The Flesh of The Orchid (3 page)

“Yes, I want a ride,” the girl said. Her voice was flat, casual.

He reached down, caught her hand, swung her up into the cab beside him.

“Pretty wet,” he said. “Pretty damn wet night.”

He leaned across the girl, slammed the cab door shut. In the dim light from the dashboard he saw she was wearing a man’s trench-coat.

“Yes, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah, pretty damn wet,” Dan repeated, not sure of her, puzzled. He released his brakes. The engine roared as he changed up and he drove on into the darkness.

In the distance there came a faint sound of a tolling bell.

“What’s that?” Dan asked, cocking his ears. “Sounds like a bell.”

“It’s the asylum alarm,” the girl said. “It means someone’s been lucky to get away,” and she laughed softly, an odd metallic little laugh that somehow set Dan’s teeth on edge.

The mournful sound of the bell, carried by the wind, pursued them.

“You mean one of the loonies has escaped?” Dan asked, startled. He peered into the darkness, half expecting to see a wild, gibbering figure spring out at the truck from the thick bushes lining the road. “I bet you’re glad I came along when I did. Where are you heading for?”

“Nowhere,” the girl replied. She leaned forward to peer through the rain-lashed windshield. The light from the dashboard fell on her long narrow hands, and Dan noticed a deep puckered white scar on her left wrist. “Near the artery,” he thought; “must have given her a scare at the time.”

“Nowhere?” he repeated, and laughed. “That’s a hell of a long way away.”

“I’ve come from nowhere and I’m going nowhere and I’m nobody,” the girl said. There was a strange bitter note in her hard fiat voice.

“Telling me to mind my own business and not pulling any punches,” Dan thought, and said: “I didn’t mean to be curious. I’m going to Oakville if that’s any use to you.”

“It’ll do,” she said indifferently, fell silent.

They were climbing now and the engine grew hot, filling the cab with warm fumes, making Dan sleepy. His body ached for sleep and his brain grew numb, so that he drove automatically, forgot the girl at his side, swayed like a rag doll to the lurching of the truck.

He had had only six hours’ sleep in four days and his resistance was now stretched to breaking-point. Then he suddenly couldn’t keep awake any longer and he fell forward, his head striking the steering-wheel. He awoke immediately, Straightened up, cursing himself under his breath. He saw the edge of the road rushing towards him: the grass vividly green in the headlights. He dragged over the wheel, and the truck skidded round with a screaming of tortured tyres. The off-wheels mounted the grass verge, thudded back on to the tarmac. The great towering load of cased grapefruit, lashed down by a tarpaulin, creaked and shuddered, swayed dangerously. For one sickening moment Dan thought the truck was going to turn over, but it righted itself, continued to crawl up the twisting road.

“Gee! I’m sorry,” he gasped, his heart banging against his ribs. “I guess I must have dozed off.” He glanced at the girl, expecting to see her shaking with fright, but she sat peering through the windshield, calm, quiet—as if nothing had happened. “Weren’t you scared?” he asked, a little irritated at her calmness. “We nearly went over.”

“We’d’ve been killed, wouldn’t we?” the girl said softly. He scarcely heard her above the noise of the wind as it slammed against the cab. “Would you be afraid to die?”

Dan wrinkled his snub nose.

“It’s unlucky to talk like that in a truck. Guys get killed every day in trucks,” he said, and rapped with his knuckles on the wooden dashboard.

He slowed to take a sharp bend which would bring them on to the mountain road.

“This is where we climb,” he went on, shifting in his seat to bring himself closer to the steering-wheel. “You watch it—it’s some road.”

They were hedged in now; on one side by the towering granite mountain and on the other side by a sheer drop into the valley. Dan changed down. The truck began to crawl up the steep gradient, its engine roaring.

“The wind’ll be bad half-way up,” he shouted to the girl. And already the wind seemed to increase in violence, and somewhere ahead heavy falls of rock crashing into the valley added to the din. “It blows across the plain and smashes itself against the mountain. I did this trip last year in a wind like this and I got stuck.”

The girl said nothing, nor did she look at him.

