Alfred stared out of the garage doors into the pouring rain. No practice today. Or tomorrow probably. But the start of the 1944 Grand Prix season was only a month away, the French Grand Prix. He sat disconsolately on a stack of tyres. His BSR-Crowley machine glistened in the garage’s lights, plain green, for the moment, waiting for its adornment of sponsorship logos.
Not even his name on the side yet, nor the golden wreath beside it that denoted a World Championship, and the date beneath it, 1940. At thirty-eight, Alfred understood that this season might be his last chance at glory. Not only was this a young man’s sport, but after sixteen years of racing, the odds against him surviving another season had shortened drastically.
Gloomy thoughts were not usual for Alfred, but the weather and the lack of opportunity to test his upgraded car, sitting bored and restless, knowing the clock was ticking – damnation, he didn’t want to, but he’d have to. He reached into his pocket and took out a small tin. Inside, a collection of coloured tablets. He stared at them for a moment, then back at the car. His Team manager and chief mechanic, Wilf, had guaranteed that this year’s model would outperform and outhandle anything on the grid. Even, he claimed, the brute Mercedes of current World Champion Kurt Meir. Alfred was about to reach into his tin when his nostrils were assailed by the stench of Wilf’s cigarette. He turned. Speak of the Devil, or pong of the Devil, actually. The reek clung to everything, like the poison gas used during the Convulsion. Those damnable fags should be banned, too.
Wilf smiled, opened a cigarette case and proffered it to Alfred, who shook his head. He in turn held out his own tin, and Wilf laughed.
“Not bloody likely, poison, them things.”
“At least they don’t poison everyone else. What’s the news?”
“Plenty. Our spy tells us Meir has, what’s the polite term, cockrot. Apparently he is as weak as a kitten. It’s being kept from the German newspapers and teleview of course. He’ll get over it, they have the best pharma as you know, but it’ll knock the edge off him for a while.”
He took a deep drag and exhaled through his nostrils. This was supposed to look sophisticated, the way a proper gentleman smoked. Somewhere in his sixties, lean and lined, with a clever hatchet face, Wilf was by any measure the best mechanic in Grand Prix racing. He had begun his apprenticeship with the terrifying flying machines of the Convulsion, and gained a reputation as a man with an almost supernatural affinity with machines built for high performance.
“Another thing.” He looked around the garage, even though all of the crew had been sent home. “That big Geordie, Clarry. We’ve found out he’s in the pay of the Alfa team. He doesn’t know we’ve sussed him, so we’ll feed him a load of bollocks and he can pass that on. I’m not worried about them. Since Oscarini died they’ve got no one.”
Beppe Oscarini, the ebullient Italian, had been World Champion in ’41 and ’42. Popular with everyone, a simple peasant with a broad, smiling face, he might well have achieved the hat-trick, but was killed in a freak accident at Monaco, when his Alfa became airborne, flew above the water and landed upside down in the Mediterranean.
“When the betting opens I’ll be putting a couple of hundred quid on you.”
Alfred laughed. “You are also betting on that car over there. You must be confident.”
“That’s what I’m most confident about, no offense. She’s lighter and more powerful than last season, more midrange grunt. You’ll come out of every turn like an artillery shell. On the faster circuits they’ll have a nice view of your exhaust pipes. You’re now faster than the Mercedes, the Peugeots, Maseratis, Alfas, any of them. All you have to do is drive. And not prang my car.” He took another drag and blew smoke through his nose.
“I’ll do my best. A lot depends on those new Speedgrip tyres. I wish this bloody rain would ease off. Another day wasted.”
He then looked down at the tin in his hand. “I’m told Dr Essen has some new formula, so no doubt I’ll have a few more horsepower myself.” He held up the tin and swirled the tablets around. “The Brits, the Italians, the French, and now the Japanese, can all match the Germans in mechanical engineering, but the Germans make the best drugs.”
Dusk would soon fall. Wilf stood up, went to the wall and switched on the lights. “Nothing more to do here. I’ll tidy up. You can go. You’ll need to be looking enthusiastic at the team launch tomorrow night. Especially the after-party. The stories I’ve heard. Maybe one of them tablets would help.” He shook his head. “Footballers would be crucified for what you get away with.”
