He 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 fucking 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 spaces 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 analogue 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.

Chapter Forty-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 asset.’

‘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.’

She made a modest gesture. ‘Mike Bryant was one of the main sources for my book, The New Asphalt Warriors. And I’ve been working with Chris Faulkner, among other drivers, on a follow-up. I hate to plug so blatantly, but—‘

‘No, no. Please.’

Mannered laughter.

‘Well, then. It’s called Reflections on Asphalt - Behind the Driver Mask, and it should, my workload permitting, be out some time in the New Year.’ She grinned professionally into the camera. ‘It’ll be a great read, I promise.’

‘I’m sure it will.’ Face to camera. Pause, and. Cue. ‘So now, let’s go over to our live-coverage crew at the Harlow helideck. Sanjeev, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, Ron.’ The inset screen sprang up. Maximised. Windswept backdrop, rotors and the location anchor sweeping dishevelled hair out of his eyes as he spoke.

‘So what’s the weather like up there?’

‘Uh, looks as if the rain’s still holding off, Ron. Maybe even some chance of sun later on, the forecast people tell me.’

‘Good driving conditions, then?’

‘Yes, it looks like it. Of course, we won’t be allowed over the envelope until twenty minutes or so after the duel ends, but I’m told the roads have more or less dried out. And with the summer repairs on this stretch completed well ahead of schedule, this promises to be—‘

He told the TV to sleep, finished his coffee and left the espresso cup standing on the phone deck. Brief existential shiver as he looked at it and realised it would still be there tonight, untouched, whatever happened on the road today. Wherever its owner was.

He shook off the chill and settled his jacket on his shoulders. In the hall mirror, he put on his tie with a languid, frictionless calm that was just the right side of panic. His hands, he noted, were trembling slightly, but he couldn’t decide if it was fear or caffeine. He’d dosed himself pretty heavily.

He finished the tie, looked at himself in the mirror for what seemed like a long time, checked for keys and wallet, and went out to the car. He pulled the door of the house closed and breathed in, hard. The morning air was still and damp in his lungs.

Gravel crunched to his left.

‘Chris.’

He spun, clawing at the shoulder holster. The Nemex came out.

Truls Vasvik stood at the edge of the house, hands spread at waist height. He smiled, a little forcedly.

‘Don’t shoot me. I’m here to help.’

Chris put up the Nemex. ‘You’re a little late for that.’

‘Not at all. This is what I believe you English guys call the nick of time.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Chris shoved the Nemex back into the shoulder holster, spoiling the blunt gesture a little as the gun failed to clip in. He pushed a couple more times, then left it. Clicked the car key with his other hand and the Saab’s lights winked at him as the alarms disabled. He stepped towards it.

‘Wait. Chris, wait a minute.’ Vasvik moved to block him, hands still held placatory at his sides. ‘Think this through. Bryant’s going to kill you out there.’

‘Could be.’

‘And - what? That’s it? The great macho sulk? Kill me and be done with it. See if I fucking care. What does that achieve, Chris?’

‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

‘Chris, I can get you out of here.’ The ombudsman pointed. ‘Back that way, through the woods. I’ve got a three-man team back there and a covered van. Sealed unit, medical waste documentation. It’ll get us through the tunnel without checks. You get your million dollars, you get the job. All you’ve got to do is come with me.’

Out of nowhere, Chris found he could grin. The discovery made his eyes prickle, and put a ball of sudden, savage joy in the pit of his stomach.

‘You’ve not been keeping up on current events, Truls,’ he said. ‘I’m globally famous these days. My face is right up there with Tony Carpenter and Inez Zequina. Everybody knows who I am. What kind of ombudsman is that going to make me?’

‘Chris, that isn’t important. We can—‘

‘What are you going to do then, give me a new face?’

‘If necessary. But—‘

‘And the million dollars, well.’ Chris tutted regretfully. ‘That just isn’t such a lot of money any more, Truls. I’m up for junior partner. That’s equity. Capital wealth. Several millions, plus benefits.’

‘Or cremation later today.’

Chris nodded. ‘There’s a risk of that. But you know what, Truls. The thing you guys will never understand. That risk is what it’s all about. Risk is what makes winning worth it.’

‘You aren’t going to win, Chris.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll see if I can live up to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—‘

He stepped forward. Vasvik stayed where he was. Their faces were a handsbreadth apart. Eyes locked.

‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Chris.’ The ombudsman’s voice was low and taut. ‘You think this is going to pay off what you’ve done to Carla, and everybody else? Don’t be a fucking child. Being dead doesn’t solve anything. You’ve got to live if you’re going to make a difference.’