Patrick saw the policeman silently cycling towards him down the
narrow lane by his parents’ new house on the Romney Marsh. He
looked curiously dated compared to urban police officers, but maybe
things were different out here. Slower. His bike was antiquated, too.
The figure shimmered in the heat haze and the tarmac on the
road shone like a black pool.
The policeman rode on towards him, his body twisted, distorted,
insubstantial, but as he came closer he suddenly pedalled into a
patch of haze – and vanished.
Patrick gaped at the empty space. Could he have witnessed a
trick of the light?’
They had just moved into a house that had been empty for years and
was being lovingly refurbished by Patrick’s parents, who were
working hard to restore the building to its former seventeenth century
elegance. But Patrick didn’t share their enthusiasm. He felt trapped
and bored, stranded miles from his friends in London with nothing to
do except help with the renovation. That wasn’t his idea of fun at all.
Patrick’s passion was football and he had missed a summer training
camp to come all the way out here.
He kicked a stone, pretending it was a ball – and stubbed his toe
badly. Hopping about, he cursed, wishing that he had never even
heard of this isolated place called the country where nothing ever
happened – except for policemen disappearing into a heat haze.
Several times Patrick had trudged half a mile down to the sea for
a swim, but he had found the pebble beaches, the weed-hung
shoreline and the floating jellyfish a poor contrast to the Marsham
Street Leisure Complex with its clear water and wave machine.
But the image of the vanishing policeman stayed in Patrick’s mind
as he unwillingly helped his father plaster a wall.
‘Dad – have you ever seen a mirage?’ he said hesitantly. ‘You
know, a vision conjured up by the heat.’
‘Yes. I’ve seen a palace with fountains.’ Tim Ratner was a
journalist and had been across the desert several times. ‘And a ski
lodge covered in snow.’
‘Is it different for everyone?’
‘I’m not sure. It might be.’ His father slapped on more plaster
thoughtfully.
So why should I see an old-fashioned policeman, Patrick
wondered.
Next afternoon, the heat was even more intense and Patrick
wandered down the lane, trying to catch a breath of fresh air, or even
just the hint of a breeze. But curiously it seemed even more
unbearably hot and the tarmac was more liquid than ever, the silence
engulfing him like a warm blanket.
Then Patrick saw a 1950 Ford Popular, travelling at speed
towards him down the lane, its bright green bodywork gleaming in
the sunlight. The haze rose – and the vintage car disappeared into a
shapeless shimmer.
He went into the back garden and sat down by the weed-choked
pond, trying to think it all out.
‘Come on, lazy bones!’ His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Your dad’s back at the plastering.’
‘He would be,’ Patrick said rudely, but when he saw the hurt look
on her face, he jumped to his feet. ‘He wanted another bag of
plaster. I’ll get one from the garage.’ He paused. ‘Mum –’
‘Yes?’ she replied warily and he wondered if she thought he was
going to ask for time off.
‘Have you seen a Ford Popular round here? Kind of vintage and a
bright green colour?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m sure I haven’t. Why do you want to know?’
‘I thought I saw one go by,’ he said lamely.
‘Perhaps someone’s into antique cars then,’ she suggested
vaguely. ‘Can you get Dad his bag? He’ll be screaming for it soon.’
His mother looked harassed. ‘You’re not finding it too boring down
here?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I mean – without your friends and the
football and –’ Her voice tailed away and he saw she was looking
upset again.
Patrick took pity on her at once. ‘Of course not. I’m enjoying
helping.’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Oh well, it’s only for another few
days. Then we’ll be back in London.’
As he got up, Patrick hoped his mother hadn’t noticed his look of
joy.
The garage had been half cleared by his father and was strewn with
a mass of old tools and gardening equipment. Patrick idly ran his
eyes over the stuff, remembering his mother saying, ‘It’s like a time
warp down there. Nothing’s been touched for years.’
At the very back, his father had taken down a pile of oil drums and
just beyond them he could see handlebars. They looked old. But
maybe the bike could be made to work. If he had wheels, however
ancient, then his isolation wouldn’t be so great.
He lugged the heavy metal frame from its cobwebbed retreat and
dragged it into the light, sweating profusely, and then realized with a
pang of disappointment that he was gazing down at a rusty wreck.
But the bike’s condition wasn’t just due to the passage of time.
Something had hit it hard. The handlebars were back-to-front and
the crossbar and chain guard were heavily dented.
