Guy N. Smith - Blood Circuit

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PART ONE THE HAMMERTON CURSE

CHAPTER ONE

THE GIRL struggled, tried to fight off her rising panic as well as the man who held her, but he pulled her

back. She swung wildly at him screaming her fear and frustration. 'Let go of me, Steve. I want to look.'

'No.' He spoke firmly, a silhouette against the starlight of a warm August night. 'That's one thing I'm not

going to allow you to do.'

'But he might still be ... alive.' Her voice tailed off in a tremble of hopelessness. She knew there was no

way her father could still live, in the same way that she had known that there could have been no hope for

her brother, Justin, when she had seen the photographs in the papers of his mangled burned-out car on

the Le Mans track less than a month ago. And now this!

Lee Hammerton did not try to break free now, just accepted the inevitable and stared into the night until

she was able to make out the shape of the huge baler, a robot made by Man; stronger than Man.

Ruthless if it got out of control, a hungry carnivorous beast if you under-estimated it, got in its way.

The machine was still running, a clanking monster that seemed to be laughing in its own mechanical way,

grinding its teeth. It had fed but still it was hungry.

'He might not ... be in there,' she said weakly.

The tall, fair-haired man sighed, wished that he could tell a convincing lie but it was pointless. The police

and the

doctor would be here any minute and then every detail would have to be revealed. Nobody would be

able to hide anything no matter how gruesome. Lee would have to face the truth then.

'He's in there.' Steve Kilby looked down at the girl: even in shocked terror she was beautiful, had a man

wanting her no matter what. The long dark hair was tangled, her perfect features white and streaked with

tears. Her bottom lip was bleeding where she had bitten it but you still wanted to kiss her, to hold her

close, tell her that everything was going to be OK even though you knew it wasn't. You didn't give a

damn whether or not Craig Hammerton had been baled into a pulped bloody square of flesh and bone or

not, because his daughter still lived and that was all that mattered. You'd fake grief and make a good job

of it for her sake.

'Clyde found him.' Kilby was afraid she might slip his hold and go and see for herself. There's no point in

either of us looking. We'd better get back. There's nothing we can do.'

'No!' Defiant as always. Lee Hammerton's mind was made up. She was staying. A thought crossed her

mind, one that had her stomach knotting and brought on a desire to be violently sick: I'm the boss now

that Daddy's gone, and Justin, too. A millionairess. I give the orders, everybody else has to obey them.

Kilby isn't just my lover nor my chief driver. He's my servant. Clyde, too.

'All right, we'll stay until the others get here.' Kilby tried to edge her a yard or so back but she held her

ground.

'How could it have happened?' Suddenly she felt calmer, more logical. 'Daddy wasn't driving the baler.

He wouldn't want to, anyway.'

'I don't know, but accidents happen when you least expect them.' It sounded trite but if anybody

mentioned suicide then it had to be the police. 'I guess you father must have gone on a tour of inspection

of his farms, maybe wondering how the harvest had gone, and he got curious and tinkered with the baler

when there was nobody around.'

They fell into an uneasy silence. This was one night when they didn't want to be alone out here in the

fields, a late summer night that no longer smelted of honeysuckle and wild flowers. Just death. A chill

breeze had sprung up and Kilby felt his flesh goosepimpling. Maybe it had been just an accident; he

couldn't think of any reason why Craig Hammerton would want to kill himself, not with all his millions. He

felt embarrassed, too, because he couldn't think of anything to say to Lee and maybe she was expecting

him to say something. After all, he was her lover. Or was he? There were rumours, stories of other men

in her life, that he'd shut his ears to. She was in the driving seat right now; she only had to snap her fingers

and she could have what she wanted. John Clyde would write out the cheques and Lee Hammerton

would sign them. She didn't need money, only what it bought.

The baler shuddered suddenly and cut out. A faint whirring noise, a propeller gradually losing its

momentum. Then silence. She clung to him tightly so that he could feel her breasts heaving, small firm

mounds of flesh that he had once fondled and kissed. Hallowed Hammerton breasts that money couldn't

buy.

'It's . . . it's the . . . the curse again, isn't it, Steve? The Hammerton Curse!' Her voice was a cracked

whisper that he scarcely recognised.

