when the youth produced a curved pipe filled with strong, cherry-scented tobacco. He dismissed it as an eccentricity until, not twenty miles from Santander, it occurred to him that the youth was inhaling - deeply.
No pipe smoker does that!
He pulled promptly into a lay-by, his companion still puffing away unperturbed.
“Where is it, you little bastard?” Greg tore the pipe from the unsuspecting youth, flung it away and grabbed him firmly by the throat.
“Where’s wha...?” managed the youth.
“You know what! Hand it over!”
The young man registered his companion’s glare and handed over a packet of cannabis he'd concealed at the bottom of his tobacco tin.
“Any more?”
The young man found enough enthusiasm to shrug his shoulders. “It doesn’t do any more harm than the booze you reek of.”
"I don’t suppose it does.” He took the youth's jacket and dragged his face to within an inch of his own, as if preparing to butt him. “Get this straight,” he yelled, “I don’t care how much harm it does you - or anyone else for that matter. I don’t care if you go blue in the face. I want to get on that ferry - through customs - and back home. I've no intention of being locked up! So, if you have any more - I want to know! Now!"
At the threat of roadside abandonment, the youth produced another package from the split lining of his jacket. Greg opened and scattered the contents into nearby hedges. He then examined the youth’s travel bag, but found only dishevelled clothing and a toothbrush so foul it could have doubled as a pipe cleaner – and probably did.
*
The atmosphere remained as frosty when they stopped for the night at a small pensione outside Santander: both were just glad to sleep. On reaching the docks the following day Greg, as a further precaution, slung his companion from the car, forcing him to board the ferry with his travel bag as a foot passenger, and didn’t allow him back until they'd cleared customs in Plymouth. Having nursed a lifelong phobia of forced confinement, Greg had no intention, for one night even, of being locked up. The youth didn’t seem unduly perturbed by his treatment, Greg noticed. He seemed to prefer crossing alone, mentioning only that he'd arranged to meet a friend he'd called on leaving Santander.
On climbing back into the car as the ferry prepared to dock, Greg spotted a rally programme beneath the front passenger seat. He glanced cursorily over it and was struck by a condition stating that no cars manufactured later than nineteen twenty eight were eligible for the event.
So the whole thing was about Jacky. Nothing else! Greg managed a bitter smile, his first for a while, as he stuffed the programme into a bag of sandwich wrappers and empty cans for binning.
As he returned to the car on clearing customs, Cass surprised Greg by displaying enough enthusiasm to take several snaps of him at the wheel of the Ulster. His surprise gave way to anger, however, as Cass took another duffel bag from the rear on getting out at his destination.
"You’re very lucky we've cleared customs," fumed Greg on realising it must have been on board since Nigel had picked Cass up. "The bag’s no doubt full of the shit!"
Ironically, the youth's lift was waiting at the island where the man with a bag had waited almost a week earlier. The driver stood hunched against the wind on the verge beside a battered Mondeo looking, apart from a black eye-patch, much like Cass.
Chapter Seven
Greg waited as Cass walked to the car, then watched until he and his companion drove off in the direction of Tavistock., Despite their lengthy journey together, he'd learned very little about Cass, though doubted that he'd missed much. Greg wasn’t surprised so much that Cass couldn't raise his return fare home as that he’d shown enough
No pipe smoker does that!
He pulled promptly into a lay-by, his companion still puffing away unperturbed.
“Where is it, you little bastard?” Greg tore the pipe from the unsuspecting youth, flung it away and grabbed him firmly by the throat.
“Where’s wha...?” managed the youth.
“You know what! Hand it over!”
The young man registered his companion’s glare and handed over a packet of cannabis he'd concealed at the bottom of his tobacco tin.
“Any more?”
The young man found enough enthusiasm to shrug his shoulders. “It doesn’t do any more harm than the booze you reek of.”
"I don’t suppose it does.” He took the youth's jacket and dragged his face to within an inch of his own, as if preparing to butt him. “Get this straight,” he yelled, “I don’t care how much harm it does you - or anyone else for that matter. I don’t care if you go blue in the face. I want to get on that ferry - through customs - and back home. I've no intention of being locked up! So, if you have any more - I want to know! Now!"
At the threat of roadside abandonment, the youth produced another package from the split lining of his jacket. Greg opened and scattered the contents into nearby hedges. He then examined the youth’s travel bag, but found only dishevelled clothing and a toothbrush so foul it could have doubled as a pipe cleaner – and probably did.
*
The atmosphere remained as frosty when they stopped for the night at a small pensione outside Santander: both were just glad to sleep. On reaching the docks the following day Greg, as a further precaution, slung his companion from the car, forcing him to board the ferry with his travel bag as a foot passenger, and didn’t allow him back until they'd cleared customs in Plymouth. Having nursed a lifelong phobia of forced confinement, Greg had no intention, for one night even, of being locked up. The youth didn’t seem unduly perturbed by his treatment, Greg noticed. He seemed to prefer crossing alone, mentioning only that he'd arranged to meet a friend he'd called on leaving Santander.
On climbing back into the car as the ferry prepared to dock, Greg spotted a rally programme beneath the front passenger seat. He glanced cursorily over it and was struck by a condition stating that no cars manufactured later than nineteen twenty eight were eligible for the event.
So the whole thing was about Jacky. Nothing else! Greg managed a bitter smile, his first for a while, as he stuffed the programme into a bag of sandwich wrappers and empty cans for binning.
As he returned to the car on clearing customs, Cass surprised Greg by displaying enough enthusiasm to take several snaps of him at the wheel of the Ulster. His surprise gave way to anger, however, as Cass took another duffel bag from the rear on getting out at his destination.
"You’re very lucky we've cleared customs," fumed Greg on realising it must have been on board since Nigel had picked Cass up. "The bag’s no doubt full of the shit!"
Ironically, the youth's lift was waiting at the island where the man with a bag had waited almost a week earlier. The driver stood hunched against the wind on the verge beside a battered Mondeo looking, apart from a black eye-patch, much like Cass.
Chapter Seven
Greg waited as Cass walked to the car, then watched until he and his companion drove off in the direction of Tavistock., Despite their lengthy journey together, he'd learned very little about Cass, though doubted that he'd missed much. Greg wasn’t surprised so much that Cass couldn't raise his return fare home as that he’d shown enough
Similar Books
