Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5) by David Gatward (english reading book TXT) 📗

‘I do know how to drive,’ she had said. ‘And I’m sure heated seats will make all the difference.’

‘Yes, but this is your first time driving it,’ James had said.

Helen had rolled her eyes at him, then started the engine and rolled them out of their parking space to begin the journey home, leaving the fading lights of Kendal to take the road back over the M6 and on through Sedbergh, then into the final stretch to home. Which was when, at long last, Patricia had called to wish him a happy birthday, and she had been so full of apologies, about always being busy, and there, right in the middle of the conversation with his daughter, was when it had happened.

The night had been black as oil, James had noticed, the stars not just bright but piercing, and it was when he had pointed this out to Helen that he had noticed once again, just how beautiful she was and just how lucky he was to have met her at all.

The weightlessness was now twisting, James noticed, and then things started to throw themselves around the cabin in gay abandon. Some loose change from his pocket stung his cheek, a pen shot past his eyes, and the bottle of wine he’d bought as a take-out from the restaurant hurled itself at the windscreen with such force that it shattered, covering everything in blood-red wine and thin razors of glass the deepest of green.

When the corner had come at them, it had initially seemed far off and gentle, and Helen was certainly having no trouble at all driving the Discovery. Then the cabin had filled with a light as bright as a thousand suns, or so it had seemed, particularly with the night around it being so dark, and James had covered his eyes with his hands, dropping the phone, sending Patricia’s voice into the passenger footwell. Helen, on the other hand, had screamed. And the light had stayed there, blinding them both, scorching into their retinas, the driver of whatever car it was that was equipped with such ridiculously bright lights clearly unaware of the impact they were having on James and Helen. Then there the corner was, right in front of them, by which time it was all too late.

The world was a blur and James tried to lock his eyes onto something that made sense, as he gripped the armrest in the door hard enough to leave finger marks. Then they were upside down, he knew that for a fact, because it reminded him of when they had gone on one of those godawful extreme rides at some theme park or other. But the reality of it seemed so bizarre that even though what was happening was clearly catastrophic, he felt surprisingly calm. He even had time to glance over at Helen, whose face was a rictus of shock and horror.

The Discovery slammed into the ground nose first and hard enough to whip the back end up and over to have it land on all four wheels in the middle of a field facing the opposite direction.

James tasted wine and blood, and the ringing in his ears was of sirens and screaming, and the screaming was his own, his twisted, horse vocal cords ripping themselves to shreds as the shock of the moment raked its way out of him and into the night. Then a small orange light in the night waved at him for attention, but he didn’t want to take any notice, because of the pain he was in and the ringing in his ears, well, that was enough to be going on with. And he needed to check on Helen as well, didn’t he, to make sure that she was okay? That’s what mattered most, more than anything, because she was his everything. But the light was insistent, its orange waving developing a little flicker as it grew, then the orange was joined by some red and yellow, forcing James to take notice, and there, to his horror, he saw flames dancing in front of him. And right then, he was back in combat gear, in theatre, in another upturned vehicle, blood everywhere, and he could hear screaming and rounds pinging off the armoured shell of the vehicle.

‘Helen? Helen, love, come on! We need to move! The car, it’s on fire! We need to get out! We need to get out now!’

Pushing away the memory of bullets and blood and terror, James shook Helen, but she wasn’t responding, her head hanging, her chin against her chest, flopping unnaturally, he noticed. She would though, once they were outside and away from the vehicle, he was sure of it. The cold air would do its work and she’d wake up and they’d be happy to be alive.

With a shove, James managed to open his door, and as he ran around to the driver’s side, he thought to himself how lucky they were to have been in such a vehicle, that its frame really was extraordinarily strong for them to have survived at all, and how Helen’s Citroen 2CV, that idiotic little car which was no more than a metal shed on wheels, but which she loved and looked after and had even given the name, ‘Betsy’, would have disintegrated on impact.

Helen’s door was already open, having popped open when the Discovery had flung itself into the dirt. James reached in for his wife, calling her name, unclipping her seat belt, calling her name once again, dragging her out from beneath the steering wheel, then racing them both away from the vehicle to a safe distance, just in case the fuel tank went. Which it did, just a few seconds later, shattering the night with the wrenching, ripping sound of metal and plastic giving in to the gleeful thrust of ignited fuel.

‘We’re okay, Love,’ James said, holding his wife, the heat from the fire chasing away