A Heart in the Right Place Read online

The windscreen smashed. Nick’s brain froze. Some part of his consciousness was telling him to adopt the brace position. Another part was asking what the hell the brace position was. Yet another part was looking for the rock or tree which the car would ultimately hit: slamming them against the roof and into a steel-coated pancake.

  The car crested a ridge. It dropped onto a lower slope. Nick was no longer driving, not even remotely. The Cadillac was tobogganing down a hill of fallen leaves and mulch. The slope was lessening, but not fast enough. Through the juddering, muck-filled haze, Nick could see a line of gorse bushes and a track running left to right in front of them.

  “Brake now, son,” said Tony.

  “No brakes, dad.”

  Nick still held the steering wheel as if he exerted some control over the car’s direction. Eventually, the Cadillac slewed and drifted sideways, to stop gently against a gorse bush. There was a silence which felt really strange after all the yelling and screaming of a moment earlier. The mountainside behind them was suffused with a haze of muck and dust. Trees creaked high above. There was no sign of the truck.

  “Is everyone still alive?” asked Nick.

  “For now,” said Tony.

  Pickles yipped.

  “Close enough,” said Nick.

  37

  Finn knew how to brace. She adopted the position the moment it was clear the truck was going to crash. She was dimly aware the weight of the trailer had twisted them into a roll down the mountainside. No time to shout a warning to Adam.

  Finn closed her eyes tight. She felt the glass from the windscreen explode across her face. There was a weird pressure and a crunching sensation in the general vicinity of her right arm. Despite everything, she held her position until the cab came to rest.

  She opened her eyes.

  The cab was upright, mostly. The front was bent over, angled into the dirt. The windscreen was fifty percent earth, fifty percent sky and smoke. The seat next to her was empty. Adam was gone. Bizarrely, it made her want to laugh.

  She gave a tentative, testing stretch. Her right arm would not co-operate. It was broken; somewhere between elbow and wrist. She couldn’t remember the names of the bones in the forearm, even though she knew every bone in the human body. So far there was no pain.

  “Adrenalin,” she said to herself, her voice coming from far away. Adrenalin was good right now. It was better than what would come next.

  She loosened the seat belt and slid forward against the dashboard. Something creaked from behind, in the trailer. The smoke was thickening, but she didn’t hurry. Vehicles caught fire far less often than people thought, and almost never exploded.

  She looked around for something to help with her arm. Somehow the duct-tape was still in its cubby hole. There was an extending wheel brace down the side of the driver’s seat. She laid the brace against her lower arm as a makeshift splint, bound it up with duct-tape. One-handed she taped her arm tight to her Muubaa jacket to hold it in place.

  The driver’s side door wouldn’t open. She climbed to the passenger side. There was blood and nuggets of broken safety glass everywhere. She dragged herself up and through the shattered windscreen, sliding feet first to the ground. She skidded on the loose earth slope. Pebbles bounced down the mountainside, raising dust against the trees.

  The Cadillac was at the bottom of the slope, maybe half a mile distant. It was right way up and in one piece. She glanced back up the mountain and saw where Adam had gone. Half of him hung from a sapling about twenty yards away, the other half was underneath the cab. It was the half with the trowel in it. Finn took the trowel, dropping it as she tried to place it in her right hand. Fingers weren’t responding. The adrenalin was wearing off.

  After a moment’s reflection she duct-taped the trowel to the end of her splint to make a fixed blade. It was Sheffield steel after all.

  38

  Nick stared up at the trees above them. He raised his hand against the light of the setting sun. “I think I see movement.”

  “I should think the whole mountainside is moving,” said Tony. “Turn it over again.”

  Nick squinted up the mountain. “It’s that woman,” he said, leaning out of the car. “That crazy woman is still coming after us. I think she really might be a terminator.”

  “The terminator’s a man, son,” said Tony. “Turn it over.”

  “Huh?”

  Tony pointed at the ignition. “Turn it over. It might work this time.”

