Chapter Six
----====Spike====----
We waited in our seats until almost everyone had disembarked from the plane. It wasn't politeness, a bizarre return to Victorian manners, or an unwillingness to get caught up in the slavering hoards of humanity either. It was the sheer necessity of having to avoid getting caught in a sunbeam, which I wouldn't have been able to escape without damaging the innocents holding me in place.
The occupational hazards of day flights for vampires meant we got stuck at the back of the queue for immigration. I'd nicked the thin, but big, blanket we'd been issued with in flight. I hadn't brought a blanket with me, and I needed one, so I pinched it. The soul wasn't wildly happy about that; but I soothed it with the thought it was all in a good cause, and that helped a bit.
The magic of a British passport, even if the new ones were the wrong colour, outweighed our utterly disreputable appearance. Immigration passed us through nice and quick, despite the wacky passport stamps. Then again neither of us looked like their usual suspects, and were both white - in my case very white - and we both spoke nicely, which is something I can still do if I have to. Customs was a different matter. They had a good rummage through both our bags, but we passed muster and got through.
It's been a long time since I went through Heathrow. I think they've added several terminals and several miles of corridors since then. But Wesley at least knew where we were going. We eventually got to the car hire companies. It took going to several, and lots of wasted time and aggravation, before we found one with a car in stock that had suitably heavy tinted windows. I wasn't sure it'd work, but I'd got the blanket for secondary protection, for at least long enough for us to reverse into the garage and go for the travel in the car boot option. But since that really didn't appeal, I had to hope window tinting would. Painting the De Soto had worked, but I'm not sure Hertz would have been too happy, and I couldn't see spray paint on sale in the airport shops, and shaving cream wouldn't last long enough.
We got the car keys. Another mammoth trek later, through the labyrinth that made up the airport and its buildings, which were wonderfully vampire friendly, being under cover, we got to the car. We then had a nice long, and somewhat heated, discussion over who got to drive: which culminated in,
"I've been driving for the entire 20th Century! Of course I'm driving. Only sensible, innit?"
"Since we don't know if the tinting will stop you bursting into flames behind the wheel, the sensible course is for me to drive. Besides, you pre-date the driving license. I have one. Hop in the passenger seat. You can map-read, vampire eyesight being what it is."
He was right about the tinting, if not my driving - which is bleeding marvellous.
So we got the bags stowed in the boot, and got into the car. Then we got into another long argument over going by the M4 or the old A4. He wanted to go down the old road, as it would be easier to spot any pursuit than on the motorway. I love speed, and we needed to get to Giles ASAP, plus, since we'd have to leave the M4 for the A4 at the Bath exit, it was a moot point. Both routes took us to the same road. I won. Well, I was right.
The windows worked; the speed argument didn't. We hit rush hour, compounded by multiple pile-ups on the M4, with added cars from several more on the M25. Doing 5mph on the motorway was not my idea of a fun drive, especially since Wesley was a middle lane driver, and we stood no chance even of getting off the motorway and finding an alternative route to Bath. We didn't actually get to see free tarmac, let alone some real speed, until we were well away from the urban sprawl around London.
I didn't spot any pursuers until we left the motorway for Bath. I wasn't sure they were after us until they drew up level to us on the dual carriageway, and took a good long look at our faces, while talking on a mobile. I turned to Wesley and said, "Bugger! They've spotted us! Speed up, old son."
He nodded, concentration fixed solely on the road, and sped up, and we got lucky when a prat in a sports car overtook them, forcing them back. We had a merry old cat and mouse game all the way into the centre of Bath. Thank God for the White Van Woman who kept cutting in between us and the DH's. Well, I was pretty sure that's what they were. In the moments they'd gotten close, I'd seen some hand to nose movements. But since it was hay fever season going by Wesley's in-car sneezing, I might have been wrong.
Of course, being in a country famous for the colds-inducing weather was not going to be good for my nerves - which were already under severe strain with the soul thing.
We had a few near misses playing chicken with the lorries as well. But it did win us some distance between our pursuers and us. Wesley's impersonation of Steve McQueen in 'Bullitt' on the winding roads leading down to Bath, made trying to read the map to find Giles' place bloody hard. But, God, it was fun.
We were ahead on points and had gotten ourselves a small breather, when I spotted Giles, and of all people to be in Bath, Anya. Must have missed more that had gone on back home than I thought I had. I shouted out to Wes, "Stop, over there! It's Giles!"
He nodded, and slammed on the brakes.