That's silly talk. A legend that has been embroidered over the years and . . . '

'No, it isn't.' She looked up at him and he read the fear in her expression, a terror that was eating deep

into her. 'My ancester, Jasper Hammerton, was killed in an almost identical accident two hundred years

ago . . . beheaded by a careless farmworker scything corn. And in the same month his son was killed

when his horse threw him and trampled him! And his daughter Edwina . . . ' She began to sob.

'Don't think about them.'' He kissed her forehead. 'They're dead and gone centuries ago and there's no

way of knowing how they really died.'

'Oh yes, there is! It's all written down in the parish records. You can read it for yourself in the church if

you don't believe me.'

'And what about Edwina?' Kilby wished in the same second that he hadn't asked.

'Edwina got herself pregnant by the groom.' There was no mistaking the note of contempt in her voice.

'And that was when mongrel blood infiltrated the Hammerton line. She died in childbirth but in her death

throes she cursed the Hammertons, that future generations should experience the tragedies that they went

through. And my God, Steve, she was right. Just look what's happened to us now.'

Kilby thought she was on the verge of hysteria, wondered whether he ought to slap her, and drag her

forcibly from this field of violent death. But even as he hesitated twin shafts of brilliant white light swung

across the landscape, focused on them like the principal actors in the final act of a tragic play, held them

for the audience to dwell upon their trauma. Kilby turned his head, saw the close-set headlights of the old

Series I Land Rover, more vehicles following on behind, bumping their way across the uneven stubble.

'Here's Clyde,' he said, and added, 'and the police, too.'

Lee Hammerton stood watching in a daze as the Land Rover and three cars came to a halt, figures

getting out, the engines maybe left running purposely so that she wouldn't be able to hear what was being

said. John Clyde was pointing towards the baler; she knew what he was saying. 'He's in there, baled into

a neat little square so that you wouldn't recognise what he was. He'll have to be scraped out.'

She turned away, retched, shook off Kilby's hand and he didn't clutch at her again. She was the boss

now and if she wanted to go across there and look nobody could stop her. But she didn't want to look.

Jesus, it wasn't as though she and the old man were close. If you looked at it realistically he had been a

right bastard most of his life, long before her mother had died fifteen years ago. All he'd ever thought

about was women, the flat slob! And motor-racing, a kind of prestige symbol. He'd wanted to win the

IROC and put the name of Hammerton amongst the elite, that way the women would fawn around him.

But he didn't have to go out there on the circuit and risk his neck. Instead he sent Justin. And now maybe

Kilby, except that Steve wasn't quite in that class. Lambs to the slaughter, sacrifices to the Hammerton

idol. Oh Christ, it was bloody funny when you thought about it, the great Craig Hammerton ignominiously

sliced up and compressed into a chunk of unrecognisable raw meat, going out as small as he had come

into the world. She hadn't loved him, she'd hated him, feigned adoration because in the end she knew it

would bring her what she had now. And Justin hadn't been any better. She started to laugh aloud, heard

herself above the drone of the idling engines.

'Stop it!'

Lee recoiled, almost lost her balance as the flat of Steve Kilby's hand hit her across the face.

'Damn you. Damn you, Steve Kilby!' Subconsciously she tasted blood in her mouth. 'Don't you ever dare

touch me again, for any reason!'

The hands reaching out for her checked. Surprise on his face because he suddenly realised that she

wasn't hysterical, just coldly ruthless. Even the fear in her eyes was temporarily gone, replaced by a fury

that had him backing off.

'I'm sorry. I . . . ' He licked his lips, glanced away and saw a number of figures had clambered up onto

the stationary baler.

'If I want to laugh I'll bloody well laugh.' She spoke softly, words that were loaded with venom yet barely

audible. 'You've had it too easy, Steve, and from this moment on there are going to be a number of

changes around here. And don't go pushing your luck. I'm going to win the IROC, not because Craig

Hammerton would have wanted it that way but because that's the way I want it. And remember you're a

driver, not the driver. I'll find the man I want to win the championship, you mark my words. Now I'm

going back to the house. It's well past midnight and I need my sleep. Tell Clyde I'm not to be disturbed

until morning.'

