My eyes widen. This sounds great. ‘Really? Can I?’
‘Er, a quad bike. I don’t think—’ Mum begins.
‘Sephy, let the boy go and have some fun. He’ll be fine and it’s perfectly safe as long as he sticks to the tracks,’ Sonny interjects. ‘Troy, feel free to go anywhere you like except north to the quarry, OK? It’s not safe up there and, if you fall into one of the many caves or pits up there, it could be weeks before we find your corpse.’
I start to laugh. Sonny doesn’t. Instead, he raises an eyebrow at me. Oh my God, he’s serious.
‘Fair enough,’ I reply, the smile dying on my face. ‘I’ll head round the lake and through the woods.’
‘Just stick to the established tracks and you won’t get lost or in any trouble, OK?’
I nod vigorously. Mum still doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t tell me no.
‘Troy, make sure you wear your jumper and jacket,’ she says.
‘But, Mum—’
‘Jumper and jacket or forget it,’ says Mum firmly.
I exchange a long-suffering look with Sonny, who smiles in sympathy.
‘Sonny, tell her!’ I plead.
‘Are you having a laugh?’ He splutters. ‘Me? Get between the two of you? I don’t think so.’
No help there then.
Reluctantly, I put on my jumper and jacket. Beads of sweat are already breaking out on my forehead and my armpits are prickling.
‘Let’s go, Troy. I’ll show you how the quad bikes work,’ says Sonny.
‘Sonny—’ Mum still isn’t happy.
‘Don’t worry, Seph,’ he soothes. ‘My quad bikes are so easy to manage, a four-year-old could ride them.’
We head to Sonny’s garage, which is like the showroom of an upmarket car dealership. It is huge, almost as big as the downstairs of his house. Luxury cars I’ve only seen on TV line one wall. Motorcycles requiring serious muscles to control line the opposite one.
‘This is something else.’ I’m wide-eyed like a child at Crossmas. ‘These are all yours?’
‘Every one of them,’ Sonny says. He’s not boasting, just stating a fact.
After I pick his brains about a couple of his vintage cars, he leads the way to his three quad bikes.
‘They’re for me and my two nieces,’ he explains.
Sonny shows me how they work, and what he told Mum about how easy they are to manage isn’t a lie. Right foot pedal to go. Left foot pedal to stop. Steering wheel to steer. Emergency stop cord around my wrist to immediately cut power to the engine should I fall out. Push button to start. And that was it. Five minutes later, I’m heading for the lake, whooping with glee as Sonny chortles behind me. I’ve never been on a quad bike before and it is the boss!
‘One hour, Troy. No longer.’ Mum appears at the back door to call after me.
‘Yes, Mum!’ I call back without even looking round.
I have one hour and I intend to make the most of every single second.
Sticking to the tracks, I drive round the lake several times. During my second lap, I pull off my jacket and jumper, dumping them in the seat beside me, and I feel better for it. The lake water glistens blue and gold in the sunlight, like liquid diamonds. The air smells so … clean. No diesel, no petrol fumes, no pissy aromas. I could get used to this! I head for the woods, lifting my foot off the accelerator so I don’t go crashing into anything. After all, it’s not my quad bike. Driving through the trees is a revelation. I don’t have to race to still enjoy myself. At first I think the only sounds are from birdsong and the quad bike, but, as I listen, I realize my mistake. There’s an underlying rhythm to the stillness, almost like the woods are breathing. The crackle of twigs, the sound of lapping water, a hoot, a dog barking far away. I can well understand now why Sonny bought this place. If I had serious money, I’d do the same.
Weather-wise, the temperature is just how I like it – cool but sunny. Even the slight chill in the air can’t dampen my excitement. After exploring the woods for ages, I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes left – and the only place I haven’t yet checked out is the quarry.
If I take it slowly and carefully, what harm can it do? What’s the point of having all this land if some of it is out of bounds? I leave the woods by the track furthest away from the house, and, once I’m sure I can’t be spotted from any of the windows, I head north. The dirt track is worn, but that’s the worst of it as far as I can see. No potholes, no troughs, no cave-ins, no caves. Am I missing something? I head further north at a slowish speed.
What was Sonny talking about?
This route is no more dangerous than any of the others on his estate. I round a bend in the track skirting a fringe of trees, and then I see it about twenty metres ahead. Like some titan has taken a huge scoop out of the earth and left a massive hole instead. The quarry. I slow right down as I approach, my foot barely on the accelerator pedal. Ten metres from the edge I stop the quad bike and get off. I edge forward like I’m a hundred and ninety, not wanting the ground to suddenly give way beneath me. Maybe this was what Sonny meant about caves and cave-ins. If the ground is going to collapse anywhere, it’d be here.
One step.
Another.
I peer over the lip of the quarry. Far below I can see the smashed remains of two cars and the burnt-out remnants of one other. How long have they been down there? And why would Sonny allow anyone to use the quarry on his land as a dumping ground for vehicles? I can’t tell the make of the burnt-out car, but, of the smashed-up ones, isn’t the one closest to the lip of the quarry a Whitman Scorpius? A navy blue one, by the look of it. I frown. What a waste of a classic car. Why would anyone—?
A dark blue Whitman Scorpius.
I fall to my knees. Minutes pass as I stare down at the mangled yet still identifiable car. There must be some mistake. I keep searching for proof that I’m wrong – but I’m not.
I don’t know how much time passes. The cold of the ground seeps into my bones. Or am I the one freezing the earth beneath me? Numb, I finally get to my feet.
That car …
The same make and model that killed my dad in the hit-and-run incident.
It has to be a coincidence. It just has to be. Eyes down, I head back to the quad bike. Thoughts sting like angry wasps as I gingerly turn it round, only to find I’m no longer alone. Up ahead on the only track away from the quarry sits Sonny on another quad bike, watching me.
nineteen. Libby
* * *
‘Who’s my dad, Mum?’
Mum scowls at me. ‘How long are you going to keep this up, Libby?’
How long have you got? ‘Who’s my dad, Mum?’
Late Sunday afternoon and my attention isn’t on my homework or even on the forthcoming school election. It’s on my dad. I have so many questions there’s no room in my head for anything else.
‘You and I have no more to say to each other until you tell me who my dad is,’ I tell Mum again. If she thinks I’m joking, she’s going to find out otherwise.
‘Maybe I don’t know,’ says Mum.
‘Really? You’ve been taking money from this man for almost eighteen years, but you don’t know who he is? I’m supposed to believe that?’