Ivoria by Tanith Lee

Author:Tanith Lee [LEE, TANITH]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781473206212
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2015-12-30T16:00:00+00:00

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Without total concentration, the road seemed wide enough and well enough lit by its pale yellow lamps, to offer no hazard. There was no other moving traffic, only a few vehicles parked either side. Then the shining shadow of the car slid out into his path.

He braked, cursing. He had not been driving much faster than the limit; of course, dawdling a little now maybe, not especially eager to get back. But he had been drinking. And God knew, a maniac could drive on the wrong side of the road and crash right into you, and if you had a single vodka in your gut you got the fine and the points on your licence. Or, the way things were now, you probably ended up in the can. Aside from that too, there was the other worry he had - was it now confirmed?

Laurence felt the two cars touch. The collision was minimal, but it jerked him forward and back and the bloody seat-belt cut into him. He was angry again. He glanced instinctively about for benign corroboration of his own innocence. But on either side very large houses, closed as nunneries behind high walls and evergreens, had paid no heed.

There was no easy way by, the intruding car had now blocked his path. He could only sit, or should he…? Then the car’s door flew open and the other driver was out and moving quickly towards him. Even in the half dark between the lamps Laurence saw the idiot raised his hands in an expansive gesture of contrite peace, and mouthed Sorry, sorry. A complete bloody prat.

So Laurence put down his window.

“That was your fucking fault,” Laurence informed him coldly, presumably without need. “But you seem at least to have the sense to realise that.”

The man was bending near, now looking at him intently. He was quite thickset, with a solid bulldog sort of persona about him that had nothing to do with Churchill, either the WW2 P.M. or the advert. No doubt a good thing he could see he was to blame; Laurence was not in the mood for a fist fight.

“Had to get somewhere in a hurry, didn’t think,” said the man. He put both hands on the lowered window. He was wearing gloves that appeared rather bulky. “You’re Laurence Lewis?” he asked. “The writer? Makes the TV programmes?”

Oh Jesus. Just what Laurence wanted right now. A fan.

“Yes. However…”

“Just making sure,” said the man, in a flat matter-of-fact voice. “Now I’m going to get in.”

“You’re what?” Laurence assumed he had misheard.

“Get in. The passenger door - undo it.”

“You are bloody jo…”

“No.” The man stayed flatly reasonable. And to explain further, he moved his right hand slightly, to reveal more clearly the little handgun he held, pointing at Laurence’s head.

Laurence took a moment – thoughtless, instinctual - to evaluate if it was worth trying to send the window back up. But obviously it was not. This was not the telly recreation of some threatful act from the past. They had not had guns then either.

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