Did Not Finish Read Online Free PDF Page A

around outside to catch a glimpse of one of Dad’s cars or one of Steve’s restoration projects. When Dylan was thirteen, Steve caught him sneaking into the workshop. Instead of kicking him out, Steve asked what he wanted. Dylan answered that he wanted to learn about cars. Steve told Dylan that cars couldn’t be understood from afar, then tossed him a rag and gave him a job on the spot. I was only eight at the time, but I was already helping out at Archway. At the beginning, we only got to sweep up and put tools away. Despite our age difference, we became tight. Dylan had given me my first misappropriated beer and cigarette and set me up on my first and only blind date. I wasn’t thankful for everything.
    I followed Dylan into his living room as the show was starting. I dropped into an armchair as the opening credits, a montage of races, filled the screen.
    ‘You want something to drink?’
    I shook my head. I just wanted to see what I’d missed on Saturday. I needed to witness Derek’s crime spread across the airwaves of Europe. Then, he’d never escape what he’d done.
    The show’s host talked over snippets of the night’s show. ‘It’s an end of season bonanza this week on Redline. We’ve got action from the final rounds of the Benelux Formula Ford Championship, British Touring Cars at Silverstone, the French Formula Renault Championship and the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship at Stowe Park. First up, Formula Three action from Hockenheim .’
    Hearing Stowe Park mentioned raised gooseflesh. It was going to be hard to watch this. Obviously, Dylan felt the same way since he’d reached for his sunflower seeds.
    It was an agonizing forty minutes before Redline got to the Stowe Park race. I went cold when the coverage switched to aerial shots of the circuit. I had an unenviable advantage over all the viewers in their homes. I knew what was about to happen. I wanted to look away when the crash came, but I knew I wouldn’t.
    Dylan picked up the remote and pressed record on his digital TV recorder. I wondered if Alex’s family was doing the same. Then more darkly, I wondered if Derek was recording his handiwork for posterity.
    ‘It’s tight at the top going into the twelfth and final round of the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship. Alex Fanning holds a two point advantage over nine time champion and local fan favourite, Derek Deacon. Here’s how they shape up for the start of this hotly contested series. On pole, we’ve got nine-time champion, Derek Deacon, giving his championship hopes a much needed boost. Alongside Deacon is Graham Linden in the number two slot.’
    ‘What?’ Dylan said and shot me a glance.
    The commentator continued to read out the starting line-up as a computer graphic scrolled up the screen showing the drivers’ names and race numbers. It became clear what was happening before the commentator said my name.
    ‘They’re not showing the race from the beginning,’ I said. ‘They’re showing it from the restart.’
    The commentator ran through the complete grid and didn’t mention Alex’s absence.
    ‘This is bullshit,’ Dylan said. ‘They have to say something. They can’t pretend nothing happened.’
    Can’t they? I thought. I didn’t like where this was going. ‘Maybe they’re going to say something at the end.’
    The race played out from the restart. When it finished, the image cut to Derek shrugging himself from his car and bowing his head to take the winner’s wreath and a bottle of champagne from Myles Beecham. Derek didn’t show a flicker of remorse for what he’d done. The sight of him basking in his moment of murderous glory made me want to punch a hole through the TV.
    I waited for the commentator to mention Alex’s death, but nothing was mentioned. As soon as the race ended, the show went to an ad break.
    The stink of a cover up radiated from the TV. The sanitized coverage deceived the public, dishonoured Alex, and robbed the police investigation of