Pole position
Another day, another race, another chance for second place.
Ihyll drove like he had nothing to lose. Corners were challenges that he went at roaring, tearing down the asphalt in a furious squeal of rubber and smoke. There was something of that even when he was standing still, or leaned up against the wall watching newcomers prep their engines, checking nitrous and ignitions, topping up tanks. Might have been the scars. No-one knew for sure how he’d gotten them, but there were rumours.
Five foot tall or near enough, but he held himself like a larger man, and people treated him like someone larger still. Eight-foot in their minds’ eyes, with dark angry scars curling like flames up his neck, stretching clawed fingers across his face to frame his eyes and cut across his nose. Big chunk cut out of one lip, still pink. He was a sight, on and off the road. Whispers, and it was never louder than a whisper, said he’d gotten into a nasty bar fight. Or an insurance fraud scheme went bad, sending more than just the building up in smoke. He didn’t have eyebrows, still, and it had been years since… whatever it was. No-one dared to ask, because flames flickered in the depths of his eyes when his scars were mentioned, giving light to the dark brown irises the same way a forest fire gave light to the midnight horizon. The most popular theory was that he was gassed up by a rival crew, though who would dare was just as much up for debate as any other aspect of the story.
The only folks who’d even consider getting in Ihyll’s way were the cops, but never for the things he should have been banged up for. He’d never run a light or been ticketed for going forty-three in a school zone, but the flash and whine of lights and sirens was familiar enough. Pulled over for broken taillights, a loud engine revving in the evening, driving a non-taxi vehicle with brown skin. But all things considered, in his normal life he was as unassuming as a man with his sort of face could possibly be.
Then the race would come around, and he’d be gone in a scream of tortured metal and rubber, ripping across the lanes and taking corners too fast to be believed. Every annoyance and worry burned away by the fires of speed, and he’d step out of the car with a spring in his step and what might be tentatively called a smile on his lips. He looked like a different man, with that smile. And then he’d scowl. Tug his leathers, adjust his gait and Ihyll would be back as if he’d never left, watching the world go past with his scar-lined eyes.
Ihyll was fast. A methodical man, he drove like a textbook, but when it counted he was like lightning, and the other racers mostly trailed in his wake like thunder. Always the same place, as if he couldn’t possibly be anywhere else – a universal constant in a world of never-ending shifts, changes and turns. Had to be lonely, sometimes, to be there, and perhaps Ihyll was lonely. He worked alone, pacing nominated courses, figuring out the timing, the turns the places he could pour the fury in his heart into the engine and send himself rip-roaring towards the finish. Most drivers worked with a crewmate, a spotter or a pacer or even a mechanic, if he was in it for the speed but wasn’t much for the joy of the motor itself. But Ihyll maintained his car, too, upgraded it, took care of it like it was a part of him. He did everything and more, stretching himself wide even as he pulled into himself and kept away from the other racers. Home straight after the race, no celebrations, no parties. Hardly surprising, all things considered. Less charitable people, drunk on success or beer or both, muttered that it was the only way he could possibly have time for everything. Squeezing the time from fun and friends and funnelling it into a day job, and of course his car, and the sheer thrill that the grumble and growl of a race sent shivering up and down spines. But for all the things that were certain about Ihyll – his scars, his presence, his position – what he did in his free time, and even if he understood the concept of free time, remained forever uncertain.
Ihyll knew, of course. But while everyone else was jockeying for power, prestige, a place and a cup, he just watched. He’d never been one for the ebb and flow of socialisation; if he’d still had friends they would have described him as terrifyingly consistent.
The lead position required spontaneity. As quick as someone could place first, they were pushed back to third and left in the wake of faster drivers, better drivers, drivers willing to risk anything and everything for a moment at the head of the pack. Turnover faster than an over-tuned engine revving, and Ihyll had never been a spontaneous man. Every time Ihyll roared in kissing the tail of the leader, his engine and his heart screaming like a dying animal determined to make one final stand before it bled out, he felt the thrumming power wash over him and then… slip away. Like a sudden fishtail on a drift, the world was suddenly slippery and not-quite-right, and his smile, the peace of the rushing speed, slipped away. Better drivers than him might be able to handle the fishtail. Cage up the resentment, the hurt and force a smile. But Ihyll had only over been mediocre, and he knew it, so he slipped away, cruising into the night away from all those people who sat in the headlights and could enjoy the race for what it was, rather than what it should have been. Then, alone in his two-bedroomed house that he hadn’t been able to give up, he lay on his bed and stared at the picture on his bedside table. Tried to sleep but couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes.
It was old now – he was old now, he knew some of the others said it too, he was old for the street circuits – but that didn’t matter. In the picture, a younger Ihyll, grubby with engine grime and a tool in one hand, grinned up at another young man, one who shared Ihyll’s features and leaned against their car without a care in the world. A racing team to envy, just stepping out into the circuit. What could have been.
And when Ihyll had stared at the picture so long that he couldn’t sleep, he retreated to the garage for one last tune-up, one last adjustment. Analysed his tactics, thought about new techniques he could apply as he tweaked and touched-up the engine. Always, always fine-tuning. No more mistakes.
His scars itched, prickled as if the burned out-hulk in the corner was watching him with its cracked headlights. A twisted metal skeleton with no more life in it, looming in the shadows as he worked on a bright new car that, no matter what he did, never flew like it would have done if his brother was behind the wheel.
“We’ll get it next time,” he whispered to the ghosts crowding the garage, and worked until he fell asleep over the carburettor and the morning sun through the tiny slit windows on the garage door woke him. “Next time.”
