ONE Ten minutes into his thirty eighth year on planet earth and two hundred yards past the Newbury turn-off, Richard Murdoch couldn't see where he was going. He knew where he'd been and he didn't much like it. In fact it depressed the hell out of him. Of course, that was before he died. Connor had been talking non-stop on the M4 motorway now for what seemed like a week. Murdoch was feeling along the dashboard. 'Hang on a minute, Con,' he said. 'I am listening. But can you find the glove compartment in this thing? I can't see where we're going. There's a button. He'll have a shammy somewhere.' After a few seconds of head swivelling, Connor said, 'I can't see anything.' Murdoch reached behind the rear view mirror and clicked on a small light. 'There's a button,' he said. In the bleak illumination, the Audi TT's slick dashboard took on all the mysteries of a Chinese puzzle box. Connor frowned. There wasn't a button. At least not one he could see. Maybe it was a Viet Cong button. A Viet Cong glove compartment button decked out in black moulded plastic. If it was, it was doing a damn fine job in Audi jungle camouflaged concealment technique. No button was visible to the human eye. Connor frowned laterally this time. Maybe he wasn't looking for a button at all. Perhaps he should be looking for a cunningly disguised lever or handle. Something built in to the curvy dashboard of the thing. There wasn't even the slightest hint of a lever or a handle. Obviously they were Viet Cong as well. The Viet Cong at war with two Welsh blokes. It seemed unlikely. 'Nope. Still can't see it,' he said. Keeping his eyes on what little he could see of the motorway, Murdoch stretched out his left arm and run his hand underneath the plastic moulding. Like a top of the range CD player, the glove compartment sprung silently open. 'There it is,' he said. 'Vorsprung durch Technik.' Connor pawed at the contents. 'Christ,' he said. 'Bloody typical, that is. Same with every piece of tecky gear. Now who's bright idea was that? Sockets round the back. So you have to go at it from the top, which means effectively you're looking at it upside down. And then, you can't actually see what it says anyway because it's black on black. They may as well do it in brail. No shammy.' 'I know. It's toss, isn't it?' said Murdoch. 'Do you know what it means?' 'The end of civilisation as we know it? Machines control our lives?' 'No, Vorsprung durch... ' 'Vorsprung thing wotsit? No, no I don't,' said Connor. Murdoch took a breath. 'It means Progress through Technology. And you know what the Hitler Youth used to chant?' 'Zeig Heil?' offered Connor. 'No, that was the grown ups. Hitler Youth used to chant Strength through Joy. Only in German. That's mightily close, don't you think? Look in my bag. There should be a pair of socks.' 'The guys at Audi's ad agency must be Neo-Nazi then,’ said Connor. 'They're an ad agency,’ replied Murdoch. Connor tugged Murdoch's bag from the back seat and dragged it onto his lap. He tore open the zipper and peered inside. 'My word. You're well prepared, aren't you?' he said. 'Well, we don't need much, do we?' said Murdoch. 'It's our birthday tomorrow. And you've got a half empty box of duty free Marlboros. Or half full, depending on how you look at it.' 'Half empty,' said Murdoch. 'Two pairs of socks - here you are.' He handed Murdoch a ball of sock. 'One pair of boxers. One! Jesus, Rich! Our birthday tomorrow and it's almost like you can't be bothered like. A tee shirt and a toothbrush. You could have made the effort. Did I tell you I'd given up?' 'Fags? Yes, you did. They're from Next those boxers. Class pants. I'm travelling light, mun. Anyway, you're right. I can't be bothered. Stopped celebrating birthdays years ago.' 'Maggie made me. Give up smoking I mean. God, she used to bang on about how it was going to kill me and everything. She's mouthy. I think you'd like her, Rich.' 'Do you really?' 'You could debate things,' said Connor. 'Whoop de do,’ said Murdoch. 'She's got a point, though. They're bad for your health, Rich.' 'Have one if you like,' said Murdoch. 'No thanks. I haven't had a ciggy since New Year's Eve 1998. Did wonders for my asthma.' 'Well, light me one, then.' Murdoch arched his back and dug his right hand into the pocket of his jeans. The car behind put its beam on. It dazzled him so he pulled over to the inside lane. 'My hand's stuck,' he said to himself. 'You impatient prat. Baby drivers. She'll be so impressed by that.' 'Hasn't Concorde here got a lighter knob thing?' said Connor. 'We could be here all night looking for that,' said Murdoch still trying to reach the Zippo. 'Hang on.' He struggled and gripped the steering wheel with his left hand. It wound him up. This is wrong, he thought. Maybe mankind wasn't meant to go hurtling through the air seven inches off the ground and eighty five miles an hour in belting rain on a Monday night. Some sort of evolutionary cock-up had been made along the way. Yeah, that was it. Perhaps when they discovered the wheel. Someone up there, one of the bosses said, 'You won't believe what they've done now. They've fallen for that wheel thing. Y'know, the ball thing with the sides chopped off? They'll be getting themselves into all kinds of trouble now. Mark my words, seven different shades of trouble.' Connor twiddled the Marlboro. The cigarette wasn't for him but all the same he was growing impatient waiting for the light. 'I'll have a look for the cigar knob thing,' he said. 'No, hang on,' said Murdoch. 'I've just about got it.' 'I thought you said you'd driven matey's car before?' 'Only in the day. Never at night. Sebastian's a bit precious about his car. Oh, yes,' he laughed. 