“Pah, football is so working class. Even our drugs are more refined than theirs. Take this delight, der Trost.” He help up a pale blue capsule. “A drug to induce solace; so many Young Werthers in the Grand Prix circus, all melancholic and tragic. Most footballers can barely remember their names.” He popped the capsule into his mouth, bit down on it, swallowed hard and grimaced. “In about half an hour I won’t have a care in the world.”
“I don’t blame you blokes for taking those. I’ve seen some terrible things. The thought that I could be next would too much for me to bear.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “I was there when von Richthofen bought it. I expected the sport to be banned after that.”
The German had been the dominant driver in post-Convulsion Grand Prix racing. Winner of four World Championships in succession, the last posthumously. In a practice session for the Dutch Grand Prix his car had crashed and burst into flames. Those in attendance watched in horror as the driver, engulfed in flames, tore himself from the wreckage, staggered a few yards, then collapsed. Although cars were now fitted with fire extinguishers and drivers wore fireproof clothing, the spectre of violent painful death or mutilation rode with every driver each time he took to the track.
“No, don’t blame you at all.”
The phone rang. Wilf went to the wall and picked up the receiver. He listened for a short while, then spoke, “He’s here. I’ll let him know.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Alfred. “A good thing you’ve taken that little blue capsule. You’re wanted at team headquarters for a meeting. They’ve sent a car. Sorry.”
A meeting! The day before the team launch! Alfred had wanted to return to his digs at his leisure, not suffer a trip into town, a sodding meeting, then be put up in some dingy hotel. Damnation! When was this bloody tablet going to do its work?
***
By the time Dr Braybrook’s car arrived Alfred had succumbed to the elevated serenity of der Trost. Not a happy pill, he’d tired of those years ago, this one gave the user a sense of one’s own insignificance coupled with stoic distance from life’s vicissitudes. It also involved a pleasant light-headedness.
So he was not as moved as he might have been when Braybrook’s chauffeur was a comely young woman named Elsie, whose tight-fitting uniform, all leather and zips, went well beyond functionality.
He was surprised that instead of taking him to team headquarters, Elsie took him to his flat to shower and change, then to a restaurant where a table had been booked for him. She opened the car door to let him out, and he stood.
“You’ll stay?” he enquired. “You must be hungry. We are on the Company’s purse.”
She ran her tongue over her top lip. “I am hungry, but alas, satisfaction will have to wait. I have other pressing engagements. Some other time.” She smiled and closed the door, then returned to the driver’s side. A pause, a wave, and she was gone.
Alfred wondered how seduction might progress under the influence of der Trost. Stoic indifference be buggered. He felt the familiar urge tinged with…something undefinable and deep, but so intense he could smell it.
Then he shook his head and laughed. Rogering the boss’s chauffeur was possibly the stupidest idea he’d come up with in a long time. He turned and walked into the restaurant.
Der Trost did something to his appetite for food as well. Very enjoyable meal indeed, oddly psychologically satisfying.
Then he walked out onto the street and made his way to the headquarters of the BSR-Crowley Racing Team.
***
Alfred knocked on the door of the Boardroom and waited. Braybrook himself opened it and beckoned Alfred inside.
“Come in Alfred. So very good of you to come at such short notice. I trust my chauffeur was satisfactory.” A slight smile.
Alfred looked around the room, expecting Board members and Team members, but saw only a tall, lanky fellow, tanned, and dressed like a member of the working-class.
“Yes, most satisfactory, Dr Braybrook. I thought this was to be a team meeting.”
“We are part of the team, we are meeting. Please allow me to introduce Mr Wilbur Gaines, citizen of the United Sates.”
The tall man strode forward and thrust out his hand.
“Howdy Alf, pleased to meetcha. An actual World Champion.” His handshake was on the crushing side of firm. Alfred squeezed back. Hard. He was small, but regular gym work and liberal doses of Adonis had made him steely strong.
