Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams Page A

been concentrating on where he was going rather than trying to navigate and telephone at the same time, he told himself, he would at least know where he was now.  He didn’t actually like having a telephone in his car, he found it a bother and an intrusion.  But Gordon had insisted and indeed had paid for it.
    He sighed in exasperation, backed up the black Saab and turned around again.  As he did so he nearly ran into someone lugging a body into a field.  At least that was what it looked like for a second to his overwrought brain, but in fact it was probably a local farmer with a sackful of something nutritious, though what he was doing with it on a night like this was anyone’s guess.  As his headlights swung around again, they caught for a moment a silhouette of the figure trudging off across the field with the sack on his back.
    ‘Rather him than me,’ thought Richard grimly, and drove off again.
    After a few minutes he reached a junction with what looked a little more like a main road, nearly turned right down it, but then turned left instead.  There was no signpost.
    He poked at the buttons on his phone again.
    ‘...get back to you as soon as possible.  Maybe.’
    Beep.
    ‘Susan, it’s Richard.  Where do I start?  What a mess.  Look I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.  I screwed up very badly, and it’s all my fault.  And look, whatever it takes to make up for it, I’ll do it, solemn promise...’
    He had a slight feeling that this wasn’t the right tone to adopt with an answering machine, but he carried straight on.
    ‘Honestly, we can go away, take a holiday for a week, or even just this weekend if you like.  Really, this weekend.  We’ll go somewhere sunny.  Doesn’t matter how much pressure Gordon tries to put on me, and you know the sort of pressure he can muster, he is your brother, after all.  I’ll just... er, actually, it might have to be next weekend.  Damn, damn, damn.  It’s just that I really have promised to get, no, look, it doesn’t matter.  We’ll just do it.  I don’t care about getting Anthem finished for Comdex.  It’s not the end of the world.  We’ll just go.  Gordon will just have to take a running jump -- Gaaarghhhh!’
    Richard swerved wildly to avoid the spectre of Gordon Way which suddenly loomed in his headlights and took a running jump at him.
    He slammed on the brakes, started to skid, tried to remember what it was you were supposed to do when you found yourself skidding, he knew he’d seen it on some television programme about driving he’d seen ages ago, what was the programme?  God, he couldn’t even remember the title of the programme, let alone -- oh yes, they’d said you mustn’t slam on the brakes.  That was it.  The world swung sickeningly around him with slow and appalling force as the car slewed across the road, spun, thudded against the grass verge, then slithered and rocked itself to a halt, facing the wrong way.  He collapsed, panting, against the steering wheel.
    He picked up the phone from where he’d dropped it.
    ‘Susan,’ he gasped, ‘I’ll get back to you,’ and hung up.
    He raised his eyes.
    Standing full in the glare of his headlights was the spectral figure of Gordon Way staring straight in through the windscreen with ghastly horror in its eyes, slowly raising its hand and pointing at him.
           
    He wasn’t sure how long he just sat there.  The apparition had melted from view in a few seconds, but Richard simply sat, shaking, probably for not more than a minute, until a sudden squeal of brakes and glare of lights roused him.
    He shook his head.  He was, he realised, stopped in the road facing the wrong way.  The car that had just screeched to an abrupt halt almost bumper to bumper with him was a police car.  He took two or three deep breaths and then, stiff and trembling, he climbed out and stood up to face the officer who was walking slowly towards him, silhouetted in the police car’s