Heaven on four wheels. Live for the moment… drive the moment. And the moment is now. Chrome dazzling, leather upholstered, fast revving, high living luxury. All this is yours. Take it. Drive it. Do it now. Live it now.
Ad Copy by John Torrent, 1970
Torrent pushed the car up to a comfortable eighty five and tried not to laugh out loud. It was too good, too perfect, a filmic moment, worthy of one of his own commercials, the road curving through the gently rolling countryside, land and sky a superbly framed golden section, unbroken blue, magic-markered over a colour swatch of spring green. Christ, he’d have to remember this bit of road next time they needed a photo shoot. Okay, so it was only an ad for a Hillman Avenger (the name was cool enough, though, with its associations of a leather-clad Diana Rigg despatching some besuited ne’er-do-well with a well-timed karate blow) and Torrent himself was driving an E-type, but he knew he could transplant some of the genuine excitement he felt driving a car like this on a day like this to a mundane TV commercial for an oblong family saloon, make those punters feel that what they were really getting was the adrenaline rush of the Jaguar. Christ, he would do an emotional Christian Barnard on them. That was a phrase to conjur with, one to make those starched collar stiffs sit up and take notice at the next board meeting.
In any case, could the people who bought cars like the Hillman Avenger handle something as cool as an E-type? Torrent didn’t think so. To drive a car this flash, you had to be operating at a different level, you needed to out-cool those sexy, racing contours, so that people didn’t just notice the car, they noticed the guy behind the wheel. Torrent was cool, and he knew it. He was laid-back, hip, a professional smoothie, every cliché in the adman’s copy book, and he loved it. If he hadn’t been John Torrent, he would have wanted to be, and he could understand the looks of envy he got from those drab, overcoated citizens of London when he stepped out in the West End in the latest and hippest tailoring that Savile Row could supply. None of the flashy, Carnaby Street, Kings Road off-the-peg trash for John Torrent. Oh no. This was flashiness of an entirely different order, flashiness made to measure on the company’s expense account.
Today’s suit was rust coloured, double breasted, with six buttons (six!) each side, and high, wide lapels: tapered at the waist like a riding jacket, flared out beneath, vented at the back to give the ladies just a glimpse of the near-lengendary Torrent rear elevation, itself tightly compacted into trousers that didn’t permit an inch of surplus fabric and were tight in all the right places. The shirt was peach, and audaciously frilly. If you dared to drive a car like this, you had to dress the part. More to the point, you had to feel the part. You had to walk it. And Torrent could walk it with the best of them. Actors, rock stars, politicians, he was at ease in the company of the cream of swinging London society. For Christ’s sake, he was one of the cream himself. He belonged to the élite, the chosen, the beautiful people.
He changed down as the Jag rode into a steeply cambered curve, and couldn’t help letting his gaze rest for a second on those legs. They were the kind of legs that belonged in an E-Type, long, languid, crackling with sheer nylon electricity, terminating in a pair of ice-white wedge-toed courts embellished with gold buckles, one of which was artfully dislodged at the heel, allowing it to swing, pendululm-like, as the car arced and soared through the contours of the Oxfordshire landscape.
The legs had an owner, though Torrent had begun to consider them as an entity in their own right, having featured them in an award-winning series of press ads for a well-known hosiery manufacturer. The ads all followed the same carefully contrived format: in the foreground, those peerless legs, posed suggestively, sexily, with maybe just the hint of a hemline of a very mini skirt breaking in at the top. Beyond the legs, a scene of calculated glamour and anticipation. It might be a tuxedo-clad Bond clone, aiming a handgun at the camera, or leaning cockily on the bonnet of Torrent’s own white Jaguar. Or it might be the posed grins and expensive cocktails of a group of beautiful people enjoying an aprés ski at St Moritz, or basting themselves in UV rays at Monte Carlo.
Oh yes, those legs belonged to someone all right (though her face was never seen in the hosiery ads). They were the legs of Jennifer Swayles, one of the West End’s most in-demand models and the current girlfriend of John Torrent. Those who had seen only Miss Swayle’s peerless pins in print (Torrent’s own description), could only wonder at the rest of her. She was equal to them in every respect. Some models, as Torrent knew only too well, specialised in legs, hands or feet but weren’t so blessed in other departments. Jennifer left nothing to be desired. Nothing at all, Torrent reflected, as his hand worked at the Jag’s slightly-too-stiff gearstick. Like the car itself, she was contoured to perfection, a symphony of curves, crowned by a face that would have launched not so much a thousand ships as all twelve Apollo missions. John Torrent was not a man who baulked at a little well-intentioned hyperbole.
Jennifer, whose chestnut brown mane was neatly encased in a lemon yellow headscarf, shot a look at Torrent from over her Ray-Bans. “A little more attention on the road, darling, and less on your passenger’s legs.”