“Rum kid,” he thought. “I wish I could see more of her. She shapes like a looker.” He yawned, gripped the steering-wheel tightly.
“I’m nobody from nowhere.
Funny thing to have said. Maybe she’s in trouble: running away from home.” He shook his head, worried about her.

But as he turned into the next steep bend he forgot everything but the handling of the truck. The wind suddenly pounced with the ferocity of a wild beast. The engine stalled and the truck came to a shuddering standstill. It was as if they’d run into a brick wall, and they were headed right into the teeth of the wind and received its full blast. Rain like a jet from a hydrant made the windshield creak. It was impossible to see through the torrents of water that hammered down on the truck.

Cursing, Dan started the engine again, let in his clutch. The truck jerked forward, shuddered against the wind, then suddenly began to rock violently. There was a crash as cases of grapefruit, torn from under the slapping tarpaulin, thudded on to the road.

“Christ!” Dan gasped. “The load’s going!”

More cases crashed on to the road as he threw the truck into reverse, began to back down the incline to the shelter of the mountain-side round the bend.

The truck wobbled and he felt the off-side wheels lift.

“We’ll be over,” he thought, stiff with fear. He wanted to open the cab door and jump clear, to save himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the truck and his load.

The truck began to slide towards the edge of the road, and, struggling desperately to steer against the skid, Dan gunned the engine, shooting the truck backwards, took the bend with the rear wheel almost over the edge, reached shelter. He braked, cut the engine, scarcely believing they were safe, and sat back, every muscle in his body fluttering, his mouth dry.

“That was something,” he said, shoved his cap to the back of his head, wiped his streaming forehead with his sleeve. “That was certainly something.”

“What are you going to do now?” the girl asked. She was as calm as a patchwork quilt.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but climbed down into the rain to inspect the damage.

In the light of the headlamps he could see the wooden cases scattered all over the road. Some of the cases had broken open: bruised yellow balls glistened in the rain. He would have to wait for daylight now, he thought, too bitter even for anger. There was nothing else for it. He was stuck on the mountain with a lost load the way he’d been stuck last year.

Soaking wet, tired beyond endurance, he dragged himself into the cab.

The girl was sitting in his place, behind the steering-wheel, but he was too tired to ask her to move. He slumped in the other corner of the cab. closed his eyes.

Before he could think of any plan for the next day, before he could estimate what he had lost, he was asleep, his head falling on his chest, his eyelids like lead weights.

Then he dreamed he was driving the truck. The sun was high above the mountain and a soft wind sang as the truck skimmed down the downhill stretches. It was fine, driving like that. He didn’t feel tired any more. He felt fine and he gunned the engine and the speedometer needle showed seventy, flicking back and forth. His wife, Connie, and his kid were at his side. They were smiling at him, admiring the way he handled the truck, and the kid yelled for him to go faster, to outrace the wind, and the truck seemed to fly over the road with the grace and speed of a swallow.

Then suddenly the dream became a nightmare. The steering-wheel crumpled in his hands as if it were made of paper and the truck gave a great bound in the air, swerved off the road and plunged over and over and over, and he woke with Connie’s screams in his ears, shaking, ice round his heart.

For a moment he thought the truck was still falling because the engine was roaring and the truck was lurching, then he realized that the truck was rushing madly downhill, its headlights like a flaming arrow flying through darkness. Stupefied with shock and sleep, he automatically grabbed for the handbrake, shoved his foot down on the brake pedal. His hand and foot found nothing, and then it dawned on him he wasn’t driving at all, but that the girl had charge of the truck.

Before his befuddled brain could grasp what was happening, he became aware of another sound: the wailing note of a police-siren behind them.

He was awake now, alarmed and angry.

“What the hell do you think you’re up to?” he shouted at the girl. “Stop at once! My load’s loose and the cops are after us! Can’t you hear them? Stop, I tell you!”

She paid him no attention, but sat behind the wheel like a stone statue, her foot slowly forcing the gas pedal to the boards, building up the speed of the engine, forcing the truck faster and faster until it began to sway dangerously. The wooden cases behind clattered and banged under the tarpaulin.

“Have you gone crazy?” Dan bawled, frightened to touch her in case he caused her to swerve off the road. “You’ll have us over in a moment. Pull up, you little fool!”

But she was deaf to him, and the truck hurtled on through the rain and the wind into darkness.

