3 months later
Barry Castor was lost in thought. Unfortunately (from his point of view), the complexity of the thought was such that it took only the rattle of the letterbox for him to find his way back out. Fresh thoughts made the slow crawl round his frontal lobe and gave Barry cause to get to his feet. The dull thud of something heavier than hate mail landing on the doormat reaffirmed this rare mood of optimism.
     The brown paper parcel taking residence in the entrance hall provoked a moment of hesitation, because Barry really didn't want the hassle of a pupil sending him pornography as a joke again. A crudely written note struggling to remain attached to the parcel was proof enough that the package contained exactly what it should. "Fuk U Custer" is what the note said, and as Barry read it out loud he could hear muffled laughter on the other side of the front door. It stopped as soon as he opened the letterbox to speak through.
     "Err, guys, you spelt my name wrong. Again." The silence continued. "And you know I'm not going to..." Barry's sentence collided with a metaphorical brick wall. In a more literal sense, his vocal chords all of a sudden found out how difficult it is to work when consumed by pepper spray. The laughter - considerably less muffled now - restarted, then began to fade as those responsible for it ran away. Barry writhed around on the floor like a kitten that the car had missed most of. A significant proportion of the moisture in his throat was quickly exiting his body through the tear ducts, making it increasingly difficult for Barry to find the sink.
     Eventually, having sustained at least three minor injuries from colliding with various household objects, Barry was able to consume sufficient quantities of water to ease the burning at the back of his throat. He wondered about the point of it all (life, that is) and - without realising it - spontaneously placed himself in the recovery position. As if God was trying to tell him something, the doorbell rang.
     Barry's general lack of motivation meant that whoever it was had to ring the doorbell a further three times. Clearly they weren't about to go away. Having learnt his lesson, Barry didn't put his mouth directly to the letterbox this time. "You know I'm not going to open the door, because you'll just throw eggs at me," he said.
     "What are you talking about?" asked a female voice. With a difficult-to-detect sense of relief, Barry opened the door. "I almost phoned my Dad so he could try and find you. Are you alright?" came another question.
     "I'm awake," was the best he could muster.
     "Are you aware of what time it is?"
     "Of course I know what time it is. It's March."
     The visitor forced her way past. "I'm coming in," she said.
     "Yes, Laura." Barry, unsure as to whether he was happy to have the company or simply someone who might tidy up for him, closed the door and slid eight different bolts into place.
     "I didn't hear you move those to open the door," said Laura, who was more awake than Barry probably ever would be.
     "I don't use them at night," he replied, as if this was a response that would be accepted as normal. He picked up the brown parcel off the floor and was about to uncover its contents, until:
     "What's that?" asked Laura suspiciously.
     "It's a magazine," replied Barry, and instantly regretted it.
     "Oh for God's sake, man. You'll never get your life in order if you start..."
     "Start what?" said Barry, ready to defend himself. But before she could finish her sentence, Laura wrinkled her nose and looked around.
     "What is that smell?"
     Unable to distinguish anything unusual about his home, Barry decided to keep things simple. "Brut?" he asked, a hint of pride in his voice.
     "I don't know. It... it smells like a huge vat of coffee!"
     Barry relaxed. "Oh, that. Yeah. Do you want some?"
     Laura continued her march through the flat, chanced upon the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks. Barry almost walked into her, as he was fighting with envelope glue in a desperate bid to prove his innocence. As Laura stared at him with a peculiar mix of sympathy and irritation, Barry was finally able to reveal the contents of the parcel.
     "Behold ‘Give ‘em L', the official magazine of driving instructors!" said Barry proudly. Laura remained unmoved.
     "Yeah, great," she said. "I'd probably have preferred a magazine full of naked women." Without giving Barry a chance to respond, she turned her attention back to the kitchen. "Seriously though, Barry. What's all this about?
     "It's about me getting thirsty and therefore wanting a drink," he replied. "Of coffee."
     "Don't be difficult." Laura tentatively approached the steaming container of coffee, as if something might project itself out of it. "There's a skin," she said with the appropriate level of disgust.
