Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'What the fuck was that?' he asked.

'Suspension bottoming,' said Roy. 'Needs better shocks.'

They watched the handsome rear of the Healey diminish in size as it pulled away. Roy darted the Mini forward, sweeping into the bend. Tony felt the body roll and, he swore, two wheels lift.

'Long left curve,' said Tony, 'then a bloody sharp right.'

'Brilliant. He can't do the bends. He'll have us on the straight, but that thing doesn't handle.' He flashed a knowing smile. 'Not for Bruce anyway.'

Tony knew he was a good driver, a very competent roadman. But Roy was something else. His gear changes were sharp, precise. The rev counter never made wild swings, the engine note remained constant, and the speedo stayed well over to the right. He was what they called a 'natural', the kind of driver who had a feel for both the car and the road.

'That right-hander's coming up.'

'Hold on, 'cause I'm not slowing.'

They emerged almost on top of the Healey. Roy let out a whoop. 'He missed a gear, I'll bet.'

With the precision of a slot-car, the Mini pulled out and zipped past the Austin. Tony looked up and caught a glimpse of Bruce's mouth working overtime. He didn't have to be a lipreader to guess what words were coming out. The next section, between Oving and Pitchcott, was twisty enough to thwart Bruce and the Austin Healey. It would come burbling behind, threatening to shoulder the Cooper aside, but Roy brilliantly used the bends and curves to his advantage.

'Railway bridge. Not our railway line, though. Long hill down to Chearsley. It's straight.'

Roy nodded and pushed the engine to the red line. The Healey fought back again, edging closer. 'He's got us. Shit.'

Tony looked over his shoulder. Gordy was jumping up and down in his seat, willing Bruce on. The bigger sports car reeled them in until, like a stately liner, it glided past. Gordy flashed a V-sign.

'Nice,' said Tony.

'Don't panic. Just enjoy the scenery on this stretch. We'll come back at them.'

Tony had to admit that the Chilterns did look lovely, streaked with sunlight, interrupted by the shadows of low cloud. On a nearby hillside to his left, Tony saw a strange observatory, a domed housing for a large telescope, but didn't feel he could distract Roy from his focus on the road.

'He's pulling away. Any bends?'

'Sharp right to Chearsley, coming up. Really sharp.'

'How sharp?'

'Ninety degrees. Then through Chilton, on the B4011 and we're there.'

Roy didn't reply, just grunted as they recovered ground on the right-hander, driving through the narrow lanes as if they were tied to the Healey's rear bumper. Nice big houses, thought Roy. Gardens, horses, conservatories, but such was their speed he had little time to process much more than flash images. Roy suddenly dived into a gap between the Austin and a brick wall that didn't seem to be there. Tony's eyes flicked shut again. When he opened them they were through and in front, into the final twisting lanes that would take them to Leatherslade Farm.

'Fuckin' Land Rovers and lorries my arse,' Roy said. 'You can't beat a quick motor.'

They turned right up the unmarked track that led to Leatherslade, Roy finally allowing the Mini to breathe, dropping to second as he manoeuvred between the ruts and potholes.

'What time?' he asked.

'Eighteen minutes,' said Tony.

They pulled over in front of the house and Bruce drove alongside. He climbed out and leaned on the hardtop of the Healey. 'You were lucky there're so many bends,' he said to Roy. 'It'd eat that little toy otherwise.'

'Tell you what, after you've bought lunch, let's swap cars and do it in reverse. See how you get on then.'

Bruce considered this as he watched Gordy unfold himself from the passenger side. 'What, and ruin my excuse?'

'You change your mind about the Jags?' Roy asked.

Bruce frowned. To him, the race had been a bit of a laugh, not to prove a point.

'No, Roy. I told you, the money will weigh over a ton. We need a lorry. We stick with the plan.'

Gordy looked a little pale after being thrown around by Bruce. 'Yeah. Fuck that. We stick with the lorry and Land Rovers.'

Roy did his best to hide his disappointment, and indicated his acceptance. He just hoped Bruce didn't live to regret it.

Headley, Surrey, May 1992

Bruce took off his overcoat and sat down at the kitchen table while I put the kettle on. Roy, apparently dazed by his old boss's arrival, stared at him, open-mouthed.

'Nice whistle,' he finally said.

'Thanks.' Bruce looked down at the jacket. 'Mark Powell. He said I should sue Michael Caine for stealing my look.'

There was something in that. Bruce had looked a little like Harry Palmer-period Caine in his youth, and the two had run across each other in the early days at the Establishment, when the actor was out and about with Terry Stamp. But I wasn't worried about where Bruce got his suits made or whether his style had been purloined for The Ipcress File. 'What are you doing here, Bruce?' I asked.

'Naughton called me.'

I didn't mention that Bill Naughton had said Bruce was too busy to help out. He was entitled to change his mind.

'Good of you to come, mate,' said Roy.

'Well, I didn't want to leave you hangin' in the wind, did I?

I don't think we've got very long, judging by the activity out there. The heavy mob has heaved up close to the gate. With machine guns.' Bruce nodded towards the pistol, still held slackly in Roy's hand. 'That'll be as much use as a fuckin' icecream dildo.'

From his jacket pocket, Bruce produced cigarette papers and tobacco and began building a fag. He looked up at me.

'How you been, Tony?'

'Can't complain,' I said, rinsing out the teapot. 'You?'

'I do OK.'

'What you driving now?' It was Roy.

'Don't ask,' shuddered Bruce. 'Ashamed to say. You know those fuckers sold my Austin Healey? The Mark Two Three Thousand? Lovely motor. Christ, I'd like that again. In order to claw back some of the proceeds, they said. Fetched double what it should've.'

'The power of celebrity,' I said as I poured the boiling water into the pot.

'Notoriety,' he corrected.

'Should've used fast cars,' said Roy.

'Leave it out, Roy,' Bruce said, not without kindness. 'Water under Bridego Bridge.' He shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning. 'We should have done lots of things. Can't change the past. Not unless you're bleedin' Doctor Who.'

After I had made the tea, I fetched the bottle of Johnnie Walker and placed it on the table, along with some glasses from the drainer. To my surprise, Bruce pulled out a block of dope, unwrapped the foil and scorched one corner with a lighter.

'Don't look so shocked. I picked up the habit at Maidstone. A good prison. You ever do Maidstone, Roy? Towards the end of my stretch, I had a year in the library there and a year as a gym orderly when I used to run ten miles a day, play badminton and then swim. Fucking marvellous life. No women, apart from those in Razzle and Club International. At least you didn't get any aggro from those girls. And Gordy, bless him, would send the odd beauty in for a quick fondle, just to let me know I was still alive down below. I got into smoking dope there.' He chuckled. 'Montecristo Number Twos being hard to come by. Stuff was a fuckin' revelation. Two happy years.'

I thought he was joking. And my expression must have given that away, since he went on, 'Straight up. When I came out I felt like doing something so I could go right back in for a joint with my pals. Now that is what you call institutionalised, eh?'

'Tell me about it,' muttered Roy. 'I was saying the same thing to Tony earlier. It's easier inside, somehow.'

Bruce gave a grin then lit the roll-up, taking a lungful and holding his breath while he passed the joint to Roy. The little man took a hefty toke.