The Untouchable (26 page)

Chapter Forty-Nine

“Wait,” Terry said to Marco, seconds before the start of the qualifying session. “Just wait. Hang on a moment before you go out. Until you’ve got some clear track.”

Marco nodded, glancing at the stream of bikes passing the garage, a blur of colour in the thin drizzle that misted the air. He bent from the waist to touch his toes, breathed calm and deep, and waited.

Seconds later he was out on a wide-open track, wet, yes, but all his own. He completed a steady outlap with all the space in the world. His second flying lap was a record-breaker, his third one-hundredth of a second faster. Six laps, Terry had said. Six laps, then come in. He knew this course well, but it had never come together for him here. Today was different, the bike perfect in spite of wet conditions. On the straight on his last lap, the lap that would
—
he felt a split second of confidence
—
clinch pole position, he streaked past the pit wall into the rain, head down, brain computing the manoeuvre into the first corner.

The bump unseated him. His legs flew out, shooting his feet off the footpegs. His pulse rate, already in overdrive, maxed out. A second contact in the corner, with heavy impact on his left shoulder. The howl of rubber and a clash of fairings drove him off the racing line. He ran wide, slowed, looked up, split seconds from disaster.

What the fuck?

Hans Kirkman, on the white lines edging the kerb, shot past into corner two. Where had he come from? Marco’s own pit board hadn’t shown Kirkman—anyone, for that matter—that close behind him. Kirkman had hit him coming out of pit lane, the little shit!

Forced to abandon the lap, while Kirkman streaked ahead, Marco drove around the circuit at low speed, blood thundering in his temples. He entered the pit lane, and swung into the DRT garage. Engineers relieved him of the bike, and, heads down, wheeled it away. Marco pulled off his helmet and flung it to a nearby mechanic. Turning his back on Terry, he strode next door. A wily cameraman, smelling blood, followed.

“Where’s Kirkman?” Marco spat the words, angry eyes searching for Hans. Magrit stood in the back of the garage, eyes wide, both hands over her mouth.

“Yes?” Hans got up from where he’d been sitting talking to his crew chief, and came forward.

“
What was that, arsehole?
” Marco roared. “Are you crazy!” He jabbed his head with a forefinger.

Hans stopped short. “A mistake. I am sorry.”

Marco surged forward, grabbed Hans with both hands by the front of his jacket and drove him back against the wall lifting him to eye level. “
A mistake
? What are you trying to do? Kill me? Go talk to my friend, Zavi. Yeah! He’s the one in the wheelchair. Go ask him about high-speed
mistakes
, you brainless
fuckwit.
”

“I’m sorry—”

Hans’s chief engineer came forward. “It was the over-enthusiastic manoeuvre of an eager novice. A genuine racing incident.”

“Was it?
Was it
?” Marco shook Hans.

Hans, feet off the floor, red-faced, humiliated, chastised, looked away.

“Put him down, Dallariva,” the chief said. “You’re losing it. Your handling of the situation in this garage constitutes assault. Take your hands off Kirkman now, or I’ll have you penalized.”

Marco dropped Hans and swung to face the man. “There’s no place for a dirty rider in this team, do you understand?”

“It was an error. Hans is a clean rider. He made a mistake. He has apologized.”

They glared at one another for a moment, both furious.

“Fuck off,” Marco snarled, and, turning abruptly, he left.

He stormed into his own garage, through a gaggle of prying onlookers, knocking over a cameraman in the ensuing scuffle. Pushing Terry aside, he walked the length of the workshop, burst through the back door of the garage and out into the rain.

“Marco!”

Irritated to the point of murder he swung around. Rosemary, running to him across the paddock, umbrella up, red Wellington boots squelching in the mud. Where had she been the whole day? His anger dissolved at the sight of her, leaving a void into which shame gushed, cold and damning. She had witnessed his loss of control, his disgusting language, his lack of discretion, loss of dignity, everything.

“Did you hear all that?” He glanced around, shoving a hand into his hair. The weather had driven most inside but there were still enough people about to eavesdrop. Marco took command of the buffeted umbrella, guided Rosy under the inadequate shelter of a canvas overhang and protected her with his body.

“Yes,” she answered, breathless. “You must apologise to Hans.”

“Was it on TV?”

“Everything. A lot of beeps.”

Marco pressed his lips together, gazed over her head at the paddock, eyes shifting left and right. “Where’s Zavi?”

“He disappeared when you started yelling.”

