"Smith, Guy N - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

His lean suntanned face, beneath the two-week-old growth of beard, was expressionless, vacant. Short cropped hair, a hand habitually left the steering wheel and brushed away non-existent strands that had once hung below his collar, an aggravation at times, but fashionable. Everything had had to be fashionable up until recently, casual clothing that all went to create the image, a personality that required a certain amount of uniformity which was at once recognisable and acceptable in a harsh world of glamour. One pandered to the media, to the public, presented oneself in accordance with their ideas. Hero-worship, somebody they could identify with. Film stars, television personalities, footballers . . . racing drivers.

A faint smile momentarily crossed Mark Slade's features, but it was mirthless. Irony perhaps, maybe a touch of regret. Right now he did not even understand his own feelings. An instinct beyond his comprehension urged

him to blend himself into the jungle of convention that existed around him. The majority of his fellow beings accepted a routine, mundane existence. They did things because they had to, because they were forced to do so in order to survive, a mode of life totally in contrast to the inner personality of every individual, but they overcame it by a submergence, an acceptance, or perhaps by fantasy that would never materialise into reality. Occasionally, the odd one made the effort to climb out of the rut, a brief show of some previously hidden talent, perched precariously on a pedestal above their fellows. Some made it, remained there, if only for a brief spell, then toppled back, clinging to a few precious memories. Fantasies again, dreaming of what might have been.

Slade understood better than most. He'd made it, right to the top. Almost. Second placing in the International Race of Champions at Daytona, beaten by half a length. He was tipped to win it next time, a World Champion on the verge of greatness, a man alone standing out above millions. An idol.

But there would be no next time. A kind of suicide. Driving back into the world of convention from which he had risen. A total reversal.

His thoughts turned to the Chevy Camaros, gutted and rebuilt according to individual specifications, tuned for speeds of 160 m.p.h., perhaps more, Stock-car and Indianapolis drivers claiming supremacy over their Grand Prix rivals, equally matched in Formula One racing, fighting it out for the number one placing. Not just for money, either, but for something that meant a great deal more to the one who finished first. Slade knew he could have done it next time, except. . . With an effort he pushed all thoughts of Formula One from his mind. Somehow he had to get it all out of his system, in the same way that an alcoholic would refuse a half-pint of shandy, fighting every inch of the way, an inveterate smoker tossing a packet of cigarettes into a litter bin, steeling himself to walk on past the nearest tobacconist's shop.

Slade compromised. Somehow he had to divorce himself from cars. The Cortina presented him with the ideal opportunity to make a start. He pressed down on the seat-adjustment lever, pushing against the back-rest with his powerful shoulders. With some reluctance the seat slid back to the furthest notch. The controls were still well within his reach, but not comfortably. That meant that he would continue to drive steadily instead of hunching over the wheel and succumbing to instincts which even a man who has lost his nerve on the track cannot entirely suppress. A lazy pose that defied speed.

Thirty m.p.h. Constant. Three cars and another lorry overtook him. He sensed their annoyance at his own performance; impatience, muttered curses. He smiled to himself. It was going to be a long process, but he would make it all the way back to the very bottom. Just another motorist cluttering up the overcrowded roads. Or staying at home like a hermit. The choice was his.

The Cortina. Totally in contrast to everything which he had driven for the past five years. A 2000 XL Estate. Power, a status symbol to the average man who had not quite made it to the Jag or Mercedes faction. Another step up the social ladder for some, but several rungs down for Slade.

A lumbering giant, the way he was driving it. Three years old, 50,000 miles on the clock. Some rust on the sills. A broken window-winder, a rip in the upholstery on the back seat. The pistons were knocking a bit. He didn't give a damn. He hated cars. He kept on silently reminding himself of that fact.

He slowed down still further, moved over to the middle of the road, and turned right by an impressive looking hotel, subconsciously noticing the sign on the adjacent car park which requested patrons to 'park prettily'. The phrase appealed to his declining sense of humour, so starkly removed from circuit regulations. A request, not an order.

