The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [217]
“That’s better!” yelled Miss Havisham. “Can’t you hear it? Much better!”
All I could hear was the wail of a police siren that had started up.
“Oh, Christ!” I muttered; Miss Havisham punched me painfully on the arm.
“What was that for?”
“Blaspheming! If there is one thing I hate more than men, it’s blaspheming—Get out of my way, you godless heathens!”
A group of people at a pedestrian crossing scattered in confused panic as Havisham shot past, angrily waving her fist. I looked behind us as a police car came into view, blue lights flashing, sirens blaring. I could see the occupants bracing themselves as they took the corner; Miss Havisham dropped a gear and we took a tight left bend, ran the wheels on the curb, swerved to avoid a mother with a pram and found ourselves in a car park. We accelerated between the rows of parked cars, but the only way out was blocked by a delivery van. Miss Havisham stamped on the brakes, flicked the car into reverse and negotiated a neat reverse slide that took us off in the opposite direction.
“Don’t you think we’d better stop?” I asked.
“Nonsense, girl!” snapped Havisham, looking for a way out while the police car nosed up to our rear bumper. “Not with the sales about to open. Here we go! Hold on!”
There was only one way out of the car park that didn’t involve capture: a path between two concrete bollards that looked way too narrow for my car. But Miss Havisham’s eyes were sharper than mine and we shot through the gap, bounced across a grass bank, skidded past the statue of Brunel, drove the wrong way down a one-way street, through a back alley, past the Carer’s Monument and across the pedestrianized precinct to screech to a halt in front of a large queue that had gathered for the Swindon Booktastic closing-down sale—just as the town clock struck twelve.
“You nearly killed eight people!” I managed to gasp out loud.
“My count was closer to twelve,” returned Havisham as she opened the door. “And anyhow, you can’t nearly kill someone. Either they are dead or they are not; and not one of them was so much as scratched!”
The police car slid to a halt behind us; both sides of the car had deep gouges down the side—the bollards, I presumed.
“I’m more used to my Bugatti than this,” said Miss Havisham as she handed me the keys, got out and slammed the door, “but it’s not so very bad, now is it? I like the gearbox especially.”
I knew both of the officers and they didn’t look very amused. The local PD didn’t much care for SpecOps and we didn’t much care for them. They would be overjoyed to pin something on any of us. They peered at Miss Havisham closely, unsure of how to put their outrage at her flagrant disregard for the Road Traffic Act into words.
“You,” said one of the officers in a barely controlled voice, “you, madam, are in a lot of trouble.”
She looked at the young officer with an imperious glare.
“Young man, you have no idea of the word!”
“Listen, Rawlings,” I interrupted, “can we—”
“Miss Next,” replied the officer firmly but positively, “your turn will come, okay?”
I got out of the car.
“Name?”
“Miss Dame-rouge,” announced Havisham, lying spectacularly, “and don’t bother asking me for my license or insurance— I haven’t either!”
The officer pondered this for a moment.
“I’d like you to get in my car, madam. I’m going to have to take you in for questioning.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“If you refuse to come with me.”
Havisham glanced at me and mouthed, “After three.” She then sighed deeply and walked over to the police car in a very overdramatic manner, shaking with muscle tremors and generally behaving like the ancient person she wasn’t. I looked at her hand as she signaled to me—out of sight of the officers—a single finger, then two, then finally, as she rested for a moment against the front wing of their car, the third and final finger.
“Look out!” I yelled, pointing up.
The officers, mindful of the Hispano-Suiza accident two days before, dutifully