Behind, the siren screamed at them, and Dan leaned out of the cab window, stared back the length of the swaying truck, rain beating on his face and head. A single headlight flickered behind them. Dan guessed they were being chased by a State cop on a high-speed motor-cycle. He turned back to the girl, shouted: “That’s a speed cop behind. He’s gonging us. You can’t get away from him. Pull up, will you?”

“I’m going to get away from him,” the girl said, her voice pitched high above the roar of the engine and the wind. And she laughed that odd metallic little laugh that had already set his teeth on edge.

“Don’t be a fool,” Dan said, moving closer to her. “We’ll only hit something. You can’t beat a cop in this truck. Come on, pull up.”

Ahead the road suddenly widened.

This is it, Dan thought. The cop will shoot past and turn on us. Well, it’s her funeral now. She’ll have to stand the rap. They can’t touch me. The mad, stupid, irresponsible little fool!

It happened the way he thought. There was a sudden roaring of an engine, a dazzling searchlight of a headlamp and the speed-cop was past them; a broad squat figure in a black slicker, his head bent low over the handle-bars.

“Now you’ve gotta stop,” Dan shouted. “He’ll sit in the middle of the road and cut speed. You’ll have to stop or you’ll hit him.”

“Then I’ll hit him,” the girl said calmly.

Dan peered at her, had a sudden feeling that she meant what she said.

“Are you nuts?” he bawled, then his heart gave a lurch. Glenview! The tolling bell,
someone’s been lucky to escape,
the odd metallic laugh,
I’m nobody from nowhere. Then I’ll hit him.
She
was
crazy! A lunatic! The cop was after her to take her back to Glenview!

Dan drew away from her, his eyes starting from his head, scared sick. He’d have to do something. She’d kill the cop, kill him and herself. She wouldn’t care what she did. If he could get at the ignition switch! But dare he try ? Suppose the move upset her, caused her to pull off the road? He looked through the cab window, his breath laboured, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. They were climbing again. To their left was a white wood fence, guarding the long drop to the twisting road they had left miles behind. If she pulled to the left they were finished, but if she turned right they had a chance: a slim one, but they might get out before the gas tank went up.

He became aware that the cop was signalling them to stop. The sign on the back of his carrier was flickering:
Police. Stop!

“You’ve gotta stop, kid,” Dan shouted desperately. “He doesn’t want you, he wants me. You’ve got nothing to be scared. The girl laughed to herself, leaned forward to peer at the flickering sign. She seemed to be aiming the truck at it.

Dan saw the cop was reducing speed. The truck was creeping up on him. The great beam of the headlights was centred on his back.

“The fool!” Dan thought. “He must know she’s nuts. He must know she’ll run him down.” And he leaned out of the cab and screamed at the crouching figure just ahead.

“Get on! She’ll nail you, you goddamn fool! Get out of the way! She’s going to run you down!”

The wind snatched the sound from his mouth, flung it uselessly away. The cop couldn’t hear anything above the roar of his engine and the wind. He was still reducing speed, set solid in the middle of the road. The truck’s lights beat on him; the roaring hood of the truck no more than twenty feet from his rear wheel.

Dan turned frantically, made a grab at the ignition switch, but the girl slashed at him with hooked fingers. Her nails ploughed furrows down his cheek and he cannoned against the steel side of the cab as the truck swerved, ran up the grass verge, straightened, slammed back on to the road again. He held his face in his hands, blood running between his fingers, his skin crawling with horror and pain.

Then, as he looked up, it happened. The cop glanced over his shoulder, seemed to sense his danger. Nick saw the mud-splashed, goggled face for a brief second, saw the mouth open iii a soundless shout. The girl rammed down the gas pedal. The two machines seemed suspended in space: the motor-cycle struggling to get away, the truck to reach and destroy it. Then with a tremendous surge of power, the truck hit the motor-cycle and contemptuously tossed it high into the air.

Above the roar of the wind Dan heard the cop’s yell of terror, heard the crash as the motor-cycle hit the mountain-side, saw the flash of fire as it burst into flames. Then he saw a dark form come down heavily in the road, right in the path of the truck’s headlights.

“Look out!” he screamed, threw up his hands before his face.