The car shuddered, still in top gear. That pleased him even more, a sure sign that he was returning to the realm of the average motorist. He should have changed down into third, maybe second. The omission had been deliberate although he refused to admit it.

Parked cars, some two or three feet from the kerb, as he took the road on the right. Lack of forethought and consideration for other motorists. He would become like that eventually, too.

The narrow winding road headed out into remote countryside, thickly wooded hills on either side. He took a fork to the left; now the roads were narrower, snaking bends, and twice he had to pull well over to the left in order to avoid oncoming cattle-trucks. More shuddering, the engine labouring, and as the lanes began to rise sharply he was forced down into second gear. High hedges obscured his view on either side, not that he was interested in panoramic scenery. Mark Slade wasn't interested in anything in particular.

The lanes narrowed still more, and he was compelled to remain in second gear. No room for oncoming vehicles to pass. He remembered those two trucks, the speed at which they had been travelling . . . blind bends. A clammy hand wiped the sweat from his forehead. One thing was a certainty. He had lost his nerve, all right. Daytona or out here, it was all the same.

On through a small village, half-timbered houses, many in need of restoration, a brook rushing down the side of the road. Houses on one side, a hedge, fields, hills on the other. The muddy lane rose even more sharply once he was clear of this place of semi-primitive civilisation. Life was all so easy for some people. Sheep, a few crops, nothing else. Boredom, but they accepted it, something which he would have to learn to do also.

A nasty 'S' bend in the midst of a massive larch forest. He took it at ten m.p.h. His training had taught him to go into a bend slowly, and come out of it fast. He simply drove slowly. To hell with techniques. They counted for nothing up here.

Down past a couple of farms, the lane following a course between two barns. Rising even more sharply now. He engaged bottom gear. He could see over the hedges in places, through gaps in others. Golden fields led up to the lush dark green of Forestry Commission plantations. Stocked corn, so beautifully primitive. These lanes were not wide enough to admit a combine-harvester, anyway. He wondered how long it would remain that way before some progress-minded councillor put forward road-widening schemes.

The lane had levelled out now. A towering forest on his right, an unrestricted view of distant mountain peaks beyond the valley on his left, a perfect blend of green, purple, and brown, offset by infrequent patches of golden stubble.

Life could be very good up here once one adapted. That was the only problem. To Slade it presented even greater difficulties than winning the IROC. He was determined to make it somehow, though.

Then he saw his own place, standing on a kind of crossroads, the way he had come, the road leading down to the nearest village straight ahead, a left turn that headed somewhere in the direction of those distant mountains, and a rough unsurfaced track on the right up into the forestry. 'Crossways'. Mark Slade was certainly at a crossroads.

Once it had been a farmworker's cottage. Probably before that it had been a barn or a stable. Various extensions and renovations by the previous owner had transformed it into what the estate agent had described as a 'cottage residence of exquisite beauty with panoramic views'. Low ceilings, oak beams, recently whitewashed exterior walls, and a quarter of an acre of triangular-shaped garden, the latter in need of some attention. Mark Slade had already contemplated taking up gardening. The idea did not appeal, but, nevertheless, it was yet another challenge of the right kind. Escapism.

He did not drive straight into the lean-to garage, but instead left the Cortina parked on the adjacent forestry track. In the three weeks during which he had sampled life as a recluse here he had never known a vehicle to use that route. Two or three a day, maybe, on the surfaced roads, mostly tractors and Land Rovers to and from the farms lower down.

As he switched off the engine he heard for the first time the mechanical whirring and clanking sound, slowing down, then dying away. His experience located the source of the trouble at once. The heater fan was on the verge of packing up. Good, Chevy Camaros designed for Formula One did not have heaters. Anything, the slightest thing which was in contrast to his former life pleased him. Especially this clapped-out Cortina.

It was as he was fitting his key into the front door that he heard the telephone ringing inside the house. The unexpected harsh jangling caused him to stiffen momentarily. Telephones, too, had been a large part of his world of so-called glamour. This one was already installed when he had moved in. He should have instructed the GPO engineers to disconnect it. Anyway, who the hell knew he was living here? He had taken steps to fade into obscurity. His name certainly wouldn't be in the directory.