Patrick left the battered bike where it was, picked up the heavy
sack and threw it across his shoulder, staggering back to the house,
his mind in overdrive.
The heat intensified to such an extent that halfway through the
oppressive afternoon his father paused and said, ‘I’m going to have
a wash and then go down to the beach. Just for an hour. You
coming?’
‘OK, Dad.’ Patrick thought of the scummy weed and burning
pebbles. But at least the sea would be cool.
Mum joined them, bringing some bottled water and chocolate
biscuits which immediately began to melt. He enjoyed the picnic
though. At least the smell of paint and plaster and brick dust was out
of his nostrils. But as they drove back the heat rose, and Patrick
could see the tarmac melting again.
‘This is awful,’ said Mum.
‘We should be grateful,’ muttered Dad. ‘Look at last summer. It
never stopped raining.’
The Ford Popular swung out of their own garage, its bright green
bodywork shimmering as it roared straight towards them. The car
filled the entire lane – and so did theirs. Patrick yelled a warning and
ducked down in the back seat, but nothing happened. There was no
impact. Just his father’s gentle pressure on the brakes.
‘You all right, old son?’ His father was all concern as he turned
round and gazed at him.
‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ said his mother.
‘I thought – I thought we were going to hit something.’
‘The road’s empty,’ she replied blankly.
‘Must have been a mirage.’ Patrick’s father smiled with insider
information. ‘We were talking about that earlier. This damned heat
haze –’
By five-thirty it was still sweltering and Patrick couldn’t bear to stay in
the house – it was too sticky. But outside seemed worse.
Nevertheless, he decided to take a walk down to the old garage. It
would be cool in there and besides, he wanted to look at the bicycle
again. Could it have been the policeman’s? Could the bike have
been hidden behind the oil drums? Had it been hit by the green Ford
Popular? Patrick’s imagination soared until he calmed down. If a
local copper had been knocked down and killed then the bike would
have been taken away as evidence. Not hidden away in a garage.
Then he saw someone moving through the heat haze. Someone
on a bike.
Patrick watched the figure anxiously, keeping an eye on the garage
behind him, but there was no sign of the green Ford Popular.
The distorted shape of the cyclist took substance and Patrick saw
an old farm labourer emerging from the haze. He had seen him
yesterday, slowly pedalling past the house, and had mentally
dismissed him as part of the landscape. Now he wanted to talk.
‘Excuse me.’
The old man dismounted, casting a rheumy eye over Patrick but
saying nothing.
‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
There was still no response.
‘I was wondering if you’ve always lived round here –’
He nodded reluctantly.
‘And if you knew whether a green Ford Popular was ever kept in
that garage –’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Now he was suspicious.
‘Did it knock down a policeman?’ Patrick persisted.
‘A policeman?’ The old man’s voice was hoarse and he looked
away.
‘I read somewhere – in the library – that there was an accident,’
Patrick improvised quickly.
‘Village bobby disappeared,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘Like as if
he was spirited away. Regular mystery it was. Can’t say I saw the
car though.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Long way back. Fifties, maybe. When I was a young man. PC
Dorkins. Went out on his bike – and never seen again.’ ‘Did they find
the bike?’
‘Nor his body neither.’ The old man made eye contact for the first
time. ‘What are you up to then? Solving old mysteries, are you?’ He
cackled harshly and began to pedal slowly on. ‘Going to find
Dorkins? Can’t be much of him left now.’
As he rounded the bend, Patrick went back indoors.
That night he dreamt of the Ford Popular. He was sitting in the
passenger seat, waiting for someone, but when the door opened he
could only feel heat and see a hazy indefinable figure that smelt of
melting tarmac. The ignition was switched on, the choke pulled out
and the starter button pushed. The engine coughed unwillingly and
the hazy driver backed the Ford out of the garage. Patrick could see
nothing but a wall of heat as the car swept down the lane. He knew
they were going too fast. Far too fast. The dream repeated itself
again and again until Patrick woke up sweating, his whole body
tense with fright.
*
The next day was just as unbearably hot and Patrick, nursing a bad
headache, swopped allegiances, helping his mother paint the
kitchen. At about eleven they took a break and went into the garden,
where his father joined them for home-made lemonade under the old
apple tree. But because his parents spoke of nothing but the house
and their long list of planned improvements, Patrick began to get
restless, needing to get away from the soporific sound of their
voices. He wanted to cool his pounding head and try to make sense
of his dream.
‘Where are you going?’ his father asked as Patrick stood up.
