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crisis, call.
'My wife . . . ' His voice quavered. 'Injured. I got a call . . . '
'What name, sir?' A lilting local accent.
'Fogg. Jane. Mine's Peter.'
She consulted a clipboard. Oh, for fuck's sake cut out the red lapel She shook
her head slowly. Peter clutched at the ledge. Through a red haze that he knew
would terminate in a faint this time, he saw her lips starting to move. Ok
God, no!
I'm sorry, sir . . . '
Peter felt his legs starting to go weak.
Tin sorry, sir, but nobody of that name has been admitted to Emergency today.'
This is crazy. You're mad! You're not doing your job properly. Somebody hasn't
noted my wife's accident down. She could be dying whilst we're fucking about
like this. 'You - you're mistaken. I got a call.'
'Who from, sir? At what time?' She wasn't smiling any more now.
'From the hospital, of course. At eleven-thirty, I know because . . . ' Oh
hell, what did it matter why he knew what time the phone had rung.
She was speaking on some kind of intercom. A long agonising wait. Somebody was
checking. Everybody here checked, that was all they bloody well ever did:
checked and checked wrongly. And people died, but what the hell did it matter
because you were only a number, meat in an abattoir. Dispensable because there
was a ready market, no shortage of supply.
A faint ting as the internal telephone was hung back on its hook. He stared
into her eyes, almost reading the words before she spoke them. Tm sorry, sir,
but we've checked out and I can assure you that your wife is not here. Are you
sure you've got the right hospital?'
He nodded dumbly. Tm sure. But if she's not here, then she's OK. She hasn't
had an accident!' A sudden feeling of euphoria. *I guess it was a hoax.'
'Then you should report it to the police, sir. The police station's not far
from here. Go out of the main gates, turn right and go on up to the traffic
lights . . . '
But Peter wasn't listening. Trembling, he walked back through the heavy swing
doors and just made it into the Saab before his legs gave out. The dirty
fucking bastards, how low could they stoop'?
Just a hoax - or did somebody want him away from Hodre for a few hours so that
they could perpetrate yet another obscenity? Jane, Gavin, were they OK?
His strength came back with this host of new fears, and he swung the car round
and drove out through the wide gateway. That phone call last night, the one
today, must be linked, he reasoned. Just as there was a link between
everything that had happened since they had arrived at Hodre.
The youths weren't on the panda crossing now, but the level-crossing barriers
were down and a queue of cars had built up. Peter took a deep breath as he sat
there with the engine running. There was a tightness across his chest like a
constricting metal band, and he told himself that that was how a thrombosis
started: stress first, then a deep-seated pain as a floating clot of blood
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started to block the arteries.
An engine shunted along the empty track, then the road was clear again. He
accelerated, noting that the car should have picked up quicker than it did but
it was difficult to be sure in a line of traffic. Nobody seemed to be in a
hurry and the continual oncoming traffic made overtaking impossible.
At last he was back on the B-road. A dawdling battered Diane in front which
the Saab should have left for dead, it struggled to pass, then had to fight
its way back in. With a clatter of annoyance, the Citroen's driver established
his lead again.
Peter knew that the Saab's engine was going to cut out before long. The power
was fading, the cylinders chugging sluggishly. Maybe he should have reversed,
gone back into Llanrhayader and found a garage.
Instead he kept going, hoping that whatever was blocked might clear itself.
His knowledge of motor mechanics was slight and he feared to pull on to the
verge in case he was unable to get going again.
Eight miles or so out of Llanrhayader he had no choice other than to cruise
gently on to the side as with a final splutter the engine cut out. He glanced
at the temperature gauge; the needle was touching the red sector. For fuck's
sake, he'd only had the car serviced a week ago!
He got out, lifted the bonnet and stared uncomprehend-ingly into the well of
wires and plugs and things beyond his ken. Maybe it had just over-heated and
when everything had cooled down it would have got over the trouble and stan
first time.
He knew it wouldn't, though. The phone call had been a hoax to scare the hell
out of him. But now he sensed that somewhere something was very wrong. Fate
had suddenly decided to join forces with the unknown enemy that lurked in the
mists of Hodre. And they had succeeded in getting him out of the way.
10
'If you'll take my advice you'll get this car serviced.' The tall, balding AA
man had an expression of mystique on his angular features, like a doctor who
had ummed and aahed all over your body until he came up with his final
diagnosis, which he had probably known right from the beginning.
'It's just been bloody well serviced!' Peter snapped. 'About a week ago.'
'Well, in that case I'd try another garage next time.' The mechanic began
dropping spanners back into a metal toolbox. 'The points hadn't been greased,
so they weren't opening properly, and the air-filter hadn't been changed -
which meant that the engine was over-heating. Oh, and the fan-belt was loose
as well.'He had a kind of aren't - I - clever smirk. 'Thank you.' Peter got
back behind the wheel, determined to check that the trouble really had been
solved before the uniformed mechanic pulled away.
The engine fired and ticked over smoothly. Then the car moved off, picking up
speed with its usual feeling of power. Peter glanced at his watch:
three-thirty. He wouldn't be back in Woodside before four-fifteen at the
earliest, Gavin would be getting worried, and he just hoped that the boy would
have the sense to wait in the playground until he arrived. Damn it, there were
no phone boxes on this stretch of road, no chance of getting a message to the
school. He just had to drive hard and fast and pray that he would not break
down again. Or crash. Hell, his nerves were frayed.
It was already dusk when the Saab's headlights illuminated the scattered farm
cottages on the outskirts of Woodside. With an urgency, almost panic, Peter
drew to a halt outside the school. The light from the end classroom showed up
in the square of concrete bordered by railings which was the playground. It
had an air of desertion about it, as though everybody had left and wouldn't
come back.
Peter jumped out of the car and almost ran into the enclosure. He had to
restrain himself from yelling, Gavin. Where are you? He stopped and looked
around. There was nobody in sight. Oh God! Yet the school would not have been
shut up with a light burning. There must be somebody around: there had to be.
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