Snowstop (11 page)

‘Eight miles an hour,' Garry said. ‘It'll take us all week to find a phone box.'

‘We'll get the Chief Constable to send us a chopper,' Lance said. ‘Ask him to take us back to Chesterfield.'

‘I want a nice cosy boozer.' Garry kicked the clutch, and rattled the gears from slot to slot. ‘We can play darts on the landlord's poxy face. It'll warm us up a bit.' Smoke and rubber reeked as the wheels spun. He pulled a spade from the space behind. ‘Get digging for victory. That'll warm you up.'

They scooped snow aside with a stiffbacked motoring atlas, kicked and breasted it till the shovel hit tarmac. ‘Push again,' Lance shouted, red-raw hands taking the wheel.

‘I feel knackered,' Wayne said. ‘I won't be able to kick a pub to pieces, even if we find one.'

‘It's nearly-stopped snowing,' Garry told him. ‘And then it'll fucking well freeze.'

‘We're getting there. If anybody spots a light,' Wayne said, ‘let me know through the intercom.'

‘You won't see any lights around these parts,' Lance told him. ‘They shut 'em off in case anybody knocks at the door to ask for a cup of water.'

Garry laughed, head back. ‘Do you remember when we ripped a door off that hotel in Paxton and chucked it over the bar? And that old bastard saying we ought to be called up into the army? I sent my pint o' slurry over him. He said we ought to be flogged!'

Lance banged his fist against the windscreen. ‘But nobody would buy us, I told him. You wouldn't even get ten pence for us.'

‘Then we slung a few chairs into the saloon, just to show willing. Posh punters didn't know what was happening. They thought the fucking revolution had started.' Wayne passed his fag packet. ‘At least we can have our last puff before we die.'

‘We had to run, though,' Lance said.

‘Of course we had to run. Twenty to one, wasn't it? You don't fight twenty to fucking one.'

‘I wonder what's in the back of this van?' Lance said. ‘Why don't somebody take a look?'

‘Boxes,' Garry shouted. ‘They're full of fifty-pound notes with the ink still wet. No, it looks like hi-fi stuff.'

‘We'll have a shufti when we're in the clear. Then we can set it going and have a dance, a bit of old ragtime.' Songs went through Lance's mind ten a minute, but they hardly ever finished. ‘Dance with the snowflakes, more like.'

‘The battery wouldn't last. Still, we're moving, aren't we? What's that light over there?'

‘You need glasses.' Lance waved cigarette smoke away. ‘It's a farm, and they've already got their shotguns trained on us, you can bet.'

‘It must have been the glow of our fags in the windscreen.' Covered tracks were harder in the frost, and the van crawled healthily. ‘Where did you learn to handle this sort o' thing, Lance?'

‘My old man's a lazy bastard. He makes me drive his wagon all over the shop, up hill and down dale, taking stuff to farms. I get stuck in the mud sometimes, so it's good practice for snow.'

‘I hope we don't find our bikes have been nicked in the morning,' Wayne said. ‘Whoever took 'em, I'd chase 'em to the ends of the earth. Anyway, I'd know its cough anywhere.'

‘My little beauty is even taxed,' Lance said. ‘And insured. My old man made me see to it. If I break the law he goes white and starts to shake all over. He was in the last war, so he can't stand me getting into trouble with Old Bill.'

‘Road tax – I stick a Guinness label on mine,' Garry said, ‘and even that's out of date.' He leaned forward. ‘Ah, that
is
a light. And it's getting bigger.'

‘He's right,' Lance said. ‘There ain't been any power cuts yet.' Snow melted patchily off the bonnet, warmed by the engine, and water from the roof waved down over the wipers, bringing the van back to shape and colour. ‘Oh, lads, it's a pub. Or maybe a hotel. Aren't we in for the treat of our lives?'