Torrent laughed. “They ought to have you in the Highway Code. ‘Hazards to the road user’. You’d be banned, you know that: ‘Drivers are not permitted to transport females whose appearance may distract their attention from the road ahead.’ They’d have a sign, just a silhouette of a pair of legs in stilettos warning the unwary road user to beware. Christ, they’d need a few of those up around the West End. I wonder if I can sell the idea to Ernest Marples, if he’s still in charge of the roads. Who is it these days, I don’t know.”
“You’re certainly not in charge of this road,” Jennifer rebuked him gently. “And watch your speed, darling, or you’ll be done for flying without a pilot’s license.”
“A day like this, on a road like this, in a car like this?” Torrent shook his head. “You just gotta have your foot down, baby!”
“Well, I’m putting my down. Ease off the gas, lover boy.”
Just to tease her, Torrent pushed the E-Type until the needle was kissing ninety. Then he throttled down and shifted into a more manageable gear as the road curved into a hairpin. Coming out of the bend, they saw it, about two hundred yards ahead of them, straddling both lanes of the single carriageway. It was small, oblong, bright red, and its bonnet was not the same shape it had been when it left the factory. A Hillman Avenger. And it had evidently avenged itself on something hard and unyeilding. Torrent eased off the gas and dabbed the brake pedal. As they approached, the driver’s door of the Avenger swung open, and a sandy haired man in a grey suit stumbled out.
“Oh my God,” breathed Jennifer Swayles. “There’s been an accident.”
“Looks very much like it to me,” replied Torrent, himself no stranger to stating the obvious.
“That poor man,” said Jennifer. “I think he’s hurt, John. We’d better stop and see if he’s all right.”
“Well, we can’t exactly get past, can we? The guy’s blocking the road.”
“I can’t see another car,” remarked Jennifer, peering through the windscreen.
“Well, he must have hit something to have pranged his front end that bad,” said Torrent. The driver of the other car was wandering around in the road and hardly noticed as the Jag glided to a halt a few yards away from the stranded Avenger. Torrent glanced in the mirror to check his hair, then got out and hailed the other driver. “Hey, friend! You need some assistance?”
The sandy-haired man turned to him with a baffled look. “There’s nothing there!” he said, waving a vague hand at his crushed vehicle. “Nothing!”
“Okay, baby, take it easy,” said Torrent. He glanced round and raised an eyebrow at Jennifer who had just emerged from the Jag, then turned to the Avenger driver. “So what happened? Did the other guy drive off or what?”
“Other guy?” The Avenger driver shook his head. “What other guy? There is no other guy!” He took a couple of faltering steps towards Torrent, who noticed, for the first time, a thin trickle of blood seeping from a cut on the other’s forehead. Torrent took an evasive step sideways.
“Hey, mind the suiting, man. This is Savile Row tailoring, baby!”
Jennifer sighed and rolled her eyes. Torrent was being Torrent, as per usual. She moved towards the driver. “What do you mean exactly? You must have hit another vehicle of some sort.” It seemed the only answer, for there were no trees on that stretch of road, and no walls, mileposts or other obstacles that could account for the extent of the damage to the Hillman. Torrent went up to the car and cast an expert’s eye over the damage.
“You’ve taken quite a hit there. Must’ve been something substantial and coming at you pretty fast, I’d say. These babys don’t fold up unless you throw something serious in their direction, and I should know.”
The Avenger driver was babbling incoherently at Jennifer. “Nothing! There was nothing there, I tell you! Both lanes clear! Just the open road.”
“Poop-poop,” chimed in Torrent, remembering how he’d loved Mr. Toad as a child. He hardly realised it, but Toad, with his vanity, egotism and love of speed, Toad with his vacillating whims and fancies, his pretensions and delusions of grandeur: Toad had been his role model.
“You mean there was no one else on the road?” asked Jennifer.
The Avenger driver nodded wildly. “Exactly! No one else! I was doing, what, fifty five, sixty, and then I hit it.”
“Hit what?” Torrent arched a calculated eyebrow.
“That’s just it!” cried Avenger man, gesticulating wildly. “I hit nothing! There was nothing there, nothing at all!” He wandered off, raving quietly to himself.
Torrent rolled his eyes at Jennifer and muttered: “Brahms.”
“Do you think so? I didn’t smell anything.”
“Okay, so maybe the guy rolls his own.” Torrent looked round at a shout from the Avenger driver.
“It’s here!” he yelled. “I’ve found it!”
Torrent and Jennifer exchanged glances then walked towards the wrecked car where the driver was leaping about animatedly. “Congratulations,” said Torrent. “Where is it exactly?”
“Right here!” cried the driver, slapping his hand in the air. “Feel it.”
“Remind me to tap this guy for a reefer later,” muttered Torrent. “It’s obviously good stuff.” He sauntered across to where the Avenger driver was standing. The other man was glaring wildly into space, and moving his hands around in the air like a mime artist.