Marco nodded. “I’ll talk to Hans tomorrow, after the race.”

“No.” She put a hand on his arm. “Today. Now. Right now.”

Her voice, low and earnest, stabbed his conscience. That, and the tremble in her hand.

“I’d rather—” he began.

“
Now
.”

“Why is it so important?”

She dropped her hand, stepped back and looked up at him with grave eyes. “Because you shouldn’t take chances in life, especially the way you live. You and Hans, both. Make it right now or you might regret it forever.”

“Are you a sports’ psychologist now, or what?”

“No.” She hesitated, her eyes unsure. “Once, I didn’t make it right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Luke and I had a stupid fight about nothing. I never said sorry and he got on his motorbike and went to work and never came home. He died never knowing how sorry I was. I live with regret, Marco. Believe me, you don’t want to do that.”

“Rosemary—”

“My last words to him were angry words. I could, can, do nothing to make it better. The weeks he lay in a coma, I told him over and over how sorry I was, how much I loved him, but it was futile. No one can forgive me, Marco. No one, apart from Luke, and he’s dead. All these years, nearly five years, I’ve believed I deserved to be unhappy, like that punishment would change things, make things different.”

“
Cara
, please.”

“Nothing changes, Marco, after someone has died. The world stops right there. The end. No more chances.”

Marco, shivering in soaked leathers, his wet hand slipping on the umbrella handle, brushed a tear from her cheek. “It takes two to argue. You can’t blame yourself.”

“And one to make things right! One of the paramedics brought me the flowers,” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “Luke bought me flowers. They were all over the road. All I got were the crushed and broken stalks, but the paramedic—” Crying hard, her voice broke.

Marco folded her in his arms. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

She wouldn’t move. “The paramedic brought me Luke’s flowers. Luke said sorry. I never got the chance,” she wept, her voice gone.

Marco took her into the motorhome, undressed her, put her in a hot shower, dried her and tucked her into bed. “Hush,” he said, over and over, stroking her hair, in a futile attempt to halt the storm of tears.

Later that night, when he could do nothing more to comfort Rosy, he left her crying and went out into the night to find Hans.

***

The following day, sports’ sections of some Sunday newspapers across the world splashed the headlines ‘Red Mist in the Red and Black Garage’ and ‘DRT Old Dog vs The Young Pretender.’ One newspaper showed a picture of Marco from the back, his leathers imprinted with the tire tread of Hans’s bike. Others showed Marco and Hans smiling, arms slung around one another. These took the sting out of the scandal and the story fizzled.

“A genuine racing incident,” Terry confirmed, when interviewed outside the DRT garage. “This is motorcycle racing, not ring o’ rosies.”

Rosy, well out of the way in the kitchen section of the garage, was the one to receive the extravagant arrangement of roses, passed through the back door by a security guard. The sealed envelope was addressed to Marco. “Someone’s sent you flowers,” she said, holding out the card, when he came in from the morning warm-up session. He took the card, read it, and handed it back.

“They are for you,” he said, watching her while she read the words.

My dear Rosy,

Something to cheer you up on this difficult day. Roses for an English rose.

From Roman, with love.

Speechless, she stared at Marco.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, eventually.

“No. Roman’s done this to get at you. Let’s ignore it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” Rosy put the flowers in a heavy duty bin bag, opened the door and passed them back to the security man, asking him to throw them away.

Luciano Dallariva flew in from Milan, alone, arriving minutes before the race began, and
—
with Zavi close at hand
—
stayed at his son’s side. Rosy watched the race by herself in the VIP area, where the cameras couldn’t pry, drinking cup after cup of tea, her swollen, aching eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Magrit, likewise alone in a nearby seat, looked once in her direction, expressionless, and then ignored her.

Marco, having won pole position the previous day in spite of his brush with Hans, started well, but dropped back to fourth by the end of the second lap. He finished the race a lowly eighth. Hans low-sided his bike halfway through the twelfth lap, adding a DNF to the team’s discord.

“I’m sorry,” Rosy said to Hans later, as she passed him in the paddock, “you must be disappointed.”

“It will be better in Holland in two weeks’ time, you will see!” Hans, sporting a brave grin, hurried away.

But it wasn’t better. It was terrible.

Chapter Fifty

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We’re on the road, Fi, at the airport rather, waiting for a flight to Madrid. Marco races at Aragon next Sunday and then we go immediately to the Villa Diana for a night to see Leo, then straight on to Amsterdam. Rome was amazing, but there were problems, and tension. Did you see anything in the papers or on TV?

