your
equipment go in there?'
'That's you if you're coming.'
I have to hope that the interview will be worth it. I clamber into
the back and twist around in a crouch to see Tracy thrusting out a
hand. When I make to pass him the strip of film he gives a terse laugh
that the van renders metallic. 'Try again,' he says. 'You won't get
another word out of me else, and we'll be going nowhere.'
I dig out my pocketful of notes, still in the envelope from the bank.
Tracy splays the envelope wide to finger them. As he reaches for the
doors I offer him the film again, but he hardly bothers to shake his
head. Before I can discern the images on the six or seven frames
they're extinguished by a double slam that nearly snatches the film
out of my hand.
I slip the film into my inside pocket as Tracy drags his door shut. The
van jerks forwards before I can brace myself, and I slide across the floor.
I scrabble backwards into the corner behind the driver and jam my fists
against the walls as the van swerves around a bend, and another. It feels
as if I'm being flung from location to unseen location in the dark. When
the road grows straight, every foot of it contains the threat of another
unexpected bend. The van is climbing as well, tilting so precipitously that
I bruise my knuckles against the walls and strain my knees high in an
effort to wedge my heels against the floor. I'm feeling altogether too
foetal, not least in terms of being menaced with ejection, when the van
swings left and halts with a rasp of the handbrake.
The inside of my head is unconvinced that I've stopped moving. As
I close my eyes to recapture equilibrium, I hear Tracy haul his door
wide and tramp around the van. The rear doors squeal apart,
admitting a chilly breeze. I scramble for the exit, only to be
confronted by a void as blank as a dead computer.
It's the sky, which is no comfort, because there appears to be
nothing else beyond the floor of the van. Tracy must have stood
somewhere to open the doors. When I inch forward I see that the rear
of the vehicle is overhanging the edge of a cliff. No, not quite: it's close
to the end of a lay-by, beyond which the slope is rather less steep than
it looked. I thrust my legs out of the van and wobble to my feet to find
I'm surrounded by a moor.
It's darker than the sky but nearly as featureless. The black road
winds from horizon to horizon. The solitary lay-by is deserted except
for Tracy's van, and attended by a single picnic table carved with
initials and longer words where it isn't charred. Tracy is occupying
much of the bench that faces the road. As I sit opposite him he says
'I come up here to be on my tod.'
I could take this as unwelcoming, but I only say 'You're never
alone with your mobile.' Since he doesn't seem amused I add 'Unless
you switch it off.'
'They're still there waiting till you turn it on.'
'Anybody in particular?' I ask mostly out of politeness.
'Whoever texted me in the middle of the night off their computer,
for a start. Said they were getting rid of some films I'd be interested
in. Sent all the directions but when I got there it didn't exist. That's
where I've just been. That's why I took the projector, to check what
they had.'
His accusing tone provokes me to wonder 'Was that the message
you asked if I'd sent?'
'Seemed a bit of a coincidence, hearing from you out of nowhere
and then getting that. It's not like I knew who you were.' He peers
harder at me as he says 'And some of these films were meant to have
your friend Tubby in.'
I'm growing as suspicious as he looks. 'Do you happen to recall
who the sender was?'
'Some stupid made-up name like people use on computers. Miss
Isle, that was it. Don't tell me that's their real name.'
'I'm sure it isn't. I think it may be partly my fault, sorry. I
shouldn't have brought you into it.'
'Into what?'
'There was a disagreement about which of Tubby's films you used.
That's why I asked when we spoke.'
Perhaps he didn't clear the copyright. His
equipment go in there?'
'That's you if you're coming.'
I have to hope that the interview will be worth it. I clamber into
the back and twist around in a crouch to see Tracy thrusting out a
hand. When I make to pass him the strip of film he gives a terse laugh
that the van renders metallic. 'Try again,' he says. 'You won't get
another word out of me else, and we'll be going nowhere.'
I dig out my pocketful of notes, still in the envelope from the bank.
Tracy splays the envelope wide to finger them. As he reaches for the
doors I offer him the film again, but he hardly bothers to shake his
head. Before I can discern the images on the six or seven frames
they're extinguished by a double slam that nearly snatches the film
out of my hand.
I slip the film into my inside pocket as Tracy drags his door shut. The
van jerks forwards before I can brace myself, and I slide across the floor.
I scrabble backwards into the corner behind the driver and jam my fists
against the walls as the van swerves around a bend, and another. It feels
as if I'm being flung from location to unseen location in the dark. When
the road grows straight, every foot of it contains the threat of another
unexpected bend. The van is climbing as well, tilting so precipitously that
I bruise my knuckles against the walls and strain my knees high in an
effort to wedge my heels against the floor. I'm feeling altogether too
foetal, not least in terms of being menaced with ejection, when the van
swings left and halts with a rasp of the handbrake.
The inside of my head is unconvinced that I've stopped moving. As
I close my eyes to recapture equilibrium, I hear Tracy haul his door
wide and tramp around the van. The rear doors squeal apart,
admitting a chilly breeze. I scramble for the exit, only to be
confronted by a void as blank as a dead computer.
It's the sky, which is no comfort, because there appears to be
nothing else beyond the floor of the van. Tracy must have stood
somewhere to open the doors. When I inch forward I see that the rear
of the vehicle is overhanging the edge of a cliff. No, not quite: it's close
to the end of a lay-by, beyond which the slope is rather less steep than
it looked. I thrust my legs out of the van and wobble to my feet to find
I'm surrounded by a moor.
It's darker than the sky but nearly as featureless. The black road
winds from horizon to horizon. The solitary lay-by is deserted except
for Tracy's van, and attended by a single picnic table carved with
initials and longer words where it isn't charred. Tracy is occupying
much of the bench that faces the road. As I sit opposite him he says
'I come up here to be on my tod.'
I could take this as unwelcoming, but I only say 'You're never
alone with your mobile.' Since he doesn't seem amused I add 'Unless
you switch it off.'
'They're still there waiting till you turn it on.'
'Anybody in particular?' I ask mostly out of politeness.
'Whoever texted me in the middle of the night off their computer,
for a start. Said they were getting rid of some films I'd be interested
in. Sent all the directions but when I got there it didn't exist. That's
where I've just been. That's why I took the projector, to check what
they had.'
His accusing tone provokes me to wonder 'Was that the message
you asked if I'd sent?'
'Seemed a bit of a coincidence, hearing from you out of nowhere
and then getting that. It's not like I knew who you were.' He peers
harder at me as he says 'And some of these films were meant to have
your friend Tubby in.'
I'm growing as suspicious as he looks. 'Do you happen to recall
who the sender was?'
'Some stupid made-up name like people use on computers. Miss
Isle, that was it. Don't tell me that's their real name.'
'I'm sure it isn't. I think it may be partly my fault, sorry. I
shouldn't have brought you into it.'
'Into what?'
'There was a disagreement about which of Tubby's films you used.
That's why I asked when we spoke.'
Perhaps he didn't clear the copyright. His
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