Gaines grinned. “I like the fella! Alf, you and me’s going to get on fine.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Gaines. And it’s Alfred. Thank you.”
“Oh sure, gotcha, Alfred it is.” He turned to Braybrook. “That some kind of British thing huh? I kinda like it. Classy, y’know? Say Alfred, ever meet the King?”
Alfred had met the King, the year he had won the World Championship; first British winner in nearly two decades. He’d anticipated a knighthood, but was only awarded an MBE. At the ceremony he was introduced to the King, who had all the presence and charisma of a wilted lettuce, and only marginally better conversation skills. He had remembered a line from Shakespeare about the divinity that doth hedge a king, but this quality had clearly long departed. The King had mumbled “Well done, good fellow,” having no idea who Alfred was or what he had done. One could almost pity the feeble husk, but for memories of the Convulsion, and royalty’s role in that event.
Alfred sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if the old order had persisted. He’d have been a welder, like his father, working in a factory, married to some Judy, a tribe of children, and his only pleasures a pint on Friday afternoon and watching West Brom play on Saturday. Meanwhile the upper classes would carry on with grooming their polo ponies and beagling in the Cotswolds. The new world had been birthed in blood, but the sacrifice had been worth it. Now the civilised world was run by the Companies, and if you were at the top of the pile you had earned it, not by accident of birth but through merit. Alfred was a True Believer.
“Yes, I met him. Ghastly creature.”
“Oh well, I’ll strike him off my guest list then. Say, Braybrook, you promised a fine drop. Time to salute a new friendship.”
“Of course, Verity will see to it.” He walked to a phone, lifted the receiver, spoke inaudibly, then returned. “A fine Highland single malt, aged in oak for thirty years.”
A moment later there was a knock at the door, and a small, dark-haired young woman entered with a tray, three glasses and a bottle. She set them down on the table and poured three generous serves.
“Thank you Verity.”
“Yep, thanks Verity. Looks delicious.”
Yes she does, thought Alfred. Braybrook had a seemingly never-ending supply of beautiful women to work with him. Alfred watched Verity leave, then looked back at Gaines.
How very strange. Gaines and Braybrook appeared to be frozen into place, motionless and silent. Then Braybrook’s arm moved very slowly, reaching out to grasp the whisky bottle. Gaines’ head moved towards him and his body took a slow step. What was happening? Was this some bizarre after effect of the der Trost? Alfred looked down at his own hands and brought them up towards his face. That was normal. And suddenly the scene snapped back into action.
“…are the best. Not even our top bourbons can compete.” Gaines watched Braybrook pour, and pour some more, then nodded. Braybrook poured two more drinks, handed one to Alfred, and raised his glass.
“To our new endeavour!”
“Here’s to a long life and a merry one!” Gaines added, then put the glass to his lips.
New endeavour? What was all this about? Braybrook, noticing Alfred’s puzzlement, said, “Ah, we should bring you up to speed, Alfred. Mr Gaines is the president of the Rattlesnake Oil Company of Texas, USA. Rattlesnake Oil is now the major sponsor of the BSR-Crowley Grand Prix racing team.”
“Well, that is wonderful. Welcome aboard Mr Gaines. However, I am curious. There will be an American Grand Prix team on the grid in two years’ time. Why not sponsor them?”
“Good question Alfred. Fact is, Western Oil beat us to it. So we came looking for an established team. You people fit the bill. The new sponsorship will be announced tomorrow night at the team launch. It is a whole new venture, we’re not only your sponsor, we own you. Rattlesnake has a majority ownership of your team.” He beamed. “You just got rich. You are now a subsidiary of a brand-new corporation, Anglo-Rattlesnake Racing. What d’you think? Good title?”
Hideous title was Alfred’s initial response. But then, so strange, another notion gripped him, that it was a marvellous title. It was all marvellous. He put down his drink on the table, and looked at Gaines, who was grinning. He was prepared to be shocked at this turn of events, but instead found himself feeling comradely affection for this coarse, bluff oilman. As the whisky warmed him, he felt suffused with optimism. Part of his brain niggled that this was merely a lingering after-effect of the drug, maybe reacting with the single-malt. But this was silenced by deeply experienced senses of peace and fulfilment. He forced himself to speak through the warm, sunny haze where his mind currently basked.