‘Thought I’d take a look in the garage.’
‘There’s nothing in there.’
‘I found an old bike. Thought I’d try to fix it up.’
‘That’s a wreck –’
‘Still –’
‘Well, you’ve got five minutes. We’ve got to get the undercoat on
today.’
With a barely controlled sigh, Patrick walked out of the side gate.
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said his mother softly.
His father muttered something he couldn’t hear.
The haze on the slippery road was as intense as ever and the
silence was total. Then Patrick heard the clanking sound of a bicycle
approaching.
At first he thought – he hoped – he was going to see the now
familiar figure of the old labourer, but to his horror it was the
policeman, cycling very fast, his helmet at an angle, his forehead
beaded with sweat, gripping the handlebars tightly, his feet pounding
the pedals. He was looking ahead intently as the green Ford Popular
came out of the haze, filling the road, driving at high speed.
*
The impact was tremendous and Patrick looked away. But the
helmet rolled past his feet and he turned back to see the policeman
lying bloodied on the hot tarmac, the Ford with its front wheels and
bonnet covered in blood. Then the sound became distorted and
faded out discordantly, like a faulty cassette.
Silently, two men got out, shadowed silver in the heat, and began
to drag the policeman towards the back garden and out of sight. One
of them returned and started the engine, backing the car into the
garage again while the other came for the bike. It was all over in
seconds, their bodies losing substance, becoming transparent,
fading away to mist and heat and melting road. But a little later, as
he stood there feeling unable to move, Patrick heard the clinking
sound of a spade on hard, sunbaked earth.
Patrick returned to his parents who were still sitting under the apple
tree.
‘We should dig behind the garage,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ demanded his father, staring at him in amazement.
‘You’re sweating, dear,’ commented his mother. ‘You’ve had too
much sun.’
‘No,’ replied Patrick irritably. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He went over to
the wall of the house and grabbed the pickaxe. ‘This could take a bit
of time,’ he said.
No one asked any questions and there was a long silence as the
others thought about what Patrick might have found. Then Jane
hurriedly pulled a small globe out of her rucksack.
‘This is my dearest possession,’ she said. ‘The opposite of
summer heat. Winter snow – and ice.’
There were a few murmurs of protest, but Jane put her globe
carefully away and began to explain.
narrow lane by his parents’ new house on the Romney Marsh. He
looked curiously dated compared to urban police officers, but maybe
things were different out here. Slower. His bike was antiquated, too.
The figure shimmered in the heat haze and the tarmac on the
road shone like a black pool.
The policeman rode on towards him, his body twisted, distorted,
insubstantial, but as he came closer he suddenly pedalled into a
patch of haze – and vanished.
Patrick gaped at the empty space. Could he have witnessed a
trick of the light?’
They had just moved into a house that had been empty for years and
was being lovingly refurbished by Patrick’s parents, who were
working hard to restore the building to its former seventeenth century
elegance. But Patrick didn’t share their enthusiasm. He felt trapped
and bored, stranded miles from his friends in London with nothing to
do except help with the renovation. That wasn’t his idea of fun at all.
Patrick’s passion was football and he had missed a summer training
camp to come all the way out here.
He kicked a stone, pretending it was a ball – and stubbed his toe
badly. Hopping about, he cursed, wishing that he had never even
heard of this isolated place called the country where nothing ever
happened – except for policemen disappearing into a heat haze.
Several times Patrick had trudged half a mile down to the sea for
a swim, but he had found the pebble beaches, the weed-hung
shoreline and the floating jellyfish a poor contrast to the Marsham
Street Leisure Complex with its clear water and wave machine.
But the image of the vanishing policeman stayed in Patrick’s mind
as he unwillingly helped his father plaster a wall.
‘Dad – have you ever seen a mirage?’ he said hesitantly. ‘You
know, a vision conjured up by the heat.’
‘Yes. I’ve seen a palace with fountains.’ Tim Ratner was a
journalist and had been across the desert several times. ‘And a ski
lodge covered in snow.’
‘Is it different for everyone?’
‘I’m not sure. It might be.’ His father slapped on more plaster
thoughtfully.
So why should I see an old-fashioned policeman, Patrick
wondered.
Next afternoon, the heat was even more intense and Patrick
wandered down the lane, trying to catch a breath of fresh air, or even
just the hint of a breeze. But curiously it seemed even more
unbearably hot and the tarmac was more liquid than ever, the silence
engulfing him like a warm blanket.
