“Where to, my man?” Harry asked. He sometimes talked in an American accent when he was really excited. He had picked it up from watching cop shows on TV.
“I don’t care,” Jason replied. The truth was, he couldn’t think of anywhere he wanted to go.
“Norwich?”
“Yeah!”
“Or London . . .”
“How much gas we got?” It was the first sensible thing Jason had said. When the car ran out of gas, they would have to dump it. Neither of them had enough money to fill the tank, and anyway, it would be too risky driving into a gas station.
“We got a full tank,” Harry replied. He sniggered. “Let’s have a day at the seaside!”
“The seaside!” Jason crowed. It was his way of agreeing.
Harry slammed his foot down and they shot onto the main road, bringing a blare of protest from a VW that had to swerve to avoid them. They had turned left, heading for Ipswich and the Suffolk coast. Almost at once they were doing seventy miles per hour. Grinning, Harry edged the speed up to eighty. Jason knew that he was being stupid. They had already spotted one police car and speeding would only bring attention to them. But as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself.
And anyway, he had something else on his mind. It was the mention of London that had done it. He had remembered what it was about the BMW that had struck a chord. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Bob Kirby. Romeo. The gang leader who had disappeared. He had last been seen heading for London in a stolen car—and maybe it was just a rumor, but hadn’t someone told him that the car was a BMW X3? It was a coincidence. It had to be. But even so, it was a little bit strange.
He turned his attention to the inside of the car. The glove compartment was empty. There was a CD player but no CDs. There was also a slot for an iPod, but neither of them had brought one with them.
“Hey—that’s cool!” Harry muttered.
The BMW had a satellite navigation system. Of course, it would be standard in a luxury car like this, but this one had risen out of the dashboard like something in a James Bond film, full color and high-definition screen. What was strange was that it seemed to have activated itself automatically. Neither of the boys had touched anything.
“Put in our destination,” Harry commanded.
“I don’t know our destination,” Jason said.
“Well, think of one.”
“How about Aldeburgh?” Jason remembered that it was a town on the Suffolk coast.
“Yeah. Aldeburgh.” Harry frowned. “How d’you spell Aldeburgh?”
Jason typed in the letters and pressed the button to start the guidance. At once the screen lit up to show an arrow pointing toward a cartoon roundabout, which, according to the numbers floating below, they would reach in 100 yards. A moment later, a voice emerged from the speaker system.
“At—the—roundabout—take—the—second—exit.”
Harry and Jason looked at each other, then burst out laughing. They had heard navigation systems plenty of times. But this car seemed to be equipped with the most extraordinary voice. It was like an old woman, shrill and high-pitched, not telling them where to go but almost nagging them. The system was surely faulty. It had to be. No BMW owner would want to drive with a voice like that.
The two of them were so amused that they almost drove straight into the roundabout even though the counter was clearly signaling its approach. 30 yards, 20 yards, 10 yards . . . at the last moment, Harry spun the wheel and they cut in front of an ambulance and veered from one lane to another. Then they had exited and they were following the A14 toward Felixstowe with two miles to go until the next turnoff. By now Jason was wondering if Harry would let him have a go behind the wheel. He had never been in a car as powerful as this. He would have liked to feel his own foot pressing down on the accelerator. But he doubted it. Harry was never very generous about anything and he liked to remind Jason of his place: number two. Jason stretched himself out in the comfortable passenger seat. Harry would probably slash the leather when they dumped the car. He might even decide to set it on fire.
“Left—turn—ahead.” The ridiculous old woman’s voice cut in again.
“Left turn ahead!” Harry mimicked the sound with a high-pitched falsetto of his own and laughed.
“You think it’s broken, Harry?” Jason asked.
“Turn—left—onto—the—A—12.” It was almost as if the machine had heard him and wanted to contradict him. And sure enough, there was the signpost. The A12 to Lowestoft, the coastal road that would take them past Woodbridge and Orford and on to Aldeburgh.
Harry made the turn, then fished in his pocket and took out a packet of ten cigarettes. He offered one to Jason and they both lit up, using the BMW’s lighter. Although Jason wouldn’t have dared admit it, he didn’t like smoking. He hated the smell and it gave him a sore throat. But generally, what Harry did, he did. Soon the inside of the car was filled with gray smoke. Jason turned on the airconditioning and allowed the electronically chilled air to rush in.
“At—the—next—roundabout—take—the—third—exit.”
“Let’s turn this off, Haz,” Jason said. Without waiting for an answer, he reached forward and pressed the button. The screen went black. They continued in silence.
It took them another forty minutes to reach Aldeburgh, a pretty coastal town with a shingle beach that stretched from one end to the other. Jason had chosen it because he had been here once when he was very young, before he met Bob Kirby or Harry or any of the other gang members. It had been a long time ago, but he still remembered the fishing boats moored on the beach, the brightly colored houses, wonderful fish-and-chips. It was a rich town now, full of Londoners with second homes. Maybe that was why Harry had agreed to come here. Loads of houses, empty from Monday to Friday. They had stolen a car. Why not break in somewhere while they were about it?
