Hot Seat by Simon Wood Page A

the only one who has superstitions.’
    â€˜Show him,’ Rags said to Haulk.
    Haulk frowned.
    â€˜Do it,’ Rags insisted.
    Haulk reached inside his overalls and pulled out a tiny teddy bear. It was frayed and manky looking. ‘I never race without it.’
    â€˜What’s everyone else got?’ I asked.
    Nevin slapped his groin. ‘I’ve got my lucky underwear.’
    â€˜Not so lucky from where I’m sitting,’ McLeod said.
    â€˜Hey, at least you can find me in the dark,’ he said.
    â€˜I don’t know why I have any of you working for me,’ Rags said, grinning.
    The crew spent the next twenty minutes taking pot shots at each other. I liked it. We felt like a family instead of a team and it was nice to be a part of the fun, but I had to get them talking about Jason.
    â€˜I didn’t know Jason Gates worked for Ragged,’ I said.
    The life went out of the crowd and frowns replaced smiles.
    â€˜Yeah,’ Rags said. ‘He started with us four years ago, the year after Mike Whelan won his first championship for us.’
    â€˜Jason left us about a year ago,’ Nevin said.
    â€˜Was he really still alive when you found him?’ Mitchell asked.
    I nodded.
    â€˜Christ, I can’t imagine having my throat cut.’
    That brought a fresh lull to the conversation and everyone focused on their food.
    â€˜Why do you want to know about Jason?’ Carroll asked.
    â€˜Just wondering. I was with him when he died and I don’t know a thing about him.’
    â€˜He was a good lad,’ Nevin said.
    â€˜He didn’t know a wing nut from a hand job when he started out with us,’ Price said.
    â€˜But he was a fast learner,’ Nevin said.
    The crew shared half a dozen stories about how Jason had either screwed up or saved the day, but none of it helped me explain why he’d been killed and who would have done it.
    â€˜The thing that confuses me,’ I said, ‘is what he was doing hanging around our transporter.’
    My remark brought the conversation to a screeching halt. Everyone looked to Rags for guidance.
    â€˜Time to wrap this up. We’ve still got a lot of road to cover and this conversation is getting a little morbid for my liking.’
    And that was that. At least I had one answer. When it came to skeletons in the cupboard, Ragged Racing operated on a code of silence.
    Rags sent Haulk and me out on drills for the afternoon session. We practised slipstreaming with the cars running nose to tail with no gap between us. The first car made a hole in the air, which reduced the wind resistance on the cars behind. We’d use this practice when it came to setting qualifying times. Next, Rags had me practise blocking. I drove ahead of Haulk and protected my position by keeping to my lines and making myself as wide I could to keep him behind me. Then we swapped. We finished off the day with a dogfight. Rags told us to pull off the gloves and go for it. The two of us went at each other for twenty-five laps like we were in a real race. It was a serious affair. Haulk didn’t want to finish second to the new boy and I didn’t want come off second best. I deserved my spot on the team and I wanted to prove it. And I did. For the most part, nothing separated us. I rode Haulk’s bumper for five laps before I blew by him. But my lead didn’t last. Haulk pulled an audacious move, out-braking me on the back straight and muscling his way past. Naturally, I blew it on the following lap and spun out on the hairpin trying to regain my position.
    â€˜Don’t prang that car on your first day,’ Nevin said over my headset.
    â€˜It’s not a real racecar if it doesn’t have some dents.’
    A glint of something caught my eye. Off in the field, someone was watching us with binoculars. It could be just a race fan, but a spy wasn’t out of the question. Rags was top dog and naturally other teams would be