|
|
Tarsapple fumed and fretted, but there was nothing he could really do. Not without going well beyond the bounds of common decency and, more importantly, beyond those more stringent bounds of the law. Now, I am not a lawyer. I have never been attracted to that particular profession, with all its quirks and mores, its performance art and moral flexibility. Mine is a profession with rather more honour, one where I can yet maintain a small measure of self-respect, even if it is significantly less well-paid. Of course, I have acquired a good working knowledge of the law over the years, even if, on occasions, my judgements and actions have not been entirely aligned with the strict interpretation to be found in the casebooks. Today, I was slightly flattered at being presented this role, offset by a certain amount of trepidation: Mayfield had some pre-formed idea in mind, some part she wished me to play. But I didn't understand the rules, not the ones she was using; I didn't even know the name of this game. The position did have a few other up-sides, though. Rather than the long walk and the tedious journey on rural public transport which I had enduring to get here earlier, it seemed that the return trip would be in a little more style and quite a bit faster. A lot faster, knowing who was going to be doing the driving. As I have noted more than once before in these chronicles, there is something buried deeply in the psyche of many Goblins which is suddenly let out to play when it has unrestricted access to powerful machinery. Fast cars - or at least vehicles which can be driven fast - are a particular favourite. With Tarsapple muttering the entire way, we took a brisk walk back to the cottage to collect a few things for Mayfield, including garments which would provide an effective disguise for her. I was impressed by her ability to slip into not just the clothing and the shoes, but also the ways of moving which made all the difference to a successful deception. I could tell that Mayfield had a lot of practice in getting about in the world of the humans - perhaps more than me. Fifty yards down the overgrown lane I had walked up earlier that evening, a vehicle was parked - or maybe just abandoned - in a gate set between two overgrown hedges. Maybe it was supposed to pass unremarked on the autoroute and motorway. Or maybe not. In any case, it was a masterpiece of custom automotive engineering: flame detailing on gloss black paintwork, darkly-tinted windows and polished chrome-work, and oversized wheels wrapped in wide tyres barely thicker than elastic bands. "Nice motor," I remarked ironically, "I can see you've worked hard on the street credibility factor. But don't you find the cops give you a hard time?" Tarsapple looked strangely at me. "This thing?" he replied casually, "Hardly my style. But the kid likes it." He jerked a thumb at Glenshee, who was pulling open the driver's door. The youngster phlegmatic mannerisms had disappeared as soon as he caught sight of his treasured hotrod. Now his eyes sparkled with ill-concealed manic enthusiasm. It was going to be a bumpy ride.
|
Part 18