It was six‐thirty in the evening now. Six‐thirty on Sunday evening. Percy was getting ready. Up in his room with the door locked he was going over all the things he’d be needing. They were spread out on the bed in front of him. There was his knuckle‐duster – the Hedgehog. And a pair of kid gloves that wouldn’t leave fingerprints. And a screw‐driver. And a pair of dark glasses that might come in handy. And his cosh. Last of all there was his bunch of car keys.
‘Only fools carry a gun,’ he said to console himself for not having one.
When he was ready he put on an old raincoat and a scarf and got down his second best trilby. It was a soft one with a snap brim that would come right down over his face if necessary. He hadn’t done much all day except dress‐up. He’d been too jumpy. He’d started off in his best purple with a nice brown tie and a pair of near patents. Then he told himself that there weren’t very many of that type of suiting about in London. And what was the use of making yourself an eyeful when you wanted just to be one of the crowd? So he changed into his light check. That was better. A lot of gentlemen wore light checks, especially with summer coming in. But all the same it was conspicuous. Not actually an eyeful like the purple, but still conspicuous. And that wasn’t what he wanted. So he changed a second time. He was now wearing his old blue pin‐stripe. That was all right. Half London wore old blue pin‐stripes.
As he came out of his room, Mrs Boon saw him.
‘Oh Percy,’ she said. ‘Not going out.’
He sidled past her.
‘Shan’t be long, Mum,’ he muttered.
But to‐night of all nights, when his hands were trembling so much already that he had to keep them behind his back, Mrs Boon chose to be difficult.
‘I never have you at home, Percy,’ she said. ‘You’re always going somewhere.’
‘No I’m not,’ he answered sullenly, not looking up into her face as he was speaking. ‘Just want to get some air.’
‘But what are you wearing those awful old clothes for? You look…’
‘Because I gotta go into the garage on the way, that’s why,’ he told her. ‘Can’t a chap take an interest in his job without …’
‘Oh all right,’ Mrs Boon answered. ‘But I never know with you, I don’t really.’
And as he went on down the stairs, he heard Mrs Boon asking when he’d be back. But he was too far down to make any reply. Better pretend he hadn’t heard her.
Outside dusk was gathering. There was still some light, but the edges of everything had been blurred. Softened. At that moment Kennington wasn’t in brick any longer: it was in crayon. Some of the windows had lights in them, and the interiors looked cosy and inviting. His own window was shining when he glanced back up at it. But what caught his eye was a flock of pigeons wheeling round in the sky above Dulcimer Street, catching the declining sun as they turned. Each time their wings were lit up coral‐coloured for a moment and then turned grey again.
Percy extended his forefinger like a pistol and pointed it at them.
‘If I had a gun I could get one of them. Get the whole lot if I had a gun.’
But he wasn’t serious. Only fooling. He’d just said that to take his mind off his mother. What right had she got to question him? He’d never done her any harm, had he? There he was, setting out to do a job, a hot lift, and he’d been scolded by his mother. It made him look silly.
It meant, too, that he couldn’t keep his mind on his business. He had to keep on reminding himself where he was going. Even when he got on to the No. 3 bus and booked right through to the Crystal Palace it seemed that this was just some ordinary jaunt that he was out on. He didn’t feel any different from the other people on the bus.
But he was different, Voice No. 1 reminded him. Very different. They hadn’t got any ambition. They were just ordinary. They’d stick where they were, while he climbed upwards. He wouldn’t be riding in buses much longer. He’d be going about in a car. Not just a lifted car, either. His car.
When he got to the end of the journey, he looked about him for a bit. It was the sort of district that he liked. Nice class. With detached villas and neat gardens and little garages. He could just see himself setting up in one of those with Doris. Perhaps they’d join a tennis club. He’d never actually played tennis but he could learn, couldn’t he? All the same he mustn’t start dreaming now. He’d got work to do first.
