Riven with fatigue, Nixon drew into Portsmouth ferry port at five am, and parked up. It had been a long day. The booking kiosks were opening, and he went off in search of a place on the first boat. Despite the holiday traffic, he was in luck, he would be sailing on the next one, destination Caen, in an hour. It would take six hours, and it meant he'd have some time to get some rest.
There were ports closer to Gil's house, but Nixon fancied the drive. Having, hopefully, slept on the boat, he would then have time to think, before confronting Gil. Because of the daytime sailing there were plenty of cabins available. With the van secure in the sealed vehicle bay below, he could now finally sleep, without much worry. Before that though, there was one vital hurdle to endure. Once in France, Nixon felt, if not exactly in the clear, he was in a much better position to get away with his unusual predicament, once he'd figured a way to put Lucia to rest.
After making contact with Gil, and keeping the details vague, he'd formulated the framework of a plan in his mind. He knew that Gil lived near the coast. He also knew that he was a keen sailor, and reasoned that there would be a fair chance that he could get access to, or even own, a boat of some sort. Having repeatedly analysed his options, Nixon had decided that dispatching the body at sea would be the most reliable method of avoiding discovery. Whether he could convince Gil to help him with this, would, at the outset, seem a tall order. There was their 'blood bond' of course. A twenty five year old pledge, between two drunken adolescents, wasn't exactly a firm legal contract, but it was something. At the very least, he figured it might be worth the loan of a boat. Nixon knew practically nothing about sailing, but how difficult could it be to take a small boat out to sea, at dawn perhaps, and dispatch a weighted corpse?
Perhaps, the lure of some kind of musical collaboration may also be of some use. Nixon knew that Gil was aware of his ill fated stint with The Blueboys, and their subsequent success. Gil, indeed, had always held Nixon in some esteem since this time. Despite him never appearing on their records, Nixon had nevertheless been in the band, a real band, a band that had achieved something. They weren't big league perhaps, but it was still something far beyond any level to which Gil had aspired. Nixon therefore, had credibility in Gil's eyes, and just maybe, a joint musical venture could prove seductive. Finally, there was The Belleville Riders. The incredible news that they'd soon be reforming, and playing live in France, could in some small way, be a spiritual sign that now was the time for Gil to repay his moral debt.
That was all in the future however, and would be irrelevant if he didn't get beyond this next step. This was the big one. Getting himself, the van, and its contents, out of the country. Despite there being passport checks on either side of the channel, Nixon knew that customs vehicle checks were usually, only at one end. In this case, it would be on the British, outward bound side. He was confident that his van would pass a cursory inspection. What he wasn't so sure about, was how the customs staff were trained to observe the passengers for signs of stress. The type of stress that one may be under if, say, they had a boot full of heroin, guns, or a dead body.
There must be thousands of people passing through this port everyday. Not everyone could be stopped and searched, so there was probably some random element in making their choice as to whom they would stop. But, perhaps there were other clues too. It was true that Nixon didn't fall into the typical, holiday maker category. The fact that he was alone, driving a van, and purporting to be a musician, all weighed slightly against him. It may be enough to direct trained eyes towards his face, for those tell tale signs of something to hide. Nixon wasn't sure if any of this was true, but he decided he needed some cover, in case it was.
He remembered a film he once saw, an American, forties thing, called 'The Woman in the Window'. It was a murder mystery, and in some ways the storyline paralleled his own situation. The main protagonist, like Nixon, was hampered with a body that he needed to dispose of. In doing so, while dumping the body in the woods, he'd left a clue at the scene, by cutting his hand on some barbed wire. The twist in this particular tale, was that the chief investigator was also the man's friend, and, oblivious of his crime, had invited him to accompany he and his team to the site of the body's discovery. The detective was keen to demonstrate how they went about their job, and grudgingly, he was obliged to go along. Before any of the police team had time to notice it, the man deliberately drew attention to the wound on his hand, passing it off as a domestic mishap. It suggested to Nixon, that in doing so, he had successfully bypassed any discomfort in front of the police, by pre empting the situation, before they discovered any clues.
In a similar way, Nixon had decided to deliberately draw attention to himself, should he be directed into the customs inspection bay. At about twenty to six, the full lines of traffic waiting to board the ferry, were alerted to embark. Engines started, and folks trickled back from the cafe area to their vehicles. Nixon, quickly went to get a take out coffee. A large one. He got back to the van, just as his lane of vehicles were signalled to advance. Balancing the coffee on the dashboard, he surveyed the scene. Possibly a dozen cars had gone through the customs gate, and nobody, as yet, had been directed to stop. It had to be him.