Then Patrick saw a 1950 Ford Popular, travelling at speed
towards him down the lane, its bright green bodywork gleaming in
the sunlight. The haze rose – and the vintage car disappeared into a
shapeless shimmer.
He went into the back garden and sat down by the weed-choked
pond, trying to think it all out.
‘Come on, lazy bones!’ His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Your dad’s back at the plastering.’
‘He would be,’ Patrick said rudely, but when he saw the hurt look
on her face, he jumped to his feet. ‘He wanted another bag of
plaster. I’ll get one from the garage.’ He paused. ‘Mum –’
‘Yes?’ she replied warily and he wondered if she thought he was
going to ask for time off.
‘Have you seen a Ford Popular round here? Kind of vintage and a
bright green colour?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m sure I haven’t. Why do you want to know?’
‘I thought I saw one go by,’ he said lamely.
‘Perhaps someone’s into antique cars then,’ she suggested
vaguely. ‘Can you get Dad his bag? He’ll be screaming for it soon.’
His mother looked harassed. ‘You’re not finding it too boring down
here?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I mean – without your friends and the
football and –’ Her voice tailed away and he saw she was looking
upset again.
Patrick took pity on her at once. ‘Of course not. I’m enjoying
helping.’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Oh well, it’s only for another few
days. Then we’ll be back in London.’
As he got up, Patrick hoped his mother hadn’t noticed his look of
joy.
The garage had been half cleared by his father and was strewn with
a mass of old tools and gardening equipment. Patrick idly ran his
eyes over the stuff, remembering his mother saying, ‘It’s like a time
warp down there. Nothing’s been touched for years.’
At the very back, his father had taken down a pile of oil drums and
just beyond them he could see handlebars. They looked old. But
maybe the bike could be made to work. If he had wheels, however
ancient, then his isolation wouldn’t be so great.
He lugged the heavy metal frame from its cobwebbed retreat and
dragged it into the light, sweating profusely, and then realized with a
pang of disappointment that he was gazing down at a rusty wreck.
But the bike’s condition wasn’t just due to the passage of time.
Something had hit it hard. The handlebars were back-to-front and
the crossbar and chain guard were heavily dented.
Patrick left the battered bike where it was, picked up the heavy
sack and threw it across his shoulder, staggering back to the house,
his mind in overdrive.
The heat intensified to such an extent that halfway through the
oppressive afternoon his father paused and said, ‘I’m going to have
a wash and then go down to the beach. Just for an hour. You
coming?’
‘OK, Dad.’ Patrick thought of the scummy weed and burning
pebbles. But at least the sea would be cool.
Mum joined them, bringing some bottled water and chocolate
biscuits which immediately began to melt. He enjoyed the picnic
though. At least the smell of paint and plaster and brick dust was out
of his nostrils. But as they drove back the heat rose, and Patrick
could see the tarmac melting again.
‘This is awful,’ said Mum.
‘We should be grateful,’ muttered Dad. ‘Look at last summer. It
never stopped raining.’
The Ford Popular swung out of their own garage, its bright green
bodywork shimmering as it roared straight towards them. The car
filled the entire lane – and so did theirs. Patrick yelled a warning and
ducked down in the back seat, but nothing happened. There was no
impact. Just his father’s gentle pressure on the brakes.
‘You all right, old son?’ His father was all concern as he turned
round and gazed at him.
‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ said his mother.
‘I thought – I thought we were going to hit something.’
‘The road’s empty,’ she replied blankly.
‘Must have been a mirage.’ Patrick’s father smiled with insider
information. ‘We were talking about that earlier. This damned heat
haze –’
By five-thirty it was still sweltering and Patrick couldn’t bear to stay in
the house – it was too sticky. But outside seemed worse.
Nevertheless, he decided to take a walk down to the old garage. It
would be cool in there and besides, he wanted to look at the bicycle
again. Could it have been the policeman’s? Could the bike have
been hidden behind the oil drums? Had it been hit by the green Ford
Popular? Patrick’s imagination soared until he calmed down. If a
local copper had been knocked down and killed then the bike would
have been taken away as evidence. Not hidden away in a garage.
Then he saw someone moving through the heat haze. Someone
on a bike.
Patrick watched the figure anxiously, keeping an eye on the garage
behind him, but there was no sign of the green Ford Popular.
The distorted shape of the cyclist took substance and Patrick saw
an old farm labourer emerging from the haze. He had seen him
yesterday, slowly pedalling past the house, and had mentally
dismissed him as part of the landscape. Now he wanted to talk.