THIRTEEN

He had been in such rooms often, wondered whether Eileen had, couldn't imagine where she had in fact been, what furnishings she'd live among. Terylene curtains wouldn't keep out light, cold or noise. There was a small writing table, built-in cupboard and drawers: chintzy bedlamps, an open plastic coffin in the bathroom. He felt a wildness in him to break the place apart, as if he wanted to rearrange the clutter of his mind into some sort of prelapsarian order. He wouldn't know how to begin, the seismic change had been so complete, and in any case he had left his ice axe in the car and didn't fancy sending Eileen out again. Maybe she didn't care for his company, beyond the benefit of the lift off the moors and a bed for the night. He hardly knew whether he wanted to be with her, but there were two beds, which gave them a choice. ‘Close the door.'

She sat in the armchair. ‘I thought we would get a four-poster in this highwayman's hotel.'

‘I'll arrange it next time.' Water from the tap was rusty and chill, but he washed his hands as if he had last done so ten years ago. ‘Your face is dirty, by the way.'

She pouted. ‘You're a sarky old sod, aren't you?'

‘Well, it is – a bit streaky from your travels. You should be happy I told you about it. Anyway, you don't need to be afraid of me.'

She knew that already, otherwise she wouldn't be here, would she? She looked at him, his teeth uneven, hair tousled, rolling the towel round and round. He wasn't much of a picture, either. ‘The room smells musty, as if a squirrel died in it, but I like it. I've only ever been in a bed-and-breakfast before, not a proper hotel like this.'

‘I didn't realize I was being sarcastic.' He unbuttoned his waistcoat, more to be at ease than with any notion of undressing. He wanted to sit at the table and write a letter, but Gwen wouldn't be able to receive it. Every time he went away he hoped she would go off with another man, their relationship painlessly settled by the time he got back. And she, he knew, had never wanted him to return.

Eileen took off her shirt, showing a larger bust than he had supposed, but an off-white brassiere. Well, you couldn't get into bed with your clothes on, could you? ‘I hate it when you laugh at me like that. You're always doing it.'

‘Am I?' She was beginning to sound like his wife, surprising how little time was needed. Maybe it was his fault, after all, though he didn't want to think so. ‘I was amused at my own thoughts. Not at you, believe me.'

She unhooked her brassiere and let it slip forward, caught the straps and threw it onto the bed. ‘How do I know, then, if you don't tell me?'

‘Now I have.'

‘Not much.'

Turning off the main light left a basic glow between the beds. ‘It's a start. You can't deny that.' He felt he could tell her anything, but was it because she was nothing, or because he was?

She let the tap run till the water was as warm as it would get, washed her hands and face, glad to have heard more talk from him in one evening than had been squeezed out of her boy friend in days – and that had cost her, a black eye and a twisted arm. She hated the term ‘boy friend' because there had never seemed a time when one had been friendly in the way people ought to be. ‘You can tell me, then, if you like. You might not have me for long.'

He took off his shirt and vest, disappointing her when he opened his case, as if only to change. ‘What exactly do you mean?'

‘I'm here just for the night, aren't I?'

‘I hadn't thought about it, to be honest.' Tomorrow wouldn't exist from now on for such as him. ‘But do we have to make an issue of it?'

A shadowy triangle of hair showed through her pink pants. ‘I don't know about you, but I do.'

He put clean clothes back in the case and closed it, as if pondering every action beforehand. ‘Perhaps I do, as well. When something good happens to me I like to imagine it's going to last for ever. And why not, even now? So I will, if you don't mind, and if the idea doesn't offend you.'

She smiled. ‘I like you more and more. How funny, though, I
thought
you'd have lots of hair on your chest, and you have. It tickles!'

His arms were around her, the wonderful feel of her flesh and the cool young breasts. She had been thinking about him to that extent. ‘When did it first cross your mind?'

She drew away. ‘I suppose you think I'm nothing but a dirty slut?'

He grimaced: not another neurotic woman. Surely she's too young to be in that trap already. He plugged into some corny television play to remark: ‘And I suppose you think I'm just a dirty old man out for a good time?'

She was smooth and pale, with the loveliest young woman's figure, neither wrinkles nor stretchmarks, as he stood back to look at her, though her teeth wanted seeing to, and a little civilized polish would do her no harm. Nor would a feeling of security for her battered soul. Such tinkering would make a different person, and would he like her more or less? It was too late to find out, so he wouldn't be the man to know. If he made her pregnant would something interesting come out of it, or a recidivist monster?