“Feel it!” he cried, grabbing Torrent by the arm. “Right here!” He aimed Torrent’s hand at nothing.
Torrent freed himself carefully. “Okay, okay, mind the suit man.” He fixed the Avenger driver with a quizzical glare. “What exactly am I meant to be feeling? Apart from a mounting sense of incomprehension.”
“There!” The Avenger driver stabbed the air with a finger. Torrent saw only distant trees and the rolling Oxfordshire hills. “Put your hand out and feel the air!” cried the other man in exasperation.
“Okay, if it makes you feel better.” Torrent reached out and felt the air. It was just air. The guy was evidently crazy, maybe in shock from the collision or…
Torrent’s train of thought hit the buffers. His hand had connected with something, something in the air. But there was nothing there. Nothing you could see, at any rate. He took a step back, then tried again. There it was again! He shivered and ran his hand over the non existent surface that he’d found. There was definitely something there, like a sheet of totally non-reflective glass. The Avenger driver was wandering across the carriageway, probing and prodding the air as he went. “It’s here, and here,” he cried. “It goes right across the road and beyond.” He turned and looked at Torrent. “Now do you believe me?”
“I believe you all right. I just don’t believe this.” Torrent moved his hand over the invisible surface. “Too much, man!” Jennifer came over and began feeling the air herself while Torrent stared at her, wild-eyed. “Baby, are we hallucinating? Did they spike our tea with acid back in that quaint little cake shop? Man, you gotta watch those old ladies…”
Jennifer shook her head. “I don’t understand it. Do you think it’s a trick?”
Torrent nodded. “It’s got to be. I bet there’s a hidden camera in those bushes over there. They’ve probably got some super transparent surface mounted across the road. Like, er, I don’t know. Totally non-reflective glass?”
“There’s no such thing, surely,” said Jennifer. “Anyway, even if there was, it’d be a pretty stupid stunt, even for Candid Camera. That poor man’s smashed up his car. It could have been us.” She aimed a kick at the invisible wall, then gave a shout of surprise. “Hey, John, it stops down here!” Jennifer indicated the spot with her foot. “I think there’s a hole in it.”
Torrent got down and felt around with his hands, then looked up at Jennifer in amazement. “You’re right. And it goes right the way round here. There’s a definite edge here, I can feel it.” He stood up, looked at the damaged Hillman, then at the non-existent wall. “Hey, I think I’ve got it! When our friend here hit this thing, whatever it is, he put a hole in it.” Torrent probed the air again. “There’s definitely a hole here. And it’s big.” He looked round at Jennifer. “I bet we could get the Jag through it.”
“Do you want to risk it? You’ve seen what happened to that chap’s car.”
“Christ, that was only a Hillman. You might as well have hit it with a paper cup. We’ve got to get through that thing and get word out. This could be huge, baby. We’ve discovered something wild, and the world has gotta hear about it!”
“Couldn’t we, you know, just drive round another way?”
“Where’s the fun in that? We’re going through it, baby! All the way!”
There was no stopping Torrent now he’d got the bit between his teeth. With the help of the Avenger driver (now helpfully identified as Phil), he got the wrecked car to the side of the road, then returned to the Jag and revved the engine. Jennifer peered into the convertible with trepidation. “Are you sure this is such a good idea? What if you wreck the Jag like that other car?”
“Are you kidding? We’ll just sail right through. Come on, jump in.” He shot a glance at Phil who was standing on the grass verge. “Are you coming with us, man?”
“I…I think I’ll watch,” said Phil, who was already imagining Torrent’s Jag reduced to a cube of scrap metal.
“Suit yourself.” Torrent reached over and opened the passenger door for Jennifer. “Come on, baby, you aint missing out on this.”
“If I break my legs, my agent will sue,” Jennifer advised, climbing into the car.
“We won’t break anything, baby. Just the world record for cool!” Torrent reversed the car about twenty yards back along the road, then stopped. The Jag roared impatiently. Torrent held it on the handbrake for a second then let go. The car flew down the road and Jennifer shut her eyes as Torrent aimed at the approximate position of the hole in the invisible wall. Watching from the grass verge, Phil tensed himself in anticipation of the inevitable shuddering collision.
The air swam like a mirage as the Jag approached the wall. Then it happened.
Nothing.
Nothing, and complete silence.
The roar of the 2+2 Engine was choked off abruptly, as though someone had taken the needle off a gramophone record. That was how Phil described it afterwards. He stared down the deserted road, then broke into a run, his hands clawing at the empty air.
The wall was gone. No barrier, nothing.
And no Jaguar.
John Torrent and his car, and his pretty lady passenger had all vanished out of existence. Phil went over to his wrecked Hillman and stood for a while, leaning on the buckled bodywork, wondering what the hell he’d had to drink at lunchtime.
*
“Are we still alive?” Jennifer had practically disappeared into the footwell and now slid herself back up the seat, taking care not to let her mini skirt ride up too far. Torrent had had enough distractions for one day.