     "Keeps the heat in," Barry shot back, seeing absolutely nothing wrong. Life's too short to worry about coffee forming its own vital organs. As if to prove this point, albeit unintentionally, Barry changed the subject completely. "So what did you come round for?"
     "Well, aside from the fact that I saw two men running away from your flat and then had to wait five minutes for you to open the door, you're supposed to be teaching me how to drive."
     "Ah. Bugger."
 
"Do you ever get bored of going along the same routes all the time?"
"Not really," said Laura. "I'm just trying to enjoy the freedom of the open road." She guided the car through the streets of the town with the skill that comes from eight months worth of driving lessons with the Castor School Of Motoring.
"It wouldn't have mattered if you'd said yes," replied Barry. "Anyway, so much for freedom. I'm on the dual controls."
"Well, yeah, but sometimes I'm not totally confident you know what to do with them. Not wishing to be rude, or anything."
Whether Barry was listening or not was unclear, because he said: "Tell you what. Let's have a bit of variety. Why don't you..." Barry glanced around, saw a grey, three-door hatchback pulling out ahead and pointed at it. "... follow that car."
"Should I maintain a particular distance in case the driver gets suspicious?"
"I don't see why," said Barry. "Tailgate him if you like."
"I should be selective as to the advice I take notice of, shouldn't I?" said Laura. But Barry certainly didn't hear this, as he had started to read his magazine.
 
     "I think he's definitely on to us," said Laura.
     "Hmm?" uttered Barry (for an utterance it was - the only other description that could come close would be ‘erupted').
     "I said I think he's on to us," repeated Laura. The grey three-door hatchback suddenly swerved violently in front of them. Like a hound chasing a fox, Laura wasn't about to lose the scent of her prey (what with all that smoke, and the burning oil). She spun the wheel quickly through her hands, the car darting nimbly from lane to lane. The high pitch squeal of the tyres desensitised Barry's brain to the fact that it would be he who would have to buy replacements.
     "I'll pick a police car next time," he said with a euphoria you can't measure. Looking across at Laura, her face was a mask of concentration, as if she was working out the best bottle of wine to accompany duck whilst demonstrating the car control of a rally driver. The hatchback driver eventually desisted from trying to lose his pursuers, probably dispirited by the fact that a learner driver was persecuting him like this. Laura sighed as she relaxed back into a more ‘normal' pattern of gear changes.
     "That's the second time he's done that," she said. "If he keeps showing that sort of attitude we'll be racing round that car park again."
     "In that case, can you try and usher him toward Sainsbury? I don't shop at Tesco, and I need milk. Although we should probably be heading back," he said. "I've got another lesson at..." He opened the glove box and rummaged through some papers until he found the one he thought he wanted. "...this afternoon."
     "Erm, when you say ‘head back', what do you mean exactly?"
     "Why do you ask?"
     "Because we never really went anywhere. The guy we followed just kept trying to shake us off by driving in circles." Laura emitted a brief laugh, but she needn't have bothered.
     "Oh right," was the best Barry could manage. "I never noticed. You might as well keep going for a bit then." He leafed through the magazine in an attempt to find the page he had been reading.
     "What's so special about that magazine?" asked Laura once she had settled on a nice long straight road absent of traffic lights or pensioners getting the road confused with the pavement. "I've never known you show such interest in a piece of writing."
     Barry made an unusual kind of grunting noise, to the point that he actually seemed ever so slightly embarrassed. "It's, uh, it's my big moment," he said. "I got a letter printed in the last issue."
     "Right," said Laura, trying to work it out in her head. "So what's the big deal with this issue?"
     "Reaction! I'm hoping everyone comes out in support of me. I made some pretty serious allegations, it has to be said..." Barry's voice trailed off, seemingly as if the embarrassment had turned to doubt. But if he could have heard Laura's thoughts as she glanced across at him quickly, he would have known there was a fire in his eyes as he spoke. He continued to leaf through the flimsy magazine pages and found what he was looking for. "Here we go," he said eventually, a slight tremble in his voice.
     "What does it say?" asked Laura, genuinely interested despite having no idea at all what his letter had been about. Barry read aloud.