‘What I would like to know,' she said, ‘is why you've got that long knife in your case?' She picked up his packet of cigarettes. ‘Can I have one?'

‘Please do. I thought I'd left it in the car. It's a survival knife. Very useful for all sorts of things.'

‘As long as you aren't going to cut me up with it.'

He laughed. ‘Whatever could give you that idea?'

But she was more interested in the lighter. ‘It's nice' – flat, gold and effective.

He ought to tell her: it's a present from Gwen. Have it, he should say but – Where's that cigarette lighter I gave you for your birthday? Gwen would surely have asked. I lost it, he'd tell her. I left the car door open and somebody took it out of the glove box. Tell me another, she'd say, if she could say anything any more. ‘I'd give it to you, but it's a present from my father. He would be sure to notice it had gone.'

‘You mean your wife gave it to you.' She didn't want his lighter, nice as it was. She could always buy a box of matches and read the joke on the back. ‘I don't care. All nice men are married.'

‘Are they?' He sounded so angry that she wondered what his wife was like, and how his wife's face would change to wild and fierce if she suddenly opened the door and saw what they were about to do. And then she thought maybe we shouldn't do it, it's wrong, but nothing can stop us, she told herself, whatever we think, because I love him and he loves me, and it's all right for his wife to turn funny about it, but she's got all the nice things of the world and I've got nothing but this and me and where I am, though whether I really love him I can't yet tell. ‘Married men know how to look after women, don't they?'

‘I'm not so sure about that.'

‘Well, they've had practice.'

He hoped her assumption would turn out to be right.

‘You
are
married, aren't you? That's why I said it. I don't know any other married men. I never have. I just supposed.' She seemed upset, a blush showing the promise of some sensibility.

‘I feel as if I've known you a long time,' he said.

‘Why don't you take the rest of your kit off, then?'

With women more or less of his own sort he would have had them off in an instant, but because he had never known anyone like her he needed to take more care, to seem polished and reasonable in his behaviour. He couldn't decide why. It would be easy to flash-fuck her, and leave it at that. ‘You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I mean it.'

‘Hold me, then. Nobody's said that to me before. I thought you thought I was awful. I thought you thought I was a bucket of Aids or something. Anyway, I'm not, I'm clean. I've never been with anybody like that.'

He kissed her lips, not caring to be a lousy bastard who gave such an impression, and she gripped him as if never to let go, teeth pressing against his lips.

‘Your cigarette's burning the table.' He eased her away. ‘Put it in the ashtray, or' – he conjured up something she would understand – ‘it'll be another fifty pounds on my bill.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Not that it would faze me.' He wanted to make amends. ‘But it's a pity to ruin the table.' He was going to add: as gimcrack as it is, but he didn't because to her it might seem the best of furniture. While she carefully pressed out her cigarette he took off his trousers and pants, drew the curtains. ‘To stop the snowmen peering in.'

‘You look good with no clothes on.' She eyed him from across the room as if he were a specimen she hadn't seen before either. ‘You aren't fat, are you?'

‘I try not to be.'

‘I mean, at the belly.'

‘I take exercise.'

She smiled. ‘With dumb-bells?'

‘I jump up and down. I go swimming. I play squash.'

‘Whereabouts?'

‘At my club.'

‘Just so's you won't get fat?'

‘I do it to keep healthy.'

She was staring again. ‘Your nose – it's got a bend in the middle.'

He laughed. ‘So it has. I got it broken a few times at boxing.'

‘In the ring?'

‘No, at school. And in the army. I broke a few, as well.'

‘I'm sure you did.' She drew him onto the bed. ‘It makes you more good-looking!'

FOURTEEN

Daniel's mother had said that a watched pot never boiled. He had proved her wrong. The saucepan spilled over and the stew was ruined. When she said a clock hand didn't move if you looked at it he spent the hour of her absence making sure that it did. Recalling such wayward experiments of childhood, the sustaining fire at his back and the soothing timemark of the grandfather clock demanded that he act instead of mindlessly waiting.