“Alive and kicking, baby!” cried Torrent. He changed down and pulled into the roadside, then looked in the rear view mirror. “Hey, our friend appears to have split the scene!”
Jennifer turned and looked back up the road. There was no longer any sign of Phil and his wrecked Avenger. “How odd. I was sure he’d have wanted a lift.”
“Beats me how he got that wreck moving,” said Torrent. Then he turned to Jennifer and grinned. “We got through it, though, didn’t we? And not a scratch on the old girl!”
“I presume you’re referring to the car,” replied Jennifer, acidly. She slapped Torrent’s hand as it hovered above her thigh. “And I am also quite unscathed, thank you.”
“Any time, baby.”
“So what was it?” said Jennifer. “Any ideas?”
Torrent shrugged, as if the question was unimportant.
“Are we going to report it to someone?”
“Are you kidding? That is item numero uno on our agenda for this p.m. Get ourselves to a phone and get the gentlemen of the press out here to witness this phenomenon first hand.”
“What are you going to tell them? There’s an invisible wall across a country road somewhere in Oxfordshire? That will go down well with the hard-bitten hacks of Fleet Street. Why don’t you try the script department for Doctor Who?”
“You saw it yourself, kid. Or rather, you didn’t see it. But you felt it, all right. Can’t deny that, can you? And it’s not as if this report is coming from Joe Ordinary, is it? This is John Torrent reporting on the phenomeon that’s going to change the world. When people see my name attached to the story, they’ll just have to take it seriously.”
“Right. The man who gave us the Happy Nappy Dance and Beanz Meanz Heinz?”
Torrent gave her an exasperated look. “I did not do Heinz Beans, baby, so don’t lay that one on me.”
“I’m sure you claimed that was one of yours.”
“Well, maybe I was speaking figuratively. Look, people can come and see this thing for themselves. Or rather, feel it. They’ll have all those boffins from Tomorrow’s World down here. Live coverage from James Burke. And exclusive interviews with yours truly. I bet we can sell the story to the Sundays, too.” Torrent was beside himself with excitement. “Man, just let me get to a phone! Why didn’t I have that radio device installed in the car?”
“Because you said you didn’t want the office calling you when you were out playing with your new toy.”
“Spot on.” Torrent stood on the gas pedal and the Jag let out a purposeful growl. “By News at Ten tonight, we’ll be famous throughout the western hemisphere. And I betcha the Russians take an interest in this, too. Unless it’s one of their secret weapons they’ve been testing on us. In which case, they’ll probably have a KGB hit squad after us already…” Torrent blathered on, giving free reign to his lurid and excitable imagination, as the car powered off into the blue Oxfordshire landscape.
They saw the patrolman a few miles further on. He was parked in a layby at a call box, and Torrent felt sure that a few persuasive words would convince him to allow a private call on the police telephone. Assuming he was a policeman. As Torrent nosed the Jag in behind the motorbike and sidecar, he noticed that the officer’s uniform was not the expected dark blue, but a light military grey. The motorcycle was liveried in a similar colour, and the sidecar bore what looked like the old ‘VR’ emblems one occasionally encountered on antique items of street furniture. Torrent leaped out of the Jag and strolled up to the patrolman. “Hi, friend. Nice day for it.”
“Excuse me, sir?” The patrolman, who had evidently not registered the arrival of Torrent or the Jag, turned a quizzical eye towards the newcomer.
“I was wondering if you might let me sneak a call on the old dog and bone.” Torrent inclined his head in the direction of the call box, which he now realised was painted in the same shade of grey as the patrolman’s uniform.
“I’m sorry?”
“The phone, baby. I’ve got big news to impart to the citizens of mother earth.”
“Are you quite all right, sir?” The patrolman was staring at Torrent as though he might have just dropped in from outer space. “If I might ask so bold a question, could you tell me where exactly you got your clothes?”
“What, the suit?” Torrent let out an appreciative laugh. “It’s cool isn’t it? Probably a bit out of your league, brother. I have a guy in Savile Row who makes them to my precise specifications. You gotta dress cool when you take the wheel of this baby.” He turned and indicated the Jag with an expansive gesture. The patrolman looked round and almost fell off his motorcycle. For a few moments he sat, as though transfixed by the sight of the car, looking genuinely afraid.
“She’s a beaut, huh?” gushed Torrent with pride. “And the car’s not bad either, eh?” He gave the patrolman a sly wink. The patrolman coughed and adjusted the strap on his antiquated helmet. “Betcha don’t see many of them in these parts, eh? I’m talking about the car of course.”
“Er, no sir…” replied the patrolman, hesitantly.
Torrent looked him up and down. “So how about that phone call?”
“All in good time, sir.” As though mesmerised, the patrolman slowly dismounted from his motorcycle and walked towards the Jaguar. He looked at the car, then at Torrent, then turned his attention towards the vision that was arrayed on the passenger seat. He looked at Torrent again. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you visiting from overseas?”
