I Say Goodbye to My XK150

I’ve been stopping at Suzie’s Diner for years, all the years that I’ve been working for ‘The Office’, better known as MI24. It’s now 37 years, making me the veteran agent in The Office and giving me certain privileges: a slightly bigger paycheck and barely noticeable shorter hours. It also gives me the most difficult and the most dangerous jobs. Sometimes I think they’re trying to get rid of me in order to save on paying out my pension. 

Suzie’s Diner’s coffee is the best. It keeps me awake and alert; it’s not burnt and has great taste. I’m hooked on it and I begin to salivate as I come around the bend in the road and see the red and purple neon sign: “SUZIE’S ALL-NIGHT DINER”.

On Tuesday evening I received an order from HQ to be there at 9pm sharp for a briefing. I grabbed my laptop and my 3-night bag which contains clothing and toilet stuff for a 3-day absence. In the garage I fired up my XK150 and headed for the highway. It’s a four-hour drive to the Chester briefing hall and I had time for one cup at Suzie’s. I chose a table at the window where I could see the entrance and my car without straining my neck. In my business one always sits where one can see who comes and who leaves. Then I lean back and enjoy the coffee. Suzie comes to check and we exchange a few words. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Toyota cruise past the diner and turn to park at the back.

The driver arrives at the entrance and stands looking around, checking the diner and the driveway. He’s checking for arrivals and for a quick escape route for himself. A minute later he comes inside, stands and looks at everything again, this time including the dozen or so diners and coffee fans. We lock eyes for a second and he looks away quickly, so quickly that I understand he found what he was looking for – me.

I finish my coffee, think about a refill, decide against it and stand up. He walks over, holds out his hand and says, “Hi Pete, haven’t seen you in years. How goes it with you?” I look at this guy, quite sure that I don’t know him and have never seen him before.

“Listen, Pete, my car died on me. I need a lift. Which way are you going?”

“Towards Chester,” I reply. “Want a lift?”

“I don’t want one but I desperately need one. Got room?”

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”

In the car I ask him a variety of questions to prove to myself that I don’t know him. And I’m certain he’s there to make sure we will never arrive in Chester.

Five miles down the road I see a woman waving at the roadside, I slow down. Is this his partner or a genuine damsel in distress? I bet on the partner.

“Thank you for stopping, Sir. My poor car just died. Can you..?”

“Sure thing! Jump in the back.” The XK150 is a 2-door and I ask the stranger to lean forward. I stretch to open the door. I listen for the click of the seat belt closing but I don’t hear anything. I glance down at the man next to me in the front seat. He too has not fastened his seat belt. Both are ready for a quick exit.

Off we go. We tool along, windows open and cool summer air blowing in. We make light conversation about nothings and the miles fly past. The woman in the back seat is talkative and very pleasant. She says she works for some government agency, but doesn’t name any specific one. It doesn’t go by initials like CIA or FBI. She’s a secretary, not an agent herself, she explains and doesn’t know much about what goes on. I am careful to phrase my questions so that she doesn’t have to reveal her job title. The man adds that he too works in the government and he is a messenger and knows very little about what his agency does. “I just deliver,” he says, “Usually papers in sealed brown envelopes.”

He was on his way to deliver an envelope, which he doesn’t have with him, when his car, you know, broke down. He admits that he doesn’t really know me, he is sure we have never met before, and it was all an act to get a lift. He left his car around the back of the diner and will pick it up later. He does not tell me what’s going down in the meantime. As if I didn’t know.

From my many trips to the Chester briefing hall I know the road well. I remember the many bends, the few sunken stormwater crossings, three narrow bridges and a couple of potholes that are never repaired. I also remember the huge oak tree. The road builder was loathe to cut down and remove the oak which was probably 50 years old at the time the road was built. So he diverted the road around the tree. The tree kept growing and is now another 37 years older and massive in its width and the size of its trunk. This tree would soon be the end of this particular trip. And the end of my two passengers.

The road for a mile up to the tree is straight, meaning that from a distance it looks as though the oak is standing in the middle of the road.

“I come here often,” I announce loudly so the woman in the back can hear too. “So I know this road quite well. I always test the speed of my car here. Watch this!”

I slam the pedal to the floor. The XK150 is like an obedient animal. It leaps forward and I watch the speedometer rising from its cruising speed of 55 to 70 to 90 and keeps going. A crazy thought flashes into my head. ‘It won’t slow down until you tell it to…’ We’re at 120. It’s fast. We’re swallowing asphalt road. Trees and fences are flashing past in a blur on both sides.

The oak tree is coming at us at full speed. The woman in the back is screaming. The man in the passenger seat is yelling. I lean to one side to provide a clear passage for the woman when she flies.

And she flies all right. Headfirst, through the windscreen into the trunk of the oak. The man removes what’s left of the windscreen on his flight.

I am in hospital with a stiff neck and broken neck bones, multiple broken ribs, a broken collar bone, black and blue from the waist up. The doctors say it will be some months until I can walk or work again.     “The Office” sent flowers.

I’m in the market for the latest F-Type P450 RWD Coupe.