S.T.I.N.K.B.O.M.B. Page 4

  ‘Listen, Archie, the likelihood is that you have a natural flair for combat sports,’ Archie’s father said, toggling the gearstick into sixth.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Archie sniggered. ‘That I was born to be some sort of ninja warrior?’ He started karate-chopping an imaginary opponent. ‘HiiiyAAH!’

  ‘Sort of,’ Richard replied with a mysterious shrug.

  Archie looked at his father, whose eyes remained fixed on the winding road ahead. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Richard hunched his shoulders. ‘I have my reasons. If this Newman kid comes after you again – and you really can’t avoid it – don’t think too hard. Just let your instincts guide you.’

  Archie nodded solemnly then, stifling a chuckle, he said, ‘OK, I will try to feel the force, Obi-Wan Kenobi.’

  The car crested the brow of a hill and emerged from the shade of the forest into the dazzling glow of the late afternoon sun.

  ‘Have you been flying today?’ Archie asked at last, keen to move on from their weird conversation.

  ‘I went up for about an hour – just some aeros for that scientific survey. They called this morning and asked if we could start the study a week early.’ Richard held out his arm to show Archie the black rubber strap round his wrist. He had volunteered to take part in a two-week clinical study of the physiological effects of high G flying manoeuvres run by the RAF University Cranfield. As well as the wristbands, which recorded his oxygen levels and blood pressure, he had a heart monitor strapped round his chest and his vital statistics were continuously being recorded and transmitted to his secure profile on the university website. ‘I pulled four G at the bottom of the loop and negative three rolling off the top,’ he reported, sliding on a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  ‘And your old ticker held out OK?’ Archie asked with mock surprise.

  ‘So far so good,’ Richard laughed, patting his chest.

  ‘Are we still going flying on Saturday?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.’ Richard blew some air through his lips and paused. ‘I don’t think it’s going to work out this weekend. It’s better if we lay off the flying for while.’

  Archie felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. ‘Is this because I messed up the spin recovery?’ he asked weakly. ‘I can crack it, I know I can. Just give me one more chance to show you I’ve learned from what happened the other day.’

  ‘Listen, all I’m saying–’

  ‘You think I’m not good enough, is that it?’

  ‘If anyone ever found out about you flying the Dragonfly I could lose my licence – for good.’

  ‘I know I let you down the other day but—’

  ‘Look, I’m just saying we can’t do it this weekend.’

  ‘But you promised to teach me how to do a Cuban Eight.’

  ‘Archie, you’re not listening to me.’

  ‘Mum always said a promise is a promise.’

  Richard’s jaw muscles flexed and he inhaled through his nose. ‘Your mother would never have let me start teaching you in the first place, young man,’ he said coldly.

  Archie knew from his father’s tone that their discussion was over. Since his mother had died three years ago he felt as if his craving for his father’s approval was stronger than ever, and that his father had steadily grown more distant.

  Archie blipped his window down a few inches and closed his eyes, allowing the cool air to buffet his face. Sulking, he sighed as loudly as he could – twice – thinking about the verbal exchange he’d just had with his father. His father hadn’t actually agreed that Archie had let him down. But what stuck in Archie’s mind and twisted his gut was that he hadn’t denied it either.

  Then a wailing siren ripped through the tranquil evening. Richard Hunt glanced into his rear-view mirror while Archie turned in his seat to see through the rear windscreen. Flashing its headlights and approaching at high speed was a navy BMW with blacked-out windows and a blue light rippling along its dashboard.

  ‘You’ve been busted, Dad,’ said Archie, feeling a strange sense of triumph. ‘How fast were you going?’

  Richard checked his speedometer then all three mirrors. ‘No more than fifty.’

  Another blast of the siren made Archie turn anxiously in his seat. ‘Er, I’m pretty sure they want you to pull over,’ he observed, spying the BMW through the narrow gap between his seat and its headrest. The vehicle was now startlingly close, its front grille and bonnet out of view below the Audi’s rear screen.