‘Excuse me.’
The old man dismounted, casting a rheumy eye over Patrick but
saying nothing.
‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
There was still no response.
‘I was wondering if you’ve always lived round here –’
He nodded reluctantly.
‘And if you knew whether a green Ford Popular was ever kept in
that garage –’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Now he was suspicious.
‘Did it knock down a policeman?’ Patrick persisted.
‘A policeman?’ The old man’s voice was hoarse and he looked
away.
‘I read somewhere – in the library – that there was an accident,’
Patrick improvised quickly.
‘Village bobby disappeared,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘Like as if
he was spirited away. Regular mystery it was. Can’t say I saw the
car though.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Long way back. Fifties, maybe. When I was a young man. PC
Dorkins. Went out on his bike – and never seen again.’ ‘Did they find
the bike?’
‘Nor his body neither.’ The old man made eye contact for the first
time. ‘What are you up to then? Solving old mysteries, are you?’ He
cackled harshly and began to pedal slowly on. ‘Going to find
Dorkins? Can’t be much of him left now.’
As he rounded the bend, Patrick went back indoors.
That night he dreamt of the Ford Popular. He was sitting in the
passenger seat, waiting for someone, but when the door opened he
could only feel heat and see a hazy indefinable figure that smelt of
melting tarmac. The ignition was switched on, the choke pulled out
and the starter button pushed. The engine coughed unwillingly and
the hazy driver backed the Ford out of the garage. Patrick could see
nothing but a wall of heat as the car swept down the lane. He knew
they were going too fast. Far too fast. The dream repeated itself
again and again until Patrick woke up sweating, his whole body
tense with fright.
*
The next day was just as unbearably hot and Patrick, nursing a bad
headache, swopped allegiances, helping his mother paint the
kitchen. At about eleven they took a break and went into the garden,
where his father joined them for home-made lemonade under the old
apple tree. But because his parents spoke of nothing but the house
and their long list of planned improvements, Patrick began to get
restless, needing to get away from the soporific sound of their
voices. He wanted to cool his pounding head and try to make sense
of his dream.
‘Where are you going?’ his father asked as Patrick stood up.
‘Thought I’d take a look in the garage.’
‘There’s nothing in there.’
‘I found an old bike. Thought I’d try to fix it up.’
‘That’s a wreck –’
‘Still –’
‘Well, you’ve got five minutes. We’ve got to get the undercoat on
today.’
With a barely controlled sigh, Patrick walked out of the side gate.
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said his mother softly.
His father muttered something he couldn’t hear.
The haze on the slippery road was as intense as ever and the
silence was total. Then Patrick heard the clanking sound of a bicycle
approaching.
At first he thought – he hoped – he was going to see the now
familiar figure of the old labourer, but to his horror it was the
policeman, cycling very fast, his helmet at an angle, his forehead
beaded with sweat, gripping the handlebars tightly, his feet pounding
the pedals. He was looking ahead intently as the green Ford Popular
came out of the haze, filling the road, driving at high speed.
*
The impact was tremendous and Patrick looked away. But the
helmet rolled past his feet and he turned back to see the policeman
lying bloodied on the hot tarmac, the Ford with its front wheels and
bonnet covered in blood. Then the sound became distorted and
faded out discordantly, like a faulty cassette.
Silently, two men got out, shadowed silver in the heat, and began
to drag the policeman towards the back garden and out of sight. One
of them returned and started the engine, backing the car into the
garage again while the other came for the bike. It was all over in
seconds, their bodies losing substance, becoming transparent,
fading away to mist and heat and melting road. But a little later, as
he stood there feeling unable to move, Patrick heard the clinking
sound of a spade on hard, sunbaked earth.
Patrick returned to his parents who were still sitting under the apple
tree.
‘We should dig behind the garage,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ demanded his father, staring at him in amazement.
‘You’re sweating, dear,’ commented his mother. ‘You’ve had too
much sun.’
‘No,’ replied Patrick irritably. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He went over to
the wall of the house and grabbed the pickaxe. ‘This could take a bit
of time,’ he said.
No one asked any questions and there was a long silence as the
others thought about what Patrick might have found. Then Jane
hurriedly pulled a small globe out of her rucksack.
‘This is my dearest possession,’ she said. ‘The opposite of
summer heat. Winter snow – and ice.’
There were a few murmurs of protest, but Jane put her globe
carefully away and began to explain.
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