Steve Kilby stood and watched her walk away until she was lost in the darkness beyond the glare of the

headlights. Now it was his turn to feel the nausea rising up in him, and not just because of what had

happened to Craig Hammer-ton. In those few moments Lee Hammerton had undergone a frightening

change, almost as though the girl whose bed he had shared had died alongside her father in the baler and

a reincarnation had materialised in her shapely body without any physical change.

And now it was Steve Kilby's turn to experience fear, a mounting inexplicable terror that was eating into

him like a fast-growing cancer. It had suddenly gone very cold and he shivered.

CHAPTER TWO

SLADE HAD not exceeded thirty-five m.p.h. for the last ten miles. Even on the wide straight stretches of

country roads, the heather a deep purple in the sunshine, his foot pressure did not increase on the throttle.

A steady trundling. An articulated Foden overtook him, a gesture of impatience on the part of its driver

as he cut in abruptly, forcing Slade to drop down to thirty. The lorry picked up speed, forging ahead.

Slade kept the Cortina at thirty, no incentive to move back up to thirty-five again.

His lean suntanned face, beneath the two-week-old growth of beard, was expressionless, vacant. Short

cropped hair, a hand habitually left the steering wheel and brushed away non-existent strands that had

once hung below his collar, an aggravation at times, but fashionable. Everything had had to be fashionable

up until recently, casual clothing that all went to create the image, a personality that required a certain

amount of uniformity which was at once recognisable and acceptable in a harsh world of glamour. One

pandered to the media, to the public, presented oneself in accordance with their ideas. Hero-worship,

somebody they could identify with. Film stars, television personalities, footballers . . . racing drivers.

A faint smile momentarily crossed Mark Slade's features, but it was mirthless. Irony perhaps, maybe a

touch of regret. Right now he did not even understand his own feelings. An instinct beyond his

comprehension urged

him to blend himself into the jungle of convention that existed around him. The majority of his fellow

beings accepted a routine, mundane existence. They did things because they had to, because they were

forced to do so in order to survive, a mode of life totally in contrast to the inner personality of every

individual, but they overcame it by a submergence, an acceptance, or perhaps by fantasy that would

never materialise into reality. Occasionally, the odd one made the effort to climb out of the rut, a brief

show of some previously hidden talent, perched precariously on a pedestal above their fellows. Some

made it, remained there, if only for a brief spell, then toppled back, clinging to a few precious memories.

Fantasies again, dreaming of what might have been.

Slade understood better than most. He'd made it, right to the top. Almost. Second placing in the

International Race of Champions at Daytona, beaten by half a length. He was tipped to win it next time, a

World Champion on the verge of greatness, a man alone standing out above millions. An idol.

But there would be no next time. A kind of suicide. Driving back into the world of convention from which

he had risen. A total reversal.

His thoughts turned to the Chevy Camaros, gutted and rebuilt according to individual specifications,

tuned for speeds of 160 m.p.h., perhaps more, Stock-car and Indianapolis drivers claiming supremacy

over their Grand Prix rivals, equally matched in Formula One racing, fighting it out for the number one

placing. Not just for money, either, but for something that meant a great deal more to the one who

finished first. Slade knew he could have done it next time, except. . . With an effort he pushed all thoughts

of Formula One from his mind. Somehow he had to get it all out of his system, in the same way that an

alcoholic would refuse a half-pint of shandy, fighting every inch of the way, an inveterate smoker tossing a

packet of cigarettes into a litter bin, steeling himself to walk on past the nearest tobacconist's shop.

Slade compromised. Somehow he had to divorce himself from cars. The Cortina presented him with the

ideal opportunity to make a start. He pressed down on the seat-adjustment lever, pushing against the

back-rest with his powerful shoulders. With some reluctance the seat slid back to the furthest notch. The

controls were still well within his reach, but not comfortably. That meant that he would continue to drive

steadily instead of hunching over the wheel and succumbing to instincts which even a man who has lost

his nerve on the track cannot entirely suppress. A lazy pose that defied speed.

