“That’s exactly what I’m banking on, Metal.”
“On my own? Can I have Dave with me?”
“Yes, but he’ll be in the back. I don’t want anyone to see him. You’re the only one of us they won’t recognise, Metal.”
“Right.”
“Are you up for it?”
“All right. Just one thing, Stones.”
“Yeah?”
“Look after the Morris, will you?”
“Oh yeah, I’ll even rub its tummy when it farts.”
The blue German saloon was gone from the workshop now. In fact, we’d returned the motor to its rightful owner, just like any decent law-abiding citizen would. It was almost undamaged too, thanks to the way Slow Kid had lifted it from the Sunday market. I’d even added a few hidden extras. I’m so generous sometimes that I get all soppy and sentimental just thinking about myself.
So if Lisa had done her bit and made the call, this plan might actually work. I had complete faith in her, of course. She was the only person I knew who could sound genuinely respectable and convincing. Besides, I was well aware why she’d agreed to do what I asked. She hoped it would give her a bit of leverage over me. Dream on, sweetheart.
We split up and set off in opposite directions. Slow Kid was driving the Traveller, with his flat cap pulled down so far over his forehead that it made his ears stick out just right. I was slumped in the passenger seat in my own cap and sports jacket. From behind, we should look like a couple of old fogeys out for a Sunday drive on a Monday. We’d be comparing our false teeth and arthritis, and talking about the next reunion of the Decrepit Order of Water Voles.
For a while, though, we old fogeys were parked up by the Parliament Oak, a tree even more ancient than we were. King Edward I is supposed to have held a parliament of his barons under this tree. They’d been hunting in the royal forest near Clipstone when they got the news that the Welsh were revolting. It wouldn’t be news to me, but they were a bit innocent in those days.
The oak itself is just a rotten, blackened stump. Not surprising, when it’s getting on for a thousand years old. But there’s a new tree too — a sapling oak, sprouting from the same spot. It’s thriving, and even helps to prop up the old one that the visitors come to see. Some folk could make a meaningful symbol out of this. You know, like regeneration and all that. Bringing in new life, but keeping the old traditions alive at the same time. Preserving the best of our heritage while adapting to the young and vibrant modern world. Yeah, you could see all that in this little oak tree, if you want. Me, I think someone nicked all the acorns off the old tree, but dropped one and a squirrel shat on it. That’s the way real life works, believe me.
My mobile phone rang, ruining my image as an old fart.
“They’ve picked us up, Stones,” said Metal’s voice. “A blue kraut saloon, right?”
“How many in it?”
“Three.”
“Stay well ahead for a bit.”
“No problem. They’re hanging back anyway.”
“Good. They want to see where you go.”
“Dave’s asleep in the back, by the way.”
“He’d better wake up when we need him.”
“Hey, Stones, you know this van we’ve got?”
“Yeah?”
“What happens to it afterwards?”
“It vanishes along with you, Metal.”
“Dump it and burn it?”
“That’s right. You know the drill.”
“Right. I was just wondering. Because there’s a stereo in here, and some real good steel racking built into the back. I can find a good home for them.”
“Look, once you’ve disappeared, Metal, I don’t care. I just don’t want to see it still sitting round in the workshop in a few days’ time like that Citroen, get me?”
“Right, right. Can I tell Dave not to bend the racking then? Only he’s lying on it, like.”
“Tell him whatever you want, Metal. Have you still got that car in sight?”
“Oh yeah. Gotta go anyway now, Stones. The Budby junction’s coming up. See you in a minute or two, eh?”
I nodded at Slow Kid and he started the Morris. We crept out from under the Parliament Oak and edged towards the road. I was watching for a white van coming over the brow of the hill.
“Okay, here they come. Let’s go.”
He let out the handbrake and we pulled across the road. He flattened the accelerator to get a bit of speed up and we were approaching the first bend by the time the van closed in behind us. Metal just managed to overtake us before we were into the bend, and we saw him turn sharp left. We followed him, and the blue saloon came up in the rear. They would have liked to get past us, but the lane was too narrow and there were hedges and ditches on either side. Slow Kid managed to deter them from overtaking by carelessly wavering across the road a couple of times just at the right moment, like a doddery old fool who was falling asleep at the wheel after a lunchtime steak and kidney pie and half a Mackeson. The blue car skimmed the right hand ditch a couple of times before pulling back over. In the wing mirror, I could see a lot of mouthing and gesturing going on back there. Some folk have no respect for their elders, do they? But in the end, the driver gave up and settled for third place when he realised that the van wasn’t getting too far ahead.
This was the back road into Medensworth. There was a view across an enormous ploughed field towards the old pit site. The spoil heaps stood out, a range of low black hills against the grey sky. The houses that clustered beyond them were as grey as the sky. Away to our left were the eastern fringes of the heath.
A minute or two later, we emerged suddenly into the top end of the Forest, the hedges giving way to rickety fences and fancy breeze block walls. In a rush, the houses gathered round us as we entered their territory, the white van slowing to lead the way into Lime Avenue and right onto Birch Road. Sure enough, the Morris Traveller farted as Slow Kid throttled down to take the corner.
If the driver of the blue saloon thought he could get past the Morris now, he hadn’t reckoned with our famous traffic calming measures. Even these can come in useful, sometimes. Every few yards on Birch Road there are bollards narrowing the carriageway to a car’s width, and a fearsome hump to get over. Slow Kid braked to a crawl to take the humps, just like a careful driver would. Even between the humps he drove slowly, sticking to the middle of the road as if afraid the parked cars might reach out and grab him.
As we approached First Avenue, the van started to pull away from us. The blokes behind saw this and panicked. The driver began to sound his horn at us, but all he could see was the back of two heads and a pair of flat caps. We took no notice. There were cars parked on both sides, and a lot of kids in the street, with it being school out time. We were almost where we wanted to be, the exact spot on the map I’d chosen.
As we went over the last hump, the driver of the German car was so distracted by the sight of the van disappearing that he didn’t notice we’d stopped. Just to help the moment along, Slow Kid slipped the Morris into reverse and the two cars met with a satisfying crunch. I had to wince as the bonnet of the German motor smashed into the rear end of the old car and bits of broken headlight tinkled onto the road.
Instantly, both cars were surrounded by kids. They were mostly young sprogs, but there were some teenagers among them, crowding round as if we were a scene from a TV cop show. They were staring at the drivers to see what they would do, perhaps hoping there’d be a fight.
We got out of the Traveller and shut the doors. The other car was trying to pull itself away from our boot, and a bit of bumper came away with a ripping sound. But there were too many kids in the way, and behind them were some mums too, shouting at the driver to watch what the hell he was doing, banging on the roof and calling him rude names. The driver looked around desperately for a way out, but he’d lost his chance. The crowd was getting thicker.