'What was it like?'
'Dark.'
'That sounds like a plain old common-or-garden death experience,' replied Spike cheerfully. 'I get them all the time. No, we need something a bit better than that. To pass over into the dark realm we need to just come within spitting distance of the grim reaper and hover there, tantalisingly just out of his reach.'
'And how are we going to achieve that?'
'Haven't a clue.'
He turned off the motorway at Junction 17 and took the slip road back on to the opposite carriageway to do another circuit.
'What did Cindy do before you were married?'
'She was a librarian then, too. She comes from a long line of dedicated Sicilian librarians — her brother is a librarian for the CIA.'
'The CIA?'
'Yes; he spends his time travelling the world — cataloguing their books, I presume.'
It seemed as though Cindy was wanting to tell him what she really did but couldn't pluck up the courage. The truth about her might easily shock him, so I thought I'd better plant a few seeds of doubt. If he could figure it all out himself, it would be a great deal less painful.
'Does it pay well, being a librarian?'
'Certainly does!' exclaimed Spike. 'Sometimes she is called away to do freelance contract work — emergency card-file indexing or something — and they pay her in used notes, too — in suitcases. Don't know how they manage it, but they do.'
I sighed and gave up.
We drove around twice more. Parks and the rest of the SO-6 spooks had long since got bored and driven off, and I was beginning to get a little tired of this myself.
'How long do we have to do this for?' I asked as we drove on to the Junction 16 roundabout for the seventh time, the sky darkening and small spots of rain appearing on the windscreen. Spike turned on the wipers, which squeaked in protest.
'Why? Am I keeping you from something?'
'I promised Mum she wouldn't have to look after Friday past five.'
'What are grannies for? Anyway, you're working.'
'Well, that's not the point, is it?' I answered. 'If I annoy her she may decide not to look after him again.'
'She should be grateful. My parents love looking after Betty, although Cindy doesn't have any — they were both shot by police marksmen while being librarians.'
'Doesn't that strike you as unusual?'
He shrugged.
'In my line of work, it's difficult to know what unusual is.'
'I know the feeling. Are you sure you don't want to play in the Superhoop?'
'I'd sooner attempt root canal work on a werewolf He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to the westbound M4. 'I'm bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon us!'
Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped on to the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, passing through the spray of a juggernaut before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.
'Don't you think you'd better slow down?' I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside. We were going at almost a hundred when Spike pointed out of the window and yelled:
'Look!'
I gazed out of my window at the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike's well-practised eye it was just what we'd been looking for — a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.
'Here we go!' yelled Spike, and pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash and I had just the faintest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped and the inky-black sky had no stars. We had arrived.
28
Dauntsey Services
We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.
'Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?'
'Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well — and not looking back has something to do with it.'
'Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: we locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?'
'Wow!' I muttered. 'You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?'
'It has the benefit of simplicity.'
Spike looked around at the people entering the motorway services building. He got out of the car.
'This gateway isn't just for road accidents,' he muttered, opening the boot and taking out a pump-action shotgun. 'From the numbers I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as 'well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.'
'So what's changed?'
Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun.
'The rise of secularism has a hand in it but mostly it's down to CPR. Death takes a hold — you come here — someone resuscitates you, you leave.'
'Right. So what's the President doing here?'
Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster.
'An accident. He's not meant to be here at all — like us. Are you packing?'
I nodded.
'Then let's see what's going on. And act dead — we don't want to attract any attention.'
We strode slowly across the car park towards the services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.
We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring an RAC man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life were pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking in the main entrance, not so many people were walking out.
We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the cafeteria, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking in low voices, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.
'Are all these people dead?' I asked.
'Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.' Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us — the southside services — to the other side, the north-side. I looked out of the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge which stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.
'No one comes back, do they?'