Coffin Dodgers (25 page)

I fumble in my pocket for my phone, pulling it out just far enough so I can see the screen without illuminating the whole interior. I hit the speed dial and manage to get it back into my pocket before Sleazy Bob hauls himself into the driver’s seat.

I don’t know if he saw the glow after all, if he has a sixth sense or if I’m just unlucky, but the second he’s strapped in he puts out his hand.

"Phone."

I hand it over and he hits the window switch, tossing my phone into the street. The window closes with a soft thump.

Sleazy Bob adjusts the gun on his lap, hits the central locking, punches the starter button and launches the SUV away from the kerb.

We sit in silence, the only sound coming from the suspension as the SUV crashes into potholes and from the tyres as Sleazy Bob takes corners too late and too fast.
 

I’m trying to imagine how this could be any more dangerous. I’m in a boxy SUV that handles like a sofa, and it’s being driven far too fast by a drunk. Oh, and the drunk’s got a gun on his lap and it’s pointing at me. If we hit a big enough bump I’m going to end up the victim of a car crash and a shooting. Maybe Sleazy Bob’s got a furious shark in the back seat and a boot full of killer bees, and when the police find what’s left of me I’m going to go down in history as the world’s most murdered murder victim.

Just when I'm pretty sure things can't get any more dangerous, Sleazy Bob starts talking to an imaginary friend.

"Everett," he says.

I'm not sure who he's talking to, but it definitely isn't me.

"Everett," he says again, more firmly this time.

"Everett." Louder.

"Everett!" He's shouting now, but whatever he's shouting at isn't responding. He leans over to stab at the dashboard and the SUV veers into the opposite lane. We're nearly in the ditch before Sleazy Bob pulls the heavy vehicle back on course.

"Everett," he says again. This time there's a beep and a woman's voice.
 

"Calling Everett," the voice says.

Sleazy Bob clears his throat.

"Call failed," the voice says. "Retry?"

Bob's so busy cursing that he takes the next corner too late, running wide and narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. He rubs his eyes and concentrates on the road for the next sixty seconds or so before trying the phone again.

"Call failed," the voice says again. "Retry?"

I don't know if Everett's line is busy, if he's screening his calls or if Sleazy Bob's phone can't get a signal, but if it's the latter then driving further and further into the middle of nowhere doesn't strike me as the most sensible plan of action. Sleazy Bob must be thinking the same thing. After five more unsuccessful attempts to call Everett he pulls off the road and swings the SUV around 180 degrees so violently that I think he's forgotten about the gun on his lap. Once more my luck holds and the gun doesn't go off. Just as I'm beginning to believe in miracles, Sleazy Bob hits the parking brake and kills the power.

He doesn't say anything at first. We just sit there in silence, the only illumination coming from the red LED on his gun and the very occasional passing car.

"I should just shoot you," he finally says.

I don't think there's anything I can say that's going to make things any happier for me, so I stay quiet.

"I should," he says, absent-mindedly touching the gun. "Still might," he adds, more quietly.

Sleazy Bob shifts in his seat and lets out a long sigh. He runs his left hand through his hair, which of course remains completely unruffled.

"Everett owes me," he says. "Owes me a lot. But since --" he waves his left hand toward me, his right staying firmly on the gun -- "he's been hard to find. Keeping a low profile."

Sleazy Bob looks at me. "And that's why you're here."

I decide to risk talking. "I don't understand," I say.

He looks at me for a moment before speaking. I can't work out his expression. He doesn't appear angry, or sad, or excited. He doesn't appear to be anything at all. There's something robotic about him.

"You've caused a lot of trouble," he says, his eyes still on me. I nod. "Everett isn't happy. Thing is, he's not going to do anything about it. Can't. Not while the boys are in jail. He's not the action type."

A truck thunders past and Sleazy Bob watches its taillights fade before continuing.

"But if someone were to deliver you to him, deliver you without any witnesses, without anybody knowing where you are or where you've gone…" Sleazy Bob's face breaks into something that I think is a grin. "I think he'd be grateful."

Sleazy Bob hits the power and pulls the SUV back onto the road.

"Yeah, I think he'd be grateful," he says, stomping on the accelerator.

