2. Chapter 2
2
Chapter 2
FINN
D elta Victor sends a car as they always do. Before I leave the room I swallow a pill with my coffee. The same one I’ve taken for the last fourteen years. I email my financial advisor and lawyer, then put my phone away for the duration of the drive. Usually the drivers drive down in the latest model million-dollar sports car. Nothing sells a sports car better than a professional driver getting out of one in front of the rich and famous. Every driver but me.
I don’t rate well with the public. I lack the notorious “Irish Charm” you hear of.
It’s three hours to go before race time, and I need to get to the Delta Victor paddock for our pre-race strategy meeting.
The track conditions in Melbourne are usually good, so today it will all be about strategic driving. Saturdays are qualifying, and if I place well today, it means I get a good starting point tomorrow on race day.
When I stride into the canteen, Reuben sits off to one side with Erik Lindqvist, our team principal, having breakfast. They’re comfortable and laid back.
Reuben van Dijk is my other team member, an up-and-coming youngster, and the only reason he hasn’t beaten me yet is because I have experience on my side.
He’s got nerve, so it’s bound to happen soon. Maybe this season.
He’s young and eager to prove himself. He’s been with Delta Victor for one season, and they signed him on for another year. He still takes risks.
“Finn!” Erik calls me over. We’ve worked together for the last six years. I know him well enough to see in his eyes he’s nervous and trying to pretend that he isn’t. It’s because they aren’t renewing my contract.
It was confirmed on the news first thing this morning, and I heard whispers follow me when I made my way down the lane to the paddock.
I raise my hand in greeting but keep going. I want to talk to Jack about the car. He’s our head mechanic. End of last season there was a grip issue which turned out to be a misaligned front wing. The car was unpredictable and unresponsive, and I battled it physically for the last four races. It fucked up our race times, and we placed ninth in the team competition.
Down another spot.
Sometimes it’s the driver and sometimes it’s the car.
When I finally see Jack, it’s when I’m suiting up for free practice, and he pops his head through the change room door.
He glances at the burn scars covering my right shoulder. The tattoo there is warped and pitted, like splashed ink. Like it does for me, it reminds him how things can go wrong in a split second. I shrug into the suit and zip it up.
“Car’s great, Finn. Pity you couldn’t come out to test drive it over winter break.”
“The engineers figured it out, like?”
He gives me a wicked grin and nods.
Drivers blame mechanics, mechanics blame engineers. It’s a thing.
Erik is angry that I never went to test the car. There was no point. Delta Victor hasn’t delivered a consistent car for the last three years. They make adjustments before every drive, and it never handles the same. They’re throwing the last of their money at the car this year. As we place worse and worse, their purse, each year, gets smaller and smaller. They can blame the drivers all they want, but I’ve spent the last two years pointing out the issues with the cars and Erik has not been receptive.
His ass is on the line too, I guess.
“Let’s walk through it before you hit free practice. We can make adjustments if you have anything to add.”
I nod. Free practice is an hour for us to warm up the cars and identify any last-minute snags. After that we’ll have qualifying.
Qualifying lasts an hour, split up into three segments.
The first segment cuts the five slowest drivers, and you place sixteenth to twentieth based on that.
The next segment is for the remaining fifteen and the slowest five place eleventh to fifteenth.
The third segment is the top ten cars fighting for pole position and they get placed on the grid depending on their times.
It’s that easy, and that hard.
There are a couple of press interviews and debriefs after that and we’ll get together as a team to finalize our race-day plan.
After that it’s curfew, and we head back to rest and prep for race-day Sunday.
I’m already shaking as I make my way to the car. Luckily, I’m frustrated as fuck. Frustrated about the contract ending, about the car these last couple of years, about Erik not listening to my feedback, about Jack having to fight the engineers. About Inez and that fucking red dress.
For a moment I think about the blonde curls, but I shut it down.
I need the anger, because for the next three hours I will be fighting my fear. The fear of losing control at two hundred and thirty miles per hour.
Because at two hundred and thirty miles per hour, people die.
And I can’t die yet. First, I need to sign the papers.
* * *
CAMILLE
We spent all day yesterday filming the crowds. We can cut the scenes into the final edit to bring the excitement and tension to the viewer.
I spot a bunch of characters in the crowd that stand out to me.
Jay is smiling behind the eyepiece, carrying the weight of the huge video camera on his shoulder.
“How’d you spot them?” he asks curiously.
It’s a young couple with a baby boy. The father is wearing the purple and orange colours of Velocity Racing, the current number one team. His wife wears the plain white colour of Bianchi, with the black bull logo on the left pocket. They are the second-best team .
The baby wears a large sunhat, and his short-sleeved onesie is obviously homemade, one half in Velocity colours, the other half white, split straight down the middle.
“C’mon!” I urge Jay. “Let’s join Evan.”
Evan is the other cameraman, and he is tasked with filming the drivers as they make their way towards their respective race cars.
