Jack Higgins - The Dark Side of the Street

Somewhere in the distance, an engine sounded faintly and when he turned to look, a vehicle came over the crest of the hill. As it approached he saw that it was a tanker, a great six-wheeler, its body painted a brilliant red and it rolled to a halt beside him.

The driver leaned out of the cab and looked down, a craggy-faced man of sixty or so in an old flying jacket and tweed cap, a grey stubble covering his chin. For a long moment there was silence and then he said with a pronounced Scottish accent, ‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

‘Babylon,’ Hoffa told him and the breath went out of him in a long sigh of relief.

‘Well, now, that’s a step too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

He opened the door and stepped on to a ladder that gave access to the filling point on top of the tanker. To one side was a steel plate about two feet square painted black which carried the legend: Danger – Handle with care – Hydrochloric Acid. He felt for a hidden catch at the base of the plate and it swung open.

Hoffa climbed up and peered inside. The compartment was about eight feet by three with a mattress as its base and he nodded briefly. ‘How long?’

‘Six hours,’ the driver said. ‘No light, I’m afraid, and you can’t smoke, but there’s coffee in the thermos and some sandwiches in a biscuit tin. Best I can do.’

‘Can I ask you where we’re going?’

The driver shook his head, face impassive. ‘Not in the contract, that one.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Let’s get rolling.’

He went through the hatch head-first and as he turned to face the light, the cover clanged into place, plunging him into darkness. Panic moved inside him and his throat went dry and then the tanker started to roll forward and the mood passed. He lay back on the mattress, head pillowed on his hands and after a while his eyes closed and he slept.

At that precise moment some ten miles away, the man who had called himself Smith braked to a halt in the High Street of the first village he came to, went into a public telephone box and dialled a London number.

A woman answered him, her voice cool and impersonal. ‘Worldwide Exports Ltd.’

‘Simon Vaughan speaking from the West Country.’

The voice didn’t change. ‘Nice to hear from you. How are things down there?’

‘Couldn’t be better. Our client’s on his way. Anything on the news yet?’

‘Not a murmur.’

‘The lull before the storm. You’ll find the goods in a steamer trunk at Price’s Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker. The receipt’s in the spine of an old Salvation Army Bible amongst his gear at his mother’s place in Kentish Town. I shouldn’t think a nice young lady welfare officer would have too much trouble in getting that out of her.’

‘I’ll handle it myself.’

‘I wouldn’t waste too much time. It’s almost five o’clock. The furniture repository probably closes at six. Might be an idea to give them a ring, just to make sure they’ll stay open for you.’

‘Leave it to me. You’ve done well. He’ll be pleased.’

‘Anything to oblige, old girl, that’s me.’

Vaughan replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette, a slight far-away look in his eyes. ‘Oh, what I’d like to do to you, sweetie,’ he murmured softly and as he returned to the car, there was a smile on his face.

Hoffa came awake slowly and lay staring through the heavy darkness, trying to work out where he was and then he remembered and pushed himself up on one elbow. According to the luminous dial on his watch it was a quarter past ten which meant they had been on the go for a little over five hours. Not much longer to wait and he lay back again, head pillowed on his hands, thinking of many things, but in particular of how he was going to start to live again – really live, in some place of warmth and light where the sun always shone and every woman was beautiful.

He was jerked out of his reverie as the tanker braked and started to slow. It rolled to a halt, but the engine wasn’t turned off. The hatch opened and the driver’s face appeared, a pale mask against the night sky.

‘Out you get!’

It was a fine night with stars strung away to the horizon, but there was no moon. Hoffa stood at the side of the road stretching to ease his cramped limbs as the driver dropped the hatch back into place.

‘What now?’

‘You’ll find a track leading up the mountain on the other side of the road. Wait there. Someone will pick you up.’

He was inside the cab before Hoffa could reply, there was a hiss of air as he released the brake and the tanker rolled away into the night. Hoffa watched the red tail lights fade into darkness, then picked up his rucksack and moved across the road.

He found the track without any difficulty and stood there peering into the darkness, wondering what to do next. The voice, when it came, made him start in alarm because of its very unexpectedness.

‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

It was a woman who had spoken – a woman with a pronounced Yorkshire accent and he peered forward trying to see her as he replied, ‘Babylon.’

‘Too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

She moved close, her face a pale blur in the darkness, then turned without another word and walked away. Hoffa followed her, the loose stones of the track rattling under his feet. In spite of his long sleep, he was tired. It had, after all, been quite a day and somewhere up ahead there had to be food and a bed.

They walked for perhaps half a mile, climbing all the time and he was aware of hills on either side of them and the cold chill in the wind and then the track turned a shoulder and below in a hollow beside a stream was a farmhouse, a light in the downstairs window.

A dog barked hollowly as she pushed open a five-barred gate and led the way across the cobbled yard. As they approached the front door, it opened suddenly and a man stood there framed against the light, a shotgun in his hands.

‘You found him then, Molly?’

For the first time Hoffa had a clear view of the girl and realised with a sense of surprise, that she couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age with haunted eyes and a look that said she hadn’t smiled in a long time.

‘Will you want me for anything more tonight?’ she said in a strange dead voice.

‘Nay, lass, off you go to bed and look in on your mother. She’s been asking for you.’

The girl slipped past him and he leaned a shotgun against the wall and came forward, hand outstretched. ‘A real pleasure, Mr Hoffa. I’m Sam Crowther.’

‘So you know who I am?’ Hoffa said.

‘They’ve been talking about nowt else on the radio all night.’

‘Any chance of finding out where I am?’

Crowther chuckled. ‘Three hundred and fifty miles from where you started off. They won’t be looking for you round here, you may be certain of that.’

‘Which is something, I supppose,’ Hoffa said. ‘What happens now? Do we move into Phase Two yet?’

‘I had a telephone call from London no more than an hour ago. Everything went as smooth as silk. You’ll have no worries from now on, Mr Hoffa.’ He turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Billy – where are you, Billy? Let’s be having you.’

The man who appeared in the doorway was a giant. At least six feet four in height, he had the shoulders and arms of an ape and a great lantern jaw. He grinned foolishly, a dribble of saliva oozing from the corner of his mouth as he shambled into the yard and Crowther clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good lad, Billy, let’s get moving. There’s work to be done.’ He turned and smiled. ‘This way, Mr Hoffa.’