  “Dad, I don't think this car should go anywhere. It needs serious attention. Don't forget it's a vintage model.”

  “I don't want to panic you, but I think we should consider the possibility a mentally deranged lady on the mountain is coming for us. There’s no doubt she means us harm. If your car gets bust-up by us driving it, then you're just going to have to take it on the chin. We need to get out of here.”

  Nick turned the ignition. It grunted, roared briefly, before settling into a deeply unhappy put-put-splutter noise. When Nick put it into gear, it grew worse. He might be able to ignore the squealing engine, but he couldn't ignore the crunching and banging from the suspension. He'd never driven a clown car with square wheels, but guessed it would be something like this. They bounced unsteadily over the bushes and lumpy grass; it didn’t get much better when they joined the dirt track. There were no brakes but it didn't matter: the car’s top speed was no more than ten miles per hour as it lurched up and down.

  “Classic,” said Tony.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your car. It is, at best, a classic car. To be a vintage, it has to have been built before nineteen thirty.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s the precise definition. Veteran, vintage, post-vintage, classic.”

  “A classic, huh?” Behind them came a clunk and a crash. “What was that?”

  “Bumper,” said Tony. “Keep going, we can always fetch it later.”

  “We need to go up there to get away,” said Nick, pointing right.

  “There’s more of a flat area if we go straight on,” said Tony. “Let’s go this way for now and see where we might be able to turn.”

  Moments later Nick’s door popped open. He leaned over and pulled it shut but it responded by immediately falling off. He felt exposed as the chilly air rushed in. Pickles barked in excitement.

  “We could run faster than this,” said Nick. He looked at the wing mirror for signs of the woman, realised there was no wing mirror, and risked looking back out of the door gap. He couldn’t see her, which was notionally a good thing, but not all that reassuring.

  “There was a woman terminator,” he said.

  “Was there?”

  “In the third film.”

  “There’s been three terminator films?”

  “Dad, there’s been five.”

  “Really? Maybe they should have quit at number two. Good film that one. That’s the one with the lava and the thumbs up as he goes down.”

  “In the third one the terminator’s a woman,” said Nick. “Looks really angry all the time. She just keeps coming until they switch on the particle accelerator, and it, um, kills her. I think. I might have fallen asleep at that point.” Nick risked another glance back. “So, we have an enemy who wants to kill us but ... on the plus side, she’s probably on foot now. We can talk to her. Try and explain we’re nice guys really.”

  Tony shook his head. “She’s got a funny manner, that one.”

  “Funny?”

  “Not sure charm’s going to work.”

  “Well then,” said Nick, “she’s not very big, is she? I'm pretty sure she was a good six inches shorter than me. We could restrain her if we had to. Couldn’t we?”

  Tony gave his son a serious look. “I think she could handle herself too. Did you see what she did to the driver of the truck?”

  “No, dad. I was trying to keep the car on the road.”

  “She shoved him right out of the cab.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “In
to the path of another a truck,” said Tony, distantly. “Smeared on the tarmac like a puddle of grease.”

  “Fuck,” said Nick.

  “Language, Nick.”

  “Shhh.”

  “You can shush me all you like. I know we're in a spot of bother but we need to keep standards up.”

  “No, no. Shhh.” He flapped his hand at his dad. “Think I can hear water.”

  Tony cocked an ear. “Might be a river over there on the left.”

  Pickles gave a sniff and a bark.

  There were trees in the middle distance, but the low roar of water suggested whatever it was lay between their present position and the woods.

  “If we hit a river it’s going to stop us getting any further,” said Nick.

  “Or, to look on the bright side,” said Tony, “at least we didn’t crash down the mountainside, go straight into the river, and drown.”

  “Yes,” said Nick. “That is a cheery thought indeed, dad.”

  “Yes, it is a river,” said Tony, pointing. “I can see bulrushes over the tops of those shrubs. Just keep going steady for now.”

  “But it means we can’t get away!”