The light was just right for him as he walked along to the Carlton. Not too dark for him to see what he was doing and dark enough for other people not to see him. It was a big new cinema, the Carlton, with a large car park beside it. From the look of the place there were a hundred different cars that he could choose from. He strolled along on the opposite side of the road and hung about as though waiting for someone. Nothing out of the way in that. Outside cinemas there are always chaps hanging about for their girls. And in any case, it was essential to the plan. He couldn’t afford to pinch a car just when the owner might be coming back to get into it. He wanted a car that had only just been left there. One with the driving seat still warm. Something that would give him a clear three hours if it was a long picture before the alarm was raised. So he leant up against a wall and watched.
First of all a small Morris with dented wings came along keeping very close to the opposite kerb as though avoiding him. It turned and made its way into the car park in the same furtive manner, like a cat squeezing into the pantry. Percy let his eyes rest on it for a moment and then looked away again. There’d probably be better later. And sure enough there was. A natty little Riley with its radiator all covered with the badges of Continental Touring Clubs drew up at the barrier. Percy ran his tongue across his lips: they were dry. Then he pulled himself together. The Riley was no use to him. It bristled. He wanted something a bit smoother.
And while he stood there, along it came. An almost new Austin 12.
‘Like a lamb to the slaughter,’ he told himself. ‘Like a bleeding lamb to the slaughter.’
He ran his tongue across his lips again. His heart was thumping now.
‘It’s yours,’ said Voice No. 1. ‘Don’t do anything silly. Think first. And it’s yours.’
‘Suppose they get you,’ Voice No. 2 came. ‘You’d be for it, you would.’
But it was too late now to listen to No. 2. Percy came forward, still keeping in the shadows to see whereabouts in the car park the Austin was going to be put. And it couldn’t have been better. Its owner went right down to the far end – the dark end – and backed carefully into a vacant space, coming out again once or twice so as to do the job properly.
‘That’s right,’ Percy thought. ‘Don’t scratch it. Leave it all nice for me like mother makes it.’
He watched while two people, a man and a woman, got out of the car and went into the cinema arm in arm. Their heads were close together and they were talking.
‘Give you something real to talk about,’ he thought. ‘Just you wait till you come out again.’
The couple came out of the car park by the side entrance and went up the broad marble steps into the cinema. Percy fell in a few paces behind them. They were evidently pretty well‐to‐do folk. They bought two‐and‐sixpenny seats. Percy bought the next one and followed them up the stairs. His feet sank into the deep moss‐like carpet.
The half‐crowns were right at the back of the circle. Nice seats. Percy would have liked to spend the rest of the evening in them. It looked a good film, too – girls dancing and hot trumpeters and rhythm. But the usherette was trying to put him right alongside the couple that he was shadowing. And that would never do. He’d got to go outside again, long before they did.
He stood back, and the usherette flashed her torch on to one of the seats in the row behind. This was perfect. Percy sat there, his hat in his lap. He could see just what he wanted to see. The head of the Austin owner showed up like a dark blob against the lower part of the screen.
‘I’ll let ’em get settled first,’ he decided. ‘Let ’em get properly settled, and then I’ll leave ’em here to enjoy themselves.’
It was hot in the cinema, and the palms of his hands were sticky. He undid his raincoat and watched the whole of the next number right through. It wasn’t until the illuminated clock over the Exit showed eight‐fifteen that he got up. As he went he turned and looked over his shoulder. Mr and Mrs Austin were snuggled down in their seats as if it were a sofa.
‘Say good‐bye to baby,’ Percy said under his breath. ‘And ring up the insurance in the morning. Do you good to have a nice walk.’
Nobody seemed to notice that he was leaving the cinema almost as soon as he had sat down. Why should they? They were all far too much interested in the crooner on the screen. And no wonder. He could see every detail of her face. It was about six feet across, and every inch of it was pretty. But Percy wasn’t taking any notice of it. He was on the job. He was one against ten million. He was a free lance.
And he was being careful. He deliberately didn’t put his hat on till he was outside. It would have been a mistake to let other people see him wearing it. He wanted to be two quite different people now. There was the quiet young man without a hat who had taken himself to the picture and then slipped out again because it was boring. And there was the young dare‐devil with a snap brim trilby low over his eyes who drove stolen cars across the plains South of London. And because he was clever Percy didn’t even leave by the same door. He went down to the exit right in the front of the house. It was the exit leading straight into the car park.