  ‘Seriously Dad,’ said Archie, a note of concern registering in his voice. ‘They really want us to stop.’

  ‘I know, kiddo.’ Archie’s father dropped the clutch and toggled the gearstick into third. Then, with a final glance in his rear-view mirror, he floored the accelerator and the turbocharged Audi sped away from the BMW like a rocket.

  ‘Dad! What are you doing?’ demanded Archie as the force of the acceleration thrust him against his seat.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Richard, paddling his feet on the clutch and accelerator pedals as he negotiated a dipping right-hand bend at ninety miles per hour. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  The BMW responded promptly and powerfully to Hunt’s attempted escape. Within a few seconds it was right on the Audi’s tail again, its siren screaming and lights pulsing.

  Coordinating power with swift, aggressive turns of the steering wheel, Archie’s father expertly negotiated a series of tight curves, sliding the Audi sideways through the bends like a professional rally driver. But when the road opened out into a long stretch, the BMW’s superior straight-line speed was enough to close the gap between the cars.

  It’s not slowing down!’ Archie screamed.

  Then, with an almighty metallic crunch, the BMW rammed the Audi’s rear end.

  ‘What are they playing at?’ shouted Archie as his head jerked back against his seat.

  ‘I don’t know,’ his father said grimly, fighting to stop the Audi’s tail spinning out of control. ‘But I’m not planning on hanging around to find out.’

  The cars raced along, nose to tail, for a few terrifying seconds but eventually the Audi’s superior manoeuvrability paid off and the BMW dropped out of sight in Richard Hunt’s mirrors.

  ‘Do you think we lost them?’ asked Archie anxiously.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ his father replied, accelerating out of a corner and speeding down a straight cliff-top stretch.

  Peering over the back of his seat, Archie spotted a pair of headlights pop over the brow of a distant hump. The BMW scorched over the tarmac like a missile and within a few seconds it had almost caught them up and, as before, showed no sign of slowing down.

  It’s going to ram us again,’ warned Archie, bracing himself in his seat.

  But instead of barging the Audi from behind, the BMW swerved into the opposite lane and pulled up alongside it.

  Suddenly the BMW cut across the Audi’s path, nudging its nose sideways with the crunch of bending sheet metal. Richard dabbed the brake pedal and waggled the steering wheel to keep the car straight. The BMW pulled over again and eased back on its speed, dropping back until it was level with the Audi.

  ‘Why don’t we just stop and explain that we weren’t speeding?’ pleaded Archie.

  Richard shook his head. ‘Trust me, that’s exactly what they want us to do. Double-check your seat belt and sit back.’

  The two cars raced over the tarmac at terrific speed, only inches apart. Within a few seconds the BMW had pulled ahead again and swerved suddenly to its left. This time it clipped the Audi’s nose with a hefty thump and the cars ground together with a piercing screech, sending a plume of sparks spewing into the air. Richard tried to hold the Audi straight against the impact but its back end began to swing out. He spun the wheel frantically to correct it and the tail snapped into line – but only for an instant. As the Audi’s rear swung out the other way, Archie’s father spun the wheel back but there was nothing he could do to stop the
vehicle spinning out of control.

  From the moment the car began gliding sideways Archie felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. After a couple of seconds the Audi rotated into an elegant pirouette and the outside world started spinning round him as if he was on a merry-go-round.

  Even when the car flipped on to its roof and the contents of the glovebox and the door pockets rattled around the cabin, Archie was overcome with an eerie sense of calm.

  The Audi tumbled and twisted, bouncing from its roof to its side again and again. Archie was aware of metal bending and glass shattering and knew he was thrashing about in his seat but he felt no emotion in response to the carnage around him – it was as if he was watching the events play out on TV. He didn’t notice his father’s flailing hand punch the button on his seat-belt buckle, clicking it open.

  By the time his airbag inflated Archie was unconscious so he was oblivious when the impact of another bounce twisted the car’s chassis to such an extent that his passenger door popped open.

