Yes! I’d reached the old car and peered through the nearside window to see that the keys were in the ignition. Blood trickled into my eye again and I clumsily wiped it with one of the scarf ends. Next bit might be tricky. Driving a car while using someone else’s body wouldn’t be easy, but at least the roads should be virtually deserted at this time of night—or this time of the morning. What time was it? I wondered. One, two o’clock? It didn’t matter and trying to read the tiny digits on a wristwatch—if Moker wore such a thing—seemed like too much effort. It was unimportant.
That was when it struck me. The first memory. Like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, so vivid it seemed more like a hallucination.
Prim’s horrified little face, beneath me, me hovering over it, and then it was Andrea, fighting me, spittle shooting at my face, then Prim again, her chest quivering as she struggled for air, me holding something, the knitting needle, grey, deadly sharp—
I collapsed to the pavement and it was gone, the vision abruptly checked, the scene washed from my mind. My hand scrabbled at the Hillman’s bodywork, fingernails grating against painted metal as I sought to pull myself up. On my knees, one hand pressed against the window’s sill. Sliding against the side of the car as I straightened my knees, hands applying pressure to lift myself, then my whole body leaning there as I tried to recover the strength I’d just lost. It must have taken a minute or two for me to compose myself, to regain the determination to dominate this freakish vessel.
It took a couple of attempts to grip the door handle firmly enough to open the door, but finally I managed. I clambered into the driver’s high seat and settled myself. I stared in dismay at the controls. Of course, I’d forgotten. The gear-shift was on the steering wheel column. Only once had I driven with a gear stick like this, and that had been a long time ago in America. Still, once you can ride a bike…
Still perturbed by the memory flash, I bent low, a shaky hand reaching for the key in the ignition. The engine failed when I turned the key and I pumped the accelerator pedal with a heavy foot as I tried again. Luckily, the engine caught—the Hillman had had a couple of good runs that night, so the engine hadn’t cooled completely—and I slumped back in the seat. Difficult bit, now. Driving the bloody thing.
Left foot on the clutch, I lifted the gearshift beneath the steering wheel into first, then eased up the clutch pedal while pressing the accelerator. The engine roared and the car jolted. The engine stalled. Oh shit, this wasn’t going to be easy. Just before I performed the whole routine again, I remembered the handbrake. I hadn’t released it. I did so slowly, because it wasn’t only the car I was trying to get used to, but Moker’s body as well. After switching on the engine once more, I danced clumsily with the floor pedals. On reflection, I think it was only because the Hillman was still familiar to Moker’s body that I managed to drive the old heap that night. I found that the less I thought about what I was doing, the more those borrowed hands and feet were able to take over. In a way, it was like driving on autopilot and I was grateful for that. I guess from time to time we all do things automatically, and to a certain extent, this was what was happening now.
The first manoeuvre was to turn the car around so that it was facing the right direction. I swung the wheel and pushed down on the accelerator—
—the underground car park, the smart woman wearing glasses turning towards me, surprised then horrified, opening her mouth to scream, a wonderful feeling of exultation rushing through me as I pushed the long thin needle upwards, beneath her breast, into the heart—
The Hillman smashed into the side of a vehicle parked on the other side of the avenue. Oh, sweet…! Had to reverse, pull the car back. Had it made a terrible noise? I didn’t care if my neighbours were roused from their comfortable slumber—so long as I got away first. Okay. Calm down, take it steady. Reverse. Where the fuck was reverse? Oh yeah, down, had to push the lever down. Whoops. That was second gear. I remembered. No, had to pull the lever out first, then down. That was reverse.
Following my recollection of column gearshifts and also relying on this body’s own instincts, I reversed the car back across the road until the rear wheels hit the kerb, swinging the steering wheel to my right as I did so. A light came on in a bedroom window opposite.
Gears grinding, I shifted to first, and put my right foot down hard. The Hillman shot forward and its wing scraped along the side of another vehicle parked at the opposite kerb, taking off a wing mirror as it went—
—a dark, lonely street, wet with rain, a man coming towards me, unwrapping my scarf, waiting for him to draw near before revealing all, the man hesitating, footsteps slowing, the first hint of concern on his handsome face, then the look of utter terror taking over as the scarf fell loose, turning to run, but not quickly enough, first a big hand spinning him back round, then the needle striking upwards, piercing material, skin, flesh, finding the heart, and pure glorious joy—
Uhhh! The memory was almost painful, the shock of it making me jerk the steering wheel so that the Hillman scraped along another car parked on the left-hand side of the road. God, can’t I control them? Can’t I hold back the memories and the perverted pleasure that came with them? Had to get a grip, had to push extraneous thoughts aside. But could I? After all, this was not my body and whatever recollection it held could not be tamed by me, the usurper. Had to make myself immune to them. I still had control over my own mind, didn’t I? Sure I did.
The roads were pretty empty, as was the main thoroughfare when I turned into it. I’d have to drive carefully, concentrating all the way, do my best not to get distracted—Oh God!—
—a cemetery, an old one with Gothic tombs and large angels, weather-worn slabs everywhere, and there was the woman, alone laying flowers on the grave of some departed loved one, and here was I, moving among the stained crosses and angels with spread wings and mausoleums with boarded doors, stalking the woman, who was turned out, attractive, long dark hair, getting closer to her, unwinding the two ends of the scarf, ready to pounce, bringing the murder tool from my pocket as she turns her head and sees me, and pure delight at the terror on her face, those beautifully startled eyes that already know she’s dead, then the exquisite delight as the needle sinks in, through the satin material of her blouse, just under the lower ribs, pushing—no, sliding, for very little effort is required—the long needle through the flesh, piercing then slipping right inside her heart, her scream muffled by a big hand, and she falls across the grave of the one she is there to grieve for, then the touching, the lifting of clothes, pulling down fine panties, pushing inside her with trembling, excited fingers…
The scene was so strong, so very lucid, filling my mind so that the car swerved across the road, mounted a pavement and almost crashed into a lamp post. I shook my head, trying to clear it of pictures, nasty, depraved images, and they swiftly faded so that only the road was before me now.
Guiding the car back on to it, I tried to control my own mind, to shield it from the other’s thoughts, and for a short while I was successful. I steered the old Hillman in as straight a line as possible along the broad, lonely road, my way lit by amber street lights, the shadowed windows of shops and houses on either side like eyes witnessing my progress. Flashing blue lights appeared in the distance, police cars or ambulances having turned into the main road from a junction, and I took no chances, pulling over to the kerbside, the rubber of the left-hand wheels squealing against the stone. I pulled up behind a white van.