slaps, his voice shaking with rage.
'You ... shall... do ... it.'
Olive wept and cringed. My eyes opened. Mel was the beater in the passenger seat, Olive the beatee. I'd never heard him speak with such venom. The jokey waspishness of the avowed person of his proclivities, the barbed wit that amuses women so and always sounds audience-aware, made for titters. But this? Savagery.
Outside was dark, except for slashes of yellow glim from the village hall. I didn't want to be discovered.
'Promise, dear.' That dear was the frightener. As bad as Big John's quiet voice.
'Yes.' Her whisper didn't please him because he sighed.
'I can't hear it, Olive, dear.'
'Yes, Mel. I'll do it.' She sounded so weary. 'Look. If—'
'No, Olive. There's not a single if left. Not since Lovejoy's by-blow scuppered us all.
Understand?'
I thought, Mel means Mortimer. I almost got up and clobbered him but wanted more.
'We're all in it. You too.'
He opened the passenger's door and to my horror the interior light came on. I froze, wishing I'd had the sense to cover myself with a blanket. Except Olive never does carry a blanket in her motor, the stupid cow. See the trouble you get into, depending on women?
'Let the Giverills drive out of the car park, then follow.'
'What do I say when somebody asks me what I saw?' Olive sniffed.
'Use your head, you stupid mare.'
He slammed the door, almost perforating my eardrums. The light dowsed. I thought, God Almighty, I'd never heard Mel speak like a gangster before. A betrayed lover, sure, when Sandy was doing what Sandy gleefully calls pub rubber, or taunting Mel across crowded auction rooms when they'd disagreed on some colour scheme. We all go embarrassed and look at the floor. Mel gets bitter and sulks for days. Sometimes he storms out, even drives off to his cousin's shack near Cherbourg, yet always returns.
The most remarkable thing was, he threatened Olive Makins! Olive, doyenne of affairs of the heart and wallet, the one woman who you'd put your money on to survive.
Queen of cut-throat competition, she ran the local auctioneers' society, and was a hard-dealing contract agent for most. I'd heard Gimbert himself call her Mother Shark. Hard as nails, I'd seen her sack two women for simply getting tired in the Mile End central office. And Olive was a serious investor in trust funds, where you pay in monthly and bankers pretend they've made you a fortune that's always smaller than they promised.
I've seen her throw ledgers in a high street bank.
That was the lady currently weeping at the wheel while I hid. If I sat up, might I try pretending I'd just woken up? I'd never get away with it. Maybe I could eel out, then stroll up and beg a lift to town? Except the light would come on.
No. Stay put. Maybe she would go to the loo? Or go and find Sandy, try to argue him out of whatever course of action he was bent on?
I heard Sandy call, 'Byyyeee peoples! Missing you alreadeee!'
Not far away an engine fired, small motor by the sound of it. It slowly rose in pitch. I heard the motor falter as it took to the highway. Hardly Fangio driving, more your staid middle-of-the-road elderly bloke who'd wax the bonnet to a gleam every Sunday after church ... A horrible thought took hold and I almost sat up, but Olive turned her ignition and moved off, tyres crunching. As the car tilted and picked up speed, I heard Sandy give a shrill scream of laughter.
Well, in for a penny. At least I'd find out what promise Olive had made and who else was involved.
The motor hummed, trying to lull me to sleep. I made myself stay awake. Easy, because the mention of Mortimer – it was Mortimer he'd meant, wasn't it? – had scared me badly. I felt clammy, this time not because of antiques. Maybe Olive secretly realized I was in her car and, sly cow, was chortling away, bent on exposing me at some horrible moment.
Except she had other things on her mind. She started crying again as she turned onto the main arterial road, sniffing and coughing. I heard her handbag click open. Getting a hanky? The last time she'd made that same click, I thought guiltily, was to find something else in her handbag when we were making smiles. I began to hear lorries and heavy wagons overtaking. Olive was not driving fast, so the car she was presumably following was trundling along the same.
Once or twice I heard an HGV irritably sound its horn as it thundered by, its airwave shoving Olive's light car slightly. She was driving slower than usual, following a slow motor. I wanted to risk a quick glance, but Olive might see my head in her driving mirror.
We'd been going fifteen minutes, I thought, when she spoke quietly.
'I see.'
She slowed. No sudden braking, just let the car lose impetus. I felt her motor nudged aside as something larger and heavier created an overtaking wash of air. A light swamped the car. The larger vehicle swished past.
'Oh, oh,' Olive moaned, and braked. A grinding sound filled the night.
There's nothing worse than the sudden squeal of car tyres. It always makes me tense up. Stupid. A scream of twisting metal took maybe a second, perhaps two. A fantastic screeching noise, endlessly drawn out, horns going, lights and shadows swirling in the car's interior – I could only really see the ceiling material from my position on the back seat. I was thrown forward.
Olive cried out, 'No, no, no . . .'
She braked a second time, harder, her tyres making a long sound as if they were tearing the ground. My back almost broke as something slammed into Olive's rear