  On the Audi’s sixth violent, destructive revolution Archie’s limp body was thrown clear of the vehicle, sailing five metres into the air before landing in a thick clump of cliff-top gorse.

  On its seventh roll the car bounced over the edge of the precipice, taking Archie’s father with it. Its engine was still revving as it arced over the narrow beach far below and plummeted nose first into the sea beyond, spraying a sheet of water high into the air. In a matter of seconds the Audi filled with water, its nose bobbed downward and it sank without trace.

  Archie lay still with his eyes closed, wondering if he was alive or dead. His whole body was throbbing like one big bruise, his head was pounding and his left shoulder felt like someone was drilling a hole in it. I must be alive, he thought. Being dead can’t possibly be this painful.

  Slowly he opened his eyes, blinking hard a few times to encourage them to focus, and looked up at the sky – which, weirdly, was covered in polystyrene tiles. As he tried to turn his head a sharp spike of agony shot up his neck and jabbed at the base of his skull. Relaxing his neck muscles he slowly assessed his surroundings.

  He was in a square room with white walls and a blue linoleum floor. There was a portable TV in one corner, a small chest of drawers and a tired-looking easy chair, angled to face the bed. He had a clip on the end of one finger, which was wired to an LCD monitor and a second screen was wired up to his chest.

  The door opened and Archie’s grandmother bustled in carrying a mug of tea and a copy of the Daily Mail. She looked weak and tired. Her skin was pale, almost grey, and the flesh beneath her eyes was puffy.

  ‘Hello, Nan,’ Archie tried to say, but no sound came out. He worked some saliva round his mouth, swallowed and tried again. This time his voice was a croaky whisper.

  ‘Well, look who’s finally decided to wake up.’ Megan Hunt smiled brightly, setting down her mug and sliding her hand into his. ‘How are you feeling, lazybones?’

  ‘Achy bones would be more like it,’ croaked Archie.

  ‘You’ve had a nasty accident, love. You’re in hospital.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ Archie winced with pain. ‘I was thinking if this was my bedroom the new decorator must be rubbish.’

  Archie’s grandmother smiled, the wrinkles round her eyes forming deep creases. ‘Do you remember what happened to you?’ she said softly.

  Archie gave a small nod. ‘This police car wanted us to pull over,’ he said, frowning.

  His grandmother nodded. ‘Christchurch Police Station had sent out a couple of officers to talk to your father but nobody seems to know what it was all about.’

  ‘But Dad refused to stop,’ Archie said, puzzled. ‘They chased us for ages then they ran us off the road. I remember the car was rolling but after that it’s all a blank. I told Dad to stop but …’

  ‘He must have had good reason to keep going. He would never have acted recklessly, especially with you in the car. He loved you more than anything.’

  Archie felt suddenly sick as his grandmother’s hand tightened its grip on his.

  ‘You mean loves,’ he said urgently. ‘You said he loved me but you meant loves, didn’t you?’

  As Archie watched his grandmother’s eyes fill with tears he felt as if he was sinking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Archie love,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  An hour later Archie was still staring up at the polystyrene ceiling tiles and trying to come to terms with the hideous news. It had been barely three years since his mother had been knocked down and killed in a hit-and-run accident, and life without her was something he was still dealing with. Some days were better than others but at some point every day he missed her so much that he felt like he might crumble on the spot. In those moments the thing that had kept him going was his father.

  Part of Archie had felt that he had to keep going to secure his father’s respect, while another part of him suspected his father needed someone to lean on just as much as he did.

  Since his mother’s death, Archie’s father had become withdrawn and more serious, as if the responsibility of raising a child on his own meant that hugs and silliness were luxuries he rarely had time for.

  Archie suddenly remembered the final cross words he had exchanged with his father, and the notion that his father had died feeling disappointed in him crashed down on him. He rolled agonisingly on to his side and eased his hands under his pillow. On the bedside table was his laptop and a pile of books and games that his grandmother had brought in for him.