Sleazy Bob appears to be sobering up fast. I'm no less terrified than I was before -- he's still got the gun -- but for the first time tonight I think I'm more likely to be shot in the face than die in a car crash. It's not much of an improvement, I know, but I'm trying to stay positive here.

We're heading back towards town. I can tell by the streetlight glow on the clouds, although it's still pretty far away. Sleazy Bob is mostly silent, occasionally trying and failing to call Everett but otherwise keeping his thoughts to himself.

The clock on the dashboard says it's 3.23am.

Everett's house is almost as famous as its owner. The previous occupant -- another computer guy -- spent ten years arguing with the planning department over it. He wanted to knock it down; they said it was of historical value. They were right, too. The original was built in the nineteen hundreds for a railroad tycoon, and according to the planning guys it was the last of its particular kind still standing.
 

The computer guy won, of course. Money always does. Every time his application was rejected he'd appeal, and appeal, and appeal again, until the whole thing had cost the council so much money they had to cave in or go bankrupt. It wasn't spun that way, of course -- the official story was that the building was too far gone, too dangerous, and that it would be replaced with something showcasing the very latest eco-friendly technologies. Never mind carbon neutral; this thing was going to be so green that its very existence would make Mother Nature jump for joy.

So after a decade of wrangling, the computer guy finally got the green light -- and he died three weeks before the project was finished. If there's an afterlife I bet he's spending eternity in a really bad mood.

There aren't many people who can afford a house like this, but Everett's one of that very select group. He bought the place about fourteen years ago, and he's been here ever since.

I don't think he's here right now, though. And I don't think Sleazy Bob is going to be very happy when he realises that.

Everett's house isn't the biggest mansion I've ever seen, but it's not exactly a two-bed semi either. For an eco-house it looks pretty old-fashioned: stone walls with huge rectangular windows and wooden shutters, a balcony overshadowing the front door, ringed with sparkling white ironwork. I was expecting something a bit more sci-fi, I think, something that looked a bit more green, something made of curved steel with blacked-out windows and cows grazing on the roof. Everett's house is nothing like that, and I can't help feeling a bit disappointed.
 

We're nearly at the front entrance, the SUV crunching gravel and low-level lights illuminating as we approach. There were no signs of life at the main gate -- Sleazy Bob punched a PIN code into a keypad to get us in -- and there aren't any signs of life around the mansion either. The building is dark, the outbuildings are dark and there's no sign of Everett's big black car or any other vehicle. The only thing moving is the water in a fountain, burbling away in the centre of the driveway. You'd expect a security guard or two at the very least.

Sleazy Bob kills the power. "Wait here," he says, and climbs out of the SUV. The locks thunk closed when he's about a metre from the vehicle, and I immediately try to open the door. It doesn't budge and I can't see any sign of an unlock button.

I could always hot-wire the SUV and drive away, but unfortunately I don't know how to hot-wire a car or whether you even can hotwire one of these. I don't have the keycard, so I can't turn on the electrics to use the phone. I look around the cabin for something I can use as a weapon but there's nothing, just paper cups and alarmingly well-preserved bits of half-eaten junk food. Somehow I doubt I'd be able to overpower Sleazy Bob long enough to force-feed him an ancient burger and wait for food poisoning to kick in. Let's face it, if I could do that it'd be much more sensible just to grab his gun.

I'm regretting the beer I drank earlier. My bladder's not very happy.

So far Sleazy Bob has pressed an intercom button, bashed digits into a keypad several times and hammered on the door with his fists, all without success. Now he's just standing there, looking at the house as if he expects Everett to suddenly appear at one of the windows. He doesn't.

The dashboard clock says 4.24 and I'm starting to shift uncomfortably in my seat when Bob gives up and starts walking back towards the SUV. And that's when I have an idea. The locks unlock when he's nearly at the car, and as he opens the door and pulls himself into the SUV he's concentrating on getting in rather than pointing his gun at me. He's half-way into his seat when I swing the passenger door open, jump out and run as fast as my legs can carry me.

Running when you really, really need to go to the toilet isn't a very pleasant experience, but I imagine that being shot with a gun is probably a lot worse.

 
As plans go, my one is pretty simple. Step one, I'm going to run as fast as I possibly can. I'll get back to you about steps two and three when I've worked out what they are.