During the last fifteen minutes something had happened outside. It was a good deal more than dark now, it was slightly foggy. A thin yellow haze had been smeared over everything. And it just suited him. There were no lights in the car park and a street lamp opposite merely picked out the shadows of the cars. Shadows, that was it. His little bit of business was best done in the shadows.
Beside the exit of the cinema there was a large notice printed in black letters on a white ground. It announced that cars in the car parks were left entirely at the owners’ risk. Percy grinned when he saw it.
‘That’s O.K. by me,’ he thought. ‘And what I’m doing is O.K. by them. So why worry?’
But his body wasn’t as brave as he was. It was trembling again. And he was cold suddenly. So cold that he buttoned his coat right up to the neck to protect himself. As he did so something thumped up against his lip. It was the Hedgehog.
‘Now or never, Percy,’ Voice No. 1 said to him. ‘This is your big chance, chum.’
The lock in the car door gave him a bit more trouble than he had expected. None of the keys he’d got were any good for it. And the windows were shut fast to keep the flies out. But that didn’t stop him. If you couldn’t open a car any other way you just took the handle clean off and the lock came away with it. It was easy. He’d got the screw‐driver with him and he began using it. All the same this was the part where he’d have to go carefully. It was one thing to go up to a car and unlock it. It was something quite different to be seen tinkering.
He’d got all the screws loose and was just getting ready to do what he’d come for when the exit door of the cinema opened again and a couple emerged into the car park. They came straight towards him. For a moment Percy thought that they were Mr and Mrs Austin. His mouth went dry.
‘Careful,’ Voice No. 1 warned him. ‘Take it easy. Act natural.’
That was the important thing: to act natural. He thrust his hands into his pockets and began to saunter off. But it wasn’t anything. No need to get jumpy. The couple got into a battered little Ford and shot away from the Carlton as though they were inside a rocket. All that they left behind them was the smell of oil. Percy went back to his work, though he was still trembling.
It was easier now. With a bit of a tug the lock came away with the handle and there was nothing between him and what he wanted except a door that hung open on its hinges. Even so he hesitated a moment before he actually climbed in! He was more nervous than he had expected and his mouth kept going dry.
‘It’s you I’m doing it for, Doris darling,’ he told himself. ‘It’s going to be our nest‐egg. It’s you I’m doing it for.’
Once inside it was child’s play. He knew all about starters. And this wouldn’t be the first time he’d started a car when he’d left the key behind him. Everything was in nice condition, too. The batteries were full and the engine started almost as soon as he touched it. It was only the door that was a trouble. It was still standing open as if inviting the whole world to get in after him. But it wasn’t the first missing lock either that he’d known. He made a wad of newspapers that Mr Austin had left behind him in the car, and jammed the door with it. Now he was ready.
Getting past the man at the gate was the first difficulty, but it wasn’t a serious one. With his hat pulled down over his eyes, Percy lowered the window a little and held out threepence. And threepence wasn’t a guess either. He’d studied how much to give in car parks. More than that might have raised an eyebrow and less might have led to a few sarcastic remarks. Threepence was just right. The attendant took it and even went out into the road to see that there was no traffic coming. Percy gave a little salute with his free hand by way of acknowledgment and the journey home had begun.
Simple, wasn’t it?
Now that he had actually done it, now that he was riding high he didn’t feel nervous any longer. He drove carefully, of course – it was practically a new car: scarcely run in he should reckon – and he didn’t want to spoil it. But he felt quite at home in it. It might have been his for years and not just for the last five minutes. And because he was driving slowly it gave him plenty of time for thought. He drove along contemplating the future.
‘And this won’t be the only one,’ he told himself. ‘There’ll be others too. Posh ones, some of them, as soon as I get things reorganised. Bentleys and Lagondas. And I’ll get someone else to do the dirty work on them. Keep my hands clean as soon as I get a chance.’