“No,” Torrent answered with a grin. “Hey, are we really that cool? Can’t you handle it?”
“I’m having some difficulty understanding you, sir,” replied the patrolman.
“Take no notice of him, officer,” said Jennifer. “He always talks like that. I can’t make him out myself half the time.”
Torrent was beginning to find the patrolman’s behaviour somewhat bewildering. Surely the people in these parts weren’t such hicksville squares that they couldn’t deal with a dude in a Savile Row suit driving a white E-Type with a fashion model for a passenger? “Man, are you okay?” he asked, approaching the patrolman cautiously. “You seem kinda flustered.”
“If you’ll pardon me for saying so sir, you are somewhat…extraordinary.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, friend,” said Torrent, slapping the patrolman on the arm. “And can I say how much I dig the new schmutter? Big improvement on the old look. What do we call you now, then? The Guys in Grey? As opposed to the Boys in Blue?”
The patrolman removed his helmet and ran a hand over a sleek, well-oiled mat of hair. “I’m very sorry, sir, but I really am having the most terrible trouble following this conversation. Were you by any chance complimenting me on my uniform?”
“You got me!” cried Torrent, with a laugh. “Hey, am I really that hard to make out? I’m supposed to be an expert in communication, you know? That’s what I do, for my sins. You know Beanz Meanz Heinz?” Torrent caught Jennifer’s expression in the corner of his eye, and waved at her to say nothing.
The patrolman considered the question. “I’m afraid I don’t sir.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. It’s not even one of mine. I’m just trying to clue you in on the whole adman scene. How about the nappy ad with the dancing babies? You’ve seen that, right?” The patrolman’s face could have served as any letter in a game of Scrabble. Torrent nodded to himself. “I take it that’s a no. Say, do they even get television in this part of the world?”
“Oh, telly vision!” The patrolman enunciated the word strangely, sounding a clear break between its two disyllabic components. “Certainly, sir. We have a community lounge at the village hall.”
Torrent looked at him askance. “That’s nice for you.”
“Yes sir. Once a week Mary, that’s the wife, and myself go down there for the usual bill of fare. I must say that Gerald’s a very clever man. Always goes down well with the audience.”
“Gerald? Does he do a comic turn or something?”
“Excuse me, sir? No, he’s on the telly vision. You must have seen him sir, he’s on every night, regular as clockwork.”
Torrent struggled to think of a Gerald who was seen regularly on television and could come up with only Gerald Harper. “You mean the guy that did Adam Adamant?” Surely he didn’t mean Gerald Nabarro?
“No sir, you must know Gerald. Everyone knows Gerald. Such a popular chap, and so very helpful. Which reminds me sir, I’ve been quite neglecting my duty what with the sight of you and this extraordinary conveyance of yours, to say nothing of this extremely charming young lady.”
“Forget it, friend. Just aim me at the dog and bone and we’ll take it from there.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see any dogs in the vicinity, sir,” said the patrolman in a tone of utter bafflement.
Torrent shrieked with laughter. “Man, you’re killing me! ‘I don’t see any dogs in the victinity.’” He looked at Jennifer who was laughing too. “Say, what outfit are you with exactly? I had you down as a cop, but I’m guessing you’re maybe with some organisation like the RAC? Is that closer to the mark?”
“I am affiliated to Her Majesty’s Volunteer Arm of Roadside Assistants,” replied the patrolman, indicating a crest on the sleeve of his uniform. “And it is my proud duty to offer you my assistance in any capacity.”
“Never heard of you,” said Torrent, staring at the insignia on the patrolman’s sleeve. It was repeated on the sidecar, a heraldic device incorporating the entwined ‘VR’ motif and the initials H.M.V.A.R.A. in a curved lozenge. He beckoned to Jennifer. “Hey babe, come and take a look at the sherrif’s badge. Have you ever heard of this set-up?”
Jennifer, who had until now been sitting in the Jaguar, opened the driver’s door and stepped out, revealing the full extent of those much-photographed legs beneath a back and white tartan mini-skirt.
The patrolman took one look at those legs and fainted on the spot.
*
Torrent was back at the wheel in an instant and revving the engine, but Jennifer knelt over the prone figure of the patrolman with a look of concern. “Get in, girl!” Torrent hissed at her. “I’m not hanging around here longer than necessary.”
“But the poor chap’s fainted.”
“Baby, all I know is this. The sight of your pins has just killed a cop. A crazy cop in a weird outfit, but a cop all the same. Now unless you want to find yourself in court on the world’s weirdest ever homicide rap, I suggest you join me pronto, Tonto!”
“Don’t be absurd, he’s not dead.” Jennifer took the patrolman’s hand and was feeling his pulse. “He’s just passed out. Look, he’s coming round.”
Torrent revved the Jag impatiently. “Oooh, come on, baby! We gotta split before he makes out the charge sheet!”