“I love my job,” Jay murmurs as he zooms in on Matteo Severini, driver for Bianchi and fan favourite to dethrone Velocity Racing driver Ollie Blythe from his number one spot this year.
I spot the blue and gold colours of Delta Victor and see Irish, helmet under his arm, heading to the grid. His eyes are black as night and his hair tousled. His neck is rigid as he strides single minded towards his car. A young fan rushes out. Her parents must be filthy rich to afford for her to be allowed behind the scenes at the paddock. She steps in front of Irish with a smile on her face. I’m not too far away to see Irish pause, take her in for a moment, then give a small shake of his head and an irritable shrug of his shoulder. He brushes off the young fan rudely, pulling his fire-resistant balaclava over his head. Dark curls pop out through the hole in his eyes, his dark eyebrows heavy and low.
Yesterday and today have been, surprisingly, so much fun to film. The tension and excitement are palpable. I had a hard time sleeping last night, revising our schedule for today after learning a couple of things at qualifying yesterday. I hadn’t realised how tight-knit the teams were. I assumed it was all about the drivers, but yesterday I met and filmed the crew at Peakstone, who ended in sixth place last racing season. The easy familiarity of the mechanic and pit crew who were on a call with the engineers at their head office while tweaking the car to prepare for race day. Their driver, Callum Wright, is Australian and eager for a win on home soil. They were infecting me with their excitement. When the drivers did their walk down the lanes to interact with fans, the locals had practically mobbed Callum. He’s a tall blond guy with even teeth and a wide smile, his hair cut into a very mild mullet style that is replicated in the hundreds by the fans in the stadium. The drivers had been relaxed and generous with their time and attention and seeing Irish brush off the young girl is jarring. He did the walk with the other drivers earlier, and though he didn’t drop easy smiles, he had signed autographs willingly and had quiet discussions with fans.
The young girl’s face falls, and my heart aches for her.
Just another typical celebrity athlete. A man worshipped for his skills, overpaid and spoiled.
When Irish strides by, I can’t help myself.
“Ignoring me is one thing, but not acknowledging that poor girl…”
He doesn’t even look at me. He strides past me, confident and blase.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says over his shoulder as he pulls his helmet down.
* * *
FINN
I’m fifteenth on the grid out of twenty drivers and I swivel a leg over and slide down into the seat. It’s a tight fit. The seat is made for me, made to eliminate as much body movement as possible. My feet rest on the pedals down below, and Jack, who was waiting at the car, leans down to speak to me. It’s loud, and he’s shouting to make himself heard.
“Kenji and Rafa are ahead of you, but if you can pass them on pull away, you’ll be able to defend the thirteenth position from there.”
I nod as he leans down to fit the steering console.
“The braking zones on turn one, three, and thirteen,” he confirms. “That’s where you’ll have to be careful.”
“I know, Jack.” I raise my hands to clutch the wheel, grateful for something to grip, hiding my shaking fingers.
I’m angry. I need to be furious.
He leans down to fasten my seatbelt and a crew member helps him fit the HANS device. It’s short for Head and Neck Support and it prevents serious injuries if I crash.
I adjust my legs and tug on the seatbelt harness.
Jack watches me touch all the controls as I run through my pre-race superstitions, habit at this point.
He taps me twice on the helmet and they scurry away.
I think of the young girl, the one who tried to talk to me. She had green eyes and auburn hair.
I shiver.
I place my hands on the wheel and breathe in for five seconds, out for five seconds.
Erik comes on the radio to do checks.
“Loud and clear,” I confirm.
He’s quiet. We haven’t spoken yet.
“Finn,” he begins tentatively.
“Don’t.”
He falls silent again.
I continue breathing as the track clears. Nothing but twenty cars. The twenty fastest cars in the world .
The first of the five red lights comes on.
I’m thinking about the girl and Inez and the blonde curls, and I’m on my way to furious.
The world fades. A second later, the second red light comes on.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
From here, it can be anything from one to three seconds before the lights turn green and the race starts. It’s never a set time, to keep it unpredictable.
The lights turn green.
I release the clutch paddle on the steering wheel and hit the throttle. We pull away, fast.
I’m thrown back in my seat as the engine roars. We bunch up, aggressively jostling to move up from our spot, focusing on precision, close, cars nearly touching. Smoke billows from tyres up front and sparks fly from the tar. Kenji’s car up ahead kisses the car in front of him and they spin out, those of us behind them missing them by inches as we fly past.
“P thirteen.” Erik says over the radio.
I’ve jumped two positions.
I’m not thinking. I am holding on to my anger to keep my hands steady.
My adrenaline spikes. We are approaching the first corner. Here’s where we all hold off on braking until the last possible second, hoping to gain an advantage.
When I finally relent and brake, the G force pulls me against the harness.
This is my last season.
The thought slips through while I’m trying not to think .
Everything I can do has been done. Everything that needs to happen is in place.
