‘C’mon in. It’s about to start.’
He slipped an arm around my shoulders and ushered me inside. If Steve is my surrogate father, then Dylan is my surrogate brother. He’s five years older than me and several sizes bigger thanks to a life spent working as a bricklayer on building sites. Our friendship grew out of Dylan’s love of cars. When Dad was still racing, our family rated as minor celebrities. The local papers kept up with Dad’s progress and even did a profile on him and Steve. Locals knew where Archway was located and Dylan used to hang around outside to catch a glimpse of one of Dad’s cars or one of Steve’s restoration projects. When Dylan was thirteen, Steve caught him sneaking into the workshop. Instead of kicking him out, Steve asked what he wanted. Dylan answered that he wanted to learn about cars. Steve told Dylan that cars couldn’t be understood from afar, then tossed him a rag and gave him a job on the spot. I was only eight at the time, but I was already helping out at Archway. At the beginning, we only got to sweep up and put tools away. Despite our age difference, we became tight. Dylan had given me my first misappropriated beer and cigarette and set me up on my first and only blind date. I wasn’t thankful for everything.
I followed Dylan into his living room as the show was starting. I dropped into an armchair as the opening credits, a montage of races, filled the screen.
‘You want something to drink?’
I shook my head. I just wanted to see what I’d missed on Saturday. I needed to witness Derek’s crime spread across the airwaves of Europe. Then, he’d never escape what he’d done.
The show’s host talked over snippets of the night’s show. ‘It’s an end of season bonanza this week on Redline. We’ve got action from the final rounds of the Benelux Formula Ford Championship, British Touring Cars at Silverstone, the French Formula Renault Championship and the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship at Stowe Park. First up, Formula Three action from Hockenheim.’
Hearing Stowe Park mentioned raised gooseflesh. It was going to be hard to watch this. Obviously, Dylan felt the same way since he’d reached for his sunflower seeds.
It was an agonizing forty minutes before Redline got to the Stowe Park race. I went cold when the coverage switched to aerial shots of the circuit. I had an unenviable advantage over all the viewers in their homes. I knew what was about to happen. I wanted to look away when the crash came, but I knew I wouldn’t.
Dylan picked up the remote and pressed record on his digital TV recorder. I wondered if Alex’s family was doing the same. Then more darkly, I wondered if Derek was recording his handiwork for posterity.
‘It’s tight at the top going into the twelfth and final round of the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship. Alex Fanning holds a two point advantage over nine time champion and local fan favourite, Derek Deacon. Here’s how they shape up for the start of this hotly contested series. On pole, we’ve got nine-time champion, Derek Deacon, giving his championship hopes a much needed boost. Alongside Deacon is Graham Linden in the number two slot.’
‘What?’ Dylan said and shot me a glance.
The commentator continued to read out the starting line-up as a computer graphic scrolled up the screen showing the drivers’ names and race numbers. It became clear what was happening before the commentator said my name.
‘They’re not showing the race from the beginning,’ I said. ‘They’re showing it from the restart.’
The commentator ran through the complete grid and didn’t mention Alex’s absence.
‘This is bullshit,’ Dylan said. ‘They have to say something. They can’t pretend nothing happened.’
Can’t they? I thought. I didn’t like where this was going. ‘Maybe they’re going to say something at the end.’
The race played out from the restart. When it finished, the image cut to Derek shrugging himself from his car and bowing his head to take the winner’s wreath and a bottle of champagne from Myles Beecham. Derek didn’t show a flicker of remorse for what he’d done. The sight of him basking in his moment of murderous glory made me want to punch a hole through the TV.
I waited for the commentator to mention Alex’s death, but nothing was mentioned. As soon as the race ended, the show went to an ad break.
The stink of a cover up radiated from the TV. The sanitized coverage deceived the public, dishonoured Alex, and robbed the police investigation of vital proof.
‘What the hell was that?’ Dylan said.
‘It looks like everyone wants to pretend nothing happened.’
Lap Five
Alex’s funeral was held at a stone church on a rainy Friday in Guildford. Dylan came with me. The church’s small car park was reserved for the hearse and family, so I parked on the street. The service hadn’t started yet so everyone was milling around in groups in front of the church.
The scene sent me back to mum and dad’s funeral. I had felt so alone despite my grandparents’ presence. It didn’t seem possible that I’d never see my parents again. The funeral seemed to take place around me, as if I was invisible. The vicar talked about a future that couldn’t be true. I cried more out of confusion than loss.
Graham and about a dozen of the championship drivers stood huddled together in the graveyard, away from the congregation in what appeared to be self-imposed banishment. Derek was the notable absentee, which was understandable under the circumstances. Dylan and I joined them.
Our banishment wasn’t entirely self-imposed. I felt a number of the mourners staring at us with disgusted looks. I couldn’t blame them. We were an unpleasant reminder of what had killed Alex. If they only knew what we knew about the death threat, they would be chasing us off with pitchforks and torches. At least Derek had the good sense not to show his face.
‘Did anyone catch Redline on Tuesday?’ John Barshinski asked.
We all nodded.
‘Why’d they cut the crash out?’ John asked.
‘Out of respect?’ Graham said.
‘Cutting the crash out is one thing. Ignoring what happened is another,’ I said.
‘I don’t think they ignored it,’ Graham said.
‘Redline excised the crash and all mention of Alex,’ Dylan said. ‘That’s wrong. They didn’t have to go into details, but they should have said something about Alex.’
‘It could have something to do with the police investigation,’ Tony Hansen said. ‘The cops have been all over the track.’
Tony and Pete Hansen ran the race school at Stowe Park for anyone who wanted a spin around the track. They operated out of a small office at the circuit.
‘Have any of you been interviewed?’ I asked. It seemed natural that if they were investigating the crash, they’d interview the drivers.
Everyone shook their head.
‘I know they interviewed Derek and Myles,’ Tony said.
I hoped the police planned on widening their investigation, but maybe they didn’t have to. They might have a strong enough case against Derek already. That could explain Redline’s edited coverage of the race. Essentially, it was evidence the police wouldn’t want on display before a trial. That might explain why both Pit Lane Magazine and Motorsport News had limited their mention of Alex’s death to only a sentence.
‘Have the cops mentioned charges?’ I asked.
‘Why should they?’ Tony said.
‘Why do you think?’ John said. ‘Derek’s death threat.’
‘That was just talk,’ Graham said.
‘Was it? Alex is dead, isn’t he?’ I said.
‘Jesus, keep it down,’ Dylan said. ‘We’re at a funeral for Christ’s sake.’
I took a breath and dropped my voice. ‘There’s no way this was coincidence. Derek said he’d kill Alex and Alex died.’