Jennifer ignored him and smiled at the patrolman. “Are you all right now?”
For a moment, it looked as if the officer might suffer a relapse. Somehow he stammered out an affirmative and allowed Jennifer to help him to his feet. “Dreadfully sorry, miss. I can’t think what came over me.” Then he saw those legs again and Jennifer had to put out a hand to steady him. “I really must apologise,” said the patrolman. “It’s just that the sight of your…of your…” he was quite unable to finish his sentence.
Torrent silenced the Jaguar and climbed out. “Hey, what is going on this afternoon? First we find a guy who’s hit a wall that isn’t there, now we’ve got this character coming on at us like it’s, I don’t know, 1870 instead of 1970.”
Jennifer was still supporting the patrolman. “Here, let’s sit you down in the car for a minute.” She steered him towards the Jaguar while Torrent looked on, bewildered.
“Look baby, I know you were the face of 69 and your legs have graced a thousand Observer Colour Supplements, but people don’t faint at the sight of you. Not as a rule.”
“I expect he’s just got a touch of heat stroke.”
“He’s got the hots all right,” muttered Torrent. “And don’t even mention the word ‘stroke’ to him or he’ll have one on the spot.”
Jennifer settled the patrolman in the passenger seat. “There, that’s better. Can we get you anything?”
“Sure, I’ll just get the teasmaid out of the boot,” said Torrent, acidly.
“I’ll be as right as rain in a couple of ticks,” said the patrolman. He struck Torrent as having stepped off the set of an Ealing Comedy. Come to think of it, he bore a striking resemblance to Stanley Holloway.
Torrent was about to offer another dry observation on the patrolman’s unworldliness when the sound of an approaching engine distracted him. Turning, he saw a grey and indescribably boring vehicle appear around a bend in the road. It can’t have been doing more than twenty five miles an hour. It looked to Torrent as if it might have been made some time before the war. The Crimean War. The car, if car was the right word for the comically antiquated contraption, was grey, snub-nosed and solid-wheeled and had all the design sophistication of a farm tractor. The driver sat high up, behind a flat, louvered windscreen. There was no roof. It trundled sedately to a standstill on the opposite side of the road while Torrent looked on in wonder at the driver. He was done up like Sherlock Holmes, in a tweed hacking jacket and deerstalker. Goggles, leather gauntlets and a white scarf completed the outfit. The man was just sitting there, staring at Torrent and his car. Torrent shook his head and turned to Jennifer. “Get a load of Mr. Toad over there.”
Jennifer turned and smiled. “How quaint. There must be a veteran car rally on somewhere.”
“Might go some way towards explaining this guy,” said Torrent, with a look at the patrolman who was slowly recovering in the Jag. “Though for my money, he’s taking the whole thing a bit too far.”
“Where did you get a car like this?” asked the patrolman, running a finger over the Jag’s leather upholstery.
“Same place as everyone who drives them. From a Jaguar dealer.”
“Foreign is it? American, perhaps?”
Torrent rolled his eyes. “Man, have you been on a long vacation or something? This baby is as British as they come. Jaguar! Made in Coventry, no less. You’re not telling me you’ve never come across one before? It’s been in production since 1961!”
“Really?” murmured the patrolman. “That is unusual.”
Jennifer tugged at Torrent’s sleeve. “I think we’ve got company.” Turning, Torrent saw that the driver of the veteran car had climbed down and was striding across the road towards them. Removing his hat, he revealed a ruddy face with a ginger moustache that spoke of an RAF lineage. He looked like Captain Bigglesworth made flesh.
“Hide!” Torrent hissed at Jennifer. “We don’t want another stiff on our conscience! Get those legs under cover!”
Jennifer ignored him and stepped forward to greet the driver. “Hello! I must say I like your gear. Is it authentic?”
“Three speed,” replied Biggles, misreading her completely. “It’s the Empire Special. The finest car on the public highway. Or so I thought until I caught sight of this, this…thing of yours. It really is the most outrageous vehicle I’ve ever seen. And white, too! Whoever took it into their head to make a white car? I suppose it is a car isn’t it, and not some manner of flying machine.” He shook his head in wonderment. Clearly, he was immune to Jennifer’s legs.
“Is this Edwardian week or something?” said Torrent. “Why is everyone behaving like they’re something out of a 1930s B picture today?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” replied Jennifer. “He’s on his way to a rally. Aren’t you?” She smiled at Biggles who seemed to be having some difficulty taking her all in.
“I say, don’t you think you should get some clothes on?” Biggles replied. “Can’t go around like that, can you? I think I’ve got a travelling rug in the back of the old bus. I can fetch it over if you like.”
“We don’t like,” said Torrent with barely concealed ire. “And you can cut out the comedy stuff. We’ve had enough already with our friend in Grey, here.”
