Far out in front of him was a truck. Beg looked at the speedometer. He was driving at a hundred and ten himself, and wasn’t getting any closer.
Dilemma.
It annoyed him that he wasn’t catching up. This whole worn-out service-car thing annoyed him. And it annoyed him, too that, when it came to his service car, he was such a moralist.
He pressed the pedal to the floor. Gradually, he came up alongside.
The truck driver was not only going too fast, he also kept swerving across the white lines.
Beg slapped the rotating light onto the roof and manoeuvred the truck onto the shoulder of the road. Sighing and peeping, it came to a halt behind him. There was a moment of silence, some intentional shilly-shallying — Beg liked to drag that out a little. As though you held sway over time itself.
He climbed out, all his movements equally deliberate. Once he was standing beside the car, he stuck his billy club into his belt. The truck’s engine was idling. He looked up the side of the cab, and the driver rolled down the window. Beg gestured to him to climb down.
‘You’re allowed to go a hundred and thirty here,’ the man said.
‘Get out, please.’
The door swung open, and the man climbed down, grumbling. ‘A hundred and thirty, I swear.’
Beg shook his head. He pointed back down the road. ‘You went through an eighty-kilometre zone back there.’
‘You moved the signs yourself …’
‘While driving, you repeatedly swerved from lane to lane. Have you been drinking?’
‘No, man, I don’t even drink. Could I see your I.D.?’
He was a man of around thirty, wearing jeans, sneakers. The new generation: healthy, haughty, with an almost palpable contempt for authority. They didn’t know how things had been. They had never lacked for a thing; they’d had their bread buttered on both sides.
Beg’s badge gleamed in the light from the open cab.
‘What’s up with you guys?’ the driver said. ‘What do you think you’re doing? You guys are fucking up everything, really.’
He turned around and placed a foot on the first step up to the cab.
‘Don’t do that,’ Beg said.
The man looked over his shoulder. ‘Gotta get my papers.’
‘You’re holding them in your hand.’
‘Other papers.’ He took another step, and was off the ground now.
Beg felt the hairs on his neck bristle. He rested his hand on the billy club. ‘Get down here.’
The driver stepped back onto the ground. ‘You’re the third one today. The third. Do you understand what that means, the third? A syndicate, that’s what you guys are. Organised crime. Could I see your hands?’
Beg was thrown off balance by the question. What was wrong with his hands?
‘Your hands,’ the man asked again. His tone was conciliatory; the vortex of rage seemed to have subsided. There was something compelling about him, something that — if he weren’t a citizen who’d committed a moving violation, and Beg not an officer in the course of his duties — would make you show him your hands. Why did the driver want to see his hands? He had to resist the urge to look at them himself; it had been a long time since he’d last consciously looked at his hands.
‘You were doing at least forty kilometres over the speed limit in an eighty-kilometre zone,’ Beg said primly. ‘While doing so, you repeatedly violated the traffic markers.’ He didn’t know why he sounded so weak, so fatuous. Was he already bowing internally to the man’s youth? Was he already admitting in the depths of his soul to being a relic, a reject of time, ready for extinction?
‘Please, may I see your hands?’
As though robbed of his will, Beg, grandpa Beg, held out his hands, the palms turned upwards. The man leaned down and held his face right above them, as though he meant to lick them. He studied them carefully, and then straightened up. ‘See what I mean?’ he said.
Beg looked at his hands. ‘What?’
‘Completely red with theft.’
Beg tossed him against the cab. The man laughed. ‘Are you going to beat me now? For saying that you’re a thief?’
Beg swiped him across the face with his billy club.
With a yelp, the driver crumpled. ‘Don’t, man, don’t do that!’
The billy club lashed out, rage burning white behind Beg’s forehead. He pounded him on the back, the legs; writhing like a worm, the man tried to make himself small, to roll into a ball, to disappear into the earth. He screamed — a high voice all of a sudden, a boy’s voice still.
‘Dirty’ — whoosh — ‘little’ — whoosh — ‘piece of shit.’
His foot bent back double when he kicked him. The sharp flash of pain sped up his shin.
Through a crack in his blinded brains came a ray of light: the realisation that he might kill him.
Stop.
Reluctantly, he lowered his arm. He leaned against the cab, out of breath. The man was lying beside the front wheel. Beg leaned down and grabbed him by the hair, to see his face. Blood and snot were running over his cheeks. Was he weeping?
‘Look what you’re doing,’ Beg panted. ‘Do you get it now? You idiot?’
He wiped his hands on the man’s sweater and stood up. He rested his hands on his hips and bent his back and head as far back as he could, groaning.
The cigarettes were on the dashboard of his car. A passenger car came by from the other direction. It slowed, pale ovals at the windows. Beg gestured to it to drive on. He lit a cigarette and looked at the man on the ground. Welcome to the real world. Somebody had to teach them.
He coughed. His mouth was dry; the cigarette didn’t taste good.
In the cab he found a roll of euro banknotes, a stun-gun, and a bottle of cola. He unscrewed the top and took a swig. There were porn mags in the net beside the mattress. He flipped through the waybills. Then he stuck the euros in his pocket, took the key out of the ignition, and turned off the headlights.
Outside, the man was crawling towards the road. Beg locked the door of the truck and lowered himself to the ground. The engine ticked as it cooled.
He lashed the driver’s hands behind his back with a tie-wrap and dragged him to his car, where he heaved him onto the back seat, between the harvest from his garden. ‘Be careful with my bell peppers.’
He dried his hands on his sleeves. A headache throbbed behind his eyes. The exertion had brought it on; it was happening more often lately. There came a day when you got too old for this kind of thing.
Through the tunnel of night he drove back into town. The little moon hung low above the horizon — a wan, barely discernible line separating heaven and earth. The darkness over the steppe was a substance, a night-blue stone. He thought about his sister. Maybe he should try to reach her again. She had always been interested in people’s stories — especially old people. Sometimes she wrote them down. ‘When someone like that dies, it’s really like a library’s been lost,’ she’d said once. Maybe his sister knew where the song came from. She was the collector in the family: she collected stories, pebbles, paperclips, and loose ends of wool.
‘I need to see a doctor,’ the man in the back seat said.
Their argument had been about the parental home. She had wanted to keep it, after their father died as well, the same way she kept the stories, the pebbles, the paperclips, and snatches of wool. Maybe she would rent it out, and then live there herself after she had raised her son and retired from her job in the city. But Beg had wanted to get rid of it. She didn’t have enough money to buy him out, so the house with the plum trees in the front garden and grapevines along the fence was sold.