The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More(12)

        ‘Lovely!’ he cried. ‘Beautiful! Keep goin’!’

        I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.

        ‘One hundred!’ he shouted … ‘A hundred and five! … A hundred and ten! … A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don’t slack off!’

        I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still – a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroën, a white Land-Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus …

        ‘A hundred and twenty!’ my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. ‘Go on! Go on! Get ’er up to one-two-nine!’

        At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.

        ‘Oh, my sainted aunt!’ I said. ‘That’s torn it!’

        The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. ‘I didn’t know police motorcycles could go as fast as that,’ I said rather lamely.

        ‘That one can,’ my passenger said. ‘It’s the same make as yours. It’s a BMW R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That’s what they’re usin’ nowadays.’

        The policeman got off his motor-cycle and leaned the machine sideways on to its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.

        ‘This is real trouble,’ I said. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’

        ‘Don’t talk to ’im any more than is necessary, you understand,’ my companion said. ‘Just sit tight and keep mum.’

        Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.

        We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.

        ‘Watch out for this man,’ my passenger whispered. ‘’Ee looks mean as the devil.’

        The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.

        ‘No hurry, officer,’ I answered.

        ‘Perhaps there’s a woman in the back having a baby and you’re rushing her to hospital? Is that it?’

        ‘No, officer.’

        ‘Or perhaps your house is on fire and you’re dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?’ His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.

        ‘My house isn’t on fire, officer.’

        ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’ve got yourself into a nasty mess, haven’t you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?’

        ‘Seventy,’ I said.

        ‘And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just now?’

        I shrugged and didn’t say anything.

        When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. ‘One hundred and twenty miles per hour!’ he barked. ‘That’s fifty miles an hour over the limit!’

        He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back again and stared hard at my passenger. ‘And who are you?’ he asked sharply.

        ‘He’s a hitch-hiker,’ I said. ‘I’m giving him a lift.’