If I can’t race, then that’s it. I’ve done what I set out to do.
When this season ends, it’s over.
I have made sure there is no life for me after this.
Alejandro and Matthieu are in front of me, jostling each other. They race for Russell and Temporausch, respectively. They’re focused on each other and I’m blocked out.
I go wide. Cleanly.
I’m not thinking. I’m still clinging to my fury, but it’s getting hard.
With a screech of my tyres, I grapple with the wheel as I pass Alejandro.
Matthieu up ahead, pulls away easily.
“P twelve,” Erik says.
Matthieu will fuck up on bend thirteen. He’s always playing chicken, and he’s going to be too late on the brakes, wasting seconds trying to regain control of his car.
I open the throttle. If I can stay on his ass, I can take that advantage.
He pulls away too far and passes the car in front of him.
Callum Wright is now up ahead. He’s straggling. Usually he climbs positions fast and makes top five if not podium.
“Wright is having handling issues,” Erik comes on again. “If you can-”
“I got it.”
Callum might battle his car, but he’s doing so masterfully. On the straight, he pulls away slowly while I push back against the heavy force pressing down on my chest as we increase our speed.
He over-commits at the next corner and I come down the inside, our cars coming close. Touching in a slight bump, he ends with a skid as I pull away through the inside.
My heart is thumping in my head, pushing back hard against the seat as I floor it for the straight. My neck and shoulder muscles are clenched tight. I have to keep them rigid for the entire race.
“P eleven.” Erik sounds incredulous. He shows no emotion when he communicates while we’re driving. It’s all cool and collected.
When I drive like this, it scares me.
Why am I driving like this, today?
Sweat is pouring down my face and I blink my eyes angrily. It’s as hot as a furnace inside the car. I take a sip from the drink tube, but the water is lukewarm already.
We’re down two laps of fifty-eight.
And I’m P twelve.
If I can place tenth, that’s a point for Delta Victor.
I want it. I want that point.
It scares me.
I think of the girl with the green eyes and the auburn hair and I am reaching, grasping at the fury I need to finish this race.
It’s my last year. I’ve done what needs to be done.
Erik’s voice crackles over the comms, but I don’t hear it. He’s feeding me lap times and time gaps between me and the driver up front, Callum behind me.
He counts down the laps.
Lap nine.
Lap twenty-two.
Lap thirty-eight.
I pit for new tyres and come out behind Callum. He hasn’t pitted yet, so I’m not worried.
My hands are cemented to the wheel, sweat pouring off me. The race is taking its toll on me.
Callum pits and Rheese Knox is ahead of me. He races for Ainsworth-Sinclair and he’s a ball buster.
We’re tearing down the circuit approaching the high-speed chicane at turns eleven and twelve and I’m right on his ass. I stay there for two more laps. I hang around in his slipstream and use the advantage to close the gap. When we approach the braking zone, he feints to the outside, and I surge forward, but he darts back to the inside, brakes late, and carries the speed into the corner. Our tyres kiss in a puff of smoke and I brake hard to avoid it escalating.
He pulls ahead on the straight.
He’s reckless. It infuriates me.
Two laps later, we’re back at the turn, but I’m ready for him.
It’s play-by-play, the exact chain of events like before. Rheese is daring, but he’s predictable. This time I don’t brake when our tyres come together, bounce away, and come back.
The car is shaking underneath me, and we spin out slightly in the corner. Rheese takes the corner on the inside and goes over the curb, gaining the advantage.
“Penalty,” Erik says over comms.
Rheese gets the advantage by going off track to gain his position. It’s illegal. He’s being penalised.
“Time penalty or position?”
There’s a pause.
“Position!” Erik says excitedly.
Rheese is being forced by the stewards to give me his spot. I pass him easily on the next straight when he gets out of the way for me .
“P eleven.” Erik is struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Four laps later I pass Lucien Rousseau’s car where he spun out into the tyre barrier. He jumps out easily and I give a sigh of relief. My hands shake again, furiously.
“P ten,” I say, before Erik can.
I can’t bear to hear the excitement in his voice.
My body is aching. I can’t relent, I need to constantly push back against the G-force pushing and pulling me around like I’m in the midst of a tornado, furiously whipping me around through every corner, every straight. The unbearable heat will leave me dehydrated and with a headache when the race is done, and I’m battling an odd sense of elation as I keep pushing myself, the car, to our limits.
I cross the finish line in tenth place, and everything fades. I’m just a tired guy in a fast car, relieved that it’s over.
I feel satisfied.
I do my cool-down lap and when I stop in the pits, the crew rushes out to pull me from the car. Jack wraps me in a bear hug and lifts me clean off my feet. My ears are still ringing from the noise of the car, and the shouts of the crew are drowned out by the void of the ringing in my ears.
I pull off my helmet and my balaclava, my hair wet with sweat.
Erik elbows his way to me, pauses, extends his hand instead.
I shake it.