They parked the BMW in a parking lot at the far end of the town, next to an old windmill, then walked back down the main street, Harry tossing the keys in his hand as if he had owned the car all his life. After the excitement of the theft and the buzz of the ride, they were both thirsty—and Aldeburgh had plenty of pubs. Together, they set out to find one.
About halfway down the street, they passed a flower shop. Again, this was something that Jason wouldn’t have dreamed of admitting, but he quite liked plants. There had been a time, before he dropped out of school, when he had thought about working in a garden center or even training to be a landscape gardener. His biology teacher had encouraged him and had fought on his behalf the first time he was suspended. Of course, she had given up on him in the end. Everyone had. But there were times when he felt a certain emptiness, a sense that things could have been different. Looking at the plants arranged on trestle tables in the street, he felt like that now.
There was an elderly man with white hair and spectacles, presumably the shop owner, packing away for the night. He was delicately loading plants onto a wooden tray and Jason recognized immediately what he had been selling. The plants were pale green with strange leaves shaped almost like mouths . . . for that indeed was what they were. Venus flytraps. Jason even remembered their Latin name. Dionaea muscipula. In a way, the plants were little miracles. There was nothing quite like them on the planet. They were carnivorous. The leaves were covered with tiny, sensitive hairs and when an insect flew in, they would spring shut, forming an airtight chamber. That would be it for the insect. There was no way out. Over the next five to twelve days, the creature would be dissolved and digested. That was how the plant fed. And even the most brilliant scientists weren’t quite sure exactly how the trap worked.
“What you looking at?” Harry demanded.
“Nothing, Haz,” Jason said, blushing slightly. He realized he had almost given himself away.
“Let’s find a pub.”
They moved on, and as they went, Jason noticed the old man glance at him almost sadly, as if he knew something that Jason didn’t. Later on, he would remember that. But
meanwhile, Harry had crossed the road and a few minutes later they were both drinking pints of Adnams—the local beer—and the tray of exotic plants was forgotten.
The rain had stopped and they spent two hours in Aldeburgh, drinking until their money had almost run out, then walking the High Street, sneering at the art galleries, playing soccer with a Coke can, testing the doors of parked cars in case any of them had something worth stealing inside. By six o’clock it was getting dark and suddenly they were on their own. They bought fish-and-chips and ate it on the seawall, looking out at the black, choppy water. It didn’t taste as good as it had when Jason had come here as a boy.
“Well, this is a waste of time,” Harry said at last.
“Let’s go home,” Jason suggested. It had already occurred to him that stealing a car lost much of its point when you didn’t have anywhere to go.
“Yeah. We got our very own Beemer!”
“Right.”
“We’ll get it home and then we can trash it.”
“The tires.”
“The seats.”
“The paintwork.”
“We can drive it into someone’s garden and set fire to it!” Harry whooped.
The car was still waiting for them where they had parked it. Harry pressed the remote on the ignition key and sniggered as the lights blinked and the locks sprang open. Once again he got into the driving seat. As Jason had thought, there was going to be no discussion about that. The BMW sprang into life at one turn of the key, that lovely, efficient growl of German engineering. And then they were away, knocking over an oil can as they left the parking lot and perhaps damaging the bodywork—but what did that matter? It was nothing compared with what they were going to do when they arrived home.
But it was a bit more difficult, getting back again. Night had fallen and a slight mist had rolled in from the sea. Neither of them had much sense of direction and it had been years since Jason had found himself in this part of the county.
“Turn the navigation back on,” Harry said.
“Do we need it?” Jason asked. There was something about that old woman’s voice that unnerved him, even though he had laughed about it at the time.
“Just do it,” Harry snapped. He was focusing on the road ahead, watching the beams as they picked out the rushing tarmac. Jason wondered if he had ever driven in the dark before. He probably hadn’t driven much at all. In fact, now that he thought about it, it was quite remarkable that Harry had even learned to drive.
Jason turned the navigation on and entered his own address—the Kenworth Estate, Sproughton, Ipswich—then punched the button to begin navigation. Almost at once, the voice began.
“At—the—next—junction—turn—right.”
Which was strange because Jason was sure they had come the other way. And there, indeed, was the sign, IPSWICH 22 MILES, pointing to the left. But it was already too late. Harry had wrenched the wheel, doing what the voice had said. This was where the streetlamps of Aldeburgh ran out. As they completed the turn, they plunged into the darkness of a Suffolk night.
Jason thought about arguing but decided against it. They were both tired. Harry had downed four pints before they’d left the pub. And anyway, the navigation system would use lots of information before suggesting a route. Perhaps this was a shortcut. Perhaps there was a traffic jam on the A12. They seemed to be following a fairly narrow country lane and that, perhaps, was a good thing. The last thing they needed to see right now was another police car. It made sense to go back on quieter roads.
They drove in silence for about seven or eight miles. It really was very dark. The rain clouds had closed in, blocking any sight of the moon or stars, and suddenly there were no buildings around them. Instead, they seemed to be crossing open countryside with undulating fields and low gorse bushes dotted around like crouching soldiers.
