Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

Dawn was beginning to soften the edge of the night as the Buick convertible cruised through the Essex countryside. Its driver was a small man, so short that he had to sit on a cushion and lean forward to see over the Buicks broad bonnet. His right leg was at full stretch; even so, only his toes pressed the accelerator. The rush of air lashed his curly hair forward.

There were three other men in the car, all asleep. Like the driver, they were young and dressed in lounge suits or blazers and gray flannel trousers. One of them, in the back seat, held an enormous stuffed golliwog, half as big as himself.

A pothole made the car lurch. Sorry, said the driver.

The man beside him slowly woke up. For a while he stared ahead, blinking occasionally at the curving lane in the Buicks headlights, the rushing hedgerows, the branches flickering overhead.

Sticky, he said. Youre on the right side of the road.

Of course I am, Sticky said. He flinched slightly as his wheels flattened a dead hedgehog.

His passenger glanced at him uncertainly, and then looked ahead again. He held up his hands and looked at each in turn. What I mean is, he said, youre on the wrong side of the road.

Sticky thought about that as he swung the car into and out of an S-bend.

So I am, he said, and crossed to the left-hand lane.

They drove for another half-mile, through a little village and over a bridge, before the passenger said: Sticky, how long were you driving like that, for Gods sake?

How should I know? Sticky sounded annoyed. Am I supposed to keep track of everything? Bloody hell, its hard enough to steer this beast without remembering every bloody little detail. I mean, damn it all.

His passenger sighed, and then belched.

Anyway, Sticky said, this is an American car, and over there they drive like that all the time.

But youre in England.

Well, so are you.

Yes, and I like it here, and you could have killed us all, driving

You dont like the way I drive? You dont trust me? Is that it, Patterson? Fine! Drive the rotten thing yourself. Sticky folded his arms. The car hit a patch of corrugations and drifted across the crown of the road. Patterson grabbed the wheel, over-corrected and had to shove it back. For Christs sake, Sticky! he cried. Sticky deliberately looked out of his side window. The car zigzagged, jostling the men in the back seat. Hey, hey, hey, said one. The other simply groaned and clutched his golliwog. Stop playing the bloody fool, Sticky, Patterson said. The road curved to the left and he made desperate adjustments to keep the car on it.

Whats the matter? complained one of the men in the back seat.

Sticky tipped his head and arched his body until he was looking backward over the top of the seat. My standard of driving does not satisfy young Pip, he said. I have therefore relished command of this vehicle.

Get your foot off the gas, damn you! Patterson shouted. He twitched the wheel and just missed a stone wall.

Relished? the man with the golliwog said to Stickys upside-down face. What dyou mean, relished?

Relinquished, Sticky said, and choked slightly on his own saliva. I said I relinquished whatever it was.

He said relished, the man with the golliwog told the fourth passenger. Bloody Stickwells pissed again. Look at him. He cant even stand up straight.

Where the hells the ignition? Patterson demanded, scrabbling for the key with one hand.

I said relished and I meant relished, Stickwell declared firmly.

Thank God hes not driving, said the man with the golliwog.

Pattersons free hand thumped Stickwell on the knees until he sat down again. A sharp turn came racing toward them, and Patterson heaved on the wheel just in time. God damn you, Sticky! he said hoarsely. The wheel flickered back through his fingers.

Youre driving on the wrong side of the road, Stickwell said. It was true. The lights of an oncoming truck glared. Patterson got the Buick into the left-hand lane and the truck flashed by in a blaze of horns. For the love of Mike, stop the sodding engine, somebody! he pleaded.

Think Ill take a little nap, Stickwell said, and closed his eyes. As he did so, the engine started to cough. It picked up for a few seconds, then spluttered and died.

Now look what youve done, Stickwell said severely. Youve broken it.

Patterson heaved a deep and trembling breath. The Buick drifted along, shedding speed, and he edged it onto the grass verge, where it jolted to a stop. The night was very still. He rested his head and looked at the stars. They shimmered with unnatural intensity, blurring and sharpening and blurring again in a rhythm that matched a slow pounding in his brain. As I live and breathe, he muttered, I swear Ill never drop another drink. Drink another drop. Whichever.

That black velvet did it, said Stickwell. You shouldnt have had all that black velvet. I didnt, and look at me.

You look bloody awful, said Cattermole, the man with the golliwog. You look as if youre about to spew.

Stickwell twisted around to face him. Stickwell had dramatically gloomy features, and in the starlight his eyes were lost in their deep sockets. He studied the golliwog and said nothing.

Ive spewed once tonight already, said the fourth man, Cox. And it wasnt the black velvet, either. It was all those American martinis before the black velvet.

I dont remember any martinis, said Cattermole. Where did we have martinis?

In that rotten club. Before the party. You remember, Moggy.

I do not. I certainly had no martinis.

You had three, Patterson announced. And then you spewed.

Our big mistake, said Cox, was starting off on cider. I said at the time

Were those things martinis? Cattermole asked. You mean those funny-tasting things, with the vegetables floating around in them?

I think Im going to spew now, Stickwell said.

There you are! said Cattermole triumphantly.

It has nothing to do with the drink, Stickwell announced. He spoke with some difficulty, as if he had a mouthful of chewinggum. Its all this wild careering around. Very sick-making.

Well, get out, first, Patterson told him.

At this speed? Are you mad, Patterson?

Watch out, Pip, Cattermole warned as Stickwells head began to droop.

Patterson threw open the door and half-fell onto the grass. The sound of harsh retching began. Shit, said Patterson.

Highly unlikely, Cattermole remarked. He and Cox got out. There was just enough light leaking into the sky to silhouette hedges and telephone poles.

Where are we? Cox asked.

Sticky ought to know, Patterson said.

Stickys got his hands full at the moment.

Really? That stuffs not worth keeping, Sticky, Cattermole called out. Chuck it away.

Why did we stop? Cox asked.

Ran out of fuel, Patterson said. Had to make an emergency landing in pitch darkness. Brilliant bit of piloting.

Cox climbed onto a tree-stump. Nothing but fields, he reported. Not much chance of getting the Buick filled up here.

Sounds like Stickys doing his best, Cattermole said. The painful noises in the car eventually tailed off into feeble coughs and gasps. Stickwell appeared, gray-faced in the gloom, and stretched out on the grass.

What time is it? We ought to be getting on, Cox said. How far to the airfield?

Do stop worrying, Mother, said Cattermole. Have you noticed, Pip He yawned, and closed his eyes. noticed that Mother always starts worrying when its too late to do anything?

Nobody answered. After a while a bird started to sing in a nearby tree. Stickwell swore at it and it stopped.

Im in enough trouble with the Ram as it is, thats all, Cox said. He had a long nose, slightly crooked where he had broken it by running into a gatepost at the age of six, and this made his face look even longer and narrower than it was. He really hates me. You should have heard him go on about it. He went on and on and on.