itorm-proof lighter. Davey followed them, making a one-handed roll-up and lighting it with his Zippo. The ambulance and most of the Other emergency vehicles had gone, and a massive crane truck was Winching the front end of the cement lorry up, until its front wheels - the driver's-side one flat and buckled - were clear of the ground.
The rain had eased off and a badger moon shone through a break In the clouds. His dad and Brian were now talking about fishing - the best bait for carp at this time of year. Bored now and in need of a pee, Davey wandered off down the road, sucking on his roll-up, looking up in the sky for bats. He liked bats, mice, rats, voles, all those kinds of creatures. In fact he liked all animals. Animals never laughed at him the way humans used to, when he was at school. Maybe he'd go out to the badger sett when they got home. He liked to sit out there In the moonlight and watch them play.
Jigging the flashlight beam, he walked a short distance into the bushes, unzipped his fly and emptied his bladder onto a clump of nettles. Just as he finished, a voice called out, right in front of him, startling the hell out of him.
'Hey, hello?'
A crackly, disembodied voice.
Davey jumped.
Then he heard the voice again.
'Hello?'
'Shite!' He shone the beam ahead into the undergrowth but couldn't see anyone. 'Hello?' he called back. Moments later he heard the voice again.
'Hello? Hey, hello? Josh? Luke? Pete? Robbo?'
Davey swung the beam left, right, then further ahead. There was a rustling sound and a rabbit tail bobbed, for an instant, in the beam then was gone. 'Hello, who's that?'
Silence.
A hiss of static. A crackle. Then, only a few feet to his right, he heard the voice again. 'Hello? Hello? Hello?'
Something glinted in a bush. He knelt down. It was a radio, with
tmn smmuw
an aerial. Inspecting it closer, with some excitement he realized it was a walkietalkie.
He held the beam on it, studying it for a little while, almost nervous of touching it. Then he picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, cold, wet. Beneath a large green button he could see the word talk.
He pressed it and said, 'Hello!'
A voice jumped straight back at him. 'Who's that?'
Then another voice called out, from some distance away. 'Davey!'
His dad.
'OK, coming!' he yelled back.
Walking on to the road he pressed the green button again. 'This is Davey!' he said. 'Who are you?'
'DAVWEEEEEYYYY!'
His dad again.
In his panic, Davey dropped the radio. It hit the road hard, the casing cracked and the batteries spilled out.
'COMING!' he shouted. He knelt, picked up the walkie-talkie and crammed it furtively into his jacket pocket. Then he scooped up the batteries and put them in another pocket.
'COMING, DAD!' he shouted again. 'JUST HAD TO TAKE ME A PISS!'
Keeping his hand in his pocket so the bulge wouldn't show, he hurried back towards the truck.
Michael pressed the talk button. 'Davey?'
Silence.
He pressed the button again. 'Davey? Hello? Davey?'
White-satin silence. Complete and utter silence, coming down from above, rising up beneath him, pressing in from each side. He tried to move his arms, but as hard as he pushed them out, walls pressed back against them. He also tried to spread out his legs, but they met the same, unyielding walls. Resting the walkie-talkie on his chest, he pushed up against the satin roof inches from his eyes. It was like pushing against concrete.
Then, raising himself up as much as he could, he took hold of the red rubber tube, squinted down it, but could see nothing. Curling his hand over it, he brought it to his lips and tried to whistle down it; but the sound was pathetic.
He sank back down. His head pounded and he badly needed to urinate. He pressed the button again. 'Davey! Davey, I need to pee. Davey!'
Silence again.
From years of sailing, he'd had plenty of experience with two-way radios. Try a different channel, he thought. He found the channel selector, but it wouldn't move. He pushed harder, but it still wouldn't move. Then he saw the reason why - it had been superglued, so that he couldn't change channels - couldn't get to Channel 16, the international emergency channel.
'Hey! Enough you bastards, come on, I'm desperate!'
With only the most local of movements possible, he held the walkie-talkie close to his ear and listened.
Nothing.
He laid the radio down on his chest, then slowly, with great difficulty, worked his right hand down and into his leather jacket pocket and pulled out the rugged waterproof mobile Ashley had given him for sailing. He liked it because it was different to the common mobiles everyone else had. He pressed a button on it and the display lit up. His hopes rose - then fell again. No signal.
'Shit.'
He scrolled through the directory until he came to his business partner Mark's name.
Mark Mob.
Despite the lack of a signal he pressed the dial button.
Nothing happened.
He tried Robbo, Pete, Luke, Josh in turn, his desperation increasing. Then he pressed the walkie-talkie button again. 'Guys! Can you hear me? I know you can fucking hear me!'
Nothing.
On the Ericsson display the time showed 11.13.
He raised his left hand until he could see his watch: 11.14.
He tried to remember the last time he'd looked at it. A good two hours had passed. He closed his eyes. Thought for some moments, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. In the bright, almost dazzling light from the torch he could see the bottle wedged close to his neck and the shiny magazine. He pulled the magazine up over his chest, then manoeuvred it until it was over his face and he was almost smothered by the huge glossy breasts, so close to his eyes they were blurred.
You bastards!
He picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button once more. 'Very funny. Now let me out, please!'
Nothing.
Who the hell was Davey?
His throat was parched. Needed a drink of water. His head was swimming. He wanted to be home, in bed with Ashley. They'd be along in a few minutes. Just had to wait. Tomorrow, he would get them.
The nausea he had been feeling earlier was returning. He closed his eyes. Swimming. Drifting. He lapsed back into sleep.
In a crappy end to a crappy flight, the whole plane shook with a resounding crash as the wheels thumped the tarmac, exactly five and a half hours later than its scheduled time. As it decelerated ferociously, Mark Warren, worn out and fed up, in his cramped seat, safety belt digging into his belly, which was already aching from too many airline pretzels and some vile moussaka that he was regretting eating, took a final look at the pictures of the Ferrari 365 featured in the road test of his Autocar magazine.