'He'd do his nut if he knew we were driving it about. Here you are.' The Zippo lighter chinked and Connor dragged at the Marlboro. He exhaled the smoke like he was a slow motion baddie in a Bruce Lee film. 'Jesus. Two years, three months and twenty seven days.' He handed the cigarette slowly to Murdoch. 'Won't he know you've been driving it?' 'I shan't tell him,' said Murdoch. 'He'll notice the mileage, won't he?' 'Oh, I very much doubt that, Con.' He paused for a second. 'Anyway, he's not a mileage kind of guy. He's not into mileage. Mileage doesn't interest Sebastian. Sebastian doesn't care about stuff like that. Mileage is for wimps. No, our Sebastian is into trim.' Murdock exhaled. 'Sebastian's into trim and tiptronic transmission. Sixteen valve horsepistons. Catatonia whatsit. First album. I dunno. Believe me, he won't notice. Total dicks like Seb don't notice much.' 'Thought he was your flatmate.' Murdoch was silent for a second. 'No, he is. What I mean is, it's not even his car. It belongs to the company. Part of their fleet. Part of the team. Audi TT up front, sleek and pushy. The Ford Focus in mid-field, beavering away. And the Lexus at the back, elegant like...' 'Bobby Moore,' suggested Connor. 'Yeah, like Bobby Moore, only alive.' He paused again. 'Anyway, stop worrying about Seb's car. As long as it's sat outside the flat next week, when he gets back from um, Bangkok, I doubt he'll give it a second thought.' 'Bangkok?' asked Connor. 'Mmm, something like that. Belgium.' 'Do you remember what we used to say about Bangkok - when we were kids?' 'Bangkok? No,' said Murdoch vaguely. 'Yeah, Bangkok. Don't you remember? Rich, we used to say. I took my girlfriend to North Wales. Bangor? Well, I tried my best!' 'I thought you said Bangkok?' 'That was the next bit. I took my girlfriend to the Far East.' 'We lived a life of fantasy, didn't we Con?' 'Yup. Pure fantasy.' 'We got girls completely wrong, didn't we?' 'Mmm mm.' They sat and looked at the road for a moment. A long car journey moment. 'God, I hate the M4,’ said Connor. 'Not as much as me, Con. Not nearly half as much as me.' Greasy thoughts slid around Murdoch's mind like bad dreams on a zebra crossing. The M4 motorway meant two things to him. Going down it and coming back up it. Going down it for his mother's funeral just six weeks after going down it for his father's funeral. And coming back up it, usually on a Sunday the worst day of the week, back into the gloom of the city. The journey back to London always said the same things to him. Where the heck did you go wrong? How did you become so useless, Rich? And what have you got to show for it? I'll tell you, shall I? Nothing. That's what. Nothing. In life's lottery. Not one number this week. Not even one.' Connor snored, dead to the world. Murdoch nudged him. Connor farted. 'I'm in the bathroom,' he muttered in his sleep. 'I don't think so,' whispered Murdoch. 'You're in a stolen company car going down the M4 motorway to Wales, the land of our fathers. With a song in my heart and a wallet full of stolen credit cards in my pocket. God, you stink.' He wound the window down. Connor wheezed. Murdoch nudged him again. His head dropped. 'Ving a ssshave...' he slurred. 'I don't know you any more, Dave Connor,' said Murdock. 'Well, do I? Look at me when I'm talking to you. You're a stranger. I hardly recognise you, Con. You could be anyone. Could have picked you up coming off Chiswick roundabout. Bristol, please. Aw, cheers, mate. Thanks a lot. Can you tune to Kiss FM? No, I cannot.' This is bloody stupid, he thought. I'm going to a place I hate with the past as my travelling companion. It wasn't even his idea. When did he ever do anything that wasn't his idea? Not lately, Rich. I'll take the next slip road, he thought. Actually, that's a cack idea. London's really not the best place to be. Not right now. He couldn't go back yet. There were one or two things that would be really difficult to undo. One or two things that would be rather difficult to explain. It wasn't just the car. Okay, Richard, he told himself. This is what we're gonna do. You're going to keep on driving down the M4 like a good boy, however much you hate it. Two hours, three max. You're gonna hang out in Brynglas with Connor. Relive your teenage years with Connor for a few days. And you're not going to tell him anything, okay? Not a word, okay? Something will come up. It always does. You always land on your feet. We can do this, okay? Murdoch nodded to himself. Okay. Right. Connor would understand why I did it. No, he wouldn't. You said yourself. You don't know him any more. Ten years is a long time. Things happen. A hell of a lot can happen in ten years. You're not the same people you were ten years ago. Three miles to Brynglas. Murdoch remembered how the locals used to say that the bend just outside town was the longest bend in Europe. It went around a hill that the roadbuilders had decided was far too much bother to level or cut through. So it was a long bend. Longest in Europe. He himself had said it on more than one occasion. Then he'd checked himself and whacked the notion firmly on the forehead with a cricket bat. If he could have met the person who had made the lie up in the first place, he would have whacked them as well. What bright spark had managed to come up with such a ludicrous idea? The idea that anything round here would be the biggest in Europe. They would have had to have been a local. A local who hadn't been south of Ponty. A local who wouldn't have known Europe if it walked into the Ivy Bush Inn on a Friday night and ordered a glass of Merlot and a bottle of San Miguel. Two miles to Brynglas. Apart from the cat's eyes and the Audi's headlights, the road approaching the longest bend in Europe was unlit. Murdoch flicked the beam on. The trees on either side came to life. They swayed violently, straining to keep their footing in the vicious wind that machete'd its way through the valley. Between the trees on either side and above the Tarmac road, that was rapidly becoming a fast moving shallow stream, horizontal rain carouselled through the Audi's beam like it was trying out for a part in a remake of The Wizard Of Oz. And one mile to Brynglas. 