Expo 58: A Novel by Jonathan Coe

Author:Jonathan Coe [Coe, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New Harvest
Published: 2014-09-02T08:00:00+00:00

A nice old pickle

The journey was long (about an hour and a quarter, Thomas guessed) and very uncomfortable. After twenty minutes or so he could tell that they were leaving the hum of the city traffic behind and entering the countryside, although still driving along straight main roads. There were enough right and left turns, in random succession, for him to suspect that they were being taken mainly to confuse him. It was only in the last quarter of an hour or so that the car slowed down, and the roads seemed to become narrower and less reliable. Thomas and Wilkins would have been violently thrown from side to side by some of the sudden turns, if they had not already been wedged so tightly together.

Eventually, after climbing a slight but steady incline for several minutes, the car came to a brief halt, with its engine still running; then it took a sharp right turn, and they were travelling along a dirt track, which lasted for perhaps half a mile, with many bumps and lurches. After that, the car swung to the left, and came to an abrupt, final stop. The engine was turned off and at once Thomas’s suspicion was confirmed: they were in deep countryside. The silence around them was profound, and its profundity was emphasized by the regular hooting, no more than a few yards away it seemed, of a solitary owl.

‘Right,’ said Wilkins. ‘Let’s get out of this confounded vehicle.’

Getting out proved just as difficult, long-winded and bad-tempered a process as getting in; even more so, in Thomas’s case, because he was still blindfolded. Freed from the confines of the tiny car at last, he stood in the fresh air for a moment or two, sensing loose gravel beneath his feet, until he felt the barrel of Wilkins’s gun being thrust into his ribs again.

‘Come on,’ his abductor said. ‘This way, and no funny business if you please.’

They walked perhaps fifteen or twenty yards across the gravel. Then someone – Wilkins, presumably – knocked loudly upon a heavy wooden door with an iron knocker. The door was opened and they stepped inside. No words were spoken.

They walked along a corridor which, from the sounds of Thomas’s footsteps, was paved with flagstones. There was one shallow upwards step which he almost tripped over. The corridor was quite long, so Thomas imagined that the house – if this was indeed a house – must be a large one. At the end of the corridor another door was opened and he was pushed through it.

‘Right you are,’ said Wilkins. ‘Made it. Home sweet home.’

He untied the blindfold and Thomas blinked in the sudden brilliant light from an overhead lamp. Still blinking, he looked around him. He was in a small ground-floor bedroom, plainly but comfortably furnished with heavy, dark furniture. The window was shuttered. The walls were painted a dirty mustard-yellow and decorated with reproduction (or were they original?) landscapes in the Flemish style. In addition to the single bed, there was a desk and an armchair.

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