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

The lock was stiff, or maybe it was the key that was bent. It took him a couple of minutes to gain entry, and just as he closed the door behind him the phone stopped ringing. A sigh of relief mingled with natural curiosity. He shrugged his shoulders. Probably it was somebody trying to contact the last owner. If so, they would ring again. He dismissed the matter from his mind. There were chores to be done. Fires had to be made and lit, food prepared, rooms cleaned ... all foreign to his nature, but he'd learn. The hard way. He would not seek help from anybody. If it was offered he would spurn it. Politely at first, of course. But it had to be a lone battle. All the way. Every house, every man needs a woman. He tried to find an alternative to that one as he filled a glass with water from the tap in the sink, reached down a small brown bottle from the shelf above, shook out a tiny yellow tablet, and swallowed it. Valium 5. Three times a day. Possibly a third of the population existed on them. Their reasons over-work, family and business pressures, something to help ease a routine of boredom. At least those were the reasons Slade had given the doctor. Hell, how else could he have explained it? 'Fact is, Doc, I've just lost my nerve. Can't face the track again.' He knew it, but he would never be able to put it into words.

Few people admit to losing their nerve over anything, even to themselves. A steeplejack takes a motorway construction labouring job and tells everybody that it's because he earns more money that way. The only person he doesn't succeed in kidding is himself. He'll never do that. He fears that one day he'll step off a piece of scaffolding and drop seventy feet to the concrete below. Likewise Slade had lied to Stern, his manager. Seamark, too. All lies.

'My contract finished at Daytona. I've made my pile. I'll never spend it if I live it up for the rest of my days. That's why I'm quitting.'

Persuasion. Pleading. Cursing. Ill-feeling on both sides, but they still wanted him back. He hadn't the guts to tell them that before every race he was scared that it might be his last. He had seen better drivers than himself burned to a cinder in a heap of crumpled, twisted metal. Cremated within a matter of minutes, rescue-teams and ambulancemen helpless. Christ, he might not even make it to the finals at Daytona. It could happen in the qualifying rounds at Riverside. Or even on the Seamark circuit. Anywhere. These lanes, a speeding Land Rover. All over in seconds. God, he hated cars. Even that bloody run-of-the-mill Cortina.

He studied his reflection in the mirror on the kitchen wall, stroking his new growth of dark beard, amazed to note flecks of grey already evident amongst the stubble. Thirty-three. According to the so-called allotted life span of three score years and ten he was practically half-way there. Middle-aged. He hadn't thought of it that way before. And so far he hadn't started to live. Well, this was it, the beginning of life, right here in these remote hills. The beard, the cropped hair, a new approach, fresh thinking, new ideals that all added up to one thing. Mark Slade, racing idol, was dead. In his place was just an ordinary guy whom people in the streets would scarcely glance at a second time. That was the way it would be from now on. He might even change his name by deed-poll.

He settled for a scratch meal of corned beef and baked beans. Sometime he would have to learn to cook property. The idea was not attractive to him, but his determination would overcome it. Perhaps it was something else at which he would eventually attempt to attain perfection. Cordon bleu, another Daytona. The ultimate. Something more to chicken out of when it was within his reach?

As he ate, his thoughts turned to Yvonne. He knew he would never be able to get her off his mind . . . ever. That was the way with racing drivers, another occupational hazard. One got through wives like sets of tyres. They couldn't stand the pace. Husbands away from home for long periods, other women fawning on their idols.

Temptations on both sides. Yvonne had never taken a lover whilst Mark had been away. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. There was no way of knowing. AH too often fidelity does not make a marriage work. Slade had had other women, though. Zoe in the States had given him everything that his physical needs demanded. She would not have made the marital grade, though. He wouldn't have wanted her, anyway.