Up until this point, perhaps because he was tired, he'd felt fairly relaxed. He still hadn't been stopped yet, but this was it, this was the moment. He couldn't turn back now. He was well aware, that if he was stopped, and searched thoroughly, he was done for. Trying to smuggle a body out of the country? He had no idea of the severity of the crime. It was certainly more serious than being caught with a joint in the ashtray. This could be deep shit indeed. The finger could easily point to him for murder. His mind raced, and he felt his neck and fingers go cold. Now, at the moment of truth, it all felt different, just as it feels different when you step out on stage in front of a real audience. No amount of rehearsal can prepare you for that. Nixon had been thinking this moment through for hours. Over and over in his mind...he was sure he could do it....now he was here, in front of this particular audience of a few customs officials, he wasn't so sure.
He inched the transporter forward. The car in front was a people carrier. Nixon could see kids in the back seats. Mountain bikes were fixed to the rear, and suitcases strapped to the roof. There was no way they'd be checked........and they weren't. Now it was him. He looked at the luminous vested official in front, and sure enough, as sure as eggs is eggs, Nixon was directed into the search bay. He swallowed hard, it was now or never.
“Ow...shit ...fucking hell !”
Nixon stamped on the brakes, swung the door open, and got out of the van. Steaming, hot coffee (Nixon had given it an extra blast in the microwave) had spilt all over his groin. He tossed the keys to the customs officer as he ran over to the toilet block, a few yards away.
“Same key for all the doors, nothing to declare, and yes, I packed it myself....Back in a mo”
Nixon swabbed himself down, shoved some paper towels down the front of his jeans, then manoeuvred himself under the hot air dryer. He gave it thirty seconds, and went back outside. The side door of the van was open, he walked up behind an officer who was looking inside. Another official approached him from the front and asked for his passport.
“That looked a bit painful” it was..... “Anyway, can you tell me the nature of your visit, sir ?”
“Part business, part pleasure. I'm off to see an old mate in Brittany, and we might be doing some music together” he glanced towards the back of the van.
“What's with this big speaker, then ?” the other officer said.
“Oh that, it's an extension cab, for outdoor events. My mate thinks we'll be doing some festival stuff, so 'e told me to bring some extra muscle”
His eyes lingered for a second on the cabinet, then, evidently satisfied with this explanation, he turned his attention to something he recognised. He flicked open the guitar cases.
“Nice guitar. My son would love to have a go on something like that”
“Oh, 'ees a player is he ?”
Nixon had relaxed a bit now, probably too much, and he regretted asking the question that would now engage him in further conversation. It was a cliché, a classic film noir moment, as the guilty party is tediously engaged, whilst a body part dangles, unseen, out of his bag. Nixon looked keenly at the officer, probably too keenly. He imagined one of Lucia's fingers protruding through he speaker grill. He really wanted this little chat to end, but feared it would drag on.
“Ah yeah, he's been playing quite a while now, in fact..................I was only just saying to him yesterday, that he ought to be .......”
“Dan ! Get a bloody move on, they're all going through” The second officer broke the spell.
And with that, Dan broke off from his tale, handed the passport back, turned to Nixon and said.....
“Sorry about that sir, you'd better go now. Have a safe trip”
Nixon, calmly closed the guitar cases, slid the side door shut, locked it, and then jumped into the cab, and noticing his heart beating still too fast, kept his gaze straight ahead. 'Keep calm, keep calm, nearly there.' He drove slowly out of the customs bay, and turned in towards the queue now forming in front of the ferry. Soon, the vehicles would be garaged on the vehicle deck, and he could finally think about resting. The driving seat was damp from the coffee spill, and his jeans were cloying cold, it didn't matter. He'd pulled it off. The coffee caper had certainly masked his tension, and it was worth this small discomfort to have passed without detection. He might have got through without it, he'd never know, but the point was, he might not have, and the consequences, he'd only just realised, were enormous.
Nixon felt extremely tired now. The tension had finally receded. Once on board, and key collected, he made straight for his cabin, cleaned himself up, then sank between the clean, cold, crisp sheets of his bunk. When he woke up, he'd be in France, and later that evening he'd be at Gil's house. He tried to imagine how the hell this little visit might pan out. In truth, he had absolutely no idea, and at last, fell into a deep sleep, wondering what Gil might say.
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