And the doc.u.ment pouch on the desk.

He ripped off the seals and skimmed through the paperwork standard challenge doc.u.mentation, agreement to waive normal legal protection, itemised rules and references to the zo4x (revised) corporate road charter. Duel envelope details, satellite blow-ups and recent road surface commentary from the relevant service providers. It was the MI I run, practically from his front door, down through the underpa.s.s and up over the vaulted section, the Gullet, across the north-eastern zones and down. The old favourite. No motorway changes, no ramps, just into the pipe and drive. Brutal, simple stuff.

In his jacket pocket, the mobile queeped. After ten days without the phone, it took him a moment to realise what it was. He took it out, identified a video call from Liz and accepted.

'Chris.' She stared out of the tiny screen at him, a little haggard around the eyes, he noticed, and couldn't help being slightly flattered.

'Thank Christ for that, you're out.'

'You must be paying a lot for your tips.'

Her smile was strained. 'Tricks of the trade, Chris. Journalism, I mean. You know what's happening, I take it.'

'Yeah, I got a full briefing yesterday. Has Mike been in touch?'

'Yeah.' She winced. 'Not a conversation I want to repeat.'

Chris tried to think of something vaguely intelligent to say. 'I guess he was a lot more serious about you than he liked to show.'

'Yeah, and about you too, Chris. That's what really hurt, apparently.

As far as I could make out between the expletives.''Yeah, well.'

A long pause.

'Chris, are you really going to--'

'I don't really want to talk about it, Liz.'

'No. Right.' She hesitated. 'Do you want Ine to come over?'

Again, the pitching sickness in his stomach. The sheer f.u.c.king disbelief at what was going to happen. A rising, swelling bubble of fear.

'I, uh '

'Fine. It's okay, I understand.'

'Good.'

358The conversation fizzled for a few more seconds, then died. They said goodbyes that were almost formal, and he hung up.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the phone for a while.

Finally, he called Mike.

'h.e.l.lo, Chris.' There was a flatness in Bryant's voice and eyes that told him everything he needed to know. He could have hung up there and then.

He gave it a shot.

'Mike, you can't be serious about this s.h.i.t.'

'What s.h.i.t is that, Chris? The trail-of-bodies-in-Shorn-conference chambers s.h.i.t? The political-alignment-with-terrorists s.h.i.t? Or did you mean the f.u.c.k-your-best-friend's-woman s.h.i.t?'

'Hey. You're married to Suki, not Liz.'

'Do the words you don't f.u.c.king make my marital decisions for me sound familiar?'

'Listen Mike, I'm coming in to the office. We're going to talk about '

'No, we're not. I'm taking a half day today. Spending it with Suki, you'll be pleased to hear.'

'Then I'll come and see you there.'

'You do and I'll kick your f.u.c.king teeth down your throat on the doorstep.' Mike's top lip drew back from his teeth. 'You just stay where you are and luck Liz a couple more times, while you've still got the chance. If you can get it up right now, that is.'

Chris snapped.

'Ah, f.u.c.k you then. a.s.shole.t I'll see you on the f.u.c.king road.p'

He hurled the phone across the room. It hit the wall and bounced, undamaged, to the floor.

He made one more call. Two, to be completely accurate, but when he called the house in Hawkspur Green, no one answered. He shrugged philosophically and dug Erik Nyquist's number out of the phone's memory. Leaking oil in a head-on collision. It could hardly hurt more than what he'd already swallowed.The Norwegian was curiously gentle with him.

'She's not here, Chris,' he said. 'And honestly, even if she was, I doubt she'd talk to you.'

'That's fine, I uh, I understand. Uh, do you know if she's gone home?

To the house, I mean. I tried her there, not to talk to, only .to warn her I'm coming, I mean.' He heard the choppy stumbling of his own speech and stopped. He rubbed at his face, glad Erik didn't have videophone capacity. 'I'm going out to collect the Saab this afternoon. I didn't want to surprise her, you know, if she didn't want to, uh, to see me.'

359'She hasn't gone to the house,' said Nyquist, and Chris knew then she was there, mayhe standing next to her father in the cranped, damp smelling confines of the hall, maybe off in the kitchen, back to it all, trying not to listen.

'Okay.' He cleared his throat of an unlooked-for obstruction.

