injured in a motorcycle crash. All too clearly his face and personality still carried the memory of that impact, some terrifying collision on a motorway in the North when his legs had been broken by the rear wheels of a truck. His features looked as if they had been displaced laterally, reassembled after the crash from a collection of faded publicity photographs. The scars on his mouth and forehead, the self-cut hair and two missing upper canine gave him a neglected and hostile appearance. The bony knuckles of his wrists projected like manacles from the frayed cuffs of his leather jacket.
He stepped into his car. This was a ten-year-old model of a Lincoln Continental, the same make of vehicle as the open limousine in which President Kennedy had died. I remembered that one of Vaughan’s obsessions had been Kennedy’s assassination.
He reversed past me, the left fender of the Lincoln brushing against my knee. I crossed the roof as he swept away down the ramp. This first meeting with Vaughan remained vividly in my mind. I knew that his motives for following me had nothing to do with revenge or blackmail.
7
AFTER our meeting on the roof of the airport car-park I was continually aware of Vaughan’s presence. He no longer followed me, but seemed to hover like an invigilator in the margins of my life, for ever monitoring my head. Along the high-speed lanes of Western Avenue I watched the rear-view mirror, and scanned the parapets of overpasses and multi-storey car-parks.
In a sense I had already enlisted Vaughan in my confused hunt. I sat in the crowded traffic lanes of the flyover, the aluminium walls of the airline coaches shutting off the sky. As I watched the packed concrete decks of the motorway from our veranda while Catherine prepared our first evening drinks, I was convinced that the key to this immense metallized landscape lay somewhere within these constant and unchanging traffic patterns.
Luckily, my messianic obsessions soon made themselves evident to Paul Waring, my partner. He arranged with Catherine to restrict my visits to the studio offices to an hour a day. Easily tired and excited, I had an absurd row with Waring’s secretary. But all this seemed trivial and unreal. Far more important was the delivery of my new car from the local distributors.
Catherine regarded with profound suspicion my choice of the same make and model as the car in which I had crashed. I had even selected the same make of wing
mirror and mudguard spat. She and her secretary watched me critically from the forecourt of the air-freight offices. Karen stood behind Catherine, a cocked elbow almost touching her shoulder blade, like a young and ambitious madame keeping a protective eye on her latest discovery.
‘Why did you ask us here?’ Catherine said. ‘I don’t think either of us ever wants to look at a car again.’
‘Certainly not this one, Mrs Ballard.’
‘Is Vaughan following you?’ I asked Catherine. ‘You spoke to him at the hospital.’
‘He said he was a police photographer. What does he want?’
Karen’s eyes gazed at my scarred scalp. ‘It’s hard to believe he was ever on television.’
I outstared Karen with an effort. She watched me like a predatory animal behind the silver bars of her mouth.
‘Did anyone see him at the accident?’
‘I’ve no idea. Are you planning to have another crash for him?’ Catherine sauntered around the car. She settled herself in the front passenger seat, savouring the sharp tang of salesroom vinyl.
‘I’m not thinking about the crash at all.’
‘You’re getting involved with this man, Vaughan – you’re talking about him all the time.’ Catherine stared through the immaculate windshield, her thighs held open in a formalized posture.
I was thinking, in fact, about the contrast between this generous pose and the glass curtain-walling of the airport buildings, the showroom glitter of the new car. Sitting here in the exact replica of the vehicle in which I had
He stepped into his car. This was a ten-year-old model of a Lincoln Continental, the same make of vehicle as the open limousine in which President Kennedy had died. I remembered that one of Vaughan’s obsessions had been Kennedy’s assassination.
He reversed past me, the left fender of the Lincoln brushing against my knee. I crossed the roof as he swept away down the ramp. This first meeting with Vaughan remained vividly in my mind. I knew that his motives for following me had nothing to do with revenge or blackmail.
7
AFTER our meeting on the roof of the airport car-park I was continually aware of Vaughan’s presence. He no longer followed me, but seemed to hover like an invigilator in the margins of my life, for ever monitoring my head. Along the high-speed lanes of Western Avenue I watched the rear-view mirror, and scanned the parapets of overpasses and multi-storey car-parks.
In a sense I had already enlisted Vaughan in my confused hunt. I sat in the crowded traffic lanes of the flyover, the aluminium walls of the airline coaches shutting off the sky. As I watched the packed concrete decks of the motorway from our veranda while Catherine prepared our first evening drinks, I was convinced that the key to this immense metallized landscape lay somewhere within these constant and unchanging traffic patterns.
Luckily, my messianic obsessions soon made themselves evident to Paul Waring, my partner. He arranged with Catherine to restrict my visits to the studio offices to an hour a day. Easily tired and excited, I had an absurd row with Waring’s secretary. But all this seemed trivial and unreal. Far more important was the delivery of my new car from the local distributors.
Catherine regarded with profound suspicion my choice of the same make and model as the car in which I had crashed. I had even selected the same make of wing
mirror and mudguard spat. She and her secretary watched me critically from the forecourt of the air-freight offices. Karen stood behind Catherine, a cocked elbow almost touching her shoulder blade, like a young and ambitious madame keeping a protective eye on her latest discovery.
‘Why did you ask us here?’ Catherine said. ‘I don’t think either of us ever wants to look at a car again.’
‘Certainly not this one, Mrs Ballard.’
‘Is Vaughan following you?’ I asked Catherine. ‘You spoke to him at the hospital.’
‘He said he was a police photographer. What does he want?’
Karen’s eyes gazed at my scarred scalp. ‘It’s hard to believe he was ever on television.’
I outstared Karen with an effort. She watched me like a predatory animal behind the silver bars of her mouth.
‘Did anyone see him at the accident?’
‘I’ve no idea. Are you planning to have another crash for him?’ Catherine sauntered around the car. She settled herself in the front passenger seat, savouring the sharp tang of salesroom vinyl.
‘I’m not thinking about the crash at all.’
‘You’re getting involved with this man, Vaughan – you’re talking about him all the time.’ Catherine stared through the immaculate windshield, her thighs held open in a formalized posture.
I was thinking, in fact, about the contrast between this generous pose and the glass curtain-walling of the airport buildings, the showroom glitter of the new car. Sitting here in the exact replica of the vehicle in which I had
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