♦
And then, one day, The Plan was ready to sweep into its final phase. That was when Ishmael made his fateful phone call to Marilyn’s father.
‘Be gentle with him,’ Marilyn said. ‘But not too gentle.’
Ishmael made the call.
♦
In August 1955 Heinz Nordhoff holds a jamboree to celebrate the production of the one millionth Beetle. Journalists arriving at the Wolfsburg factory receive a dupliacted copy of his speech. It runs to twenty sides and concludes: ‘Hard work and determination has always been the strong point of the Germans, for we enjoy working if we know for what purpose, and I should think that everyone who has lived through the last fifteen catastrophic years really does know for what purpose.’
‘Oh really?’ thinks Ivan Hirst.
♦
The last time Ishmael had seen Marilyn’s father he had been standing in the drive of ‘Sorrento’, wearing a dressing-gown and Wellingtons, carrying a shotgun and surrounded by walls of flaming petrol. How strange to think that Ishmael had once hoped to ‘communicate’ with him, and how much stranger to think he was now about to do it by telephone.
The phone rang for a long time before Marilyn’s father answered.
‘Yes?’ he said at last, his voice sounding distant and high-pitched.
‘Hello,’ Ishmael said.
‘Who is that?’
‘I think you know who this is.’
‘No I don’t. Stop playing silly buggers.’
‘Call me Ishmael,’ said Ishmael deliberately.
There was a chilled silence at the other end of the line.
Marilyn’s father said, ‘I knew you’d be in touch eventually. I’ve been preparing myself.’
Ishmael said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be prepared enough.’
Marilyn’s father said, ‘How prepared do I have to be to deal with vermin?’
Ishmael said, ‘If you think you’re dealing with vermin then you’ve already lost.’
‘I don’t lose.’
‘This time you do.’
They went on like this for a while longer, talking like villains in a comic strip, both believing themselves to be the good guy, occasionally laughing harshly, or bitterly as the situation demanded. It was a bit stilted.
‘And what of Marilyn?’ her father asked at last. ‘Is she with you?’
‘Yes she’s here,’ Ishmdel said. ‘She’s fine.’
‘Wasn’t that all you wanted? Didn’t you ought to be satisfied?’
‘No,’ Ishmael snapped. The game has changed. It’s no longer a game. The stakes are higher, and they’re no longer material. Now they’re spiritual.’
‘I know that,’ Marilyn’s father said.
Ishmael said, ‘We want to meet you, all of you, all the Crockenfield Blazers. We want to be at the centre of the cyclone. We want to be at the heart of the cancer, to be face to face with the heart of darkness. We are many and our hearts are clean. We are coming to pluck out the disease. We will arrive soon. We come with the best possible intentions — to destroy you.’
‘We are ready,’ said Marilyn’s father. ‘Now and for ever.’
The phone went dead.
‘He got the message,’ Ishmael said.
♦
Saturday 16 June 1973, Malcolm Buchanan ‘drives’ his Beetle from the Isle of Man to England. He knows that the Beetle is famous for being waterproof and airtight, that it pays to open the window before trying to close the door, but this is a special sea-going version. Malcolm manages to travel thirty-two miles in just over seven hours, though he runs out of fuel just four hundred yards from the Cumberland coast. Now there’s an existential image for you — a man alone, drifting across the sea, powerless to control his fate, in a floating Volkswagen Beetle. The car at last drifts ashore at St Bees Head. Malcolm tells the press he did it all for charity.
♦
The Plan swept into its final mobile phase. Four Beetles stood outside Fox’s Farm, but these were not ordinary Beetles. Fat Les and Davey had performed a transformation or two.
The windscreens were bullet-proof, the cars had monstrous all-terrain tyres, bumpers made out of steel tubing, hub-caps featuring Boadicea-style spikes, engines so big they burst from their compartments. Sheets of ugly, tattered metal had been welded on here and there as protective shields. They were ugly, deformed and dangerous. Mary had painted them with symbols — mandalas, eyes in pyramids, crescents, pentacles, yin and yang signs, swastikas — holy symbols.
And there was a fifth Beetle. It was Enlightenment and it was changed. Every inch of it was now black. Every piece of chrome had been removed. Bumpers, door handles, wheel centres, exhaust pipes, were all matt black. The headlights had black covers. The windows were smoked glass. Enlightenment sat low and vicious on fat tyres.
Ishmael sat inside, Marilyn beside him. It felt like home.
Fat Les drove the first of the other Beetles, Davey another, the Norton twins another, and Harold the former bank manager the fourth. Other members of the commune were scattered among the passenger seats, front and rear. They wore scraps of leather and animal skins. Their bodies and faces were painted, some heads were shaved. They carried axes and picks, claw hammers, slingshots and Bowie knives.
They looked quite decorative.
Five engines burst into violent life. Ishmael led the grim procession out from Fox’s Farm, out on to the roads, God’s own country.
♦
At his home in Yorkshire, nearly forty years after his time at Wolfsburg, Ivan Hirst straightens his cravat, lights his pipe, buttons his cardigan, and dusts his collection of model Beetles. It is probably the world’s best collection and contains just four items.
He had the idea of a promotional toy or paperweight in the shape of the car as early as 1946, thus he was surely the first to confirm the Volkswagen’s status as objet d’art. The first attempt at casting in aluminium was very crude and Hirst found it unacceptable — today it looks like a bar of soap in the shape of a Beetle, a bar that has been used several times. The second attempt was far more successful — wheels, doors and windows are clearly described in the aluminium. He kept an example of each of these two states of model on his desk until he left Wolfsburg in 1949.
♦
It was an easy journey. They drove in stately procession with Ishmael at the head. They drove with due care and attention. They obeyed speed limits. They signalled clearly and in good time. They had consideration for other road users. They did not want to draw attention to themselves.
Two hours later they approached Crockenfield. They were ready. They drove along Hawk’s Lane. They looked for ambushes. They looked for Range Rovers. They saw nothing.
Then they saw ‘Sorrento’. They sounded their horns — five notes that refused to harmonize. They saw the wagon wheel gates. The gates were open. Ishmael slowed Enlightenment down to a crawl and drove into the grounds. The four other Beetles followed. They were ready for traps. They were ready to fight. They were as ready as they ever would be, but they found nothing.
There were no cars parked in front of the house. There was nobody at any of the windows. There was no servant woman telling them they couldn’t park there.
They parked. They sat. They waited. They kept their engines running and their horns blaring. It seemed silly after a while. Ishmael turned off his engine. He stopped sounding his horn. He wound down his smoked window.
‘Supposing they held a war and nobody came,’ said Marilyn.
Ishmael opened his door. He stepped out. His torn blue leather creaked in the warm, still afternoon. He felt scared, yet he felt ready. He had three days’ growth of beard. He looked the part.
He walked to the front door and rang the bell. Nobody answered. He wasn’t surprised. He turned the door handle. It wasn’t locked.