The ghost of victories past

The sounds of the party in the other room were a little muffled, but he could tell people were still having a good time. He’d come to the back bedroom alone, to reflect. Sitting on the bed, he hunched over and toyed with the whisky glass in his hands. Where was his career going? Williams clearly couldn’t prepare a car to his requirements and now there was no way of knowing what support Red Bull could give him. Except for liver problems, he grimaced.

What was holding him back? “Oh, God,” he moaned, turning his face towards the ceiling, “When will I claim my rightful place on the podium? What does Mark Webber have to do to make these teams give me the support I need?”

Exhausted, he slumped over towards the floor, his elbows resting on his knees. Just then, he became aware he was not alone. From the corner of his eye he could see a slight figure, standing diffidently near the far wall. Webber straightened and turned to face the man. “I don’t need anything tonight – you can have the rest of the night off.”

The figure didn’t move. His face was in shadow, but Mark realised he wasn’t one of his servants. He was dressed strangely, in old-fashioned lightly-coloured baggy pleated trousers, belted high on his waist, and a rumpled short-sleeved shirt and tie. Just then, the man moved a step closer, and his face, previously in shadow, was illuminated. He was slightly plump, and had an unremarkable visage, with receding black hair combed straight back. The difference was his eyes. Even slitted, as though from a lifetime of facing a bright hard sun, they were bright, intense and compelling.

Almost at once, Webber recognised him. But this was impossible. “Who, who are you?” he stuttered.

“Mi nombre es Fangio.”

Webber staggered backwards involuntarily. Fangio! “But, you’re…” he gasped, the feeling beginning to leave his legs. His knees buckled and Webber found himself on the carpet. Fangio stood above him, his smile a death’s head. “Muerto? Sí, soy muerto.”

Mark took a shaky breath and tried to hold the apparition’s gaze. “What, what do you want?”

“Solamente esto,” intoned the figure, “Only zis.”

And saying that, Fangio’s ghost seemed to stand straighter. He extended his right hand towards Webber on the floor beneath him, his pointed finger fixing on Mark’s astonished eyes. A wind seemed to lift and ruffle Fangio’s clothes and hair, though the room itself was still. The ghost’s eyes became brighter and harder, and Webber suddenly realised they seemed to be outlined as though driving goggles had been lifted from a grimy, oil-stained face. Slowly, the ghost began to speak, softly at first, but then louder and Mark was sure he could hear in it the sound of an engine’s roar, the ululation of the crowd and the high pitched scream of tires on tarmac.

“Webber, acepta que eres justo un conductor ordinario y nunca ganarás. Incluso el Botón es mejor. Ahora retirarte, cuando puedes calmar el modelo para Lowes.”

And he was gone. The room seemed lighter and Mark felt strength return to his legs. Tears began to drop silently onto the carpet. A laugh from behind the door reminded him that, beyond, the party was still going. Even though he had no Spanish, he, as though magically, understood the words the dead legend Fangio had cursed him with.

“Webber, accept that you are just an ordinary driver and will never win. Even Button is better. Retire now, while you can still model for Lowes.”

The whisky glass rolled away from his nerveless fingers.

Accidents happen

It was cold and wet. Why was I, a top Formula One trouble-shooter, here in the noise and discomfort of pit lane, shivering and holding a paper plate on a stick? No-one would know me here, in cap, headphones, sunglasses, red outfit. The suit was a little tight, but it was someone else's. And the previous owner wasn't going to complain, not in the car boot where he waited his fate, shivering in his underwear, the zip ties cutting off the circulation to his hands.

The red beast roared into the pits. I sauntered over to the front and nonchalantly dropped the brake sign in front of the driver.

It was the Chin. He wouldn't recognise me of course, but maybe later he'd think back and wonder. Hopefully he'd be nervous.

The fuel was going in now and timing was going to be everything. The rig was cleared, I lifted the lollipop at the critical moment, checking out of the corner of my eye. True to form, the Chin, all machine, trusting to the well-oiled Maranello organisation, went into driving mode.

By the time I heard the impact I was halfway to my car, walking briskly, noticing the heads swivel away from me. "You two clowns deserve each other", I thought to myself as people started moving past me, attracted by the shunt.

"Make it look like an accident Smith", Bernie had said, and I knew he would be satisfied. When I got back to the hotel I would find a fat envelope under my door, full of the readies. When Mark eventually got back to his room, he'd find a thinner envelope. Just a note, no signature, letters cut out of a paper. "Drive slower tomorrow."

"Now", I mused as I slowly rolled out of the car park, removing the red cap and headphones, shoving them on the passenger side floor, "what have I got in store for Jacque this weekend?" I smiled, the thought warming me as much as the car heater, as I wound it out.