Biggles looked at the Jaguar and appeared to notice the patrolman for the first time. “Good Lord, it’s old Charlie. I say, Charles, are you quite all right?” He went over to the car and began to speak to the patrolman in an earnest undertone.
Torrent took Jennifer to one side. “Look baby, I vote we split. This is all getting too weird for a Wednesday. Let’s make our excuses and fly, huh?”
“I was quite enjoying it, actually,” said Jennifer with a grin. “Anyway, Victoriana and Edwardiana is quite fashionable, you know. Not everyone goes in for lava lamps and globe chairs these days.”
“What does he think he’s driving, anyway? And why do they both find the Jag so hard to handle? I mean, who are the weirdos here? Us or them?”
“Don’t be silly. They’re probably both part of the same event. Look, they obviously know each other.”
The car driver had finished his conversation with the patrolman and was walking back towards them, looking them over with a quizzical eye. “Seems as if the sight of the young lady gave Charlie a bit of a turn. Can’t say as I blame him myself. In fact I find the pair of you somewhat unusual. Did the lady’s dress meet with an accident or something?”
“No, the lady always dresses this way,” said Torrent.
“Good heavens.” Biggles looked genuinely surprised. “You know, I don’t think I realised that a lady’s, well, legs, for want of a better word… that a lady’s legs went up quite such a long way.”
Jennifer laughed and Torrent shot her a look that would have reduced Kew Gardens to a heap of brown compost. He looked at the absurd aviator of the open road.
“While we’re on the subject, maybe you’d care to explain that get-up of yours?”
“Get-up?”
“The gear, man. The tailoring.”
Biggles had to think for a minute. “My outfit? Well, I can’t see that there’s much to say about it. One needs stout cloth for motoring. A good tweed…”
“So where’s it at, man? The fancy dress party?”
“Can’t say I follow you, old boy,” said Biggles, strolling around the Jaguar. “But I’d be obliged if you could explain this vehicle of yours.”
With a sigh, Torrent launched into a technical breakdown on the E-Type. Biggles and the patrolman both listened attentively, though it was clear that much of Torrent’s description went over their heads. Occasionally one or the other’s face would brighten on hearing a familiar term like carburettor, but for the most part they listened in rapt incomprehension. When Torrent had finished, Biggles turned to the patrolman. “What do you make of it, Charlie?”
“Queerest thing I’ve ever come across.”
“You didn’t build this yourself, did you?” asked Biggles.
“Myself?” Torrent gaped. “Look, these just roll right off the production line in Coventry. Get yourself down there and take a look if you don’t believe me.”
“I think he says he got it in Coventry,” said the patrolman to Biggles. “Blessed if I know where.”
“I know Coventry,” said Biggles, with an air of authority, “and I’ve never seen such a thing on the streets. Unless they keep them all locked up.”
“I should think they’d have to,” replied the patrolman, emphatically.
Torrent had had enough. “Okay guys, this is all fun and we’ve enjoyed the joke immensely, but I stopped here for a reason. I need to make a phone call, like yesterday, and I’m banking on there being a phone in that little box over yonder.”
“Yesterday? You’ve left it a bit late,” said the patrolman in all seriousness.
“That, my friend, is what is known as a turn of phrase. I need to make a call yesterday as in it is urgent, man. I’m not even going to try to tell you what happened to us back along the road here, cause if you can’t get your collective skulls around Jaguar E-Types and birds in mini-skirts then this thing would simply blow your minds.”
“Doesn’t he talk strange?” said the patrolman to Biggles.
“Are you American?” asked Biggles.
“No, I am not American!” cried Torrent. “I am John Torrent, creative director of Flaxman Pinsent Torrent, the man who gave the world the Happy Nappies campaign and did not, I repeat not coin the jingle Beanz Meanz Heinz! I am a man who needs to make a phone call because I have seen the weirdest thing you can imagine, weirder even than Jen’s legs here, and I need to put planet Earth in the picture. You dig?”
The patrolman and Biggles looked at each other and shook their heads. “Beats me,” said Biggles.
“And me,” said the patrolman.
Torrent looked at them, expectantly. “So. Do we have a deal?”
“He needs to use the telephone…” added Jennifer, helpfully.
“Don’t say that,” hissed Torrent. “We’ll be here all afternoon explaining Alexander Graham Bell, Marconi, Edison Lighthouse and Yogi Bear and Christ knows what else!”
“He’s a caution and no mistake,” chimed in the patrolman.
“Guys, dig this if you can. I…” Torrent indicated himself with an exaggerated gesture, “…am going to look in that little booth over there…” (indicating the call box) “and see if there is a telephone in it that I can use to make a call.”
“Now I understood that!” cried Biggles, and the patrolman, looking more than ever like Stanley Holloway, nodded eagerly in agreement.
“Won’t be a minute,” said Torrent. He stalked away down the lay-by.
