The tall lorry swept past in the opposite direction. I saw the Mercedes waver as its driver realized. A horn blared. The crash sounded actually in the Mawdslay, and for one crazy instant I thought, hell, it’s us they’ve got in spite of everything, before sense reasserted itself. I was still driving, unimpeded. Something burst. Air rushed along over the Mawdslay, blew on my ears. I slowed. Only the lorry’s taillights in the rearview mirror, nothing moving.
“Gawd Almighty,” Tinker croaked. “See that?”
Head out of the window, I crawled in slow reverse to where the man was standing by his lorry. I disembarked and stood looking over the edge of the camber.
“Ta, Antioch. All right?”
He heaved a sigh, tutting. “No gumption, some people. If he’d braked, he might have got out of it.”
A car was ablaze down below among a haircut of young trees. Even as I watched another bit of it woomphed. The air stank oil, rubber. A big bloke arrived on a motorbike, somehow folded it and lobbed it into Antioch’s lorry’s tailboard with ease. He nodded at the fire on the hillside below, as if acknowledging the inevitable. “Well,” he said in a singy Ulster voice. “They shouldn’t go round killing drivers, should they?”
“Six in it, eh?” I asked Antioch.
“No. Three. They’re using a band radio. They’ve a rover block on the A87.”
“What’s best, Antioch?” Three from six leaves three.
“No smoking, O’Flaherty,” Antioch said absently. The man put away his cigarettes. He had the envious tranquillity of the professional. I’m only glad I’m not that tranquil.
“Look, Lovejoy. I can see you safe partway, say Glasgow?”
“I’ve a better idea, Antioch,” I said. Lovejoy Know-all. “They’ll suspect I won’t touch Edinburgh.” I didn’t give reasons. “Will you put us that way on?”
“Right. I’ve things to do here, so O’Flaherty’ll see you as far as Perth. Then it’s motorway.”
The rain was worsening, but it made no difference to the fire below. A lorry chugged past. O’Flaherty waved.
With difficulty I turned the Mawdslay and followed O’Flaherty’s lorry. Antioch gave a distant nod as we passed. Aren’t people funny? He supports an orphanage in Affetside, then he goes and does a thing like that and stays cool. I kept having to clench my teeth to stop them chattering.
Dutchie’s voice wasn’t all that steady, either. “Where to now, Lovejoy?”
“Down the middle, to Edinburgh.”
Past Balmoral. We could always pop in and check that the royal gardeners were growing enough flowers under the old Queen Mum’s roses. She was murder on ground-cover plants.
« ^ »
—— 30 ——
There’s not a lot of northerly roads into Edinburgh. Unless you’ve a hang glider, this means two accident-prone motorways. O’Flaherty pulled into a lay-by south of Perth, still not smoking as he shook my hand.
“Get them bastards, Lovejoy,” he said.
“Me?” I was amazed. “I’m not like that. Honest.”
“To be sure. But the driver they topped was my mate.” He was so wistful as he said, “I wanted Antioch to let me drive the pusher. Good luck.” I waved him off.
Assassins are pretty cool, and often misunderstood. I’ve often noticed that. I was trying to evade the blighters, not find them. Which worried me, thinking about Mr. Sidoli and the traveling fun-fair. Except Edinburgh’s Festival was still in mid-orgy. Which meant Sidoli and Bissolotti would presumably still be hurdy-gurdying grimly on that green. But, my hope-glands flicked into my mind, where can you hide a Lovejoy best, but in a lovely throng? I shelved the terrible fact that any solution would be only temporary.
Dobson and Company had my home territory sewn up. The north was done for, now I’d sprung Dutchie. Edinburgh was limbo, but a satisfactorily crowded one.
“We’ll leave you in the motor, Dutchie,” I decided. “A cutting file and you’ll be free as air.”
“We’re splitting up?” he asked.
“About Tipper Noone,” I said, concentrating hard on the long strings of motorway lights. I had to be sure. Now that Michelle and me had come together, maybe I was feeling like his dad or something equally barmy.
“Tipper ships for us, Lovejoy. Repros through the Hook.”
Does? No past tenses for poor old Tipper, RIP? Dutchie, for all his gormlessness, was looking better and better. I drew breath to exploit Dutchie’s unawareness, but Tinker said helpfully, “Your pal Tipper’s snuffed it.” So much for tact.
The A90 had most traffic, so I bombed in on that while Tinker cheerfully narrated Tipper’s tale to the stricken Dutchie. Parking the motor would be a nightmare… Too late I noticed the bloody toll bridge. Too tired for any more vigilance, I was in the queue and the man asking for the gelt. He could see Dutchie quite clearly, manacles, chains, block. No hidey nooks in a tourer.
“Fringe?” he said, nodding at Dutchie.
“Eh?”
“Your show.” He shook his head sadly. “The council should provide proper places for the Fringe Festival. It’s a disgrace.”
“Ta. We’ll manage.” I tried to look brave but wounded.
“Good luck.”
And we were through. Fringe? “What was he on about, Dutchie?”
Dutchie chuckled. His first ever. “He thought we were performers. The Fringe Festival’s unpaid art. It makes its way. Streets, bars, even bus stops, living rough.”
I cheered up. We were along Queensferry Road. Civilization and people—God, the people—lights, traffic. “Shout if there’s an ironmonger’s.” Suddenly it was simple. I could buy a cutting file without fear. Part of our show’s props. See how easy towns are, compared to countryside?
Signs directed us a different way than I’d intended. Older buildings, denser mobs, louder talk, songs, turmoil. I didn’t want the old crate trapped in some sequined cul-de-sac.
“There’s a pub, Lovejoy.” Tinker had dried into restlessness.
We were down to trotting pace. I didn’t fancy this at all. I wanted a zoom through the fleshpots, a rapid file session to lighten our load, then to go to earth while Tinker and Dutchie caught the Flying Scot south to safety. I’d follow later, when I’d convinced our pursuers I’d escaped. But sedate traffic in a glare of road lights can be inspected quite easily—as indeed the pedestrians were doing, openly admiring our Mawdslay.
“Tinker. Got your medals?” A brain wave. The cunning old devil always carries them, and a mouth organ, to do a bit of busking if he’s short of a pint and I’m not around.
He obeyed, smoothing them in place. A cluster of stilt walkers followed us, striding and waving. A couple of girls in Red Indian costumes danced carrying buckets. A jazz band led by a pink donkey, I assure you, stomped jubilantly beside us, one of the players drumming on our side panel, a deafening racket. At a traffic light, me grinning weakly and trying to hum along to show we honestly were fringe people too, a lass in a straw boater stuck her head next to mine and screamed, “Seen a gondola?”
“Er, no, love.”
“Soddation.” She climbed into the passenger seat. Tinker cackled. She seemed to wear little, black mesh stockings and bands of snake-skin. “You can drop me off. You in the procession?” She lit a cigarette. Where the hell had she kept that? “Or marching?”
“Well, er, you can see how we’re fixed.”
“Ah.” She gazed round, eyes narrowing as she took in Dutchie’s slavehood. “Good, good. Rejection of imperialistic chauvinisms. The medals are genius.”
“Me wounds still hurt, dear.” Tinker started a shuddering cough. Sympathy always starts him cadging.
“Shut it, Tinker.” No exits down the side streets. All one way now, with the multicolored mob a long, winding tide. Police grinning, waving. A Caribbean dustbin band bonged to our right. A non-band of chalk-faced mimers played non-instruments alongside. Jesus.