His gaze rested on the framed photograph which stood on the oak Welsh-dresser. Yvonne was twenty-three then. She hadn't changed any, not since the last time he had seen her, eleven months ago. That was when she had presented him with the ultimatum. Quit racing or else. He couldn't make up his mind then. Two loves, and he had had to make his choice. Yvonne or Daytona. Maybe he hadn't taken her seriously. When he returned to England it was too late. She knew all about his affair with Zoe, and she had put the wheels of divorce proceedings into action right away. No real animosity. Just a woman who had been hurt deeper than she could stand. Hell, if only he'd lost his nerve earlier. At least he'd still have a wife. The divorce had gone through; all too easy these days. Time was not on his side. She'd never disclosed how she had learned about his adultery, but Slade had his own ideas. That bastard Stern. Seamark, too. They wanted the IROC. It would put Seamark Cruises on the map and to hell with Slade. He'd get his cut, but only a fraction in comparison with theirs. Probably that was his only small crumb of satisfaction from opting out. Sure, they'd find another driver, but not of Slade's calibre. They had until February to sort it out. It was almost worth a visit to the States to watch them lose, maybe not even qualify at Riverside. Hell, no. He wasn't going to go near a circuit again. It was all over.

He had phoned Yvonne once and told her that he was thinking of quitting. It was too late, though. She had somebody else. A widower. A bank manager, ten years older than herself. But she also had something which she had never ever had before. Security. No more weeks, months of loneliness. No more wondering whether or not her husband would come out of each race alive, trembling every time she watched the television, rushing to the telephone with anxiety in her heart every time it rang.

Slade was bitter, but he hoped that she would make a go of it. That was the very least he owed her. He didn't hate the banker. He just envied him.

The day dragged on. There were chores to be done, but they could wait until the morrow, or the day after. He had all the time in the world now.

Each evening he went and stood in the small conservatory which faced west. From here he had an unrestricted view of the distant mountains. A setting sun was something comparatively new to him. He had overlooked it for thirty-three years, taking the elements for granted, his only concern being the condition of the track before a race. He hated rain more than anything else. It was a killer. He would never be able to regard it as anything else. Even up here it depressed him.

Yet, the magnificent splendour of those mountain sunsets enthralled him. Something so big, something beyond the control of mankind. An aura of beauty, a hint of power that was far greater than either Stern or Seamark. The latter with his multi-million backed company was just as other mortals when it came to the crunch. Out here they were nothing. These farmers were real men, learning to live with the wind in their teeth.

Slade stood with the conservatory door open, breathing in the freshness of the mountain air, filling his lungs, expelling it slowly. Something else which he had missed out on. So natural, so different from the tearing, whipping winds on a race-track.

The sun sank lower and lower. Soon it would be hidden behind the nearest range of peaks. Already one or two stars were beginning to twinkle in the cloudless sky. Dusk came so gradually out here. One scarcely noticed it until it was almost dark, especially a man who had turned his back on an artificial world where neon-lighting predominated. Slade thought of Las Vegas. Night or day, it made no difference there, a place to which he vowed he would never return. That had been Zoe's home. He wondered whether she would have appreciated it out here. More than likely not. She hadn't that kind of grit.

A steady droning sound from all around. These hill-farmers worked a natural day. Dawn till dusk. They were still harvesting, taking advantage of the current spell of fine weather. Tomorrow it might rain. Slade hoped that it would not. Perhaps when he had lived here long enough he would be able to read the weather signs in the sky the way these locals did. This was just the beginning of his new life.

Darkness fell, and still he stood there. No longer was he able to discern the distant mountains. The hum of tractors ceased. The day was over. A scent assailed his nostrils which at first he was unable to recognise. It was vaguely familiar. Finally, he realised what it was. Woodsmoke, drifing up from the valley on the evening breeze; pine logs. No central-heating systems here. He had taken a step back in time, too.

Then came the silence. Not even the sound of a tractor and trailer on its way home. Twinkling lights from isolated farms and cottages scattered in this area of borderland.

Slade was reluctant to go back inside the house. The atmosphere was much colder now. Perhaps there would be a slight frost. Yet it did not even cause him to shiver. It was all so fresh and wonderful, the opening up of a new existence.

The telephone rang again with harsh reality, reminding him that even out here connections with the world from which he had fled were not totally severed. It continued to ring.

His first inclination was to ignore it. More than likely it was the previous caller trying again. Slade had no idea where the former owner of Crossways lived now. He did not care. It would be pointless answering the call. On the other hand, whoever it was would pester him with further calls until he answered it.

With a sigh of regret he went back inside, closed the door, and lifted the receiver.

'Slade?'

The voice, distorted by distance and mountain telephone cables, was only too recognisable. Slade tensed, every nerve in his body tautening.