He was rummaging about in the front pocket of the car and found the remains of a packet of cigarettes that the previous owner had left there. And Percy lit one with the lighter his mother had given him.
‘And I shan’t go on lifting cars once I’m married. Not when I’ve got Doris,’ he continued. ‘I shall be on the level then. I’ll run my own garage. I’ll do high‐class hire work on the side. And have a secondhand department. I’ll be a Morris agent. I’ll sell car insurance. I’ll have a hydraulic jack and hot air for drying. I’ll do repairs and re‐boring. I’ll charge ’em plenty. I shan’t go on lifting cars after I’m married. Not when I’ve got Doris.’
He was in a stream of traffic by now. He couldn’t drive fast even if he wanted to. But it didn’t matter. Twenty‐five miles an hour was good enough for him. And in any case this was where he turned off. This was where the road led towards Wimbledon. Wimbledon was important – he’d got it all argued out. Supposing some chap was lifting some car from anywhere to take it to some place, would you expect him to start off almost in the opposite direction? Of course you wouldn’t, not unless you were screwy. And suppose some cop saw you driving it in the opposite direction and remembered you, and suppose things got hot afterwards and they started asking you questions, you could prove it wasn’t you because you weren’t going your way. See?
But Percy’s mind wasn’t on coppers for the moment. It was on pleasanter things.
‘Or I might get clean out of the garage line altogether,’ he promised himself. ‘Build sports cars. Boon specials. And race ’em. Have my own team. Pick up some of the big prizes and put Boon Specials on the market. I might get clean out of the garage line.’
Then a more tender and sentimental mood came over him.
‘My little darling,’ he thought. ‘You’re my Destiny. You’re the girl of my dreams. You’ll look all right in furs. You’ll walk beside me. You’ll have a dressing‐table with a glass top. You’ll dwell in my secret heart. You’ll use scent I choose for you. You’re my Destiny, my little darling.’
He could almost feel her sitting there in the seat next to him. He’d only to lift his hand off the gear lever for it to come to rest on her knee. The silk stocking would give a little squeaky thrill as he drove.
‘Oh Cripes,’ he thought suddenly. ‘Let her like me a bit. I’m not good enough for her, but let her like me.’
He was getting into Wimbledon by now, and so far there hadn’t been a single hitch. Everything had worked out exactly according to plan. In consequence, he was feeling better.
‘Cool as ice, that’s me,’ he told himself. ‘Trust Percy.’
Just in front of him stood the Duke of Marlborough. It was at a cross‐roads and from the way it dominated the place it might have been the civic centre of those parts. It was flood‐lit to show up the modern Tudor beams. And in the flagged courtyard there were cars, parked in a double row. A space in the front one gave him an idea. It wasn’t nine yet, and the film, the big film, wouldn’t be over till ten‐thirty. He’d got all the time he could want. So, waving on the rest of the traffic, he turned into the courtyard. He was just in time to capture the empty parking place from a thirsty little Hillman that came sneaking up.
Inside, the Duke of Marlborough was pretty high‐class. Percy liked the lounge. It was a large impressive sort of room with light oak panelling and lots of little separate tables with green leather chairs. The decorations were high‐class, too. There were long velvet curtains that might have come off a stage and some nice pieces of china on a shelf running round the walls. The whole place had just been rebuilt, which was why everything was so new and fresh looking, even the old parts. The antique copper jugs that hung in a row over the bar were brand new, everyone of them. And even the stag’s head that was mounted over the door was bright and glossy as though it had been shot specially for the opening.
The lounge was full to‐night because it was Sunday. And it was hot. Almost as hot as in the cinema. And noisy. Between sixty and seventy people were crushed in there, all talking at the tops of their voices. Above the noise they made was the constant chink of glasses, the rattle of the cash‐register madly recording the shillings and pennies, and the tinkle of a small bell, like a fire alarm in a doll’s house, as someone scored a lucky shot in one of the pin tables. Business was certainly brisk and change was being passed over the counter in wet handfuls.