N’Pits

“So Smiss, it is a good idea, no?” Juan Pablo was sitting across the desk from me, nodding quickly and smiling. I looked back at him and sighed. “A boy-band Juan? With me managing it? Explain it to me again.”

Eagerly, he passed over the newspaper clippings he had been clutching through our interview, pointing to the headline that read “Montoya mad, bad and dangerous”. I placed the paper flat on my desk and lowered my eyes to take in the story. I could see him leaning forward, grinning stupidly, trying to catch my eye. “Smiss, it came to me when I saw ziss article. I thought, when my driving is no longer so good, what can I do? I thought, I like the music, and ze fast cars, and I am crazy mad and bad – so it is obvious!”

I looked up at him. “But why a boy band?”

He made an exasperated face. “Every boy band must have a bad boy who punches the photographer and drives too fast. I am a natural! Ziss is my future career! Remember when that cameraman broke my head at Imola? And I wanted to smash him so bad? Lucky my girlfriend stopped me, or I would have…..”

His eyes lost their focus and he sat silently for a while, his jaw working. As the veins on his temples started to throb I brought him back to the present. “And?…” I prompted.

He shook his head slightly as he calmed. “Yes, Smiss, so you see I can start ze fights. And you know I can drive too fast like zat Westlife boy. Zo, he has a Ferrari, but I should have ze BMW. And I will have ze tattoo – I have a design already – and a name – Ze N’Pits….and I will grow ze goatee…”

I waited to see if there was anything else, but he just sat there, looking pleadingly at me.

“Okay Juan, I can see you’ve thought this out,” I said, “But you’ll need others in the group – do you have any ideas?”

Suddenly he was animated again. “Yes, yes, I have found out zere are strict rules for ze boy bands. One must have the floppy blond hair, for ze Mummies to like. Zis one must be a little girly-man. I think Jensen would be good.”

I was starting to like the idea. “Yes, go on,” I encouraged Juan. This was showing some planning, some insight that I had not seen before in him.

“Anozzer must be ze hip rapper one – I think Fisichella. He is pretty and has ze moves.” “And driving for Jordan, it means it will not be long before he is looking for a job,” I interrupted, getting more keen on the idea. “What about Kimi?”

Juan looked at me patiently, with a weary expression. “No Smiss, ze members must have at least a little personality……”

I smiled – what was I thinking? But Juan was forging ahead. “But we need one more – ze one who does nuzzing, the one zat everybody thinks why is he here, does his father own ze record company, did he buy his way in ‘ere?” he looked at me, shrugging his shoulders. “For zis one I need your help Smiss.”

Hmm, this would need some thought. Someone inconsequential, someone useless…. I started tossing out names.

“Villeneuve?”

“Anyone from Minardi?”

“Firman?”

Though most seemed to have what it took to be the nobody in our Formula One boy band, none of the names stood out as having that perfect blend of uselessness that would scream “how did this dud come to be here?”

Then, suddenly, both Juan and I seemed to have the same thought. We sat, looking at each other, smiling, knowing that we had found The One, but neither willing to say the name. Holding back my laughter, I broke the silence.

“Alex Yoong”

Juan rolled onto the floor, holding his sides, as my eyes blurred from tears of laughter and relief. Our boy band was complete.

Juan too many

Juan Pablo Montoya slid into the leather seat of his BMW and glanced across at me. ‘Smiss’, he said, his dark eyes flashing below his smooth tanned brow, ‘I can never be as good a driver as you, but I must win your respect some-ow’.

‘Jeez Juan, there’s no need to be so gay about it’, I snorted as I tightened my seat belt and turned to look out of the passenger side window. The French Riviera spread itself beyond the BMW’s windows, the distance haze adding a sense of mystery and unease.

Juan Pablo eased the car into first gear and gravel crunched under the tires as we turned onto the road to Frejus. The sound reminded me of when I was here with Hemingway, the big pussy. I looked across at Juan Pablo. He was sulking again. ‘This the best you can do Johnnie?’ I said casually. ‘Call yourself a driver? You know Michael was pointing at you and laughing back at the hotel? Where are your cojones?’

I’d got to him. He began to drive faster, pushing the BMW through the French traffic, trying to impress me, trying to show he was a man (just like bloody Hemingway pansy).

Flashing lights filled the mirrors as the siren of a police motorcycle broke through my thoughts. Montoya glanced in the mirror. ‘Mierda.’ He pulled over and slumped in the seat, tears beginning to roll down his chiselled cheekbones.’I will lose my license for sure. What must you think of me?’

The policeman’s boots crunched on the gravel as he walked towards the driver window. I slipped my sunglasses down and looked across at the by now sobbing Montoya and sniffed. ‘Chimba.’