Still feeling really strange, like a limpet that’s been pulled off a rock and tossed up on the beach. Everything, but everything, revolves around Marco; how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, how he’s sleeping, what he’s doing. He’s like a valuable thoroughbred with everyone dashing about on his every whim. He rises above it though, does exactly what he likes, which causes dramas as you can imagine! He’s dedicated, no question. Racing is his whole life, his whole world
—
I hadn’t quite realized the extent of that until now.

I hope there’s room for me.

Love Rosy.

________________________________________________________

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Marco is literally worth his weight in gold. Google it. Crass, I know
—
and you won’t, so I’ll tell you. Annual salary: millions.

Charlie was riveted to that race in Rome, livid about the incident between Marco and his team mate. He says Marco was totally in the right and the Hans guy should be disqualified, or whatever. Big new fan, Charli
e


Of course there’s room for you. Marco’s crazy about you! Why don’t you dig under the surface a bit? Like, get him to teach you to ride a motorbike??? You’ll understand the hype better, maybe. After all, your mother had to learn to fish in order to land her man LOL.

By the way, the little macaroon Easter cakes were a huge success. The test batch walked out of here before we’d completed the display, and it’s not even Easter. The colours are fab – the lime green with raspberry filling is the one the kiddies love best, and the mums love the idea that the food colourings are all natural, in spite of the lurid colours...

Love Fi

______________________________________________________

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I miss Red Velvet!

Must dash, flight’s been called.

Rosy X

***

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Spain! If you have just tuned in, this is Tony Morris and Liam Dyer in the commentary box, reporting from the race track at Aragon where we have a practice session in progress.”

“And, Tony, is the sunshine not magnificent? Could we ask for a more perfect day?”

“Indeed not. In addition to the prospect of a fine weekend’s racing we—in the commentary box—have been spoilt rotten with cake. The Dallariva Racing Team has gifted us with a superb red and black cake, iced with the number
73
, the likes of which I have never tasted.”

“This is when I wish we still had ad breaks.”

“I have it on reliable authority that it’s called red velvet. I’m on my second slice and it’s going down
extremely
well with my cup of tea.”

“Spectacular! However, Tony, someone’s come off at turn four. It looks like Miguel Costa. Let’s remind ourselves that this is not a cookery programme. We are here to race, not eat.”

“Right. Surprisingly Marco Dallariva is lying only fourth. Something’s lacking there today and he needs to pick it up. West, reliably, is fastest. He’s topping the timesheets under the glorious Spanish sun today. I wouldn’t call him an exciting rider, but he is very, very dependable.”

***

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Marco so NOT HAPPY with his fourth position finish at Aragon. Had a sense of humour failure when I suggested he’d be second in Holland (eighth in Rome, fourth in Aragon, second in Holland, and so on to first in the Czech Republic race after that). I got a very crooked smile and he walked off. If he’s not in the top three, preferably first, he’s mad as hell. That’s the way I see it.

I feel guilty. I get the feeling I’m supposed to be the inspiration, the muse. Something’s not working.

On to Holland.

Love Rosy

***

The paddock moved on,
en masse
, to Holland, to a wooded circuit near The Hague that resembled a golf course more than a racetrack. The show started over. Marco, down on points, put in good times during the pre-race practices. But Hans battled, complaining he couldn’t feel the front of the bike. In third practice, on Friday afternoon, Hans suffered a high-speed, heavy crash, bouncing into the gravel runoff, spinning low into the air wall while his bike went over the top. Dazed, he was taken to the medical centre where Marco went to see him as soon as the session ended.

“How is he?” Rosy asked, when Marco, weary, came back to the motorhome.

“Hungry.” Marco smiled. “A little concussed, a bit confused, not sure what day of the week it is, or what he was doing yesterday. They’ve transferred him to the head trauma unit in one of the big hospitals in Amsterdam, for observation, just to be safe. He’ll be back tomorrow morning. He’s okay.”

“Are they sure?”

Marco, upper leathers peeled off, sleeves hanging down to his knees, took a bottle of Evian out of the fridge and cracked it open.

“He’ll be fine,” he said.

He wasn’t. Hans lost consciousness during the night and lapsed into an irreversible coma. In spite of an emergency operation to remove a blood clot, and the best medical treatment possible, at three minutes past twelve on Sunday morning, he died.