'Listen, Erik. Tell her. When you see her, I mean, tell her she needs to stay resident in the UK for the next six months. Otherwise, uh, the terms of my will are invalidated. You know, the share options and mortgage insurance on the house? If she's gone, back to Norway, Shorn'll get the lot. So, uh. Makes sense for her to stick around, you "know. '

There was a lot of silence before Erik answered.

'I'll tell her,' he said.

'Great.'

More silence. Neither man seemed ready to hang up.

'You're going to drive then?' Nyquist asked him finally.

Chris was relieved to find he could still manage a laugh. 'Well, let's just say the other options aren't great.'

'You can't run?'

'Shame on you, Erik. Run, from the filthy corporate monsters of Conflict Investment?' He grew abruptly serious, fighting the up bubbling fear. 'There's no way, Erik. They've got me checked, filed and monitored. That f.u.c.ked-up system you're always raging about?

That system'll be locked up against any move I try to make. Plastic selectively invalidated, corporate police checking ports and airports. To put not too fine a point to it, if I don't roll out the wheels tomorrow, I'm a common criminal on my way to the jag gurney.'

Nyquist hesitated. 'Can you beat him? Carla says--'

'I don't know, Erik. Get back to me tomorrow afternoon, I'll have an answer for you.'

The Norwegian chuckled dutifully. Chris felt his own face take up the echo. He was suddenly, almost tearfully thankful for the older man's unhostile presence on the line. The instinctive male solidarity, the shoring up of his desperate bravado. He suddenly understood how badly he had failed to do the same thing for Erik at the crisis points in his father-in-law's life. How he'd taken the Norwegian's own cornered bravado at face value, failed to see it for what it was, berated him for itand cut him loose to suffer alone. With the realisation, something lodged in his throat.

'From what I understand,' Nyquist was saying, 'we'll all know by then. In fact we'll all be watching you crack open the champagne. The networks have been ad-screaming about full coverage since yesterday.

Sponsored by Pirelli and BMW, they say.'

360Chris's grin melted into a grimace. 'So. No prizes for guessing who they think's going to win, then.'

'Almost worth beating him just to p.i.s.s them off, huh?'

'Yeah, that's right.' He could feel another bubble of fear coming up.

He cleared his throat again. 'Listen, Erik. I've got to go. Things to do, you know. Got to get ready for all that publicity tomorrow. Interviews, fame, all that s.h.i.t. It, uh, it isn't easy being a driving hero.'

'No,' said Nyquist very gently. 'I know.'

He signed the challenge doc.u.mentation, got the hotel to courier it across to Shorn and sat waiting for receipt confirmation. He studied the route blow-ups and the surface reports with desultory attention, tried vaguely to imagine his way inside something resembling a strategy.

He could not focus on anything. He kept skittering off into day dreams. His thoughts slowed down, fragmented to useless shards.

He heard Carla's voice.

Even drunk, even like that, he's the best I've seen.

Hewitt's voice.

l/Vhen Mike Bryant drives you off the road on Friday, Mr Chessman - and he will, because he's harder and faster than you - when that happens He remembered Bryant's driving. Bryant's chess playing. Headlong, full on, joyous in its savagery.

Bryant and the car-jackers. The boom of the Nemex, the tumbling bodies.

Bryant and Griff Dixon. Implacable, precise.

Bryant and Marauder, daring the gangwit forward, grinning into the possibility of it.

Bryant on Crutched Friars, walking empty handed into the duel against five men with shotguns.

He stared at it all, behind the curtain of his closed eyes.

And heard Hewitt again.

Mitsue Jones shot through the head at close range while she was injuredand trapped in wreckage-- ---the blood of an eighty-year-old man on your hands--- You're no f.u.c.king different to me in the end. He wondered if she was right.

Recoiled -automatically as soon as he thought it.

Found himself lying face up on the bed an hour later, exploring the idea gingerly, like a broken bone or a gaping wound he didn't dare look at directly.

Caught himself, finally, hoping it might be true.

Because, in the absence of the consuming hatred that had driven him 361after Edward Quain, he didn't know what else he could summon to keep him alive tomorrow.

He had the cab leave him at the end of the drive.

It felt strange to walk up the gravel S-curve and see the house emerge gradually through the trees. Just being there felt odd enough - he hadn't seen the place in weeks, and even then, before his life broke in half, he couldn't recall the last time he'd zvalked from the road. One weekend, one evening, out with Carla in the village maybe. Back at the start of the summer. He couldn't remember.

