The hitch-hiker poked his head through the open window and said, ‘Going to London, guv’nor?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘jump in.’
He got in and I drove on.
He was a small ratty-faced man with grey teeth. His eyes were dark and quick and clever, like a rat’s eyes, and his ears were slightly pointed at the top. He had a cloth cap on his head and he was wearing a greyish-coloured jacket with enormous pockets. The grey jacket, together with the quick eyes and the pointed ears, made him look more than anything like some sort of a huge human rat.
‘What part of London are you headed for?’ I asked him.
‘I’m goin’ right through London and out the other side,’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ to Epsom, for the races. It’s Derby Day today.’
‘So it is,’ I said. ‘I wish I were going with you. I love betting on horses.’
‘I never bet on horses,’ he said. ‘I don’t even watch ’em run. That’s a stupid silly business.’
‘Then why do you go?’ I asked.
He didn’t seem to like that question. His little ratty face went absolutely blank and he sat there staring straight ahead at the road, saying nothing.
‘I expect you help to work the betting machines or something like that,’ I said.
‘That’s even sillier,’ he answered. ‘There’s no fun working them lousy machines and selling tickets to mugs. Any fool could do that.’
There was a long silence. I decided not to question him any more. I remembered how irritated I used to get in my hitch-hiking days when drivers kept asking me questions. Where are you going? Why are you going there? What’s your job? Are you married? Do you have a girl-friend? What’s her name? How old are you? And so on and so forth. I used to hate it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s none of my business what you do. The trouble is, I’m a writer, and most writers are terrible nosey parkers.’
‘You write books?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Writin’ books is OK,’ he said. ‘It’s what I call a skilled trade. I’m in a skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin’ crummy old routine jobs with no skill in ’em at all. You see what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘The secret of life,’ he said, ‘is to become very very good at somethin’ that’s very very ’ard to do.’
‘Like you,’ I said.
‘Exactly. You and me both.’
‘What makes you think that I’m any good at my job?’ I asked. ‘There’s an awful lot of bad writers around.’
‘You wouldn’t be drivin’ about in a car like this if you weren’t no good at it,’ he answered. ‘It must’ve cost a tidy packet, this little job.’
‘It wasn’t cheap.’
‘What can she do flat out?’ he asked.
‘One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour,’ I told him.
‘I’ll bet she won’t do it.’
‘I’ll bet she will.’
‘All car makers is liars,’ he said. ‘You can buy any car you like and it’ll never do what the makers say it will in the ads.’
‘This one will.’
‘Open ’er up then and prove it,’ he said. ‘Go on, guv’nor, open ’er right up and let’s see what she’ll do.’
There is a roundabout at Chalfont St Peter and immediately beyond it there’s a long straight section of dual carriageway. We came out of the roundabout on to the carriageway and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. The big car leaped forwards as though she’d been stung. In ten seconds or so, we were doing ninety.
‘Lovely!’ he cried. ‘Beautiful! Keep goin’!’
I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.
‘One hundred!’ he shouted … ‘A hundred and five! … A hundred and ten! … A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don’t slack off!’
I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still – a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroën, a white Land Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus …
‘A hundred and twenty!’ my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. ‘Go on! Go on! Get ’er up to one-two-nine!’
At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.
‘Oh, my sainted aunt!’ I said. ‘That’s torn it!’
The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. ‘I didn’t know police motorcycles could go as fast as that,’ I said rather lamely.
‘That one can,’ my passenger said. ‘It’s the same make as yours. It’s a BMW R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That’s what they’re usin’ nowadays.’
The policeman got off his motor-cycle and leaned the machine sideways on to its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.
‘This is real trouble,’ I said. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’
‘Don’t talk to ’im any more than is necessary, you understand,’ my companion said. ‘Just sit tight and keep mum.’
Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.
We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.
‘Watch out for this man,’ my passenger whispered. ‘’Ee looks mean as the devil.’
The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand
