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The Borough

  by

  Steve Dockray

  Copyright 2012 Steve Dockray

  Fall

  Heritage Park

  CHAPTER ONE

  The road.

  Twisting and turning with sharp bends and short straights, hugging the coastal cliffs between Sharmouth and Greycliffe.

  Quiet now.

  In summer, or even in the light of a clear winter's day, it would have been busy with tourists and sightseers enjoying the impressive open views along the coast. But not at eight o'clock on a cold, dark December evening. In the past there had been no choice, but for five years there had been an alternative inland route that took ten minutes off the journey, leaving the coastal route for access and sightseeing

  Evening traffic was mostly reduced to people who lived in the few isolated houses tucked in along the way or on the western fringe of Greycliffe. Later on it would be lovers seeking out the remoteness of the scenic car park.

  Perhaps a car or two every twenty minutes or so.

  Nigel Stewart, tie loosened at the neck, but still in his grey business suit at the end of a long working day, was alone on the road, with no vehicles in sight ahead or behind. The inland bypass would have been the quickest way home for him too, but he preferred the emptiness and challenge of driving quickly along a hazardous route. The last two evenings had been frustrating, chance encounters with slower traffic taking away his fun. It was later today, though, so most of the residents would be home for the evening by now.

  His foot went hard down on the accelerator as he came out of the first right-hand hairpin bend and the short rising curve lay ahead of him. A crisp stab at the clutch and the engine note dropped as he slipped smoothly into third gear. Without any on-coming traffic he could stray over the centre white lines to straighten out the bends, and not need to change down for the series of testing left and right handers that followed. He pushed himself back into his seat to counteract the cornering forces, as one moment the near-side wing mirror caught on protruding parts of the landward side hedge, then a moment later he was pulled the other way as the tyres squealed for grip to keep the car on course. The tight left hander came up fast. Stewart switched his right foot to the brake, pushing hard with his toes whilst his heel dabbed at the accelerator to match the engine revs for a racing gear change down into second. The back end broke away slightly and he twitched the steering wheel to correct it, not quite succeeding in keeping on his own side of the road. Just as well nothing was coming the other way, but what was the point in owning a GTi if you couldn't enjoy it sometimes?

  As the road unwound into a fast open curve, he changed up through the gears, not pushing quite so hard after the unexpected slipperiness on the last bend. There might be a touch of ice forming on the surface, with the evening being so cold. It had taken getting on for half the trip home for the heater to make much headway, but now that the iciness inside the car was receding it was almost possible to imagine that he was driving along the Californian coastal highway that he'd seen on films. A brief break from the drab reality of being a Borough Council accountant, before getting home to a standard family in a standard semi-detached house. It wouldn't last forever, though, there was a way out now.

  The bend finally led into the straight. This was the one section where it was possible to overtake safely and slip by dawdling tourists in the busier summer months. No need for that tonight though. The full beam of his headlights lit up almost the complete length of the straight, with just the shadow of a small animal running across the road in the distance.

  Sod it, he thought, as he saw the tail-lights of a vehicle pulling out of the scenic view car park at the far end of the straight. No more fun on this trip home. It looked like a truck of some sort, which would mean a slow procession through the bends with no chance of overtaking before he was almost at his turn-off. A pity, because the last set of bends needed quick gear changes and a steady nerve to drive through at speed, with the added tension of knowing that at this point along the route there was an almost sheer drop of two hundred feet on the seaward side to reward a lapse of concentration. Half way along the straight he lifted his foot off the accelerator and watched the speedometer needle drift downwards. He thought for a moment about pulling into the car park and letting the truck go clear, but Councillor Cavendish had kept him talking far longer than expected and it was late already. There would always be another day.

  As he came level with the entrance to the car park, he saw the dark shadow of another large vehicle in there, maybe a cattle truck, tucked in tight against the overhanging trees. Strange, that. It was very rare to see commercial vehicles on the coast route, let alone two on a December evening. Round the first bend he soon came up behind the first vehicle, big and lumbering, like a removal van or similar, but so filthy it was impossible to make out the company logo, let alone read the number plate if he'd wanted to. Stewart leaned across and turned on the radio, settling down to the slower pace of the truck.

  Two bends farther on he caught the flash of headlights from behind in his rear-view mirror and within a minute another vehicle had caught up. It must have been the other truck from the car park, its lights high up and wide set. Stewart twisted the mirror to relieve his eyes from the following glare. Eyes grown tired from hours spent staring at a computer screen in the rush to finish off next year's budget well before Christmas.

  The truck in front was going even slower now, forcing Stewart to change down to bottom gear when his engine started snatching. Three vehicles with only a few feet between them as they started into the final tight left hand bend. The rear truck was so close now that the roar of its engine was drowning out the radio. Stewart gripped the wheel, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

  It only lasted a few seconds. He was jogged by a gentle bump and felt his car being shoved from behind. He tried to turn and follow the first truck, which was now pulling away, but it was too late. He pushed his foot hard down on the brake, but the weight and power of the truck were more than his car tyres could resist. The steering wheel had no effect and the screeching rubber added volume to the noise of the powerful engine behind. His arms locked straight as he braced himself for the impact with the safety barrier.

  The barrier was no match for the brute force of the truck, crumpling up the front of the car, but then splitting and tearing free from the ground. For a moment, Nigel Stewart's car hung suspended in mid air, almost pausing like that brief moment of weightlessness at the top of a roller-coaster. Then as his hand reached ineffectively for the door handle the car started down, rolling over and over in the air, the driver only surviving a lethal battering because of the tight grip of his seat belt. The first impact was the only one that mattered to Stewart. The car was upside down when it landed on a jagged boulder that punched through the roof into Stewart's head. Then it went on, bouncing off the lower slopes to a final resting place, half submerged on the rocky fringes of the English Channel.

  Back on the road, two large trucks headed off towards Greycliffe, the distance between them gradually lengthening.