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Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped on to the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, passing through the spray of a juggernaut before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.
'Don't you think you'd better slow down?' I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside. We were going at almost a hundred when Spike pointed out of the window and yelled:
'Look!'
I gazed out of my window at the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike's well-practised eye it was just what we'd been looking for – a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.
'Here we go!' yelled Spike, and pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash and I had just the faintest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped and the inky-black sky had no stars. We had arrived.
28
Dauntsey Services
'Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.'
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW –
'A Psalm of Life'
We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.
'Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?'
'Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well – and not looking back has something to do with it.'
'Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: we locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?'
'Wow!' I muttered. 'You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?'
'It has the benefit of simplicity.'
Spike looked around at the people entering the motorway services building. He got out of the car.
'This gateway isn't just for road accidents,' he muttered, opening the boot and taking out a pump-action shotgun. 'From the numbers I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as 'well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.'
'So what's changed?'
Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun.
'The rise of secularism has a hand in it but mostly it's down to CPR. Death takes a hold – you come here – someo
ne resuscitates you, you leave.'
'Right. So what's the President doing here?'
Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster.
'An accident. He's not meant to be here at all – like us. Are you packing?'
I nodded.
'Then let's see what's going on. And act dead – we don't want to attract any attention.'