'Wake up, Con. We're nearly there.' 'Mmm? Yeah, I'm up. I'm in the bathroom...' 'Don't tell me, Con. You're having a shave, mate. I think I knew that already.' A hundred yards to the longest bend in Europe, or so the locals would have you believe, and a half mile to Brynglas. 'Connor. I thought you wanted to be awake when we got into town. Didn't you tell me to... Jesus!!' The bend. The longest bend in Europe was waltzing with the Audi TT in its arms. Go to sleep now. Go to sleep. The car's fat nearside tyre hit the flat nearside kerb and mounted the black asphalt footpath. The telegraph pole sliced through it like a very tall man's shadow. Sleep. Sleep now.

TWO In a Holiday Inn chalet, just off the M4 motorway near Newbury, a very tall, very thin man lay on a very short, very uncomfortable single bed. He dangled his feet off the end and sighed. Chalet?, he thought. The tall thin man had spent most of his life – maybe all, he didn’t really know any more – in places where you give someone money so they’ll let you stay. Some had been palatial affairs, with luxurious king-size beds and elaborately mozaic’d bathrooms, walk-in wardrobes, you could have thrown an ambassador’s reception for a visiting dignitary in. But mostly, they were clean, reasonably priced, demure affairs with polite, quietly spoken receptionists and discreet chambermaids. This affair was neither. This affair was the pits. The tall thin man mulled the word over in his mind. Pits. It could be somewhere you went to get refuelled. Recharge your battery. A pit stop. Four nice young men in blue overalls trotting out; one to wipe bugs off the windscreen; two overalls to check the tyres and change them, for tyres with a grip better suited to the day’s weather conditions; and one to enquire whether he was okay and if he’d like something to drink or a Toffee Crisp or something. That all seemed quite pleasant. Relaxing. A welcome change. It wasn’t a good comparison. He tried again. Pits? Oh, right. A hole dug in the ground, just deep enough to prevent a man from clambering out. That would be a bad place to be. A man would need to be thrown a rope ladder, or at the very least a rope, to be able to get out of that sort of predicament. This was closer to what he had in mind. Then again, if somebody were to open up a rough hessian sack, and shake maybe twenty or so snakes into it – four or five cobras, six or seven rattlesnakes, a boa constrictor – now that really would be quite pitty. It sounded quite rough. But it still didn’t sound quite as bad as the pits where he was staying. A Holiday Inn chalet, just off the M4 near Newbury. He went back to the word chalet. Chalet. The people at the Holiday Inn Head Office really had some neck. Chalet? Where were they getting their definition from? Some alternative history where Hitler was on the cover of Time. A Nobel Peace Prize winner? A parallel world where McDonalds only had the one restaurant but it was on wheels and it kept following you around. Some alternative reality Concise English Dictionary? Chalet – noun: see Hieronymous Bosch. He flung the imaginary dictionary into some imaginary flames and did some word association of his own. Austria was the first word that sprung to mind. He’d had some happy times in Austria. Cancelling dummies in Austria wasn’t really like work at all. No, it was more like a touring holiday. He recalled many a week up in the Tyrol. Catch a bit of skiing in the mornings, have a light lunch. Cancel a dummy, tobogganing – ice skating if he was in the mood. A nap then a spot of early supper, maybe another cancellation and then a schnapps on the terrace with the other skiers. Then back to his chalet. Now they really were chalets. Snow on the slopey roof. Little log fire – nothing too ostentatious. A big soft bed. Big feather filled floppy duvet, heavy as a weight watcher in their first week. Magnificent view over the glacial u-shaped valley. The pine trees staggering home from Safeway with all that snow. That was a chalet. The thing he was staying in, that they insisted in calling a chalet, was a squarish breeze block, flat roof construction split up into a small room with a bed and a smaller room with a toilet, wash hand basin and a shower cubicle. A very small bed at that – he’d slept on more comfortable Bedouin torture mats – and a toilet that didn’t flush properly. The tall thin man had spent, what seemed like many an unhappy hour, flushing the damned thing trying to lose a playful stool that seemed intent on becoming a popular media celebrity and worming its way into the nation’s psyche – maybe to the extent of releasing the balls on the National Lottery and eventually, if it was given the right breaks, appearing on a Friday night talkshow. But the power-shower was quite good. He found it hard to fault that one. However, the view was not a magnificent one. Nobody could kid him it was. From his Holiday Inn chalet window, he could see the car park. It wasn’t quite as splendid as the glacial u-shaped valley strewn with knackered conifers and roche moutonnes lodged in his memory. I mean, you just cannot compare a Toyota Avensis with a glacier, however well it’s parked. As he lay on the bed, the term chalet was bugging the tall thin