“Marvellous. Very…memorable.”
“You betcha. And get a look at this. It’s our logo. It’ll be on the front of the car’s bodywork and on the back of your overalls.” He reached down to a chair behind the table and retrieved a large cardboard square. He flipped it over to display an image. A rattlesnake glared balefully at the viewer, head arched above its coiled body. Behind the snake, crossed British and American flags.
Alfred thought he should be appalled, but was not. The rattlesnake possessed a kind of forthrightness, crass and yet self-possessed. Good Lord, he actually liked it.
“Impressive. Eye-catching. It will no doubt be quite a talking point tomorrow. I assume you’ll be there?”
“I’m giving the opening address. And I’ll see you at the after-party. Looking forward to see what you Limeys think is a good time.
He chuckled and rolled up the picture.
“Well that about wraps it up boys. I’m off to do some exploring down Soho ways. Catch you at the launch.”
Then he was gone. Braybrook raised an eyebrow. “Quite the character, our Mr Gaines. What did you think?”
“I like him. Anyway, whatever happens it will be an interesting ride.”
“Agreed. Now, to a somewhat pressing matter. You may have heard of a member of parliament, Mr Waters, who has kicked up something of a fuss in the press about illegal drugs in sport. He wants to target Grand Prix racing. Unfortunately, a few naïve journalists have got their teeth into it as well. Ordinarily we could squash it, but this Waters fellow is a rising star. It’s not going away and the best we can do is feed the dog a bone to get him off our backs. Therein lies a problem.”
“He can’t be paid to shut up, or can we bring him onside?”
“The man’s a lunatic, a publicity-hungry, self-styled crusader. And some damn fools in the press are now anticipating making names for themselves.”
“I thought the press were under the thumb of the Companies?”
“They are but they don’t like it and they will use any strategy to reassert their independence. Independence, hah!” He blew a sigh through pursed lips. “Mark my words Alfred. Reactionary forces are alive and well. They want a return to the old world, the one before the Convulsion. They want the power they used to have. I remember it well. Politicians and the press, screaming for war, spewing jingoistic drivel, insane dreams of power purchased with the blood of the working class. And when they saw the hell they had unleashed they outdid each other in blaming anyone but themselves. There is nothing more despicable than a politician or a journalist. I’ll tell you something, Alfred. It did my heart good to see the photographs and newsreels of some of those monsters dangling from trees and lampposts. All very happy to send young men away to kill each other. But they weren’t so happy when the guns were turned around and pointing at them.” He laughed grimly.
“So, this little foray into our sport is only a small part of a bigger picture. But it’s to be nipped in the bud. The Companies have agreed to give him a victim. He can have his pissy little triumph. But he has put his head above the parapet so can expect that it might soon be blown off. In the meantime, the issue is neutered.”
“A scapegoat. Do we know who it’s going to be?”
“It will be a surprise. It’s going to be choreographed from way above. Probably the first or second round of the season.” He reached for the bottle. “Another?”
***
The team launch the following evening was the same stuffy affair as previous years, enlivened only by the presence of Gaines, who dazzled the attendees as an exotic, even alluring and commanding presence. Afterwards, the rain having cleared, Alfred walked home alone, unusual for one of these events. The familiar blandishments of the rubber girl, the carburettor girl, the gearbox girl, the brake pads girl, and the rest of their ilk, were now just a nuisance. He’d hoped to see a Rattlesnake girl, but no luck. Rattlesnake girl sounded like the title of one of the pulp fantasy and science-fiction magazines he enjoyed. Revenge of the Rattlesnake Girl, or Rattlesnake Girls of Mars, perhaps. Alfred thought that once he retired, writing and illustrating such stories would be his next endeavour. He’d always enjoyed art and writing. Once he had, for the last time, washed the smell of petroleum, oil and rubber from his hair, he could return to matters of the mind and the heart. He might even marry and have a family. The Companies forbad professional motor sport competitors from marriage, but when the contract was finished, so were the obligations.
***