The Network - Jason Elliot [16]
I’ve rescued Gerhardt from a cruel and uncaring owner who kept him locked in a cold garage, understanding nothing of his potential. It’s true I keep a hammer in the glove compartment for when the fuel pump misbehaves, and for when the solenoid jams in wet weather. A few blows in the right spot usually do the trick. I also keep handy a spare bottle of transmission fluid, which tends to leak from the torque converter housing, and I try not to think about why the water pump makes a sort of puffing sound like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But apart from these foibles, Gerhardt is my pride and joy. Off-road, he comes into his own. He also weighs over two tons, which makes me remember what happens next all the more vividly.
I’m nearly home and travelling at speed along a narrow country lane. Turning a corner I find the road unexpectedly blocked by a tractor towing an evil-looking piece of farm machinery which takes up the entire width of the road. It’s a giant tiller with rows of curved shining blades, and as I hit the brakes hard a loud tearing sound comes from underneath me as the nearside wheels lock on the loose wet gravel. Logs come spilling into the front seats and I have a vision of Gerhardt being sliced into wafers at the moment of impact. We come juddering to a very timely halt, six feet short of the gleaming blades.
The driver of the tractor can’t hear me swearing. He hasn’t even seen me, and creeps forward at a snail’s pace. I try to squeeze past, but the road’s too narrow, so I follow for a while as my relief turns to frustration. My only chance to get ahead is to divert along a track through long grass and mud. I’ve driven it once before. It will add half a mile to the journey home but it’s a good excuse to put Gerhardt through his paces off-road.
When I reach the sign marked bridleway, I turn onto the track with a final curse at the tractor and slip the gearbox into four-wheel drive. The steering stiffens as the differentials lock and the power spreads to all four wheels. Lurching through the deep muddy ruts, Gerhardt is as happy as a horse released into the wild. Further on the track narrows and is choked with undergrowth, which flattens out submissively at our advance. Ten minutes later we rejoin the surfaced road. I push back the differential locks, return to two-wheel drive and head for home, listening to the tyres throwing off mud like a dog shaking water from its fur after a satisfying walk.
I’m a few minutes from home after this little detour when an unfamiliar sight catches my eye. A bright-red late-model Alfa Romeo is parked on the grassy verge with its hazard lights flashing. It’s an odd place to leave a car. There’s nothing to stop for nearby except empty fields. I slow up alongside and can see that the front wheels have spun themselves into the soft ground. I can see heat rising off the bonnet. Someone has got stuck and needs to be towed out.
I drive on and a hundred yards later see a figure up ahead. It must be the driver: a dark-haired woman, walking on the verge with her back to me. As I draw closer I can’t help noticing how well proportioned she is. She’s wearing a short wine-coloured jacket embroidered with what look like flowers and beads, dark close-fitting trousers and knee-high boots in cream and brown leather. They’re expensive, city clothes and look out of place on a country lane in Wiltshire. She turns her head as she hears Gerhardt’s engine and turns back again without changing pace, and I catch a glimpse of a shapely, Far Eastern-looking face.
She makes no effort to stop me as I pass, so I pull over just ahead of her. Leaning over to lower the passenger window I see the striking features of a thirty-year-old woman with