Kill The Monster, Chapter 2

PROLOGUE

It was a fine day in early autumn.

As on most fine days, the weather simply demanded a presence in the back garden, down by the set of prefabricated garages, ignoring the smell of new-mown grass and scorning the sunshine to taste petrol and suck in exhaust fumes under the dark bulk of either Lilianne Two, Lilianne Three, or the very newest addition to the stable, Lilianne Four.

Today, Lilianne Two was in bits waiting for a machine shop in Dorset to manufacture a cylinder head - no heads were made for the XK any more, and no parts were on the market - and L3 was working unexpectedly well, hardly even leaking oil on the white sheet drawn up under her to check. Today, then, it was finally going to be Lilianne Four.

The manufacturer had left an inordinate number of seals all round the place; Lilianne Fours were only ever sold on the basis that only authorized Hirondelle service engineers were ever allowed to inspect them. The seals were difficult to remove, plastered over brakes, fuseboxes, even the battery, famously making the most minor maintenance impossible.

Minor maintenance had, to date, also proved unnecessary, of course; the car leaked neither oil nor water, the battery remained at full charge whatever the weather, and the brake discs still looked as perfect as CD-ROM's. The exhaust gleamed like a musical instrument, and made a noise as beautiful. But the annual service fees were an insult to human intelligence, and the whisper that went round the automobile fraternity that no-one has ever been inside one was a challenge to the same.

Still, it was with some measure of apprehension that he popped the switch beneath the ebony dashboard and moved round the long snout of the car to open the bonnet. He had done this a number of times before; despite this, he could only stand and gaze down into the unfamiliar gubbins in the engine bay, trying to figure out, first and foremost, simply what and where everything was. He had also not noticed, on earlier occasions, the scrap of tape now fluttering in the breeze on the leading edge of the bonnet. He stretched it out in gloved fingers, read it. It said: POLITE WARNING. YOU SHOULD NEVER NEED TO OPEN THIS SERVICE INSPECTION HATCH. NOTHING IN THE ENGINE COMPARTMENT SHOULD EVER NEED TO BE UNFASTENED EXCEPT DURING SERVICE BY AN AUTHORISED HIRONDELLE ENGINEER; DOING SO WILL INVALIDATE YOUR VEHICLE'S LIFETIME GUARANTEE. THANK YOU, THE MANAGEMENT, BARONIA HIRONDELLE AUTOMOBILIA.

He disregarded the notice and propped the bonnet open, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back.

Now, where to start?

If he weren't a sane godfearing man, he would swear that the stories were true. The Hirondelle's engine did indeed appear to be the right shape to be a gas turbine. That would push the price up through the roof for certain, and explain a good number of astronomical service bills. But it wouldn't explain the incredibly low fuel consumption. He knew the insides of turbine engines well; he'd designed enough of them. But there were also extra tubes, black boxes and spindles in here that he didn't recognize. Essentially, gas turbine engines should be wasteful. Had the shadowy team of designers at Baronia Hirondelle devised some way of making them less so?

He decided to start with the airbox. This looked more like a fighter jet compressor than a car's air intake; preternaturally large, it was a child-size assembly held in place by no less than thirteen bolts, easily identifiable by rubber anti-vibration washers. The whole heart of the enine might be lifted out - assuming no extra fastenings on parts of the unit he couldn't see - if only these bolts were unfastened.

After ten minutes of trying to fit a spanner round the first bolt head and succeeding only in burring the metal, he realized abruptly that the bolt heads were pentagonal. Why would anyone do such a thing? It made it impossible to undo the bolts with a standard spanner. Special tools would be needed. Special tools, he realized, doubtless possessed only by Hirondelle engineers.

He searched in Shed Three for a rubber-handled grip wrench, found one capable of holding on to the bolt without deforming the metal, and pumped the lever until the teeth bit down. One herculean heave, and the bolt surface swung round, to present half of a tiny ripped metal plate to his eye. The plate said:

WARNING! REMOVAL OF THIS
WILL INVALIDATE WARRANTY AND
MANY THANKS, THE MANAGEMENT, H

He made investigations with a torch, and found the other half of the plate still attached to a metal washer at the base of the bolt. Why? What the hell was the purpose? And equally importantly, how? They would have had to weld the plates on somehow after refastening every bolt. The plate was thin, of some soft disposable metal like lead or tin. A rapid inspection of the other bolts showed that they all bore similar attachments.

Somebody wanted to discourage owner access to this engine to an almost paranoid extent. He recalled the celebrated Hirondelle 'compulsory guarantee', an agreement between owner and manufacturer that, if a Hirondelle could no longer be driven, it would be recalled to the Hirondelle works in Poyle to be either melted down or placed in the Hirondelle Museum.