Brazilian Conspiracy

I knocked on the door of the hotel room. It was opened by a red-haired man who nervously ushered me inside. "Mr Smith, so glad you could make it", he drawled, his American accent seeming strangely out of place. "Jaguar needs your help."

"I like a man who can get to the point Ressler", I returned. "You've got trouble and you've come to the best. Why didn't you use Jones, he's always popular in the motivation line?" I grinned, testing him.

"Jones had some.....unpleasantness." he stammered, "something about a public toilet. Some wanted to use him, but we knew he wasn't equipped.....not a man of action...like..." he left the sentence dangling in the air. We both knew how it would have ended. When the teams had troubles, real troubles, they came to me. I got things done, and when someone got in my way they regretted it. Lauda knew. Every time he looked in the mirror he would remember my words. "Accidents can happen Nicki."

I moved into the hotel room, removing my fedora and hanging it on a nearby hat stand. Nice room. The hat stand moved, shuffling apologetically. It wasn't a hat stand. It was a man, or a shell of one. Ressler waved his hand towards the figure. "Smith, I believe you know Mark."

I turned to face him. Webber. I looked into his face, noting how he flinched, unable to meet my gaze. "Mr Smith", he mumbled. Webber. No wonder I'd mistaken him for a hat stand. The last time I'd seen him he'd been a schoolboy, grovelling at my feet behind the weathersheds. I could still feel his pocket money in my fist. He glanced at me, rapidly looking away. We both knew what I was thinking, remembering. "Sit down Webber", I said abruptly "and do up your fly".

Embarrassed, he fumbled with his pants. "But it's not..." Got him again. He sat and for the first time I noticed a strange figure on the sofa. He looked about 12 years old and was wearing an aluminium foil hat, roughly moulded to his head. He looked at his feet, ignoring the others in the room, uncomfortable. "You must be Antonio" I said kindly, passing him a Mintie. He smiled up at me briefly and turned his attention to the lolly. "If you're a good boy, I'll give you a pencil." I said, turning my attention back to Ressler.

"Well you know the problem," he began. "Performance, consistency. Can you help?", he pleaded, his leprechaun eyes filling with tears.

Just then Pizzonia began to fidget with his cap, looking towards the ceiling. "I'm receiving another message boss, the foil's not working" he whined.

I moved into action. "So am I Antonio, and here's the message - you're fired!" He gasped as I strode across the room and swept the tinfoil from his head. Quickly, I searched his pockets, finding a small electronic device. Antonio tried to snatch it back, screaming "No! You don't understand!"

Ressler gaped. "What, what is that?" he asked, his eyes widening. I weighed the device in my hand. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, this is some kind of sabotage device." I returned.

Slowly, I pressed a button on the device. Miles away, in the Jaguar garages, mechanics leapt for their lives as Mark Webber's Jaguar disintegrated, wheels and body parts flying. Ressler's mobile rang. He listened, silently, then grimly nodded. "You were right Smith."

My crew entered the room, and held Pizzonia's arms. "Take him away boys. The mystery of Brazil has been explained."

"So it was my team-mate." exclaimed Mark, jumping to his feet. "Thank you, oh thank you."

I took two paces towards him, my hard gaze meeting his beaten eyes, taking in his chiselled jawbone. I slapped him across the face, twice, hard. "Don't thank me, you choker. Try to finish a couple of races."

Making Maranello

I leaned back in the chair as Jean Todt pushed the plans towards me. “Vat are ve to do Smizz?” Making a spire of my fingers, I looked at the ornate ceiling, reflecting on my rise from the gutter to a top secret position advising the head of the Ferrari team. 1999 was a good year. Todt cleared his throat, impatient. I met his gaze. “Make the wing bigger Jean. Who’s going to notice?”

Weekend at Bernies

The room felt ten degrees colder when I entered it. Not that pleasant cool like walking into an air conditioned room from the warm poolside. No, this chill was sinister, like being in a cave, an underground lair.

My breath clouded in front of me as a shiver involuntarily ran up my spine. Lair was a good word to use, because this room was occupied by someone, something. Some buried primeval parts of my brain began to shake themselves awake. The old flight or fight instincts were starting to be reactivated. My years as a Formula One trouble-shooter had made me used to the pampered safe life of expensive hotel rooms and cast-off drivers’ model girlfriends. The baser instincts that I should have relied on to survive – the sense that warns the hunter of the unseen tiger – had lain dormant; and that they were stirring themselves now was reason enough to make me pause just inside the doorway.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving the room in almost inky darkness. I hadn’t felt this way since Cambodia, all those years back. Someday that story can be told, but for now, my nerves and senses screamed that I was in the presence of evil. Run, my body told me, but something kept me rooted to the spot. Under it all, was a chilling sense that this time I had gone too far.