  “We’ll get away. Just keep driving,” said Tony.

  A few minutes later the view to the left opened out. They could clearly see the rocky banks of the river. It was only about fifteen feet wide, but it was still a river.

  “Look up ahead,” said Tony. “There’s a bridge.”

  There was: a high stone bridge which looked wide enough for a car. Nick approached it slowly (not that he had much choice in the clown-car Cadillac). It was broad enough for vehicles, but there were double gates and cattle grid barring the way. Nick read the sign on the gate and groaned.

  “Kirkwood Farm. I don’t believe it!” He banged the steering wheel in frustration.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Tony. “This is great, it means civilisation. Someone here can help us! Let’s go and find whoever’s in charge.” He undid his seatbelt.

  “Kirkwood is a client.” Nick let out a deep sigh. “If we meet any of them, they’ll probably chase me back the way I came with a pitchfork.”

  Tony got out of the car and approached the gates. They were constructed from welded steel and both were the size of a double bed. A padlocked chain held them shut. Tony weighed it in his hand and gave an experimental tug.

  Nick glanced back along the track. “Maybe they did send a terminator back in time to kill me.”

  “What?” said Tony, coming back.

  “I really messed up the job promoting their sausages.”

  “How do you mess up marketing sausage? A sausage is a sausage, surely?”

  “That’s sort of where the problems start,” said Nick. “To stand out, a campaign needs to be bold. I was a bit too bold. Rude, if I’m honest. They didn’t like it.”

  Tony climbed back in and shut his door. “It’s a strange world you work in. I remember a time when you’d have a smiling father figure pluck a perfect sausage off the barbecue, and everyone knew those were the sausages to buy. Honest and straightforward.”

  Nick saw it in his mind’s eye and had to concede it was better than his efforts. Certainly, if there was ever a sausage advert so bad it brought about the collapse of civilisation and forced future robots to travel back in time to kill its creator, his efforts were key candidates. It wasn’t a sane or helpful thought.

  “What I do know,” he said, grasping for something useful to say, “is this is the site of Kirkwood’s old operation. They moved their main production operation further south because this place gave them accessibility problems . Nobody’s here full time anymore.”

  “Best ram the gate then,” said Tony.

  “We can’t do that!” said Nick. “I haven’t even got a bumper anymore.”

  “You’ve got one on the front, it was the back one we lost. We need to get across the river, and this is our only opportunity to do it. This place might be a bit inaccessible, but there’s a good chance there’s another track leading out of here. That’s exactly what we want right now; so let’s ram the gate.”

  Nick looked at the gate and weighed up the likely outcome of ramming it. Considering the state of his car, as long as they didn’t end up in the river, their situation couldn’t be any worse. He put the car into reverse so he could take a run up. That was a mistake. The car emitted a whole new set of tortured noises. For long moments something jammed before the car shot back.

  “Here goes,” he said. “Brace yourself, Pickles.” He stuck it in first gear, held on tight and floored the accelerator, heading squarely at the gates. He threw in a long, loud yell in the illogical belief a warrior voice might add momentum. Tony joined in too, but perhaps that was because he hadn’t had time to put his seatbelt on.

  The gates groaned, buckled and folded. The car screamed. Metal ground against metal. And then they were through.

  “Keep going. Keep going!” urged Tony. “Go! Go!”

  Nick kept the accelerator floored. The engine revved, although ninety percent of its power was clearly going somewhere else, as their high speed getaway was little more than a geriatric stagger. Tendrils of steam rose from the radiator.

  They followed the track up into the gloomy wood. Night was falling rapidly. With mountains to either side, the sun was completely gone from sight. In the woods, what little light remained was filtered by thickly-gathered fir trees. Nick automatically reached for the headlight switch.

  Tony put a gently restraining hand on Nick’s. “Let’s not advertise our location, eh?”

