SS Glasgow Castle 31 Chapter Thirty One

I didn't ask Mireille about her deceased husband that day. I sat silently in the back of the car as we drove to the service station, looking at the tiny mole on her neck from time to time. I listened intently to her as she talked with Kross: she was telling him about a hospital troublemaker, an old geezer who refused to take the prescribed laxative. It appeared he was fond of enemas, or rather of having young women touching him where sunlight didn't reach. At least that was the charge leveled by the concerned nurses. Mireille told her story with zest, and Kross laughed.

I didn't. All of a sudden it struck me that all this s.h.i.t, all those plans we'd made - it was actually happening. I stared out of the pa.s.senger window, close to open-mouthed dismay. I was here. This was for real. I was about to enter a country illegally with a wanted man. And all this for a little money - why the f.u.c.k couldn't I make a living raising chickens in the Northwest Territories, or something like that? It would get me painting again, that was for sure.

By the time Mireille pulled into the service station, I was so distraught that I couldn't bring myself to speak. She noticed; I saw her skin tighten with suspicion. Then Kross left me alone with her for a moment when he went to pay the bill.

Almost instantly, she said:

"It's funny you don't carry a camera."

"It's packed with my things," I lied.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

"Make sure you have it handy when you return," she said eventually. "I'd like you to take a picture of me."

I felt like sobbing. I said:

"Excuse me for a moment," and went to hit the can. When I returned, she'd already gone. Kross had been waiting for me; he'd brought shopping. He asked me to help put away the stuff he'd brought - bottled water, French bread, tins of corned beef - and I moved like a robot overdue for service. Once I was creakily seated in the Toyota's cab, Kross frowned at me and asked:

"You all right?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm fine." He nodded in an unconvinced manner, then pointed at the fork-like junction maybe a hundred yards away and said:

"See that road running right?"
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"Yes."

"That's the road to Ghana."

The road to Ghana was a narrow blacktop highway, the asphalt ragged at the edges and splashed with so many patches they occasionally overlapped. It ran straight as an arrow, bordered on both sides by waist-high straw-colored gra.s.s; every dozen kilometers or so there would be a gaggle of conical rooftops in the distance, and the gra.s.s parted briefly for the red mouth of a dirt road leading to the hamlet.

The Toyota's tires thundered on the gravel-studded asphalt. I glanced at Kross a couple of times, but he was very busy driving. Finally I said, or half-shouted over the road noise:

"Can you tell me what happens next? I promise I won't jump out and run with the news to the nearest village."

He was wearing his tough-guy sungla.s.ses again, and I couldn't read the glance he gave me.

He said:

"I want to get across the border before sunset. Once it's dark, we'll stop for a while to get some rest. No point in driving in the dark - vehicles travelling at night always get pulled over and checked. We get going in the morning, hit the spot and do the business, and drive back. Sound good?"

"Just explain one thing to me," I said. "What's -"

"I'll explain a few things a little later, okay? Right now I don't want to miss the turnoff."

"The turnoff?" He let out a short bark-like laugh. He said:

"What are you, an echo in the f.u.c.king Alps? You'll see in a minute."

After a minute, I said:

"I can't see a turnoff anywhere."

He didn't answer. He did take his foot off the accelerator, but we had been going fast and there was a curve ahead. Suddenly the red mouth of a hidden dirt road yawned at us from the yellow gra.s.s; Kross flicked the gearshift into neutral and swung the wheel over without touching the brake. There was a head-splitting squeal from the tires, the kind that's usually followed by the thump, crack and tinkle of an accident.

The Toyota swooped into the mouth of the hidden dirt road, danced crazily on the red gravel, the back slewing from side to side. Kross's hand dropped to one of the shorter gear shift levers while his foot prodded the accelerator, producing a frustrated roar from the free-running motor. He slammed into gear and the truck magically righted itself as all four wheels bit into the road. Soon we were barreling down a narrow red laterite path - it really wasn't much broader – and going h.e.l.l for leather,too: I stole a look at the speedo needle and it was hovering over the hundred mark. The pebbles that hit the Toyota's belly sounded like gunshots. I shouted:

"Can't we slow down?"

"No one around," Kross shouted back. "Best to keep going while the going is good."

He was back in the grip of his old invisibility mania. Did Kross think Mireille was on the phone to the French emba.s.sy, reporting on us?

My thoughts were interrupted by a curve. Kross took it without slowing down. I was thrown against my door as the rear of the truck slewed sideways and the f.u.c.king door opened. I screamed and caught hold of the dashboard grip at the last possible moment. I felt a couple of tall stalks whip the back of my head and the door smash into my shoulder. I put everything I had, my whole being into my right arm and heaved and felt the dashboard grip loosen just a little as I flung myself back into my seat.

I caught the swinging door, slammed it shut and locked it and finally looked at Kross. He was grinning at me.

"Nice work!" he shouted. "You should do it for money!"

"Keep your f.u.c.king eyes on the road!" I shouted back. I strapped myself in, belatedly. He couldn't have done it on purpose, could he? Yes, he could. He was deranged. He was a maniac. He was a f.u.c.king psycho.

He was an excellent driver. He took each curve with a long controlled skid, stepping on the accelerator halfway through; I wouldn't have been able to drive at half his speed. I looked over my shoulder and saw huge twin fantails of red dust rising behind us - they probably stretched for a quarter mile, must have been visible from the stratosphere. Was that his idea of keeping a low profile?

We came to an eerie bush crossroads: two ribbons of laterite crossed each other at almost exactly right angles; both roads seemed to lead nowhere. Kross conducted a thorough examination of both sides for non-existent traffic before turning left. The laterite ended abruptly after maybe half a kilometre, and we started bouncing over hard dried mud. The thuds, bangs and squeaks of the stressed metal must have carried for miles. Kross was driving slowly now, one string-gloved hand on the gearshift. He changed down as I watched and took his foot off the accelerator, letting the car coast. The track dipped out of view some distance ahead, and Kross slowed down still further.

I saw that we had come to a river.