Family funerals. The only bright thing about them was that, unlike at weddings, the family didn't tend to end up fighting.
Pete glanced around. The cafeteria was quiet at this time of the evening, the empty tables around him uncleared and one whole section across the way roped off and unlit. There were a few people down the far end, but not many. Airport traffic, at a guess; the airport was only ten miles on and they had the look of late arrivals heading for homes with empty refrigerators. Some had ski tans, others were in loud shirts from some tropical beach. Beyond them, a young woman in a mid-length coat stood reading the menu.
He lowered his eyes, and looked at the key.
It wasn't as if he had a guarantee of a four star hotel, or anything. For all that he knew, Mike was probably expecting him to camp out amongst dust sheets and bags of plaster. It's costing you nothing, the logic would go, you ought to be grateful. Pete's brother could make a personal favour seem like a tip to the bellboy. He was tempted simply to press on, see if he could make it back to the valley by morning; the Zodiac was still giving him problems, and this way he wouldn't have to cope with a cold engine after a night in the open.
Turning the key around on the tabletop had made a faint pattern in spilled sugar. Strange, how he felt more attached to the valley as home than he did to the area where he'd been raised. But then, the old town and its suburbs were barely recognisable now. New roads, new buildings, a shopping centre that was down-at-heel less than five years after it had opened. He dusted off the key, and pocketed it. Then he glanced out at the endless river of lights that he was soon to rejoin.
A wraith stood at his shoulder.
It was a trick of reflection, of course, but still it startled him. He turned to face the woman who stood by his table, and the shell of darkness became filled out and real.
"Excuse me," she said. "Do you have a car?"
At a distance she'd hardly appeared to be more than a girl, but now he could see that she was probably closer to his own age. Her face was clear and hardly lined, but her grey eyes had a depth that could only have been earned. And she had a trace of an accent — not one that he could immediately identify, but enough to transform a simple question into something strange and unexpected.
"Yes," Pete said, guardedly; given the location, he could hardly say anything else.
"And you're alone?"
"I suppose I am." He was looking her over as he said it, half aware of what was coming. His usual response to roadside hitchhikers was the same as that of ninety-nine per cent of the population, which was to zip on by, feel bad for a while, and then forget all about it. But this kind of approach was different. For one thing, it was personal. And Pete, when it came down to it, knew that he was your basic and average Nice Guy; couldn't help it, that was the way he'd always been.
What the hell, she seemed okay. Sane, clean, and probably decent company. Maybe she could even help him to stay awake.
"Can I have a ride?" she said.
"You don't even know where I'm going."
"It doesn't matter."
And then she smiled; and Pete's momentary suspicion faded, like a drowned sailor returning to the deep.
They walked out through the big glass doors and into the night. The parking area was well lit and, like the cafeteria, almost empty; there were a couple of dozen vehicles in the bays before them, but beyond these lay an acreage of line-marked space running all the way out to the landscaped boundary hill and the trees. Motorway noise was a continuous background drone, the sodium-glow buzz of the airport just over the horizon. Pete led the way across the paved area and onto the asphalt.
The Zodiac stood alone. It was as if the cars on either side had waited until nobody was looking and then quietly rolled away.
"This is it," he said when they were close enough for it to be obvious which one he was talking about. "Want to change your mind?"
She didn't even take time to think it over. "No," she said, and she took in its battered old lines as if it was as good as anything she'd become used to. "Is it American?"
"No," he said, unlocking the door, "this is one of ours. It's the kind of car they're usually talking about when they say how they don't make 'em like that anymore. This is just before they cross themselves and say, Thank God. Any luggage?"
"Just this," she said, showing the yellow carrier bag that she'd brought out with her. "Where are we going?"
"You really don't care?"
"I'm kind of touring around. I haven't decided where I'm going to settle, yet."
Well, it was probably none of his business, but it struck him as a dangerous kind of thing to be doing. There could be some pretty weird people around, and at this time of night they came into their own. But what was it to him? She was over twenty-one, and at least with him she'd fallen on her feet and would be safe for the next couple of hours. He checked all the doors, and then he got in beside her. She was all ready to go, hands folded in her lap.
The Zodiac played for sympathy a little, but started anyway. Without looking at the woman, Pete said, "Where are you from?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she said.
"Try me."
There was no reply for a moment, and when Pete glanced up from switching on the headlights he saw that she was looking across at him with an expression that he couldn't make out in the half shadows of the car. It might have been mischief, but it looked like something more.
"I'm a Russian," she said. "I came here tonight on a stolen passport. I think they may have caught the boy I was with, but I carried on."
She watched him for a few seconds longer, until he was the one who turned away.
"Sure," Pete said as they rolled forward and he swung the car around toward the motorway sliproad.
After all, he could take a hint as well as anyone.
THREE
About an hour later, he was saying, "You were telling me the truth, weren't you?"
They hadn't covered much in the way of mileage, mainly due to Pete's mistaken choice of motorway exit that had taken them way out on the wrong side of town before he'd been able to find a place where he could get off the road and turn around. So much for his ability to make it home without a map; even on roads that he was supposed to know, he was no better than a stranger. Motorway lighting was giving the entire night journey a sense of unreality; he wasn't even accustomed to that, any more. He and his passenger had talked about a number of things along the way, but the topic of her background wasn't one of them.
Perhaps that was it; the way that she'd said it and then said nothing more, while everything else about her seemed to indicate the kind of deep streak of honesty that resists analysis, but calls up certainty like a half awake bear from its cave.
I'm a Russian. I came here tonight on a stolen passport.
Could such things happen?
They could, and they did; sometimes in full colour on the six o'clock news, but never in a way that seemed to intersect with Pete's life in any meaningful sense. She wasn't particularly remarkable. Different, but not remarkable. She wasn't bad-looking, but you could lose her in a crowd without too much problem.
I think they caught the boy I was with, but I carried on.
Belief had been simmering in him for some time now, and it seemed that this was the moment that it had chosen to boil over.
They were off the motorway network and it was starting to get late, but Pete had a kind of instinct for seeking out the lowlife places that traded outside normal hours. The cafe was one of a row of old shops, and the parking area behind the row was a half-acre demolition site that had been bulldozed flat and which now served as rough and unlit standing for heavy lorries. The two of them had picked their way carefully over bricks and glass and half buried timbers. Some of the original street layout of the site was still visible, but only just. The extractor fans over the back yard of the cafe were working full-time, pumping out a steam that carried with it the scents of hot fat and bacon.