Thirty m.p.h. Constant. Three cars and another lorry overtook him. He sensed their annoyance at his

own performance; impatience, muttered curses. He smiled to himself. It was going to be a long process,

but he would make it all the way back to the very bottom. Just another motorist cluttering up the

overcrowded roads. Or staying at home like a hermit. The choice was his.

The Cortina. Totally in contrast to everything which he had driven for the past five years. A 2000 XL

Estate. Power, a status symbol to the average man who had not quite made it to the Jag or Mercedes

faction. Another step up the social ladder for some, but several rungs down for Slade.

A lumbering giant, the way he was driving it. Three years old, 50,000 miles on the clock. Some rust on

the sills. A broken window-winder, a rip in the upholstery on the back seat. The pistons were knocking a

bit. He didn't give a damn. He hated cars. He kept on silently reminding himself of that fact.

He slowed down still further, moved over to the middle of the road, and turned right by an impressive

looking hotel, subconsciously noticing the sign on the adjacent car park which requested patrons to 'park

prettily'. The phrase appealed to his declining sense of humour, so starkly removed from circuit

regulations. A request, not an order.

The car shuddered, still in top gear. That pleased him even more, a sure sign that he was returning to the

realm of the average motorist. He should have changed down into third, maybe second. The omission

had been deliberate although he refused to admit it.

Parked cars, some two or three feet from the kerb, as he took the road on the right. Lack of forethought

and consideration for other motorists. He would become like that eventually, too.

The narrow winding road headed out into remote countryside, thickly wooded hills on either side. He

took a fork to the left; now the roads were narrower, snaking bends, and twice he had to pull well over

to the left in order to avoid oncoming cattle-trucks. More shuddering, the engine labouring, and as the

lanes began to rise sharply he was forced down into second gear. High hedges obscured his view on

either side, not that he was interested in panoramic scenery. Mark Slade wasn't interested in anything in

particular.

The lanes narrowed still more, and he was compelled to remain in second gear. No room for oncoming

vehicles to pass. He remembered those two trucks, the speed at which they had been travelling . . . blind

bends. A clammy hand wiped the sweat from his forehead. One thing was a certainty. He had lost his

nerve, all right. Daytona or out here, it was all the same.

On through a small village, half-timbered houses, many in need of restoration, a brook rushing down the

side of the road. Houses on one side, a hedge, fields, hills on the other. The muddy lane rose even more

sharply once he was clear of this place of semi-primitive civilisation. Life was all so easy for some people.

Sheep, a few crops, nothing else. Boredom, but they accepted it, something which he would have to

learn to do also.

A nasty 'S' bend in the midst of a massive larch forest. He took it at ten m.p.h. His training had taught him

to go into a bend slowly, and come out of it fast. He simply drove slowly. To hell with techniques. They

counted for nothing up here.

Down past a couple of farms, the lane following a course between two barns. Rising even more sharply

now. He engaged bottom gear. He could see over the hedges in places, through gaps in others. Golden

fields led up to the lush dark green of Forestry Commission plantations. Stocked corn, so beautifully

primitive. These lanes were not wide enough to admit a combine-harvester, anyway. He wondered how

long it would remain that way before some progress-minded councillor put forward road-widening

schemes.

The lane had levelled out now. A towering forest on his right, an unrestricted view of distant mountain

peaks beyond the valley on his left, a perfect blend of green, purple, and brown, offset by infrequent

patches of golden stubble.

Life could be very good up here once one adapted. That was the only problem. To Slade it presented

even greater difficulties than winning the IROC. He was determined to make it somehow, though.

Then he saw his own place, standing on a kind of crossroads, the way he had come, the road leading

down to the nearest village straight ahead, a left turn that headed somewhere in the direction of those

distant mountains, and a rough unsurfaced track on the right up into the forestry. 'Crossways'. Mark

Slade was certainly at a crossroads.

Once it had been a farmworker's cottage. Probably before that it had been a barn or a stable. Various

extensions and renovations by the previous owner had transformed it into what the estate agent had

described as a 'cottage residence of exquisite beauty with panoramic views'. Low ceilings, oak beams,

recently whitewashed exterior walls, and a quarter of an acre of triangular-shaped garden, the latter in

need of some attention. Mark Slade had already contemplated taking up gardening. The idea did not

appeal, but, nevertheless, it was yet another challenge of the right kind. Escapism.