man. It bugged and it nagged. It was a term hell-bent on aggravation. Nagging then bugging. Bugging then nagging. It was to be a news flash to the tall, thin man when a few moments after a black Audi TT had slewed off a wet Welsh road and banged into a telegraph pole, Stone’s mobile went off. Well, he thought, at least it threw a wet blanket onto the ever rising flames of aggravation that were nagging and bugging. He’d heard mobile phones that went beep beeeep! They were annoying and he didn’t particularly like them. Then there were mobiles that played a little blippy tune. He hated those. But when the big boss had slid the mobile phone, intended for Stone’s exclusive use, across the desk, and it had involuntarily warbled Beethoven’s fifth, he had vowed to kill it. Cancel it. He vowed that one day, he would kill that piece of plastic and silicon until it was dead. Mobile phone murder. It appealed to him. Mobocide. Mmm. From the discomfort of his too small single bed, he was desperately trying to resist the urge to chuck it through the Holiday Inn chalet window, into the u-shaped car park and under the wheels of a passing Saab. However, totalling the phone might well have a negative influence on his pension scheme. He decided against it. He put out a bony hand and clasped it. A spindly finger hit the green button. ‘Do you reckon,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘Beethoven would see the irony? Y’know? Taking into consideration his almost absolute inability to hear a piano drop?’ ‘Stone?’ squeaked the other end. ‘It’s a bad line. Are you eating crisps?’ ‘Yes,’ said Stone flatly. ‘I’m currently enjoying a grab bag of Walkers cheese and sick flavoured crisps. They’re lovely. You know everything, don’t you, Control? I bet you could tell me what colour pants I’ve got on. You could, couldn’t you?’ ‘Sorry, Tom. I’m getting it all cut up at my end. Did you say cheesy dick?’ ‘Yes. Yeah, I said cheesy dick. Are you getting me, Control? Stone here. Cheesy dick. Cheesy dick, over. Come in, Control. It’s Cheesy Dick calling.’ ‘Hope you can hear me, Stone. We’ve got a new assignment for you.’ ‘Golly gee,’ said Stone. ‘What a result. I’m due leave, Control.’ ‘Don’t worry. We’re not going anywhere,’ said Control. ‘We won’t leave. Well actually we are. Stone, it’s a really bad line. I’ll call you back, okay?’ ‘Whatever,’ said Stone. Even a crap job will give you a week off at Christmas and ten days in the summer. He wondered just exactly how this compared with his package. He remembered having a week off sometime in the seventeenth century. It was something to do with some plague or other. A lot of people dying. It was all go for a while, he recalled. Dummies slipping through the net, not knowing whether they were coming, going or changing hands. And then Control said, ‘Phew! I think we’ve got them all in now. Have a week off, Stone. Relax. Chill out. Take a friend. Go on. Enjoy yourself.’ To Thomas B Stone, it all seemed like quite some time ago now. Eras. As he made a mental note to renegotiate his contract at some point soon, Beethoven spun in his grave again. ‘Stone?’ said Control. ‘Hello, love. What kept you?’ said Stone. ‘I’m hot!’ ‘Right, that’s better. We have a clean sat-link. Look, I’m afraid there’s been another cock up.’ ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ ‘C’mon, Stone. Help us out, babe. We just need you to reel them in for us. You’re the man, man. You reel in the dummies and we’ll do the rest.’ ‘Why do I always have to clean up your mess? There’s always a cock up. You lot are so useless. I’m due leave, y’know?’ ‘Really? I didn’t think you guys actually had any sort of…’ ‘Leave? Well, we do. Not for a long time but I think we’re supposed to. We marched on Head Office I think. Protested. In the Sixties. It’s a vague memory. Don’t get me nostalgic, Control. The summer of 1966. Peace and love, man. It was quite beautiful. The vibe was a…’ ‘Okay, okay. Do just this one for me and I might be able to sort out your leave. I can pull some strings. How about it, Stoney?’ ‘Another car boot sale. Let me guess. Did they get you at one of those school boot sales or one of those big ones? You know, one in a big field or a railway yard? One with traders. Hot dogs. Burgers. Ice cream.’ ‘Stone, stop it, man! I’m getting the big yuks here! I’m gonna need some serious side repair! Serious seamstress action, dude! Wagmeister general, coming at ya!’ ‘Okay, shuddap, Dick,’ said Stone. ‘Who’s them? I need names. Locations. Details, man.’ ‘Brilliant. Thanks. Listen, I owe you one, Stone. By the way, my name’s not… ‘ ‘Hmm mm. Where are they, Dick?’ ‘Er, South Western Region. Sector five, it’s called Wales. Sub-sector H. Site known to locals as Brynglas. Drive indicates thirty two point five k-units habitation. Two individuals we’re after, are one Murdoch and one Connor. Actually, all data seems to indicate a bit of a glitch in this sub-sector. Looks like a malfunction in the program. And actually, my name is…’ ‘A virus?’ ‘Don’t know as yet. Possibly. There could be more dummies than just these two. By the way, my name is…’ ‘Great. That’s lovely, I’ll throw a party, shall I? And how am I supposed to find this piddly place?’ ‘You’ll find it. Set the sat nav and if you need to get back to me…’ ‘Sat nav?! Jeez!’ ‘Okay, Stone. Hang up and I’ll text you the details. And for reference my name is…’ Stone aimed a yellow fingernail at his mobile and jabbed the end button. The line went dead. He got off the bed and went over to the desk. He dragged the line from his mini printer and inserted it into the phone. The TV flicked on and a small penguin appeared. It was playing volleyball, with a fish, with a seal. Volleyfish. The seal flopped across the ice and caught the fish on its nose. It flipped it back across the net. The penguin scooted to get it. Stone’s thin lips spread into a wide grin. He loved that little animated penguin. So much better than that dog and the cheese. That little penguin and his seal friend could knock the dog and the cheese into a cocked hat. Any day of the week. Beethoven. ‘Yes,’ said Stone. ‘Did you get it?’ said Control. ‘The penguin?’ ‘What penguin? No, the text.’ ‘What text? Jesus, Dick. Quit dreaming and get on the beam, man. I’m going to hang up the phone. Please try again and get it right this time, Dick.’ Stone threw a Presidential fist into the air. Almost immediately, the mobile phone bleeped Beethoven’s fifth at him. He growled and it started to print. To: Stone. From: Justin / Control. S.W. Reg. Sec 5. aka Wales. Sub-sec H. Brynglas. Murdoch, Richard. Connor, David. Dummies are driving a black Audi TT Roadster. PS Vacation applied for. Period to commence on apprehension of dummies. Stone placed the printout squarely on the desk and lit a skinny cigar. He puffed at it and looked out at the car park. He typed up a reply. To: Dick From: Stone Message: Got it, Dick. He pressed send and looked back over to the car park. The end of the skinny cigar fell into his lap. An oily haired man wearing a stripey shirt and a red tie, was trying to get his executive-sized BMW into a student nurse Fiesta-sized parking space. He was failing. He swung the car back. He swung it forwards. Then back again. Nowhere near. Couldn’t this man see that his too big flipping car was too flipping big for the too small flipping space? Good God! Couldn’t Dick have given me this one? I’d do him for nothing. Jesus, nowhere near, mate. Some people do not know the size of their own cars. Still, it’s not my problem. I’m sure he’ll go peacefully in a pile up on the M25. People like him usually get on in life. He’ll probably get on all right in death. Screw him. Not my problem. Get these two easy dummies and it’s off to Mexico for a month or two’s vacation. Stone glanced down at his smouldering lap. ‘I’m on fire,’ he said quietly.

THREE Connor’s skull bonked against his headrest. He winced and rubbing the back of his neck, he snake-eyed at Murdoch. ‘Are we there yet?’ he said. Murdoch sat unblinking and looked straight ahead out the windscreen. The tree in front of the car stretched and yawned, like it was just about to step out of bed and put some coffee on. On one of its bouncing branches, a blackbird seemed to be whispering into a tiny mobile phone. Noticing Murdoch, it jabbed at the phone awkwardly with one of its wings and whistling casually, looked away. Beyond the mobile phone bird and the yawning tree, the sky above the higgledy-piggledy, built on a cliff face terraced houses of Brynglas glowed a dull yellow. ‘Nearly,’ said Murdoch. ‘Why are we stopped, then?’ (((((((((The steering wheel of the Audi TT felt spongy and at the same time rock hard to Murdoch’s fingers as he gripped it. Although the fingers were his, he couldn’t quite remember having told them to hold the wheel so tight. And although his brain must have been behind all this, he couldn’t for the life of him work out why it hadn’t given his fingers the all clear to relax yet.)))))) Connor sniffed and reached onto the back seat for his bag. He pulled out an inhaler and shook it. Holding it up to his mouth, it squirted and he sucked. Under his breath, Connor said, ‘Murdoch, is that a crashed car behind us?’ Still gripping at the steering wheel, Murdoch managed to shift his eyes from the mobile bird and onto the rear view mirror. In letterbox format, he could see a car with its grill rammed up against a telegraph pole and a wheel spinning in the air. It was black car and the four interlocking silver circles on the grill were bent back into a V. In fact, it looked like the whole front of the car was bent back into a V. ‘Mm mm.’ ‘Did we?’ asked Connor. ‘Dunno.’ ‘I mean crash?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘I can’t feel my legs,’ he said. ‘I think that’s your bag you’re feeling, Con.’ ‘So it is.’ (((((((((((((((Murdoch went back to his fingers. What the fuck were they playing at? Let go, for fuck’s sake. The car has stopped. A pinky fingernail flicked. Okay, fellas you can relax now. It’s over. No one took any notice. Not even pinky was tempted this time. Jesus. It’s over. Pull up, God damn you.There was this one time. Amanda had said she was cold. They were walking to a pub or something. And Murdoch said, ‘You know what the cure for that is?’ She said, ‘No. I don’t.’ He said, ‘Relax. That’s all. It’s all you have to do to stop the cold. Relax your muscles and then no cold.’She relaxed for a second and then said, ‘Richard, that’s no use at all. Oh, Richard,’ she whined. ‘If anything, I feel altogether worse now.’Well, Amanda. Life is like that sometimes.))))))))))))))) ‘Looks like Seb’s car,’ said Connor calmly. ‘Similar, yeah.’ ‘Hadn’t we better get out? See if they’re all right?’ ‘Yeah. I’ll follow you out. I can’t get my hands off the wheel.’ ‘How d’you mean?’ ‘I mean like my hands are stuck to the steering wheel, Con. They won’t budge. I need a drink. Have you got anything to drink? The booze we nicked. Have we got any to hand?’ ‘It’s in the boot, Rich. Hadn’t we better see if that lot are okay first?’ ‘Get me a drink, Con.’ ‘They’re not moving.’ ‘Neither am I. Please, Con. Get me something to drink.’ Connor got out of the car and made his way round to the boot. In the rear view mirror Murdoch watched him throw his head back, turn on his heal and plod back. ‘I need the keys.’ ‘They’re in the ignition,’ said Murdoch still unable to move. ‘Well. Pass them here, then.’ ‘I can’t.’ Connor leant into the car, wormed his way across Murdoch’s lap and pulled the keys out of the ignition. (((((((((((((((((‘While you’re down there, Con,’ whispered Murdoch. ‘Oh, very funny. ))))))))))))))))))))))) ‘I’m going to check on the other car. I’ll get you a drink on the way back.’ ‘Jesus, Connor. Can’t you be Florence Nightingale after you’ve…’ But Connor was gone. Murdoch looked up at the rear view again and watched Connor half walk, half skip to the crashed car behind. He stopped, cupped his hand to the driver’s window and peered in. He didn’t move. He just stood there motionless with his hand cupped up against the driver’s side window and his face stuck to it. What was he up to? Was he having a chat? How are you? It’s a beautiful morning. It’s a lovely day for a drive, isn’t it? Are you local? C’mon, Con. Murdoch swayed from side to side trying to make out what the people in the crashed car were doing. Did they have some sandwiches and a thermos out? What a nice young man. Would you like a sandwich? The dawn light had turned the crashed car’s windscreen into a mirror. He couldn’t make out what was going on. Where was his drink? Connor knelt down on the wet grass. He seemed to be looking under the chassis. C’mon, Connor. You don’t know anything about cars, mate. Just tell them it’s a write-off. Then Murdoch heard him being sick. It reminded him of some slowed down version of morse code. Yik. Yik. Yik. Yaaaah. Yik, yik, yik. God, please don’t be dead people. Oh, bugger. Murdoch wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t really want to see two young teenagers covered in blood and guts, but if he had to he would. But if they were dead young teenagers covered in blood and guts, he just didn’t want to know. He could just about endure some people in dire need of some medical attention. I mean, they’d be okay in the end wouldn’t they? A few days in bed. A couple of days with bandages wrapped round their heads. Criss crossed plasters on their chins. But dead? He wasn’t ready for that. Not right now. Now was far too close to then, a few days ago in Amanda’s flat. That wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know what had happened. Connor got to his feet and came back wiping his mouth. He opened up the boot and the rear view mirror turned black. When it finally slammed shut, he had a bottle of Jack Daniels stuck in his mouth. He glugged at it for a minute and then clonked it on to the TT’s boot. ‘Connor! Mind the paintwork, will you? I’m stuck here, mun. Can I have some of that, Con?’ Connor tottered for a moment and dragged a sleeve across his face. ‘Con? What’s the matter? Are they dead? What’s happening, mate? It wasn’t our fault. I didn’t even see them. I had my eyes shut. Bring the bottle, I’m stuck here.’ The passenger door opened and Connor slumped into the seat cradling the whiskey. ‘They’re dead, aren’t they?’ said Murdoch. Connor said nothing. Instead, he started to rock. Then he started humming. Great, thought Murdoch. Connor’s regressing. He’s back in the womb. I’m welded to a car, it’s freezing, we’re in the middle of the arse end of nowhere and Florence Nightingale here is playing rock-a-bye baby. Listen, it’s sad and all but it’s not the end of the world. People die in car accidents all the time. Now if you could just help me get my hands off this steering wheel, I’ll have a little drink and we can sort it all out. We’ll ring for an ambulance but first I need a little drink. ‘Give me the bottle, Con!’ ((((((((((((((Connor swung the Jack Daniels towards Murdoch. Murdoch craned his head and tried to get hold of it. No use. ‘And how am I supposed to get at it?’ he said. Connor hummed. ‘Enough with the fucking humming, Con!’))))))))))))))) Connor hummed louder. (((((((((((((((((He needed slapping. A good slap would wake him up. Yeah, that would bring him round. But Murdoch would need his hands for that, though.)))))))))))))))) Murdoch lowered his face to the steering wheel. Taking his index finger of his right hand between his teeth, he bit hard. Bugger. He hadn’t expected it to hurt as much that. He cringed, the muscles flexed and his hand lifted clear. He was just about to slap Connor when he remembered the bottle and took that instead. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What’s going on back there?’ Connor droned. (((((((((((((((((Murdoch opened the palm of his hand, swung it back and caught the steering wheel. ‘Bloody hell. This fucking thing. This squidgy bastard is starting to piss me off! Funny, I liked the feel of it earlier. Oh, well.’))))))))))))))) ‘You had better have a look,’ he stuttered (Connor). Murdoch stopped jiggling his hand. He sucked at the back of it. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll take your word for it. They’re dead, aren’t they?’ ‘You better have a look.’ ‘No, it’s okay. You’re all right, Con. Just tell me about it.’ Connor hummed and started rocking again. ‘(((((((((((((Oh, for fuck’s sake!)))))))))))))) Enough with the humming already, Con. ((((((If it’ll make you feel better! Good God. If you’ve seen one RTA, you’ve seen them all! What’s the big deal here? It’s no big deal, mun!’)))))))))))))) Murdoch fell out of the car. The grass was wet. He wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and plodded towards the crashed car. It was certainly like Seb’s car. Same as, near as damn it. Older, maybe dirtier. No, it was the same year. Same as Seb’s. He wouldn’t be too happy. Someone else driving around in a flash TT the same as his. Ha ha! Serve the tosspot right! Perhaps not. Maybe Audi TT drivers had a similar thing going to Beetle owners. Y’know, waving to each other and all that. Look at me, I’ve got the same car as you! We’re so cool, aren’t we? Has yours got a ten CD player thing? Mine’s got an ashtray. Have you got doors that open? Mine’s got wheels. Have you got an engine in yours? Murdoch held his breath and wiped the windscreen with the sleeve of his jacket. Two blokes. He’d been right. There was blood. There was guts. He felt nauseous. When he got back in Seb’s car, Connor was sat puffing at a cigarette. Half the Jack Daniels was gone. Smoke splayed out across the dashboard. ‘I’ve started smoking again,’ he said. Well at least he’d stopped humming. He handed the bottle to Murdoch and Murdoch took a small sip. ‘How d’you reckon that happened then?’ said Connor. Murdoch said nothing. ‘Bloody amazing!’ giggled Connor. ‘I mean, who would have thought?’ Not Murdoch. He was still dumb. Confused, but at least he was off the hook now. He swung the bottle. ‘One thing, though,’ he said. ‘If that’s us back there, then who the hell are we?’

FOUR ‘It’s an Audi TT Roadster, registration yoyo, sixer zero-a-zero, wendy-house apple-sauce, dead-duck, over. Aye, aye.’ PC Kelvin Caradoc tipped the peak of his cap back and whistled the theme tune from EastEnders. Then he looked down at the two blanket covered bodies that lay on the road. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth again. ‘Must have been going a fair old whack, mind. Daft buggers. If you can’t make the reception, I’ll understand. Make the do in the night, though. It’ll be a blinder, mun.’ Murdoch and Connor were sat crossed legged on top of their still intact Audi TT Roadster, eating Hula Hoops and drinking from a bottle of Absolut Vodka. Some kids had managed to creep down the embankment and back through the trees, and were now taking it in turns to dash out from behind a gorse bush to get a good look at the wrecked Audi. They were doing a fine job in avoiding PC Caradoc’s eye. Murdoch on the other hand, could see every move they made. Though through his blurred vision, each child registered as two. Two children danced out from behind the gorse bush like rigorously trained synchronised swimmers. ‘Oogie, woogie, boogie,’ said Murdoch. They took no notice of him. Absolutely no reaction. It was as if Murdoch was their uncle and he’d told them to be quiet and now they were in a sulk. They ignored him and then slipped back under cover of gorse. ‘Ghouls!’ shouted Connor. ‘Gerd aff!’ ‘Easy, Con. They’re just curious,’ said Murdoch. ‘You’d have done the same. C’mon, boys! There’s a crashed car down the bend! There’s two dead blokes! We’re probably the best thing to happen to them in ages. ‘I mean, how often do you get the opportunity to see a couple of stiffs? In the flesh. Not TV. It’s a pity they can’t see us as well. That would really make a great story for when they get to school. We saw two dead blokes! Was there any blood? They was covered in it! What was the car like, boys? It was bloody buggered, mun! The front was all bashed in and the tyres were bust. And there were ghosts as well! Naaah. There were! Honest! They were sat on top of their ghost car, eating ghost Hula Hoops and drinking ghost vodka! Naaah. No honest! As real as I’m stood here. Honest to god, mun.’ ‘Ghouls!’ ‘Not them, Con. They’re just kids. We’re the ghouls now, boy.’ The police radio in Caradoc’s car paged him in code. ‘Charlie’s chocolate factory,’ it said in a reedy female voice. ‘Come in, Charlie. You there, love? Charlie Chocky. Charlie Chocky. Come in.’ Caradoc skidded up to the police patrol Metro. ‘Aye, aye. Here I am. News on the car, then,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, go on then.’ ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Chocky?’ ‘Gwyneth, there’s about twenty people stood round here. Stop potching. The car.’ The crowd of mums, kids and old men cheered. ‘You heard that, did you?’ hissed Caradoc. ‘Give me the gen, Gwyn.’ ‘Lovely you are sometimes, Chocky. Bloody lovely. I don’t know why I bother sometimes. Right, your beloved car. I ran a trace on it and it’s registered to a Sebastian Chilcote, of Alexander Gardens, London, NW2. Happy now?’ ‘Have you checked if it’s been…’ ‘It has not been reported stolen, no. See, I’m not as useless as you think I am.’ ‘Thank you, Station. Out.’ Caradoc rubbed the radio on his chin. ‘Sebastian Chilcote,’ he said. ‘Alexander Gardens. London, NW2. Well, there’s posh.’ Murdoch was listening intently. ‘It’s not Sebastian, you fool,’ he slurred. ‘Oi, you! Plod! It’s not Seb! It’s me! My God, Seb’s even trying to wheedle his way into my death now! The slimy bastard! Would you believe it? Oh no, moving in on my girlfriend isn’t enough for him, is it? Oh no, now he’s trying to claim that that’s him lying dead on the pavement! Jeez, I should have killed him twice! Conniving little rat-faced…’ ‘Rich?’ said Connor. ‘What??’ ‘What are you on about?’ ‘They think I’m Sebastian.’ ‘No, not that. The other bit. Little rat-faced.’ ‘That? Oh, nothing,’ said Murdoch. Connor thought that there might be more behind this but feeling unable to voice his feelings clearly, he kept quiet. The sudden surge of nicotine and the gradual onslaught of Jack Daniels and Absolut Vodka had propelled him into a state of mild nightmare. I mean, one minute he was asleep and the next, he was looking through the windscreen of a wrecked car at a mangled body that looked very much like his own. The back doors of the ambulance slammed shut and the paramedic jumped in the front. Winding down the window, he stuck his head out and said, ‘See you on the big day, Chocky.’ As it drove off, PC Caradoc waved a hand and gave the signal to the recovery vehicle to get going. It moved off and like a carnival procession, the police car followed and the crowd of onlookers dispersed in search of something else of interest. Anything of interest. ‘Well, what was that like, then?’ said Murdoch. ‘Awful,’ said Connor. ‘This is great, Con! We’re learning about each other. How we deal with things in the face of adversity. It’s interesting to see how you cope with stuff now. After all this time. We lost touch didn’t we, Con? We said we’d always keep in touch and we didn’t. I don’t hear a squeak out of you in ten years and then, all of a sudden, there you are large as life.’ There was a time when Murdoch and Connor were like smoked salmon and cream cheese. They took hold of London inside the same bagel. But even if you wandered back further. To Brynglas. Find one and you’d find the other. Two people born on the same day, only hours apart, and on the same ward. Friends in school. Spent their teenage years together in each other’s pocket. College years they’d hung out at weekends. Murdoch getting the train down to Brighton. Then Connor coming up to London. And after college, Connor joined Murdoch’s band and they’d shared the same flat in De Bouvoir Road. Hackney. The council flat. The worst block of flats in the world. They didn’t give awards for that sort of thing then. They lived on the eighteenth floor together. They ate French onion soup together. Soup made from onions they picked out of the gutter in Ridley Road market. And even when the band had fallen apart, they still saw each other from time to time. Got shitfaced and talked about soup and the cake Murdoch had made with their only egg and blue dye to cheer them up and then burnt it because he didn’t know if it was done or not. Then a year passed. And another. And another. And another seven. Then they’d met at that party in Kilburn. Connor had taken Murdoch by surprise. For one thing, Murdoch didn’t know a living soul at the party. He’d found himself there on a Sunday night in a house on Quex Road, surrounded by a bunch of strangers. It was what he wanted really. Complete anonymity. A quick fix way of getting away from things. He was trying to annex himself away from home. To run away from home but he didn’t know where to start. At first he assumed that there was someone else there called Murdoch. There had to be. Another Murdoch. The voice could not be shouting at him. ‘Murdoch! Murdoch!’ Connor. ‘Hi, Con,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it!’ ‘Connor, mun. How are you doing?’ I do not want to see you, of all people, he had thought. ‘Typical Murdoch! You make it sound like we talked yesterday! What the hell are you doing here?’ And Murdoch spun him some story about knowing someone or other making up the names as he went along. After a while, he got used to the idea of Connor providing a distraction for him. Something to take his mind off things. And as it turned out, they had something in common. They both had terrible lives. Broken relationships. Dead end jobs. It was Connor’s idea to go to Wales. ‘We get out of town,’ he’d said. ‘It’ll be a laugh. You’ve got a car, haven’t you? We’ll go halves on the petrol. It’ll be like old times. And we’ll start by nicking some booze out of the kitchen. Just like we used to. There’s a stack of it. They won’t notice! Spend a week or so back home. Catch up on the news. Have a laugh.’ So far, they hadn’t done much laughing. Murdoch turned to watch Connor slide off the roof of the ghost Audi TT and land on the grass with a thump. He lay on the car and looked down at him. ‘Connor,’ he said. ‘I need to know how you feel.’ Connor looked up at Murdoch blankly. ‘I hurt,’ he said. ‘Yes, isn’t that weird? I thought that if I was a ghost, I might be able to by-pass that sort of thing. I don’t feel much different to the way I did when I was living.’ ‘Ig,’ said Connor. ‘Do you know,’ said Murdoch. ‘I know just what you mean. I couldn’t have put it better, Con. When the paramedics were bunging the dead us into the back of the ambulance, I thought, what is this like? It was like one of those out of body experiences wicky wacky folk talk about. You know? One minute I was there on the operating table and the next I was up in the air watching myself being operated on on the table below. Then there was this bright light. Walk towards it, said a warm friendly voice. I started going but my family said, no, come back to us. Just like a Channel 4 thing. Oogie, boogie, boogie.’ Connor rolled onto his side. A liquid combination of Hula Hoops and Swedish vodka spurted from his mouth. ‘I know how you feel,’ said Murdoch. ‘I didn’t really mind when they carted me off. But y’know, the teeth embedded in the steering wheel got me, though. My teeth. I didn’t like that very much at all. The idea of slapping my jaw into the steering wheel. That must have hurt me. I wouldn’t have liked to have been there for that one. My mouth hits the wheel and snaps back without any teeth left in it. Well, not many anyway. That’s gross. I don’t want to even think about that one. What do you think? Do you think I might have been driving a bit too fast?’ Connor dragged his knees onto his chest and into a foetal position. ‘I’m thinking, Con. What do we do now? I mean, there’s not much for us to hang around for is there? The ambulance has gone. The Old Bill have gone. The old car has gone. It’s our birthday, Con. How about we celebrate it?’ Connor moaned quietly. ‘You’re absolutely right, Con! Now that’s the enthusiasm we need! How about if we make our way on up the valley and have ourselves a party? Me and you. Just like the old times. Eh, Con? What d’you say, Con?’ Connor shifted slightly. ‘Birthday, Rich,’ he said. ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Murdoch. ‘Yeah, happy birthday, Dave! Did you ever get the feeling you won’t be missed? Happy birthday, Dave!’