     "'You'd have thought Castor would have learned by now that saying odd things at random without any kind of substance to back them up is not going to endear himself to anyone. His allegations against two of the most respected members of our community are astonishing, and I would call on Barry to either issue a grovelling apology or produce some rock solid proof. I have known him for many years now, but if he fails to do either of these things then I shall no longer consider Barry a member of that community.'"
     "Perhaps not what you were hoping for," said Laura. "Erm..."
     "'It's time Barry Castor returned to the real world.'"
     "I'm sure you said whatever you said with good intentions. What exactly did you say, if you don't mind me asking?"
     Barry let out a sigh. "I'm not really sure I should tell you. Especially after this." He waved the magazine in the air like it was a piece of rag. "Might as well stop working on my speech..." he finished, apparently talking only to himself.
     "Look, if its something you believe, something you care about, then I'm sure you wouldn't have written your letter without good reason. Tell me what it was about, and, well, who knows, maybe I can help you out. Though I think that's probably unlikely, if I'm honest."
     There was a palpable atmosphere in the car now, a peculiar combination of feeling excited and feeling foolish. "Smuggling," said Barry. "There's a pan-European smuggling ring, made up of driving instructors."
     "Okay," said Laura, her tone of voice suggesting that Barry had better qualify what he was saying pretty damn quick before they both felt not just foolish, but downright stupid.
     "Don't ask me why, or even how it all started. Maybe it was the glamour of doing something ‘dangerous'. Maybe teaching people how to be careful drivers wasn't satisfying them anymore. I don't know. It started in Southern Italy as far as I'm aware, and over time the network has spread. Through France and Germany, even into Spain. And about a year ago it reached our shores." Barry expected Laura to say something as he paused, but she remained silent. "I mean, it's just terrible. They're making a bad name for themselves, for the profession. Where's their pride? Their honour?"
     "Who...?" started Laura, but Barry was already there.
     "There's two of them in this country. Ever since I named them in my letter last month they've been doing all they can to get me to back down, to apologise and say I was wrong. That's who you saw running away from my front door earlier. I suppose they knew what was in the new issue and decided to rub my nose in it."
     "Right. I suppose you could say that if they were innocent then they wouldn't have to do things like that." Laura was beginning to sound marginally more convinced. "So what are they smuggling? And how do they do it?"
     "Cricket balls!" said Barry angrily. "Cheap, poorly made cricket balls. They bring them into this country and... and... I will not have plebs like them ruining the County Championship! It's a disgrace! So what if I don't have substantial proof? It's clear to see what's going on. Freak results in the one-day games for a start... The students being taught how to drive must be in on it as well, because the instructors pass these cheap balls onto them during lessons. Then the student suddenly decides they want to change instructor; all the usual excuses - cheaper lessons, better teaching and the like. The student passes the balls onto the new instructor and so on, with this supply chain running all the way up the continent. Appalling."
     "But what's the point?" asked Laura, apparently struggling to comprehend why a group of people would go to so much trouble. "Is there some kind of betting scam going on at the same time? There must be some reason for it all."
     "I don't know," admitted Barry after a moment "I hadn't thought about it that deeply."
     Laura said nothing as her brain tried to process everything that had been said. "So how exactly did you find out about all of this?"
     "No idea. I just seem to have an intuition for seeing problems," Barry replied. "I don't go looking for them."
     They were getting back toward town, having driven in the one direction for fifteen minutes or so until they chanced upon a roundabout that could send them back the way they had just come. The streets were busier now as the clock crept toward midday, the people making their way almost robotically from shop to shop under the kind of sky that made it feel like it was raining without the clouds having to shed a tear. The diesel engine in Barry's Citroen Saxo started to grumble unappreciatively at being made to stop and start for one set of traffic lights after another.
     "I don't really know what to say, Barry. It's an... unusual situation. Is there no way you can get some real evidence that these guys- Hey, what are their names?"
Barry turned his head toward Laura, a grave look on his face. "They go by nicknames," he said in a deep, yet level, tone of voice. "'Gearknob' and Turbodiesel.'"
 
As an afterthought, Laura asked: "Have you got a nickname?"
     "Probably," replied Barry. "But not one anyone uses to my face." And then he asked Laura to reverse round a corner as an end to the lesson.