It was some time before Percy could get served. And in the interval of waiting he changed his mind several times. Originally he had just meant to order a bitter. Then he thought of a Guinness. Then a whisky‐and‐soda. Finally, the man in front of him ordered a large pink gin. And Percy asked for the same.
It might have been far better if he’d stuck to a bitter. But of course he wasn’t to know that at the time. And because the pink gin seemed just what he needed – ‘I’ve earned it, haven’t I?’ he asked himself. ‘I’m only human, aren’t I?’ – he made his way to the bar a second time and ordered himself another one. It was about nine‐fifteen by now and after he’d finished it he decided that he might as well be going. No hurry. You understand. Just getting the job over and done with.
He couldn’t get out immediately, however. The party at the table behind him was just breaking up and the man with the crushed‐in sports hat and the roll‐top pullover was just leaving.
‘Ta‐ta,’ he said to the girl at the table. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’
‘Ta‐ta,’ the girl answered.
Percy found himself looking at the girl. And then suddenly he realised who it was he was looking at. It was the Blonde. At the same moment the Blonde looked up and saw him.
‘Hallo Percy,’ she said, smiling at him under her eyelashes. ‘Fancy meeting you.’
He paused.
The Blonde stroked the empty chair beside her.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said.
He took a step, but no more, in her direction.
‘Just going,’ he told her.
‘What’s the hurry?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied grudgingly.
That was just the point: he couldn’t admit that he was in a hurry. ‘Well, come on then.’
He came over, and sat down on the extreme edge of the green leather cushion. It was obvious that he didn’t mean to stop long.
‘You are matey,’ she said.
Over by the door, the man in the crushed‐in sports hat turned and waved. Percy just caught a glimpse of him and then he was gone. He envied him being able to walk out like that.
‘Aren’t you drinking anything?’ the Blonde went on.
‘Finished,’ Percy told her. ‘I was just going when I saw you.’
‘Well, have another one with me,’ she invited him. ‘A short one. Then I’ll be coming along, too.’
He thought rapidly, going over all the possibilities in his mind. He needed time to figure things out. It was no use simply standing there.
‘O.K.,’ he said feebly. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Same as before,’ she answered. ‘Gin and orange.’
When he got back, the Blonde moved her chair closer to his. She let her hand droop down so that he could hold it.
‘Going straight back?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to… to Victoria.’
The Blonde pouted.
‘I thought perhaps you might have dropped in to see me if you felt that way,’ she told him. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’
Percy felt his heart begin to thump as she said it. He forgot all about Doris for the moment. But he was careful. He wasn’t going to let himself go all to pieces just because he’d been invited.
‘No good to‐night,’ he said. ‘I’m delivering a car for someone.’
The Blonde pouted again and clearly didn’t believe him.
Percy was angry. Now that he’d got over the invitation he wanted to be going.
‘It’s outside in the car park.’
But the Blonde wasn’t giving anything away.
‘Well, you drop me on the way,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean anything. Just thought you might like to.’
This was worse. She looked more of a blonde than ever to‐night. She’d had her hair done, and her head was covered in a thick fancy work of little yellow curls. If a policeman saw her in a tram‐car he’d guess she’d stolen it.
‘Not supposed to in customer’s cars,’ he blurted out.
Then the Blonde got up‐stage.
‘Oh of course if you don’t want to, it’s different. Sorry I spoke. If you don’t want to be seen with me…’
This wasn’t any better, either. The last thing he wanted was to have her think that he was keeping anything from her. So he grinned politely.
‘I’ll risk it,’ he told her. ‘Only get hanged once.’
‘That’s more like you,’ she said.
She was smiling again now.
As soon as he got outside he realised that the worst had happened. Those three gins had been just one gin too many. He was muzzy. Not badly muzzy. Not swaying or indistinct or anything like that. But definitely not at his best.
‘I’ve to go carefully,’ he told himself. ‘I’ve got to mind my step. I’ve got to go carefully.’
And a silly thought came to him.
‘Suppose when I get back to it the Austin isn’t there? Suppose somebody’s pinched it? Suppose it isn’t there?’
But it was there all right. Over two hundred pounds’ worth of it. The Blonde made her way round to the far door, but Percy stopped her.
‘That door’s jammed,’ he said. ‘You slide over.’
When the Blonde had settled herself in, Percy slammed his door after her. Then he began fiddling about under the dashboard because he’d disconnected the starter.
‘Want a hair‐pin?’ the Blonde asked.
Percy shook his head.
‘It’s O.K.,’ he said. ‘There’s a repair job in this.’
Because he was afraid that he was muzzier than he really was, he was clumsy. He made a mess of getting out of the courtyard. His rear bumper got under somebody else’s mud‐guard. It made a noise like a tin bath tearing.
The Blonde gave a little titter.
‘That’s another repair job,’ she said.
But nobody paid much attention, and Percy didn’t trouble to get out and investigate. He didn’t want to get drawn into a long argument because he hadn’t got time. It was just too bad for someone.
When he got the nose of the car out into the main road he looked carefully both ways before edging into the traffic. The little incident of the mud‐guard had rather unnerved him.
The Blonde noticed this.
‘Why don’t you have “L” on the front?’ she asked him.
‘Not my car,’ Percy told her. ‘That’s why I’m being careful with it.’
‘Do you mean you’ve pinched it?’ she enquired.
She was lighting a cigarette as she was speaking and when it was lit she passed it over to Percy. He took it from her without saying anything and, as he raised it to his lips, he noticed the broad band of lipstick round the butt. Because he was thinking of Doris at that moment, the sight of the wet red cigarette that the Blonde had handed over disgusted him and he wanted to throw it away.
The fog had thickened by now. It was damp and clinging. He started up the windscreen wipers.
‘If I hit anybody I’m finished,’ he kept saying to himself. ‘One tap and I’m out. A ruddy dog’d be enough. If I hit anybody I’m finished.’
‘You talking to me?’ the Blonde asked, and Percy realised that he’d been saying those things out loud.
He shook his head and drove on more carefully than ever. If he was saying things out loud it showed that he must really be muzzy and not just imagining it.
They had reached the outskirts of the Common by now and the silver birches showed up in the headlamps of the car.
‘This is where I can let her out,’ he told himself. ‘This is where I begin to drive.’
The needle of the speedometer started to swing round. Thirty‐five. This was more like it. Forty. Forty‐five. It didn’t matter to him if the car hadn’t been run in yet. He wasn’t going to keep it, was he? Besides this was the authentic thrill of motoring. Nearly fifty. Real open road stuff. Over fifty wouldn’t be safe with this fog about.
‘Look where you’re going,’ the Blonde advised him. ‘You’ve got me in the car, remember.’
Percy started. She’d been quite right to warn him. He’d simply been driving with his eyes fixed on the speedometer: he hadn’t been looking at the road at all. So he stiffened up in his seat and stared grimly out through the windscreen.
Then he saw what the Blonde had really warned him about.
Right in front of him, only fifty yards or so, stood a policeman. And he was flashing his torch at him. Dot, dot, dot, the little beam of light went. Percy felt his jaw drop. Then it tightened again. So They’d got on to him, had They? Somebody had put the word round. They were after him. Well, They weren’t going to get him. Not without a chase. If They wanted him They’d got to come for him. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and drove straight on.
‘You gone crackers?’ the Blonde asked. ‘He’s trying to stop you. There’s been an accident or something.’
An accident! He didn’t properly hear the words until he was right on top of it. And by then there had very nearly been another one. All he saw was a man lying stretched out flat on the side of the road with his collar open and the two ends sticking up, and his hat all smashed in, lying beside him. That – and the policeman jumping to one side as Percy and the Blonde shot past him.
He felt sick when he realised that he’d nearly killed the policeman. Suppose he had? But it was bad enough the way things were, wasn’t it? The cop would be bound to report what had happened. He might even get a patrol out. Then Percy’d be in the gravy all right. He’d have something to think about.
As it was, the Blonde was behaving queerly. Under that hard exterior she’d got no nerves at all. She was screaming at him to stop.
‘Let me out,’ she was saying. ‘I don’t like it. Let me out.’