Something stirred in the darkness in front of me. A weak slanting beam of light from a shuttered window, dancing with dust-motes, caught a fringe of grey hair, as a figure, hidden in a darkened alcove, leaned forward. The figure paused. All my straining eyes could see was that fringe of silver hair that reflected the light with a dull, oily sheen. A clawed hand appeared and reached downward, reappearing with a crudely made bowl. A second hand appeared in the beam of light, dipping into the bowl, returning cupped with water, the glittering drops falling through the light into the bowl, as the cupped hand moved upwards, to dribble the water over the man’s hunched, leaning head.

There was no sound in the room other than the trickle of water running from the silver head, back into the bowl, but my ears were filled with the drumming of blood through my temples. My mind’s eye presented me with another flash of my Cambodian nightmare – the jungle moving with the softest noises in the undergrowth as they stalked me in the dark, and the border so close. I’d made it through that night, but would I survive this?

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. That's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor, and surviving." The man spoke, his soft English voice increasing the sinister chill in the room.

I said nothing, waiting.

“You have it with you?”

With a jolt I remembered the bag I was carrying in my right hand. I inhaled. “Yes. I have it with me.”

Lanquidly, the man clapped his hands. In the dark, a slight figure glided forward and a match flared, lighting a candle, before the figure withdrew. The candle guttered in the close air as the man spoke again.

“Was there any ….. unpleasantness?”

“A little”, I answered, “but nothing I couldn’t handle.” Unpleasantness. That’s one way to describe it. I remembered the crunch of bone under my hand and the hot breath in my face as the Customs man’s life had ebbed out. He’d eaten garlic for his last meal.

The man in the room made a satisfied sound before speaking again. “They’re getting too big for themselves. They want too much. Too much say. I will show them who is in charge.”

He stirred himself and stood, moving into the dim light from the candle. He was always shorter in the flesh than I imagined such a powerful man, and a shudder ran through me as the shadowed candlelight emphasised the cadaverous features of his face. His eyes were hidden in deep shadows cast by his brow and his lank grey hair fell over his face. I was always amazed that a man with such money could have such a bad haircut. I found myself thinking of pudding bowls as he moved closer to a low table that the candlelight revealed standing in front of me.

“Show me”, his English voice hissed. “Show me what will make them learn to hate and fear me again.”

“Yes Mr Ecclestone,” I said as I pulled it from the non-descript bag and placed it carefully on the table. “It does what you want it to do.” I said. “It will dismay them, control, them, remind them of their place. They will know that it comes from you….”

As the light fell on it, it gleamed darkly, malevolently, all straps and buckles, and I suppressed a sudden nausea as I knew what it could do, how it would cripple. The man staggered backwards as if he had been struck, his hands unconsciously lifting as if to protect him from the horror he saw on the table. “No”, he gasped, “It’s too much.”

He was shaken, horrified, but couldn’t take his eyes from the awfulness in front of him on the table. “It’s impossible”, he gasped, “You have gone too far….” He collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders working as quiet sobs escaped from between his fingers.

I straightened, placing my hand on the cool, hard device, seeing again the anguish of those I had tested it on. “I call it HANS,” I whispered.

The candle began to flicker as it burned down to its end. The pool of light it cast shrank and the temperature in the room began to fall further. As I turned to leave, I could hear his soft English voice repeating two words in a shattered, whispered litany.

“The horror, the horror.”

Todt gets Tired

I quickly threw the blanket over the tires in the back of his BMW Estate and slammed the hatch. Turning in the dark alley, I could see Todt's face lit by the glow of his indrawn cigarette. The glowing tip was shielded by Todt's hand as he exhaled the bitter smoke, turning his head to check the nearby street again.

The noise of the playboy's parties echoed dully as I noticed the lights of the yachts reflected on the Monaco harbour, framing the Ferrari manager's head.

"Say it again" I demanded, as I felt in my pocket for the keys. "Just get zem out of here Smiss", he hissed impatiently.

"Say it Jean", I repeated. He shuffled in the dark for a second before repeating in a monotone the words I had coached him in for hours. "Everbody knows that at Monaco the track conditions are very different on ze first day..."

I moved closer to him and patted his cheek menacingly. "That's right Jean, you know the drill now. I'll be in touch."

I moved to the car, opened the door and sat down, simultaneously starting the engine and reversing out of the alley.

I lowered the window as I slid past Todt's hunched figure. He was already shuffling into the street, hands thrust deep into pockets, collar raised. I realised he was beginning to be a liability. "I'll see you in Canada Jean," I called, "But you might not see me..."

The last sight I saw of him showed the fear in his eyes. I opened the throttle, hearing the tires shifting in the back.