The Chime of Bluebells

15

"Road Killers."

"In the lead? But they only gathered 13 points last Tuesday and that's when they met the Crescent Fighters."

Dad made a left turn and came to stop. The queue slithered from the roundabout to the gravel parking lot behind the tracks. It had been a good long fifteen minutes but now, we finally parked the rover.

"River Riders have Troy Lowenz and Andy Droel. You really believe Road Killers will take this victory?"

"Without a doubt," Dad said without hesitation.

"Wanna bet on it?"

Squinting eyes, we thumbed on it. "Deal."

"How much?"

"100?"

"A 100 crowns? Oh, you're on."

Stepping out of the vehicle, we were hit by the loud noises from engines in the stalls close to the arena, the blow of team horns and excited chatter about the sixth race on home turf. I grabbed my green and silver-silver cap from the backseat, with the Viking merman imprinted on the front with the letters RR for the local speedway team River Riders. Dad was a fan of them too, he just didn't think they'd win this race. Road Killers had been on fire last Thursday when they'd met the north mountain city Berveb's team Storm Bringers, last years victors. Dad and I never missed a race, at least not willingly, but there had been quite a lot of campaign stuff the last two years and before that Dad had been stationed in the military. Today, Dad had cleared his schedule for a race on the home turf. I knew he did it because he knew my mind wasn't with me, it hadn't been for the past month and a half. Ever since the day after the Fair, things had been different. First, news report had found out about Malachi and the rumours going about was more than me or my family could handle. Secondly, five days ago we found out the first day of trial was set for this Friday. As soon as we found out, I wanted to call Vaaldheld's Prison Service, but William stopped me. His hand had closed firmly around my wrist, his eyes drilled holes in mine. He did not want me to give that call, did not want me to be in contact with my boyfriend, only cared about making money through Dad's campaign.

Since a week back, my family had busied me with the smallest things—baking with Mom, listening to new realises of Lamambo with Quinnie and, today, a speedway race on the home arena with Dad. It would be challenging to get here unnoticed, but Quinn had an idea: she pretended to sneak out of the house, but making sure she was clearly visible for the paparazzis, and then they followed her because this was the first "interesting" thing that had occurred for over a month at the Langner house. As expected, they followed her to Carlentin where she'd scheduled an appointment with a few friends to hit a club. Why anyone would think a twenty year old girl "sneaking out" would be interesting, I don't know, but her plan worked. They had followed her and here we were, without the tail of flashing cameras.

Dad plucked out a jacket and cap from the backseat as well and made sure he wasn't too recognisable. We wanted an activity away from the house, somewhere we felt safe and comfortable. This had been a favourite place for us both for years. I loved the atmosphere here, the joy and victory driven audience, the smell of gasoline, the badly brewed 10 crowns cup of coffee and plastic chairs on the grandstand.

"Hello," Dad greeted the cashier and blipped our electronic tickets. "One program too, thank you."

We paid and went into the fenced area. We walked around the tracks, listening to Mats Merkeliv informing about tonight's race and the two rider's who unfortunately had been injured last week.

"Ah, there's the cheer-group," Dad pointed towards the furtherest curve where the River Riders fanatics had occupied the whole first part of the platform with their painted green- and silver faces and flags tearing proudly in the fresh wind. "Wanna join?"