one of the engines. There were a couple of mechanics on hand but nobody else. This race was going to happen without an audience.
“Good luck,” Paul whispered.
“Ah—Alex!” Drevin had heard them approaching. He looked up. “Have you done this before?”
“A couple of times.” Alex had been on the indoor track at King’s Cross in London. “I don’t think the karts were as powerful as these.”
“These are the best. I had them custom-built myself. Chrome Molly frames and Rotax Formula E engines; 125cc, electric starter, water-cooled.” He pointed. “You start them by pressing the button next to the steering wheel. I hope you have a head for speed. They’ll go from nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. That’s faster than a Ferrari.”
“How many circuits do you have in mind?”
“Shall we say three? If you cross the finishing line first, your favourite charity will be richer by a thousand pounds.” Drevin picked up two helmets and handed one to Alex. “I hope this is your size.” Alex’s helmet was blue; Drevin would be wearing black.
Alex slipped his on and fastened it under his chin. The helmet had a visor that slid down over his face, and protective pads for his neck and the sides of his head.
“This is your last chance, Alex,” Drevin said. “If you’re nervous, now is the time to back out…” Alex examined the go-karts. They were little more than skeletons, a tangle of wires and pipes with a plastic seat in the middle and two fuel tanks behind. When he sat down, he would be just inches above the ground. And there was something else missing—apart from the floor. He had already noticed that, unlike the karts he had driven at King’s Cross, these had no wrap-around bumpers. Now he understood what Paul had told him. The cars were lethal. The course was hemmed in with bales of straw, but if he lost control, if one of his tyres came into contact with Drevin’s, he could all too easily flip over—just like the friend Paul had mentioned. And if the engine scraped along the asphalt and sparks hit the petrol tanks, the whole thing would explode.
Drevin was waiting for his answer. Looking at him casually holding his helmet, one thumb hooked into his designer jeans, Alex felt a spurt of annoyance. He was going to race this man. And he was going to win.
“I’m not nervous,” he said.
“Good. We’ll do two practice circuits before we start. Paul can signal the first and last circuits with a flag.” Alex examined the course. It was a series of twists and sharp turns with two straight sections where he would be able to pick up speed. Part of the track rose steeply on metal legs and then sloped down the other side; it formed a bridge over another section of the track below. Alex realized he would have to slow down as he took it. He would be about six metres up—and although the sides of the bridge were lined by a protective wall of rubber tyres, he didn’t like to think what would happen if he lost control and hit them.
After the bridge, there was a long tunnel with the finishing line on the other side.
He climbed into his kart and pressed the ignition button. At once the engine burst into noisy life. Already Alex felt horribly exposed. The kart had no sides, no roof. He was sitting with his knees bent, his feet stretched out in front of him. He pulled a seat belt over his shoulder and attached it. It was too late to back out now. Drevin had started his kart and was moving off smoothly. Alex tested the pedals on either side of the steering column. There were just two. The left foot operated the brake, the right foot the throttle. His kart leapt forward, the engine anxious to blast him onto the track. Drevin was already well ahead. Alex gritted his teeth and pressed his foot down.
Nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. Alex didn’t go as fast as that on the first practice circuit but, even so, the power of the engine took him by surprise. There was no speedometer and being so low it was hard to judge how fast he was really going. He guessed he was doing about forty miles an hour, although it felt a lot faster. The track was a blur. The whole circuit seemed to have contracted as his vision telescoped. He saw the grandstand whip past. The mechanics had stopped what they were doing and were watching his progress. His entire concentration was focused on his hands gripping the wheel. His arms were shuddering. He came to a corner and twisted the wheel right. He felt the tyres slide behind him and almost lost control. He was oversteering. Quickly he corrected himself. The kart entered the raised section and he found himself climbing. Halfway over the bridge, the track cornered sharply to the left. Alex swerved round and the wall of black tyres shimmered past. He had almost hit them. Already he regretted accepting this absurd challenge. He had only just come out of hospital. One mistake at this speed and he would be heading right back.
He completed his first circuit and began another. There was no sign of Drevin, and Alex wondered if he had left the track. Then there was a roar behind him and the Russian overtook, his face hidden beneath the black helmet. He had managed two complete circuits in the time that Alex had done one and a half. There was clearly going to be no contest unless Alex put his foot down. How fast had Paul said the karts could go? A hundred miles an hour. Madness!
And there was Paul, positioned on the grandstand, a chequered flag in his hand. Drevin had slowed down, waiting for Alex to catch up. The race was about to begin. Well, at least Alex had had a chance to test the worst corners and bends. He’d begun to work out his race line. And it occurred to him that he might have one big advantage over Drevin. He weighed a lot less than him. That would give him the edge when it came to speed.
But there was no time for further thought. The flag fell. They were off.
Forty miles an hour—fifty—sixty. Just inches above the blur of the tarmac, Alex pressed his right foot down as far as it would go and felt the burst of power behind him. He quickly caught up with Drevin. They came to a bend. Drevin took it tight, hugging the inside. Alex shot round the outside and suddenly he was in the lead as he screamed through the tunnel. So he was right: his weight would make the vital difference. Now all he had to do was stay ahead for the next two laps and he would win.
He had just begun the second circuit when his kart shuddered. For a moment, Alex thought the engine had misfired. Then it happened again, harder this time. He felt himself being jerked back in his seat and the bones in his neck rattled. The tyres slewed and he had to fight for control. A third knock. At this speed it felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. He glanced back and realized what was happening. Drevin was bumping him from behind. He was being quite methodical about it; he wasn’t trying to overtake. They were doing seventy miles an hour, suspended in the middle of a bare steel frame that offered no protection at all. Did Drevin want to kill them both?
Alex braked and immediately Drevin soared ahead, shooting up the raised section of the track, Alex followed, looking for an opportunity to slip past him. But Drevin was cheating again, zigzag-ing left and right, refusing to give him any space. They roared down the slope and onto the straight, then plunged into the tunnel. After the bright sun-light, it was very dark inside. Alex accelerated and drew level with Drevin.
Drevin twisted his wheel and crashed sideways into Alex.
The whole world leapt. Sparks exploded in the darkness as metal tore into metal. The walls of the tunnel rushed past. Desperately Alex fought for control, and as the two karts burst out into day-light, he dropped back. Once again Drevin had the lead.