‘You shut your trap,’ he told her. ‘You get out when I say so.’
He was still driving fast and the fog or mist or whatever it was, was thicker. He turned his headlamps off. The fog was hitting back at him and he didn’t want to go about with a bleeding halo round him. They would be after him now for sure.
‘Let me out.’
The Blonde was clawing at him by now, and the time for politeness was over.
‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you.’
‘You try!’
She caught hold of his collar and pulled. She’d got her fingers down inside his neck. She was throttling him. Just as the stud broke and the collar went loose again, he got his hand free and shoved it in her face. The car gave a nasty swerve as he did so. But it taught the Blonde a lesson.
She started whimpering. Then, suddenly, in front of her in the dashboard pocket with the cigarettes, she saw a spanner. It was a large one with a head like a battle‐axe. She grabbed at it and held it over him.
‘Now will you let me get out?’
It was the sort of moment Percy had often read about – when everything depended on keeping calm.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Do it. Then we’ll both be killed.’
He accelerated again as he said it. He knew she’d never dare. But at the last moment just as she hit him he knew that she was going to. His left hand helped to soften the blow. Even so, the spanner went right down into his hat. It hurt, and because it hurt he forgot No. 1 had always told him about keeping cool. Driving with one hand, he wrenched the spanner from her, and hit back. She was trying to stop him, wasn’t she?
And he got her all right. He felt the jar run right up his arm as the sharp end of the spanner caught her. She simply folded up away from him. And that was the end of her. She fell back against the door and the little wad of paper came out. The door swung open and a moment later Percy was in the car alone.
This time he didn’t care who was following. He just jammed the brakes on and brought the car up rocking. There were nearly twenty feet of skid marks in the road behind him. And almost lost in the mist the Blonde was lying all doubled up just as she’d fallen. He started to run back. When he got to her – it surprised him to find what a long way it was – he saw that she must have rolled over and over when she hit the road. Everything on her was torn.
What was worse was the way she was lying. Her head was twisted right back. And she was looking up at him.
Looking up at him with a dirty lifeless face down which a thick dark caterpillar of blood was crawling.
‘I’m getting out of this,’ Percy told himself. ‘I don’t like it. I’m getting out.’
That’s what it was like on the spot. But come up a bit higher, get an angel’s view as it were. What’s it like now? Well, travelling across the South, the red foothills of Surbiton give place to the grey brick forests of Wimbledon. And then, like the primitive jungle itself crisscrossed with tracks, the Common – Wimbledon Common – comes right up against habitation. There are no outposts. It is simply there. You can’t see much of it because of the mist. It is only in patches that the ground is showing. And in one of these patches where the road is gleaming, a crowd is gathered. It is quite a big crowd with two policemen and a tall white ambulance. The ambulance is for the Blonde. But she doesn’t know it. They’ve put a blanket over her.
Then the crowd divides because there is something coming. It is a police car. The police car stops and three men in raincoats get out. The fourth continues to sit there in the back with his ear‐phones on. The others say something to him and begin to move off across the bracken to where an abandoned car is standing with its side lights still on.
Silly wasn’t it, of Percy to leave the lights on? But he couldn’t really be blamed. He’d lost his nerve by then, and wasn’t responsible.
Further over among the bushes a policeman who has found Percy’s snap brim trilby is blowing his whistle. Coming out of the darkness the policeman’s whistle sounds like some melancholy nightbird.
Is there anything else of interest to report? No, everything else is lonely and peaceful. It might have been primeval England that bit of Common. Until you come right up to the North‐West corner of the Common, almost into Putney. Then there’s something. It’s the figure of a man. He is running, darting from tree to tree, seeking cover all the way. He’s milky pale and down his face the sweat is coursing. He hasn’t noticed that there’s blood on his collar. But there is: the Blonde splashed over him when he hit her.
And while he runs he keeps muttering something to himself. It’s indistinct because he’s out of breath. But it sounds like this.
‘Oh Mum, I didn’t mean to. I never meant to hurt her. I didn’t mean to, Mum.’
Percy is in real trouble now.