Whiteout - Ken Follett [60]
He felt pleased with himself. He had kept control, just. Better yet, Sophie had been scared, while he appeared calm. Maybe she would stop acting so superior.
The garage stood at a right angle to the house, and now its doors were ahead and to the left of the Ferrari. Kit’s car, a black Peugeot coupe, was parked in front of the garage block at its far end. Craig found a remote control under the Ferrari’s dashboard and clicked. The farthermost of three garage doors swung up and over.
The concrete apron in front of the garage was covered with a smooth layer of snow. There was a clump of bushes at the near corner of the building and a large tree on the far side of the apron. Craig simply had to avoid those and slot the car into its bay.
More confident now, he moved the gearshift into the notch for first gear, touched the accelerator, then released the clutch. The car moved forward. He turned the steering wheel, which was heavy at low speed, not being power-assisted. The car obediently turned left. He depressed the throttle another millimeter, and it picked up speed, just enough to feel exciting. He swung right, aiming for the open door, but he was going too fast. He touched the brake.
That was his mistake.
The car was moving quickly on snow with its front wheels turning right. As soon as the brakes bit, the rear wheels lost traction. Instead of continuing to turn right into the open garage door, the car slid sideways across the snow. Craig knew what was happening, but had no idea what to do about it. He spun the steering wheel farther to the right, but that made the skid worse, and the car drifted inexorably over the slippery surface, like a boat blown by a gale. Craig stamped on the brake and the clutch at the same time, but it made no difference.
The garage building slid away to the right of the windshield. Craig thought he would crash into Kit’s Peugeot, but to his blissful relief the Ferrari missed the other car by several inches. Losing momentum, it slowed down. For a moment he thought he had got away with it. But, just before the car came to a complete stop, its front nearside wing touched the big tree.
“That was great!” Sophie said.
“No, it bloody was not.” Craig put the stick in neutral and released the clutch, then sprang out of the car. He walked around to the front. The impact had felt gentle but, to his dismay, he saw by the light of the lamps on the garage wall a large, unmistakable dimple in the gleaming blue wing. “Shit,” he said miserably.
Sophie got out and looked. “It’s not a very big dent,” she said.
“Don’t talk bollocks.” The size did not matter. The bodywork was damaged and Craig was responsible. He felt a sensation of nausea deep in his stomach. What a Christmas present for Grandpa.
“They might not notice it,” Sophie said.
“Of course they’ll bloody notice it,” he said angrily. “Grandpa will see it as soon as he looks at the car.”
“Well, that might not be for a while. He’s not likely to go out in this weather.”
“What difference does that make?” Craig said impatiently. He knew he was sounding petulant, but he hardly cared. “I’ll have to own up.”
“Better if you’re not here when the shit hits the fan.”
“I don’t see—” He paused. He did see. If he confessed now, Christmas would be blighted. Mamma Marta would have said, There will be a bordello, by which she meant uproar. If he said nothing, but confessed later, perhaps there would be less fuss. Anyway, the prospect of postponing discovery for a few days was tempting.
“I’ll have to put it in the garage,” he said, thinking aloud.
“Park it with the dented side right up against the wall,” Sophie suggested. “That way, it won’t be noticed by anyone just walking past.”
Sophie’s idea