“Take—the—second—turning—on—the—right.”
The high-pitched voice broke the silence. Harry did as he was told.
Another couple of miles, this time through forest. They had to be on a back road. It was certainly narrower than the road they had just left, with trees jammed together on both sides, forming a tunnel over their heads.
“In—one–hundred—yards—turn—left.”
The left turn was even narrower. Now there wouldn’t be room for another car to pass them without pulling off to the side. Not that it looked as if many cars came this way. They had lost sight of any civilization. The woods were getting thicker and thicker.
“Fork—left—then—continue—straight—ahead.”
The fork took them off the road and onto what was little more than a track. Jason could hear dead leaves squelching under the wheels. He wondered if they were even on tarmac.
“You sure this thing is working, Haz?” Jason asked.
“What thing?”
“You know . . . the navigation.”
“Why wouldn’t it be working, Jace?” Harry snapped. He knew they were lost and that was making him angry.
“We didn’t come this way.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
Jason looked out of the window. All he could see was leaves. The track they were on was so narrow that the branches of the trees were scraping the windshield. The BMW’s headlights lit up a tiny world, perhaps five yards ahead of them. Outside the beams of light, there was nothing. “Maybe we should turn around and go back the way we came.”
“There’s nowhere to turn around.”
“At—the—crossroads—continue—straight—over.”
And that surely had to be a mistake. A fairly main road—at least it was definitely covered in tarmac with white lines dotted down the middle—crossed in front of them from left to right, promising perhaps a fast exit from the surrounding forest. Ahead of them was a rotting wooden gate hanging crookedly on one hinge. The gate was open and behind it there was a bumpy, muddy path—you couldn’t call it a track or a lane—barely wide enough for the BMW to pass along. It was pitted with potholes, some of them full of water. A rusty barbed-wire fence, broken in places, followed it on one side.
“Take a right, Haz,” Jason said—and this time Harry did as he suggested, but he had no sooner completed the turn than the voice cut back in.
“If—possible—make—a—U—turn.”
“You want me to turn it off?” Jason asked.
“Nah.” Harry shook his head. “We might as well leave it on. We don’t have to do what it says.”
“That’s right.” Jason nodded. They had picked up a little speed, following the better road. “It must go somewhere.”
“If—possible—make—a—U—turn,” the navigation system tried again. The screen was showing an arrow bent in the shape of a U. Harry ignored it.
The road led nowhere.
About half a mile farther down, Harry had to brake hard and they came to a sudden, sliding halt. A huge branch had somehow splintered and fallen down, blocking the way. Leaving the engine ticking over, the two of them got out of the car. It was very cold in the wood, far colder than it had been when they’d left. There was no breeze, but the air was thick and damp. The mist had followed them in from the coast. They could see it curling slowly between the trees.
“What now?” Jason asked. It was obvious that the branch was far too heavy to move.
“We keep driving,” Harry said. His voice was sounding a little bleak.
“Have we got enough gas?”
“We got plenty of gas.”
That at least was true. The BMW was still half full, and if they could only find their way out of the forest, they would have plenty enough fuel to get home. Almost reluctantly this time, they climbed back into the car. All the fun had gone out of their adventure. They just wanted to get out of this forest, to find themselves somewhere that they knew.
There was barely enough space to turn around. Spinning the wheel, Harry managed to reverse into the stump of a tree. Jason heard the metalwork crumple, and for a few seconds the engine
screamed out of control. Harry swore and changed gear. In a way, Jason was almost glad that the car had been damaged. The BMW had gotten them into the mess. It deserved all the punishment it could take.
They had barely completed the turn before the navigation system began again.
“In—one—hundred—yards—turn—right.”
And that was odd too, because neither of them had noticed a turnoff on that part of the road. But the machine was correct. In a hundred yards, they came to an opening between two trees and, beyond it, a track snaking its way through the forest. Harry took it, even though Jason’s sense of direction told him they were going the wrong way. But what was the right way now? They were completely lost. He wished now that they had followed his instinct outside Aldeburgh, taking the turning marked IPSWICH, 22 MILES. By now they should have been safely back on the A12.
“Take—the—next—turning—on—the—right.”
Harry seemed to have become enslaved by the ugly old woman’s voice of the navigation system. Perhaps he didn’t mind doing exactly what a machine told him, but Jason was less comfortable. He hated the idea of having to rely, one hundred percent, on a tangle of wires and software that might have been malfunctioning in the first place. Maybe that was why the BMW had been dumped at the Kenworth Estate. Nobody in their right mind would have actually wanted to drive there. Maybe the car’s owner had gotten as lost as they were now and had gone off for help, accidentally forgetting the key. That made sense.
“At—the—crossroads—continue—straight—over.”
Jason’s heart lurched. He blinked several times, his mouth hanging open, and for a moment he really did look like a child and not like an adult at all. It wasn’t possible! They were back exactly where they had been ten minutes before. Somehow, the various tracks had brought them back to the broken wooden gate and the track beyond. Jason swore. He could feel tears pricking against his eyes. This was getting nasty. He wanted to go home.