He reached the turning circle at the top, and the Saab was there, quiet and sequined with rain. He wondered if Carla had looked at it recently, wondered in fact when it had last been moved. He'd need to road-test it.

Check it for A memory arrowed in past his defences - Carla under the Saab post test-drive, calling out questions about handling, while he stood with a whisky in his hand, watching her feet and answering. Warmth of shared knowledge, shared involvement.

He stared at the Saab, throat aching. The urge to get in and drive somewhere was overwhelming. He stood for a full twenty seconds, like a starving man faced with a large animal that he might just conceivably be able to kill with his bare hands and eat raw. He only moved when the straps on his bags began to cut deep enough into his palms to be painful. Not yet.

He dumped the bags at the front door while he fished the recog tab from his pocket and showed it to the lock. Shouldered the door aside and moved across the threshold. Inside was cold with the lack of recent occupancy and everything had the skin-thin unfamiliarity of return home after long absence. He stood in the lounge, bags dropped once more at his feet, and Carla's departure came and hit him like a hard slap across the mouth.

She'd taken very little, but the holes it had left felt like wounds. The green onyx woman-form she'd bought in Cape Town was gone from its place by the phone deck. Two blunt little metal stubs protruded from a suddenly naked patch of wall where the flattened and engraved Volvo cylinder head from her mechanic's graduation had once hung. On the mantelpiece, something else was gone, like a pulled tooth, he couldn't remember what it was. The framed photos of her friends and family on the window ledge had been weeded out from others of Chris and Carla or Chris alone, and the remaining crop looked stranded on the white wood like yachts run aground. The bookshelves were devastated, the bulk of their occupants gone, the rest fallen flat or leaning forlornly together in corners.362He had no stomach for the rest of the house.

He unpacked his bag across the sofa, slung the Nemex and his recently acquired Remington into an armchair. The sight of the weapons brought him up short. He'd never brought the Nemex inside before this, he realised. Even when they went to the Brundtland that f.u.c.king night, he'd had to get it from the glove compartment of the Saab. It felt as alien now, perched on the soft leather of the armchair, as the absences where Carla had taken things away. It felt, in an odd way, like an absence of its own.

He picked up the shotgun, because it delayed the time when he'd have to go upstairs to the bedroom. He pumped the action a couple of times, deriving a thin satisfaction from the powder-dry clack-clack that it made. He lost himself in the mechanism for a while, put the thing to his shoulder and tracked around the room like a child playing at war, pausing and firing on the s.p.a.ces Carla had left and, finally, on the image of himself in the hall entrance mirror. He stared for a long time at the man who stood there, lowered the Remington for a moment to get a better look, then pumped the action rapidly, threw the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger again.

He went out to the car.

Later, as evening was falling, he parked again and went back into the house for the second time. With darkness shading in outside and the lights on, the blank absence of things and Carla seemed less brutal.

He'd already eaten. He locked the door and went straight up to the bedroom. Carla had taken her scrubbed granite a.n.a.logue clock from the bedside table and the only other time-piece in the room was on the dressing table, an old Casio digital alarm they'd bought together at some antique auction years back. Chris lay in the dark for a long time staring at its steady green numerals, watching the seconds of his life turn over, watching as the last minutes of the day counted down to zero and the new morning of the duel began.

He didn't sleep. He couldn't see the point.

363FORTY-SIX.

They were talking about him as he turned on the TV.

'--for a driver of that rank. It's not really what you expect, is it, Liz?'

'I think that depends, Ron.' She was resplendent in a figure-hugging black scoop-necked jersey, light make-up, hair pinned carelessly up.

Looking at her made him ache. 'It's true Faulkner's form since Quain has been variable, but that doesn't necessarily make it bad. I know from interviewing him myself that he simply doesn't see blanket savagery as an a.s.set.'

'Whereas Mike Bryant does.'

'Well, again, I think you're simplifying. Mike's form is more consistent, more conservative you might say, and yes, he certainly isn't afraid to go foot to the floor when it counts. But he's not cast in the same thug mould as, say, someone like Yeo at Mariner Sketch or some of the imported drivers we've got from Eastern Europe. That's savagery as a default setting. That's not Bryant at all.'

'You know them both quite well.'