I'm surprised Sleazy Bob didn't expect me to make a run for it, but obviously I'm not complaining. I was halfway across the driveway before he even made a noise, and I'm not slowing down. I'm about three-quarters across the front of Everett's house, my feet pounding on the gravel. I'm making enough noise to wake the dead, or at least to wake any rich old guy who happens to be asleep inside. The windows stay dark and the curtains stay closed. I keep running, my arms pumping, my bladder complaining a little bit more with each step I take.

I can hear Sleazy Bob behind me, feet thudding with the lightness and grace of a dainty elephant, wheezing like he's about to have an asthma attack. He doesn't stand a chance. I'm younger than he is. I'm faster than he is. And I've got a seriously big head start. Yes, my bladder feels as if somebody's stuffed a watermelon inside it, but even with that handicap there's no way Sleazy Bob will be able to close the gap.

I think Sleazy Bob's just come to the same conclusion, which is why he's started shooting at me.

For such a big gun, Sleazy Bob's shotgun makes a pretty disappointing noise. It just sounds like a shotgun, not the cannon of doom it looks like. I was expecting something much more impressive, and much more accurate.

If it isn't a terrible gun then Sleazy Bob is either a terrible shot, is firing shots to warn me rather than to shoot me or I'm so far ahead that I'm out of range. There's no ping of pellets rushing past my head, no ricochet sounds or rushes of air to indicate a near-miss. Just a few loud pops.

I can see the corner of the mansion now and I run even faster, my heart hammering in my chest. There's another loud pop but again, nothing comes near me. Propelled by the twin forces of adrenaline and really, really needing a wee, I sprint around the corner, race through some flowerbeds and sprint down the side of Everett's house.
 

The gravel's gone, replaced by a grassy embankment that leads on to a perfectly manicured lawn. It's bigger than a football pitch, with huge bushes and trees in the distance. I run down the middle, head down, becoming more and more uncomfortable every time my feet hit the ground.

The windows of the mansion remain dark, but the lawn doesn't. As I run, lights on either side of the lawn blink into life, creating triangles of light on the grass. It looks like I'm running on top of a swimming pool, and while I'm sure it's very pretty it's not hugely helpful when you're trying to run away and hide from someone who's firing a gun at you.

I'm tired. I'm really uncomfortable. I'm being illuminated against my will. And just when things can't get any worse, they get worse.

What kind of merciful, benevolent God looks down on a running man, a scared, tired, exhausted running man whose bladder is about to burst, and thinks "I know! What this man really needs right now is lawn sprinklers!"
 

If I don't survive this, me and God are going to have words.

The sun's coming up. I think Sleazy Bob has stopped chasing me. Maybe he's scared of sprinklers, or maybe he's just given up and gone home. I'm at the very edge of the lawn, by the bushes, and the sprinklers have finally switched themselves off. You know that bouncing thing kids do when they need to go to the toilet? I've been doing that for ages.

I really, really need to go to the toilet.

Keeping my eye on the far end of the lawn, I move across the grass, down the embankment and towards the mansion wall. I look left. I look right. Nothing. Nobody. I undo my zip and within moments, I'm feeling human again. Relieved doesn't even begin to describe it.

I'm just zipping myself back up when I notice the window. The open window. It’s at the back corner of the house, a sash window that’s been left open a few centimetres. The room beyond it – I’m assuming it’s a room, but I can’t see in from here – is dark.

I stand for a moment, listening for the sound of footsteps, but all I can hear are birds. I wait a bit longer, but there’s nothing. I’m pretty sure that Sleazy Bob isn’t anywhere nearby, so I walk on tiptoes towards the window. I stop just before I reach it and listen again, but there are no sounds coming from nearby or from inside.

I sneak a peek. If there’s anybody inside, they’re hiding in a tumble dryer. It looks like a utility room. I can make out what looks like a pair of washing machines, or maybe a washer and a drier. There’s an enormous fridge freezer, a boiler, a sink and lots and lots of cupboards. I’m sure they’re expensive cupboards. The room’s almost in darkness, the only light coming from a few LEDs in the appliances and what little dawn light is coming through the window from behind me.