He did not drive straight into the lean-to garage, but instead left the Cortina parked on the adjacent

forestry track. In the three weeks during which he had sampled life as a recluse here he had never known

a vehicle to use that route. Two or three a day, maybe, on the surfaced roads, mostly tractors and Land

Rovers to and from the farms lower down.

As he switched off the engine he heard for the first time the mechanical whirring and clanking sound,

slowing down, then dying away. His experience located the source of the trouble at once. The heater fan

was on the verge of packing up. Good, Chevy Camaros designed for Formula One did not have heaters.

Anything, the slightest thing which was in contrast to his former life pleased him. Especially this

clapped-out Cortina.

It was as he was fitting his key into the front door that he heard the telephone ringing inside the house.

The unexpected harsh jangling caused him to stiffen momentarily. Telephones, too, had been a large part

of his world of so-called glamour. This one was already installed when he had moved in. He should have

instructed the GPO engineers to disconnect it. Anyway, who the hell knew he was living here? He had

taken steps to fade into obscurity. His name certainly wouldn't be in the directory.

The lock was stiff, or maybe it was the key that was bent. It took him a couple of minutes to gain entry,

and just as he closed the door behind him the phone stopped ringing. A sigh of relief mingled with natural

curiosity. He shrugged his shoulders. Probably it was somebody trying to contact the last owner. If so,

they would ring again. He dismissed the matter from his mind. There were chores to be done. Fires had

to be made and lit, food prepared, rooms cleaned ... all foreign to his nature, but he'd learn. The hard

way. He would not seek help from anybody. If it was offered he would spurn it. Politely at first, of

course. But it had to be a lone battle. All the way. Every house, every man needs a woman. He tried to

find an alternative to that one as he filled a glass with water from the tap in the sink, reached down a small

brown bottle from the shelf above, shook out a tiny yellow tablet, and swallowed it. Valium 5. Three

times a day. Possibly a third of the population existed on them. Their reasons over-work, family and

business pressures, something to help ease a routine of boredom. At least those were the reasons Slade

had given the doctor. Hell, how else could he have explained it? 'Fact is, Doc, I've just lost my nerve.

Can't face the track again.' He knew it, but he would never be able to put it into words.

Few people admit to losing their nerve over anything, even to themselves. A steeplejack takes a

motorway construction labouring job and tells everybody that it's because he earns more money that

way. The only person he doesn't succeed in kidding is himself. He'll never do that. He fears that one day

he'll step off a piece of scaffolding and drop seventy feet to the concrete below. Likewise Slade had lied

to Stern, his manager. Seamark, too. All lies.

'My contract finished at Daytona. I've made my pile. I'll never spend it if I live it up for the rest of my

days. That's why I'm quitting.'

Persuasion. Pleading. Cursing. Ill-feeling on both sides, but they still wanted him back. He hadn't the guts

to tell them that before every race he was scared that it might be his last. He had seen better drivers than

himself burned to a cinder in a heap of crumpled, twisted metal. Cremated within a matter of minutes,

rescue-teams and ambulancemen helpless. Christ, he might not even make it to the finals at Daytona. It

could happen in the qualifying rounds at Riverside. Or even on the Seamark circuit. Anywhere. These

lanes, a speeding Land Rover. All over in seconds. God, he hated cars. Even that bloody run-of-the-mill

Cortina.

He studied his reflection in the mirror on the kitchen wall, stroking his new growth of dark beard, amazed

to note flecks of grey already evident amongst the stubble. Thirty-three. According to the so-called

allotted life span of three score years and ten he was practically half-way there. Middle-aged. He hadn't

thought of it that way before. And so far he hadn't started to live. Well, this was it, the beginning of life,

right here in these remote hills. The beard, the cropped hair, a new approach, fresh thinking, new ideals

that all added up to one thing. Mark Slade, racing idol, was dead. In his place was just an ordinary guy

whom people in the streets would scarcely glance at a second time. That was the way it would be from

now on. He might even change his name by deed-poll.

He settled for a scratch meal of corned beef and baked beans. Sometime he would have to learn to cook

property. The idea was not attractive to him, but his determination would overcome it. Perhaps it was

something else at which he would eventually attempt to attain perfection. Cordon bleu, another Daytona.