A lifetime of tinkering with expensive hardware had hardened his heart against things like this. He pressed on. Before long, all thirteen bolts were off, the startpoints of their travels marked on the engine casing in French chalk. He reflected that he hadn't really needed to do this - the bolt seals themselves provided an accurate guide to how far the bolts should be screwed back in - but force of habit had made him mark his place. There was, however, still the join between airbox and what until evidence to the contrary presented itself he would call the turbine to be undone. This could be unlocked only using a special tool, no more than five millimetres thick at the lever, and possessing a three-bladed attachment at the fulcrum that fit into slots in the aluminium airbox housing. Luckily, this was not the first time he'd had the bonnet open, and he had done his preliminary reconnaissance. He had made a model of the tool himself in clay, and then sent two rubber blanks of it to a steel foundry who had cast it to his specifications. He licked his lips nervously as he slotted it into position, but it fitted like a bishop into a catamite. But would it turn, or snap? Was the casting of sufficient quality?

It turned. The airbox, or compressor, or whatever it called itself, was off, breaking four more exquisitely welded seals in the process. As the seals broke, a tiny, tinny electronic shriek began to emanate from the engine. He looped the pulley chains round the airbox body and took up the slack preparatory to hoisting it out of the engine bay, then began disconnecting wires and pipes from it. As he did so, a voice, seeming to issue from somewhere inside the passenger compartment, said: "Warning! You appear to be attempting to remove a part that should only be touched by trained Baronia Hirondelle personnel. Continuing to do so will certainly invalidate your warranty, and could be dangerous! Please stop! Warning! You appear -"

An alarm to protect warranty seals being broken? Whoever even heard of such a thing?

He ignored a voice and continued to winch the air intake out of the engine. The electronic scream from the car was giving him a headache. It penetrated into the skull, particularly if he touched any metal part, bringing on sensations almost of nausea. He also had an unaccountable desire to go to the toilet. Somewhere in the engine must be the wire that fed the speaker for the alarm. When he found it, he would disconnect it with considerable pleasure.

He blinked, and steadied himself on the engine bay with a hand. He was feeling light-headed. Perhaps he should go out into the garden and sit down.

No. He had work to do. The machine was beginning to seriously piss him off.

After the removal of the airbox - which, as he'd suspected, proved to contain a rotor assembly like a jet compressor - the engine itself gaped like the maw of some giant coelenterate, bristling with turbine blades. These blades, however, seemed to possess variable-incidence joints at their bases. He could move one with a finger -

His mobile phone rang. He scrabbled for it in the inside pocket within his overall and wrestled it to his ear.

"Hello? Mr. Agnello? This is Mr. Winston, the chief engineer at Baronia Hirondelle Automobilia. We've had an unconfirmed report that you are carrying out an unauthorised maintenance on your vehicle that may invalidate your warranty. If you'll recall the agreement you signed after taking delivery of the vehicle -"

He held the mobile at arm's length, staring at it.

He deactivated the call. It rang again, almost instantly. He thumbed the mobile off.

He heard the land line ringing in the house.

He returned to he car. No-one would answer the telephone in the house. Lilianne One was out walking Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightley.

The turbine assembly in the engine fed on a complex fuel injector wearing a variety of wires and nozzles. He opened one and sniffed.

"Petrol", he said triumphantly. Not dilithium, he added to himslf silently. It lives on petrol after all. It bleeds. We can kill it.

A variety of unnecessary warranty plaques crumbled in his hands as he pulled out yet another special tool to uncouple the fuel feed. He looked down at the feed cradled in his hands, and suddenly leapt his own height backwards out across the garden, sending the hundred-pound component thudding back down into the engine bay. The special tool clattered down into the engine, tinkling mockingly as it wedged itself somewhere low and out of reach.

Was I dreaming? Did I really have my hands around -

He could hear his own heart beating. He found himself counting the beats. He hoped for the sake of his health that it was a full minute before he pulled himself back up to peer back down into the engine bay.

Nothing. Just disemembered warranty plates and glittering engine.

The phone was still ringing in the house.

He couldn't see the special tool. He produced a pen torch and bent forwards. He pressed his face down as deep into the depths of the engine as any African vulture into offal, thrust his arm down further among the gubbins than any vet ever had into a heifer.

Ah, there you are, you little -

The pain was searing, indescribable. It felt as thought his whole chest were being compressed so violently as to make his ribs shatter. At first he thought somebody had sneaked up on him and slammed the bonnet shut on his back, and was now sitting on him, stopping him breathing with all their weight. His left arm, which would have been trapped under the bonnet, hurt like fire, as if all the nerve endings in it had been stretched taut like violin-strings and were being scraped with a hacksaw.

He fell back off the car, and saw that the bonnet was still propped open. He groped across the tool-strewn ground for his mobile phone. When he found it, it was turned off.

After another ten seconds, the phone in the house suddenly stopped ringing.