Simon Clark - The Fall

‘Lee. Jud says he told you that something a little strange happened today.’

‘I know everything .’ Lee spoke in a heartfelt, emphatic kind of way that increased Sam’s unease. They could have been on their way to assassinate a president, the nervy way he was behaving.

‘Take it easy.’ Sam spoke in a calming voice. ‘Enjoy the ride.’

‘Yeah. Sure. I’m fine. I’m fine .’

The man wasn’t raving, Sam saw, but there was an edginess, even excitement, as if he anticipated astonishing times ahead.

Zita had reversed the car out of the space and now drove forward across the car park with the can of iced water gripped between her inner thighs. Ahead ran the lane that would take them up to the main road. Jud Campbell watched them go. A shrinking figure, hands on hips, gold waistcoat shining in the sun.

Suddenly, Sam heard a loud thump as something hard clunked against the car body.

‘Jesus, what the hell is he doing?’

Sam snapped his head back to look through the windscreen.

A blond-haired man of around 40, with all the confidence of a cop, was slapping the bonnet of the car to tell Zita to stop.

‘What do you want? I nearly ran – hey !’

The man deftly opened the back passenger door and swung himself into the seat beside Lee. ‘You don’t mind if I hitch a lift, do you?’

‘You don’t know where we’re going.’ Zita sounded outraged.

‘You’ll be going to that little town over the hill, won’t you? Well… that’s where the road leads, doesn’t it?’ He spoke with a brisk confidence.

‘But you can’t just—’

‘Oh, come on, sweetheart,’ he said in a voice that made Sam think of velvet covering steel. ‘I’m not taking anyone’s place, am I?’

‘No, but—’

‘And I’ll pay for the bloody petrol if you’re hard up. Twenty do it?’

He reached into the breast pocket of his white linen jacket.

‘Oh, never mind,’ Zita said through her teeth. ‘We’ll drop you off in town.’

‘Now, there’s a sweetie.’ The man smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, Sam thought. The eyes possessed all the qualities of dark glass beads. They were hard, cold. His clothes were expensive-looking, as if he sent the linen suit away to have designer crumples carefully added every couple of weeks.

Probably the kind of man who gets rich by trampling across the backs of others, Sam told himself. A man who hailed from the blitzkrieg school of commerce.

Sam asked conversationally (while noticing Zita was grinding her teeth in silent fury), ‘I didn’t see you in the amphitheatre this afternoon.’

‘Amphitheatre? Oh, that hole in the ground back there? So that’s what it was? No, I was lying back and… just enjoying life as she comes.’

‘On holiday?’

‘If you can call it that. I run my own company, so holidays usually end up a pain in the derriere . That’s why I need to get into town and make some business calls. The bloody cellphones have gone haywire; the bloody cruiser engine’s kaput, too. My Man Friday has vanished into thin air. Why I ever thought a holiday cruising the open sewers of sweet England would be relaxing God alone knows.’ He lounged back looking a lot like Charles Dance in his best English-aristocrat pose, arm through the window, his long fingers toying with the edge of the car-door frame, blond hair fluttering in the slipstream. He shot a sidelong glance at Lee in the Dracula costume. A dismissive glance, Sam thought. And no doubt he was filing Lee in the mental folder marked Prat .

‘Wonderful weather,’ the man said, smiling coldly out through the window. ‘Oh, to be in England when the sun is shining.’

Sam was going to introduce himself, then thought better of it. The man seemed content to ride in the back of the car, looking like an English lord. Meanwhile, Lee ducked his head up and down, looking this way and that like an anxious bird on the lookout for the hungry red fox. Zita concentrated on the driving. The engine dipped, occasionally misfired, but it seemed to be holding out.

So Sam sat back and watched fields stream by, while listening to the rumble of the Range Rover’s big tyres on the road surface.

Ahead lay the suburbs of Casterton, a sturdy town of solid-looking sandstone houses that had sweated its money out of wool and coal mining. The clock tower of the town hall stood high above the skyline, the perfect example of municipal power building.

Zita shot him a look that as good as said, ‘Well, here goes.’

Seconds later the town-centre traffic swallowed the car.

Zita asked the blond-haired man, ‘Where can I drop you?’

‘Over there, by the bank.’ He wasn’t so much asking a favour as giving directions.

Zita nodded. ‘Okay.’ Sam Baker noticed the way she muttered darkly under her breath. She didn’t like their arrogant passenger one little bit.

‘You might as well drop me in the same place,’ Sam told her.

‘It’s a double yellow.’

‘I won’t be a minute. Keep the engine running while I do what I have to do.’

‘Let me help,’ Lee said eagerly. ‘I want to help.’

‘Don’t worry, Lee,’ Sam said easily. ‘I can handle this one. Aren’t you hot in that cape?’

‘Roasting.’

Sam sounded deliberately light-hearted. ‘This isn’t a formal occasion, Lee. Take it off before you cook.’

‘Uh? Oh, sure… sure.’

The blond-haired man in his white linen suit raised his eyes to the ceiling. Sam realised here was a man who didn’t suffer fools lightly. Not that he’d have described Lee Burton as a fool; only as someone who’d suffered a hell of a shock and was still disorientated.

Lee fumbled with the button. ‘It’s awkward to undo. The button’s too big for the catch. Stupid costume, really… but we all have to wear them. I don’t know which is worse. Laurel and Hardy or—’

‘Thanks for the lift,’ the blond-haired man said crisply as Zita pulled over to the kerb. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’ With that he climbed out and walked quickly away along a pavement crowded with market-day shoppers.

Zita murmured, ‘Is it just me, or does that guy make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end?’

‘You’ll always wind up with one who flunked charm school.’ Sam smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it, he’s gone now.’

‘Bloody fastener,’ Lee muttered, preoccupied with unbuttoning the cape. Something that he was failing to do with his fumbling fingers.

Sam opened the passenger door and paused while a bus rumbled by. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘Where are you going?’ Zita called.

‘I’ll buy a newspaper and check the date. If it shows it’s Tuesday then as far as I can see this anomaly is sorting itself out. According to the town hall clock we’re only about five minutes behind the rest of the world.’

‘Okay,’ Zita nodded. ‘I’ll sit here with my fingers crossed.’

Sam joined the crowds of shoppers on the pavement. He tried not to run, but he was so eager to get his hands on the day’s newspaper that he walked quickly, weaving round old ladies pulling shopping bags on wheels, couples with babies in buggies, children who’d suddenly stop in front of him to unpick the paper from another toffee.

He felt frustration growing inside him like a ball of hot rock. He wanted that newspaper in his hands. He wanted to see the day and date written on the top of that paper. Ahead of him was a wooden stall covered with newspapers and glossy magazines.

Sam walked even faster towards it.

A customer was buying a newspaper from the vendor. Instead of taking it away, he stood there in front of him, reading it.

Again frustration burnt the pit of Sam’s belly. Come on, move it! He wanted to buy a newspaper. Now!