The patrolman and Biggles stared at Jennifer in silence. She smiled, then thought it might be a good idea if she went after Torrent. There was something slightly unsettling about that pair of beatific blank expressions, like meeting Laurel and Hardy and realising they weren’t acing. They really were that dumb.
Jennifer found Torrent staring in through the door of the call box with a stupefied look on his face. Without a word, Torrent beckoned to her to step forward and indicated the interior of the tiny hut. Jennifer peered inside: she saw a wooden shelf containing a large, leather-bound book and a candlestick telephone without a dial. “It’s a bit old hat isn’t it?” she remarked. “Don’t the police have better facilities than this?”
“This isn’t the police,” said Torrent. “I don’t know what it is, maybe some local bumpkins who’ve styled themselves after the RAC circa 1930. Whatever it is, I know this much: that pair of comedians are wearing out their welcome.”
“You wanted a phone, didn’t you?”
“That’s not a phone, that’s a prop from a Laurel and Hardy movie. I’ll probably pick up the receiver and get an ear full of milk. I know these guys, they’ve planned the whole thing. As if today wasn’t weird enough what with invisible walls in the air.”
“Just try it. It must work or they wouldn’t bother putting it in here.”
Torrent stepped into the hut and, with some trepidation, picked up the phone and placed the receiver against his ear. A voice answered him straight away. “Her Majesty’s Imperial Telephone Exchange. Can I help you?”
“Put me through to Fleet Street,” said Torrent, tersely. “Any title, I don’t mind. This is big, baby, and they’re all gonna want a piece of it.”
“Can you repeat that, please, caller?”
“I need to speak to a newspaper,” said Torrent, dragging each syllable out painfully. “Can you do that?”
“I can connect you to the offices of the Britannia.”
“What’s that, an insurance company? I want a newspaper, kid, savvy?”
“The Britannia is a newspaper, sir.”
“Since when? Look, I want to talk to a paper I’ve heard of. The Times, the Telegraph, something with gravitas. Or failing that, just get me the newsdesk of the Daily Sketch, okay?”
“I can connect you to the offices of the Britannia.”
“Okay, just do it.” Torrent shot a look of disbelief at Jennifer who was standing in the doorway, and cupped his hand over the receiver. “You won’t believe this. She says she’s putting me through to something called the Britannia.”
“What’s that?”
“A newspaper, apparently.” The receiver crackled and Torrent placed it back against his ear. “Yeah, hello?”
“Connecting you now, caller,” said the operator.
Torrent waited. A moment’s silence ensued, followed by a series of mechanical clunks and gyrations. He frowned at Jennifer. Then the call was answered. “Britannia building.” The voice was clipped, precise and curiously devoid of gender, so that Torrent could not visualise whether it was a man or a woman to whom he was speaking.
“Hi, are you a newspaper?”
“We have that privilege, sir. The Britannia is the only approved broadsheet of the Britannic Empire. Can I be of help?”
“Only if you can connect me with a real newspaper. Preferably one where they know what year it is.”
“1970, sir.”
Torrent suppressed a sigh, along with the urge to smash the telephone receiver against the wall. “Yeah, I was, uh, speaking rhetorically there. Look, can I speak to someone on the news desk?”
“Do you have some news for us, sir?”
“Hey, you don’t want to know what I’ve got to tell you.”
“Then might I advise you to direct your enquiries elsewhere? If you have a news item that you wish to be considered for publication, please submit it in writing to the Britannia Offices, care of Her Majesty’s Postal Service.”
“Yeah, well, when I get five minutes and a pen I’ll write it all down, but this is kinda urgent, you dig?”
“Thank you for calling the Britannia. Have a lovely day. Goodbye.”
The line went dead, leaving Torrent gazing blankly at the receiver in his hand. He stepped out of the cabin, shaking his head. Jennifer looked at him, hopefully. “No good?”
Torrent gazed at her steadily. “Baby, do me one favour will you? Tell me if I’m tripping, because if I am, it aint a good one.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid this is real life.”
Torrent nodded grimly. “So it only feels like an acid nightmare. Come on, we’re going to London. We’ve fannied around here long enough.” He grabbed Jennifer by the hand and practically dragged her back to the car where they found the patrolman and Biggles deep in conversation.
“Ah, you’re back!” cried Biggles as they approached. “Any luck?”
“Luck is something that’s in short supply today, man,” replied Torrent, cooly, easing himself into the Jaguar and aiming an elbow at the patrolman who was still installed in the passenger seat. The patrolman took this as his cue to move and graciously held the door open while Jennifer slipped into his place. Torrent gunned the engine. At the sound of it, the patrolman and Biggles gazed at each other.
“Good Lord, whatever have you got under the bonnet?” asked Biggles.
“Pure testosterone, baby!’ cried Torrent, driving the revs higher. “Pure testosterone!” In a spray of gravel, the Jag flew out of the layby and down the road, leaving two bemused bystanders wondering what manner of miracle they had just witnessed.
Next: Torrent arrives in the Imperial Capital Londinium