  Nick gave an unhappy sigh. How very practical of his dad, even in this situation, even in his dying weeks. Where did he get such amazing levels of dadness? That calm manner, the appearance he always knew what he was doing, even in moments of chaos and terror. Did they take men aside when their children were born and teach them all that stuff? Did they go to a secret Dad College where they learned to tell bad jokes, dance embarrassingly, and rewire plugs? Nick could have used some Dad College training because he never knew how to do any of that stuff. When disaster struck in his life, he just flapped and panicked, but not old Tony. Even in the darkest moments, he didn’t panic. He just went into full-on dad mode.

  “Hey, do you remember the time we broke mom’s vase?” said Nick.

  “Pardon?” said Tony, who was leaned forward and peering ahead.

  “I said—”

  “I’m sure I saw something moving.”

  Nick focused on the track ahead. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move in the thick undergrowth. “Me too.”

  They both peered through the windscreen as the car crept forward.

  “There!” shouted Tony, making Nick twitch the steering wheel in fright. The car veered towards a tree; Nick recovered it just in time. He looked to where his father was pointing and saw a horrific, bristled face peering from the bracken around the base of a pine tree.

  “What the hell is that?” he gasped before realising he knew the answer. “Is it a wild boar?”

  Tony chuckled. “It looks like a pig crossed with a toilet brush, so let’s assume it is. There can’t be too many of those around.”

  Two more stepped onto the path in front of the car, sniffing the air in curiosity. Nick decided to keep moving forward before they blocked his path. One of them snorted as they drove by.

  “Kirkwood sausages are made from wild boar,” said Nick. “I think these animals must belong to the farm.”

  “Explains the gate and the cattle grid,” said Tony. “Good grief,” he added in apparent delight, “they’re everywhere!”

  The boars were closing in from every direction. Nick’s brain wasn’t prepared to count them while he concentrated on keeping the car on the track, but there had to be at least twenty peering through the trees, or trotting along the track.

  “Why are they all coming for us like this? They look as if they’re getting ready to attack.” He realised he was whispering. He wasn’t sure why.
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br />   “I don’t think they’re aggressive,” said Tony, “I think they’re curious.”

  “Curious? Or hungry?”

  “They’re pigs. They’re always hungry.”

  They approached a farmhouse with a number of outbuildings. There was no movement, no lights, and no sign of life. Some of the upper windows were boarded over.

  “Keep going, keep going,” said Tony. They crawled past, the car grumbling. The track began to climb again.

  It became steeper, and more challenging for the wrecked Cadillac. The steam roiled from the radiator, unseen mechanical problems knocked and banged throughout the chassis. Nick ignored them all and pressed on, trying to coax gentle, steady progress out of the car by gently patting the steering wheel and singing under his breath.

  “What was that?” Tony said.

  “What was what?”

  “It sounded like you just sang Brave, beautiful Caddy to the tune of Food, Glorious Food.”

  “No, no. Of course not. I was just counting the boars,” said Nick.

  “How many?”

  “What?”

  “How many boars?”

  “I lost count.” Nick wished his father would let him concentrate. Didn’t he realise the car was on its last legs? They rounded a bend, the car grinding more and more slowly, when Nick saw the track was impassable up ahead.

  “Damn,” he said. He noticed Tony didn’t reprimand him for his language this time. There was a huge piece of farm machinery in the road. It looked like a tractor crossed with a Moon buggy. Even if they could move the machine, there was a pile of logs on the other side. Whole tree trunks: stripped of branches and stacked in a triangle. Nick steered the car up to the machine, stopping crossways on the road so it didn’t roll backwards.

  “What is that thing?” asked Tony.

  “Not sure. A tractory, movery sort of thing. Let’s go and have a look.”

  A bristled snout appeared in Nick’s lap through the open doorway. He screamed, batting the thing away. The boar backed off a few feet and wrinkled its nose at him. Pickles barked from the safety of the back seat.

  “Those horns are freaking me out,” said Nick. “It’s sort of smiling, like Pumbaa in The Lion King.”