Last Out From Roaring Water Bay by Joe Lane Page B

tenth of a second before the large van smashed into the side frame of the vehicle precisely where my legs and midriff would have been. So violent the crash, the van shunted the car clear of its path. The impact sent me sprawling from the bonnet and as I crunched to the ground I managed to roll onto my knees, picking up the sound of the van accelerating away as erratically as it had approached.
    I’d had a lucky escape, and a few inches either way I’d have been telling a different tale, if any at all. Okay, I’d have a few bumps and the inevitable bruises would show later, but I was still in one piece and I was quickly up on my feet watching the back end of a battered white van leaving the scene. I attempted to make a mental note of the registration but I was wasting my time because the van didn’t have one. The only visible identification I saw was on the right hand rear door and highlighted in the dirt in big letters was the impoverish scrawl of ‘wash me’.
    By the time I’d considered giving chase the frigging van had disappeared from the car-park and could have taken a number of routes to escape. I cursed my incompetence for not being more alert and cursed even more knowing that my flash with death was no accident. Therefore, even though I’d taken a great deal of effort to prevent such a thing occurring, it was obvious someone had tagged me. I’d been followed. And not only had my body been bruised but also my ego.
    I hand brushed the dust from my clothing, glancing around for any witnesses to the serious attempt on my life and found precisely none. I approached the Roadster with extreme caution this time. I suppose after what had just happened it would be my moral and lawful duty to alert someone to the mess of smashed vehicles. I did consider it, but that was as far as it went. It was important that I got out of there fast. Some idiot had tried to run me over. They might return for a second attempt and I didn’t wish to be around if they did. I climbed into the Roadster and patted Winston.
    “Good boy! You certainly scared them off good and proper.”
    I drove away from the car park and half a mile down the road, slowed and pulled in at the side of the road. Something bothered me. I couldn’t help wondering how they had found me so easily. I had this ridiculous, unimaginable thought. I got out and began a search of the exterior of the Roadster for some sort of tracking device. Checked under the bonnet, probed under the wheel hubs, finger searched along the underside of the body, bobbed my head underneath and found nothing but grime. I checked if the boot had been forced, it hadn’t. I checked inside anyway to be certain. There was nothing untoward.
    I stood back away from the car scratching the back of head and totally confused. It hadn’t been sheer luck that they had found me. I was too far from London to be that unfortunate. I gave the Roadster another scan in case I’d missed anything, circling the vehicle one way then the other. At the rear of the car I felt my bootlace had loosened and bobbed down to tighten the lace. That’s when I saw the interesting piece of hardware that I’m sure wasn’t in the price when I bought the Roadster. There inside the mouth of the exhaust tail-pipe was a small device, black in colour and no bigger than my thumbnail. It was attached magnetically as I found out when I forcibly pulled it free. It gave no indication of being a tracking device, no blips, no sign of an L.E.D., no audible sounds of operation, but I had to assume it was some sort of tracker because I didn’t put it there and it made sense on how they found me so easily.
    I thought about throwing the device into the hedgerow but I assumed they’d realized I found the frigging thing because the tracker wouldn’t show any movement. I was considering my options as what to do with the device when a passing motorist slowed down to admire the Roadster. The driver nodded his approval. I smiled and discreetly