Free Empty World by John Christopher Page A

meal, and the windscreen was covered with raindrops which dazzled in the renewed sunlight. He could see the interior only indistinctly, but he had a crazy impression of someone sitting behind the wheel.
    It would vanish as he approached, he thought; but it didn’t. A figure, hunched and motionless. . . . He felt a hot prickle in his scalp, and the even crazier thought that it was the owner, come back from death to reproach him for the dented wing. He hesitated; then walked forward.
    The figure was real. The window, which he had left closed, was wound down. When he was within a couple of yards, a voice spoke.
    â€œNice wheels you’ve got here.”

6
    T HE SOUND OF A HUMAN voice was even stranger and more startling than the music from the cassette player had been. As though in comment on that, the figure leaned forward and switched the player on. He listened briefly, before turning it off.
    â€œDullsville,” he said. “But you expect that with Jags. Either Beethoven or Frank Sinatra. I picked up a load of really great stuff last week—Oscar Peterson, Mugsy Spanier, Art Tatum. But that was from an Aston-Martin.”
    Neil stared, trying to take it in. He said hesitantly:
    â€œI thought. . . .”
    â€œYou were the only one left?” The other looked up, grinning. “So did I, to begin with. And there aren’t many. I’ve been around, and I can tell you.”
    He was about Neil’s age; within a year or eighteen months, anyway. He was smaller, but looked older. He had a thin pale face, very black hair sleeked back, and heavy gold spectacles which had, Neil realized with surprise, no lenses. He wore expensive-­looking clothes—pale blue slacks and a white polo neck silk shirt, and had a gold chain round his neck. He went on:
    â€œSaw the smoke from a fire, and then this little number sitting waiting. She wasn’t here the last time I came through, couple of days since. So I thought I’d hang about. OK?”
    He clicked open the door and stepped out. He was a couple of inches shorter than Neil, and looked frail. He put out a hand, and Neil saw that every finger carried at least one ring, some as many as three. Diamonds winked in the sunlight.
    â€œClive D’Arcy,” he said. “Viscount D’Arcy, that is. My old man was the Earl of Blenheim. But call me Clive.”
    The hand was warm, under the rings. This was what it felt like, Neil remembered, to touch human flesh. He said:
    â€œI’m Neil. Neil Miller.”
    Clive put a friendly hand on his arm. “Great, Neil. Come and let me show you my heap. I’m parked just round the corner.”
    He chatted as they walked—something about a castle, ancestral estates, horses. He’d had to let them out, to run loose. Prize bloodstock, every one an Arab . . . but what could you do without grooms? Neil listened in silence, dazed. What was momentous to him seemed to mean little or nothing to the boy at his side. But he had said there were others; it was not a first meeting for him. He was on the point of asking him about that, when Clive stopped, grasping his arm again.
    â€œThere she is. What do you think?”
    Neil saw the caravan first, a long luxurious ­vehicle with curtained windows, gleaming white except for its silvery chrome. His gaze went to the car to which it was attached. It gleamed as brightly, but black instead of white—unmistakeably a Rolls.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Clive produced a key-ring and unlocked the door of the caravan. He went in, beckoning Neil to follow.
    â€œCome aboard. Rest the feet. Feel like a cup of tea? Orange Pekoe, Lapsang-Souchong, or Tetley teabags? Or how about coffee? Just renewed my Rombouts yesterday.”
    They were in a compact kitchen, with a Calor gas cooker and refrigerator, and stainless steel sink. Clive opened a cupboard and took out a tin of ground coffee.
    â€œOr would you sooner have Blue Mountain