Jason Elliot: The Network

‘This is Plato for Macavity,’ I say.

‘Macavity here. I’m told congratulations are in order. Good show.’

Crisp, to the point and ridiculous as ever.

‘You’ve got some travelling coming up. Be here on Saturday, can you? We’ll send some transport.’

I have no idea what day it is, but agree.

‘Did you really try to steal an aircraft?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, don’t make a habit of it. And don’t let this go to your head.’

‘Roger that,’ I say.

But it won’t be easy.

This is not how it all begins. It begins a month earlier with a minor and, to my mind, forgivable act of theft committed on a grey March morning with Gerhardt, my partner in crime. We have been stealing firewood from a patch of forest not far from home, thanks to an undefended muddy track which Gerhardt has managed with ease, despite the full load of logs carried by his rear axle. It’s true that, at sixteen, he’s showing his age now and is far from perfect, but he still belongs to the fraternity of the most handsome and instantly recognisable four-wheel-drive vehicles in the world, the Mercedes G-Wagen, built to be indestructible and to go wherever their drivers take them.

I’ve rescued Gerhardt from a cruel and uncaring owner who kept him locked in a cold garage, understanding nothing of his potential. It’s true I keep a hammer in the glove compartment for when the fuel pump misbehaves, and for when the solenoid jams in wet weather. A few blows in the right spot usually do the trick. I also keep handy a spare bottle of transmission fluid, which tends to leak from the torque converter housing, and I try not to think about why the water pump makes a sort of puffing sound like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But apart from these foibles, Gerhardt is my pride and joy. Off-road, he comes into his own. He also weighs over two tons, which makes me remember what happens next all the more vividly.

I’m nearly home and travelling at speed along a narrow country lane. Turning a corner I find the road unexpectedly blocked by a tractor towing an evil-looking piece of farm machinery which takes up the entire width of the road. It’s a giant tiller with rows of curved shining blades, and as I hit the brakes hard a loud tearing sound comes from underneath me as the nearside wheels lock on the loose wet gravel. Logs come spilling into the front seats and I have a vision of Gerhardt being sliced into wafers at the moment of impact. We come juddering to a very timely halt, six feet short of the gleaming blades.

The driver of the tractor can’t hear me swearing. He hasn’t even seen me, and creeps forward at a snail’s pace. I try to squeeze past, but the road’s too narrow, so I follow for a while as my relief turns to frustration. My only chance to get ahead is to divert along a track through long grass and mud. I’ve driven it once before. It will add half a mile to the journey home but it’s a good excuse to put Gerhardt through his paces off-road.

When I reach the sign marked bridleway, I turn onto the track with a final curse at the tractor and slip the gearbox into four-wheel drive. The steering stiffens as the differentials lock and the power spreads to all four wheels. Lurching through the deep muddy ruts, Gerhardt is as happy as a horse released into the wild. Further on the track narrows and is choked with undergrowth, which flattens out submissively at our advance. Ten minutes later we rejoin the surfaced road. I push back the differential locks, return to two-wheel drive and head for home, listening to the tyres throwing off mud like a dog shaking water from its fur after a satisfying walk.

I’m a few minutes from home after this little detour when an unfamiliar sight catches my eye. A bright-red late-model Alfa Romeo is parked on the grassy verge with its hazard lights flashing. It’s an odd place to leave a car. There’s nothing to stop for nearby except empty fields. I slow up alongside and can see that the front wheels have spun themselves into the soft ground. I can see heat rising off the bonnet. Someone has got stuck and needs to be towed out.

I drive on and a hundred yards later see a figure up ahead. It must be the driver: a dark-haired woman, walking on the verge with her back to me. As I draw closer I can’t help noticing how well proportioned she is. She’s wearing a short wine-coloured jacket embroidered with what look like flowers and beads, dark close-fitting trousers and knee-high boots in cream and brown leather. They’re expensive, city clothes and look out of place on a country lane in Wiltshire. She turns her head as she hears Gerhardt’s engine and turns back again without changing pace, and I catch a glimpse of a shapely, Far Eastern-looking face.

She makes no effort to stop me as I pass, so I pull over just ahead of her. Leaning over to lower the passenger window I see the striking features of a thirty-year-old woman with long jet-black hair and high cheekbones. Her eyes are dark, narrow and intense, and their opposing curves resemble a pair of leaping dolphins. She brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, and comes to the window with an anxious smile. She looks Japanese, and is very beautiful.

‘Nice parking,’ I say. A soft leather handbag is slung over her left shoulder. In her right hand is a mobile phone, which she waves in a gesture of embarrassment.

‘Can you help me?’ she asks. ‘No signal!’ She sounds Russian, which is unexpected. ‘I have to make a phone call. Do you know where there’s a telephone?’

‘There’s no reception here,’ I say. ‘I have the same problem.’ I’m feeling in my pocket for my phone, then realise I’ve left it at home. ‘Maybe I can help,’ I suggest, because it’s not every day you get to come to the aid of an Oriental damsel in distress. ‘I have a rope,’ I tell her, wondering how I’ll extricate it from under half a ton of logs. ‘We can drive back to your car and try to pull it out.’

I open the passenger door for her, and apologise for the logs that have fallen into the front of the car. She looks hesitantly for a moment at the debris of bark on the seat.

‘You are farmer?’

I can’t explain I’ve been stealing wood, so the simplest thing is to agree.

‘I live here,’ I say, brushing off the seat and throwing a few logs into the back. Her accent is definitely Russian, though by her looks she’s from central Asia. She smiles, gives a girlish shrug of assent, and climbs aboard.

‘My name is Anthony,’ I say, feeling unexpectedly nervous to have such a beautiful stranger by my side. I turn the car around.

‘Anthony,’ she repeats. ‘I can call you Tony?’

‘Absolutely not. My friends call me Ant. Like the animal.’ I make a crawling motion on the dashboard. She laughs, and the slender gold circles of her earrings dangle with the motion of her head.

‘My name is Ziyba,’ she says.

‘The word for beautiful.’

‘My God!’ she squeals. ‘You speak Uzbek! How is it possible?’

‘A farmer knows many things,’ I say. I don’t actually speak a word of Uzbek, but the word has the same meaning in Persian, which I know well enough.

‘I am lucky to find such a farmer,’ she says with irony. But I’m the one who can’t believe my luck. Her jacket has fallen open and my eye has been caught by the contours of her sweater and the medallion-like buckle of her belt, which is made from concentric circles of pink coral beads. I’ve almost driven past her stranded car when I hear her point it out, and pull over. I retrieve the tow rope from under the seat, and make a show of effort hooking up the U-bolts to the towing brackets of both cars.

‘Start the engine and drive forward gently, and let’s see what happens.’

I drive ahead of her, take up the slack very slowly and in the mirror watch as the Alfa rolls onto the road. Then we both get out to admire our success.