  His gran had told him that when he’d been thrown from his father’s car some dense bushes had broken his fall. But the Audi had rolled over a cliff and landed in the sea. Police divers had inspected the car but his father’s body had not been found so officials were working on the theory that it had been taken out to sea by strong tides.

  As Archie stared blankly ahead he found himself looking at the monitor displaying the output from his heart, which was pulsing at a steady fifty-eight beats per minute. His father couldn’t possibly be dead, he thought defiantly. If he could survive all those combat missions and assignments behind enemy lines there was no way a simple car crash would kill him. And what’s more, his body still hadn’t been found.

  He couldn’t believe his father was dead. He wouldn’t believe it.

  Then, as he stared at the trace of his own heartbeat, he had an idea and his pulse rate leaped immediately up to a hundred.

  Ignoring the grinding pain in his joints, Archie pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached across to his bedside table. Sliding his computer from under the books he set it on his lap and opened it. The screen blinked into life and Archie’s fingers danced over the keyboard.

  Within a minute he was staring at the RAF University Cranfield home page. A few clicks later he was on a page entitled ‘Physiological Studies in Aviation’. He was prompted for his email address and the keys purred as he typed in his father’s address – then his fingers froze as he stared at the message on the screen:

  Enter Password

  He should have realised that all the data gathered for the study would be protected. ‘How about this?’ he mumbled, typing the word Dragonfly and clicking the submit button.

  A boxed message popped up on the screen in red lettering:

  Sorry, the details you have entered

  have not been recognised.

  Archie bit his lip. Then he typed his own name into the password field but the same message appeared – and again when he entered Lara, his mother’s name. A host of famous people he knew his father admired such as sportsmen, explorers and aviation pioneers received the same blunt refusal.

  Changing tack, Archie typed in a selection of significant dates such as his father’s birthday, his birthday, his parents’ wedding anniversary, the date of the first moon landing, the numbers of all the squadrons his father had ever belonged to. When that failed he combined dates and names in countless combinations, with capitals, without capitals, with th
e numbers first and last. In desperation he tried flying terminology. Ailerons, loop, horizon. All rejected.

  Archie sat back against his crisp white pillows and let out a long breath. He could feel a coating of sweat on his skin as he stared at the blinking cursor, utterly bewildered and defeated. Just as he was about to close the laptop he noticed some small font at the bottom of the screen.

  Click here for password hint.

  Feeling a rush of hope he clicked on the prompt and held his breath as he read his father’s clue.

  I keep it up my sleeve.

  Archie immediately knew what the hint referred to.

  His father had often told him how he’d fallen head over heels for his mother when they’d met at university. Walking home late one night with some of his friends, Richard Hunt had passed a twenty-four-hour tattoo parlour, which seemed at the time to offer the perfect opportunity to prove to Lara how serious he was about her. When she saw the tattoo the next day, Archie’s mother had joked that it was a touching gesture but that she’d prefer a bunch of flowers next time.

  Archie’s father had spent the next twenty-five years feeling slightly embarrassed by the permanent reminder of his youthful impulsiveness – the word Lara inscribed for evermore within an image of a heart on his upper arm.

  Archie smiled to himself as he typed the word heart and tapped the enter key.

  This time there was no rejection message and four charts flashed on to the screen. Eagerly, he scanned the information in front of him. The top three charts’ vertical axes were labelled Blood Pressure, Oxygen Saturation and Pulse Rate, while they all had a common horizontal scale labelled Time. The fourth chart, which could be overlaid on to any of the others with the click of the mouse, was a plot of G-force versus time, which Archie guessed was fed by the flight data recorder on his father’s Dragonfly.

  As he scrolled across the graphs he could see that his father’s pulse had been elevated for a period of about an hour the previous morning, which corresponded to some spikes on the G-force chart ranging from plus four to negative three. His heartbeat had returned to a normal rate in the mid-50s shortly after that flight and had remained in that region until 4.49 in the afternoon – when he’d been driving Archie home from his swimming lesson.