Ann Purser - Threats At Three

GAVIN WAS WRONG. THE TWO ANONYMOUS DRIVERS WERE crouched over their steering ropes as if their lives depended on it. Every so often one would turn to look at the other and nod, whether a friendly gesture or one designed to discountenance, it was impossible to tell.

Derek, waiting with Josie down by the finishing line, grabbed his daughter’s hand. “This could be the end of a beautiful relationship,” he said.

Josie shook her head dumbly. She was too tense to speak, and squeezed his hand.

Then the two boxes appeared round the corner and headed down the final straight stretch to the pub.

“Neck and neck!” choked Derek. “Ye gods, Josie, this is terrible!”

“Buck up, Dad,” Josie squeaked. “You’ve got to present the prize to the winner, don’t forget.”

Derek groaned, and then suddenly let go of Josie’s hand. “Hey, look! There’s Jamie! He made it, after all, bless the lad. Oh, oh, no… she’s seen him… and lost it…”

One of the drivers had turned and spotted the new arrival, taken her hand off the rope to wave and steered straight into a straw bale. The other soap box, now at snail’s pace, coasted slowly on.

“Go, go, go!” roared the crowd.

At last the vehicle crept over the finishing line, with the driver’s arms held high in the air in triumph. The applause was deafening, and when the defeated box had been ignominiously pushed along to the finish, the taller of the two women got out of her seat and removed her crash helmet.

“Well done, Mum,” said Lois, helping Gran out of her vehicle and giving her a huge hug. “The best girl won! But did you see Jamie over there? He made it! Come on, let’s go and find him.”

“In a minute,” said Gran with a stately wave to her cheering admirers. “There’s a small matter of a prize. I think you should stay and watch, Lois. It’ll look like you’re a bad sport if you don’t.” She patted her hair back into shape and walked towards Derek, who was clutching a vast bouquet of roses. “Thanks very much,” she said. “You all right, Derek? You look really pale.”

Derek mutely shook his head. All he could do was give her a peck on the cheek, and hand her over to her newly arrived grandson, Jamie.

GRAN THE DEMON DRIVER, WITH JAMIE, JOSIE AND LOIS, MADE their way back to the shop steps to watch the last races of the grand prix.

“Who’s in the final, then?” Jamie asked. He had had a nightmare journey from the airport, his plane having arrived three hours late. But now he was here, and quickly joined the family euphoria at the obvious success of the day.

“Well, thank God, Jam & Jerusalem is still in the running!” Lois said. “That’s the WI entry, driven by her up at the hall. Then there’s the estate agents’ cottage and the pub lot. Who else, Josie?”

“The Youth Club’s great little vehicle, Rebellion , driven by young Jack Hickson,” she said to Jamie. “The Hicksons are new to the village. Dad reckoned he clocked up the fastest time so far in its heat. It would be nice if Jack could win. He’s had a rough time one way and another lately, but we’ll fill you in on that later.”

JACK HICKSON SR. PUSHED THROUGH TO THE FRONT OF THE crowds at the finishing line, taking no notice of the angry looks from people who had been there first. He had overheard conversations about his son being the youngest driver, and having seen other vehicles crash spectacularly into the straw barriers, he was anxious. Nobody had been hurt, so far as he could tell, but even so… He knew that if something happened to the boy, he would rush to the rescue, no matter what were the consequences. He wished they would start, and then it would all be over and young Jack would be safe.

Only a few feet away from him, on a bench by the wall of the pub, sat Ross, yet another glass of beer in his hand. His eyelids threatened to close, and he forced himself awake. He had come here with a purpose, and although he had seen nothing of Jack Hickson, he must not let himself give up. He shook his head to clear it, and then he saw him. The bugger had got a woman’s wig on! But his profile was unmistakeable. That nose could not belong to anyone else, and certainly not to a woman.

Now wide awake, Ross felt in his pocket. The knife was safely there, and he slid it out of its sheath with trembling fingers, keeping it concealed. He stood up. His plan was working out, and he slowly slipped through the crush of people, towards the front row of watchers, where his quarry stood. He knew exactly what he would do. As the soap boxes neared the finishing line, there would be the usual roaring of voices, and this would give him cover whilst he worked his way to stand next to Jack. He wanted his enemy to know who was about to settle the score, and then, before Jack could move in the dense crowd, he would ram the knife home. In the melee sure to follow, he would scarper as only he knew how.

“They’re off,” shouted the voice on the loud-hailer, and all eyes turned to the track, waiting for the finalists to appear.

DEREK STOOD BY THE FINISHING LINE, WATCHING CAREFULLY to make sure the track was clear. Several of the straw bales had been knocked out of place by the swelling crowds, but were not a serious obstruction. In any case, it was too late now to do anything about it. The cheering was coming down from the start like a tidal wave. Then they were in sight, and Derek frowned. There were only two boxes on the track. The others must have failed soon after the start. So now it was just Jam & Jerusalem desperately trying to edge past Rebellion .

“Age versus youth,” said Kate Adstone at his elbow, and Derek smiled. “Come on, Jack!” he yelled, and then remembered he was supposed to be impartial. Ah, well, in this tumult nobody would have heard him.

When the two were halfway to the finish, Derek saw out of the corner of his eye a movement in the front row of watchers. Several turned angrily to see who was causing a disturbance, and a straw bale was pushed at an angle, leaving a gap between spectators and advancing soap boxes.

“Straighten that bale!” he shouted at the top of his voice, but nobody heard. The soap boxes were close now, both losing speed as the slope flattened out to the finish.

JACK JR. WAS HOLDING HIS BREATH. NEARLY THERE! HE HAD never felt so powerful, so elated. This’ll show ’em!

Then, as his soap box, still in the lead, slowed down to a gentle roll, he saw a face in the crowd that changed everything. It was his enemy, and in a split second Jack saw him rip off a wig from the person next to him, and then he knew them both. It was the man who was his enemy, and the one now without the wig he knew at once was his father.

And all in that split second he saw a knife flash and he turned his wonderful, winning soap box through the gap in the bales into the crowd, straight at his enemy, and scored a direct hit with the sharp nose cone of Rebellion .

MRS. T-J CRUISED TO THE FINISH, AWARE THAT FOR SOME extraordinary reason, Rebellion had crashed into the barrier. She stepped out of Jam & Jerusalem and accepted Derek’s congratulations, then turned immediately to where she had seen Jack Jr. leave the track. As she walked over, she realised there was no applause, nor was the WI theme tune playing, and nobody sang. In fact, it was eerily quiet.

“What’s going on here?” she said authoritatively, but John Thornbull raised his arms sideways, banning her approach. “Best stay where you are, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” he said. “We’re trying to clear a space.”