The ultimate. Something more to chicken out of when it was within his reach?

As he ate, his thoughts turned to Yvonne. He knew he would never be able to get her off his mind . . .

ever. That was the way with racing drivers, another occupational hazard. One got through wives like sets

of tyres. They couldn't stand the pace. Husbands away from home for long periods, other women

fawning on their idols.

Temptations on both sides. Yvonne had never taken a lover whilst Mark had been away. Perhaps it

would have been better if she had. There was no way of knowing. AH too often fidelity does not make a

marriage work. Slade had had other women, though. Zoe in the States had given him everything that his

physical needs demanded. She would not have made the marital grade, though. He wouldn't have wanted

her, anyway.

His gaze rested on the framed photograph which stood on the oak Welsh-dresser. Yvonne was

twenty-three then. She hadn't changed any, not since the last time he had seen her, eleven months ago.

That was when she had presented him with the ultimatum. Quit racing or else. He couldn't make up his

mind then. Two loves, and he had had to make his choice. Yvonne or Daytona. Maybe he hadn't taken

her seriously. When he returned to England it was too late. She knew all about his affair with Zoe, and

she had put the wheels of divorce proceedings into action right away. No real animosity. Just a woman

who had been hurt deeper than she could stand. Hell, if only he'd lost his nerve earlier. At least he'd still

have a wife. The divorce had gone through; all too easy these days. Time was not on his side. She'd

never disclosed how she had learned about his adultery, but Slade had his own ideas. That bastard Stern.

Seamark, too. They wanted the IROC. It would put Seamark Cruises on the map and to hell with Slade.

He'd get his cut, but only a fraction in comparison with theirs. Probably that was his only small crumb of

satisfaction from opting out. Sure, they'd find another driver, but not of Slade's calibre. They had until

February to sort it out. It was almost worth a visit to the States to watch them lose, maybe not even

qualify at Riverside. Hell, no. He wasn't going to go near a circuit again. It was all over.

He had phoned Yvonne once and told her that he was thinking of quitting. It was too late, though. She

had somebody else. A widower. A bank manager, ten years older than herself. But she also had

something which she had never ever had before. Security. No more weeks, months of loneliness. No

more wondering whether or not her husband would come out of each race alive, trembling every time she

watched the television, rushing to the telephone with anxiety in her heart every time it rang.

Slade was bitter, but he hoped that she would make a go of it. That was the very least he owed her. He

didn't hate the banker. He just envied him.

The day dragged on. There were chores to be done, but they could wait until the morrow, or the day

after. He had all the time in the world now.

Each evening he went and stood in the small conservatory which faced west. From here he had an

unrestricted view of the distant mountains. A setting sun was something comparatively new to him. He

had overlooked it for thirty-three years, taking the elements for granted, his only concern being the

condition of the track before a race. He hated rain more than anything else. It was a killer. He would

never be able to regard it as anything else. Even up here it depressed him.

Yet, the magnificent splendour of those mountain sunsets enthralled him. Something so big, something

beyond the control of mankind. An aura of beauty, a hint of power that was far greater than either Stern

or Seamark. The latter with his multi-million backed company was just as other mortals when it came to

the crunch. Out here they were nothing. These farmers were real men, learning to live with the wind in

their teeth.

Slade stood with the conservatory door open, breathing in the freshness of the mountain air, filling his

lungs, expelling it slowly. Something else which he had missed out on. So natural, so different from the

tearing, whipping winds on a race-track.

The sun sank lower and lower. Soon it would be hidden behind the nearest range of peaks. Already one

or two stars were beginning to twinkle in the cloudless sky. Dusk came so gradually out here. One

scarcely noticed it until it was almost dark, especially a man who had turned his back on an artificial

world where neon-lighting predominated. Slade thought of Las Vegas. Night or day, it made no

difference there, a place to which he vowed he would never return. That had been Zoe's home. He

wondered whether she would have appreciated it out here. More than likely not. She hadn't that kind of

grit.

