CHAPTER 145: PENELOPE GARCIA

The buzzing sound of cars zipping past closed stores rattled the streets of Birmingham.

It was a dangerous game they were playing, racing through the city centre.

The noise had abruptly woken up the homeless resting on public benches and bus shelters.

To those in need, it was another mark of abandonment by society. Or perhaps, it was the greatest nightly spectacle for the less than ordinary, overshadowed only by the street dogs shagging in the corner.

"This is not good," Averie muttered.

So far, he had managed to stay ahead of the pack thanks to his perfect drifts and risky maneuvers. But as more time passed and roads became wider and longer, it became difficult to maintain the pole position.

"This beauty is not as well-tuned as I thought."

He turned to the crew members.

"It’s all your fault."

"Us?" the cameraman uttered. "What did we do?"

"If you lot weren’t this heavy, it would have been easier. Let’s say one of you weighs 80 kgs, which means this car is weighing 240 kgs more than necessary. Add to that your equipment, and it’s a proper disaster over here."

He clicked his tongue.

"I would be flying right now if not for you lot."

"Who would have filmed this if we weren’t here?"

"I don’t need footage; I need speed." With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, "Who wants to jump off for a good cause?"

No one volunteered.

"Cowards, all of you."

He picked up his phone.

"I didn’t want to resort to this, but I won’t accept defeat after such a brilliant performance."

He dialed 999 and put the phone on speaker.

"What are you doing?" the cameraman asked.

"I am winning."

After a brief wait, the call went through, and a chunky voice answered.

"You have reached West Midlands Police. Please state your emergency."

"Yes, hello?" Averie lowered the volume of the booming music. "I would like to report a disturbance in the city centre of Birmingham."

"Can you elaborate, please?"

"Yes, I can," he replied, his accent anything but British. "There is a race—I think there is a drag race going on through the streets of Birmingham."

"Can you—"

"Oh, it’s horrible! They are whooshing past the homeless; someone could die any minute now!"

"I understand. Could you—"

"Oh, I can’t look anymore—"

"Sir, is that a car engine I hear?"

There was a brief silence.

"That’s my heater."

"Your heater sounds an awful lot like music playing in a speeding car."

’What is he, a detective hound?’

"My taste in music is rather questionable, I admit."

"What is your name, sir?"

"Are you seriously gonna question me, dude?"

"We are sending units to investigate." There was a bored yawn from the other side. "If you want to keep your identity hidden, I understand—"

"Penelope Garcia."

"I’m sorry?"

"My name is Penelope Garcia."

The sound guy, sitting behind Averie, looked at the scene with round eyes.

"And your gender would be?" the policeman asked, unsure.

"Why, I am a man, of course. My mother named me Penelope because the nurses mistook me for a girl. I am not well-endowed in certain areas. They had to use a magnifying glass. It was such a shock, my father died right there."

He stepped on the brakes and drifted the car. The screech of it did not go unnoticed on the other end of the call.

"What was that?"

"Birth! Childbirth! My mother is giving birth right now!" He took a large breath. "She is a rather active participant in the pursuit of conception."

To the dismay of the policeman, this was getting weirder by the second.

"What’s your age, sir?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Twenty-nine? How’s your mother pre—" He groaned. "You know what, forget it."

He took a breath and continued with the questions despite his hesitancy.

"Are you from out of town, sir?"

"Yes, I am visiting family."

"Where are you from?"

"San Sebastian."

"I shudder to ask, but I presume you have lived there all your life?"

"Yes, of course."

Averie heard a sigh from the other side.

"Please be honest, sir," the policeman urged. "I know you’re not from San Sebastian. Your accent sounds Balkan."

’Damn, I mixed up my accents.’

"I admit I lied."

"This line is only for emergencies."

"I lied about living in San Sebastian. My father was from the Basque Country, you see."

"What’s this now—"

"I grew up with my mother and stepfather."

"Sir, this is not—"

"I miss my dad!" Averie cried, sobbing uncontrollably.

"You said he died right after your birth. How could you miss—"

"Daddy!"

The policeman’s cold heart may not have been moved, but the fake tears were enough to convince the crew members.

"Poor lad," the sound guy said, squeezing Averie’s shoulder.

The cameraman rubbed his eyes. "It’s alright. Everything’s alright."

"How is your relationship with your stepfather?" asked the policeman.

Even therapists couldn’t conjure such gentle inquiries.

"He used to beat me," Averie said through clenched teeth.

"So, you mean he was an abusive stepdad?"

"Yes."

"And your mother was negligent about it?"

"Exactly."

Here lay Averie’s undoing.

"Aha!" exclaimed the policeman. "So, you are a street racer! Knew it!"

"What, no!"

"Don’t lie! You are busted."

The sound of alarms buzzing and men reporting for duty could be heard over the hurried footsteps.

"We are sending in the entire West Midlands Police force. You had better run like the rat that you are!"

Averie cut the call and stepped on the accelerator.

The cameraman, disillusioned by Averie’s previous performance, kept the camera firmly on the actor.

"This was your strategy for winning?"

"Hey, it’s a perfect strategy. If only the man on duty weren’t so smart, I wouldn’t have been compromised. Now, they have my number."

Unfortunately for Averie, that wasn’t his only concern.

His senses were starting to lose their edge.

He was sweating, illusions playing on the lens of his eyeballs.

The lady from Lady Ethereal, he so fondly envisioned, was playing sensory tricks on him.