A steady droning sound from all around. These hill-farmers worked a natural day. Dawn till dusk. They

were still harvesting, taking advantage of the current spell of fine weather. Tomorrow it might rain. Slade

hoped that it would not. Perhaps when he had lived here long enough he would be able to read the

weather signs in the sky the way these locals did. This was just the beginning of his new life.

Darkness fell, and still he stood there. No longer was he able to discern the distant mountains. The hum

of tractors ceased. The day was over. A scent assailed his nostrils which at first he was unable to

recognise. It was vaguely familiar. Finally, he realised what it was. Woodsmoke, drifing up from the

valley on the evening breeze; pine logs. No central-heating systems here. He had taken a step back in

time, too.

Then came the silence. Not even the sound of a tractor and trailer on its way home. Twinkling lights from

isolated farms and cottages scattered in this area of borderland.

Slade was reluctant to go back inside the house. The atmosphere was much colder now. Perhaps there

would be a slight frost. Yet it did not even cause him to shiver. It was all so fresh and wonderful, the

opening up of a new existence.

The telephone rang again with harsh reality, reminding him that even out here connections with the world

from which he had fled were not totally severed. It continued to ring.

His first inclination was to ignore it. More than likely it was the previous caller trying again. Slade had no

idea where the former owner of Crossways lived now. He did not care. It would be pointless answering

the call. On the other hand, whoever it was would pester him with further calls until he answered it.

With a sigh of regret he went back inside, closed the door, and lifted the receiver.

'Slade?'

The voice, distorted by distance and mountain telephone cables, was only too recognisable. Slade

tensed, every nerve in his body tautening.

'Stern.'

There was a harsh note of unwelcome in the former racing driver's tone, a tightening of his lips, an urge to

slam the receiver back on its cradle. Yet curiosity prevailed. He knew only too well what Seamark's

racing-team manager wanted, but he felt himself compelled to listen. A last throw on Seamark's part,

more harsh words, and then it would all be over for good. In no way would Mark Slade ever return to

the circuits.

'I rang earlier.' A hint of annoyance, presumption. Stern had always expected everyone to jump to his

immediate command, almost as though Slade should have sat by the telephone in anticipation. No, the

implication was that the driver should have made the call in the first place.

'How the hell did you find me?'

'I made enquiries.'

Slade let it pass. Stern would not reveal the source of his information. It was pointless pursuing the

matter.

'I heard the phone ringing.' Slade seized upon the earliest opportunity to provoke the other. 'I just let it

ring. That's my policy now. I'm going to contact the engineers tomorrow. Get 'em to take it out. I don't

need it. I've no calls to make, and I don't anticipate receiving any, either.'

'You're bloody crazy, Mark,'

'That's my privilege.'

Slade was tempted to slam the receiver down. There was no point, though. Stern would only ring again.

Persistently. He was another, like Slade himself, who never gave up. Never took no for an answer. Well,

this was one time he would have to.

'Daytona is only next February. The Riverside rounds begin in January. There isn't much time.'

'So what?'

'What d'you mean, "so what"? You can't lay off much longer, Mark. You've got to get behind the wheel

again pretty quick. Martin tested a car yesterday. A Chevy, tuned to the specifications laid down. He

clocked 170. We can do it this time, Mark. No doubt about that.'

'Let Martin drive at Daytona, then.'

'Don't be fucking stupid. He's fine on a test-run. No competition experience, though.'

'Well, start training him. He's got the makings of a top-class IROC driver.'

'We don't bloody well want Martin to drive at Daytona. There isn't time, anyway. He hasn't the

experience, maybe not the nerve when it comes to the real thing.'

Mark Slade sighed audibly. When would everybody stop talking about nerve? He contemplated telling

Stern the truth, changed his mind. No, he'd taken his last bow in his own way. Conned everybody.

'I've made my pile.'

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PARTONETHEHAMMERTONCURSECHAPTERONETHEGIRLstruggled,triedtofightoffherrisingpanicaswellasthemanwhoheldher,buthepulledherback.Sheswungwildlyathimscreamingherfearandfrustration.'Letgoofme,Steve.Iwanttolook.''No.'Hespokefirmly,asilhouetteagainstthestarlightofawarmAugustnight.'That'sonethingI'mnotgoingto...

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Guy N. Smith - Blood Circuit

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