The Great Car Thief
Tennessee Grosvenor, heir to the house of Grosvenor, had been in a foul temper since morning. For days his tutor had driven him at a forced march, insisting that once he entered the Royal School the chances for private instruction would all but vanish.
What choice did he have? As the man himself was fond of saying, enrollment would put an end to this ordeal. Until then, Tennessee had only to endure. He had just come through yet another unbroken stretch of economics.
"I can't. Not another minute."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing's going in."
"Then perhaps a short rest, and—"
"We're finished for today."
With that, Tennessee went to fetch his coat.
"If you insist on doing as you please, I shall have no choice but to report it to His Grace..."
"Is that all you ever have to say?"
"...?"
"His Grace, His Grace, His Grace. Is that truly the only sentence you know?"
"I am merely carrying out my duty..."
"Do as you like."
He was throwing the coat on any which way when the tutor tried again.
"Then might you at least tell me where you are going?"
"The National Gallery."
"Ah. If it is the Gallery, I will send word ahead, so that after closing you may view the collection alone, young master..."
"Don't bother. I'm going now."
"Three hours ought to be enough for the paintings, surely?"
"I have something after."
"..."
"The London Symphony Orchestra is playing."
"But one may hear the orchestra on any day, not only today..."
"It's Claudio Abbado's final performance."
Perhaps it was the flat finality in his voice.
"Hmm."
The tutor nodded, however little he wished to.
That night the concert was underway at the Royal Albert Hall. Tennessee, meanwhile, was walking somewhere that had nothing to do with it.
Step. Step.
Hat pulled low, he glanced carefully left and right, then slipped at once into a shabby little record shop. He made for the new-releases bin as if he knew the way. Nothing there pleased him. Before long he drew out a record he already knew by heart: Herbie Hancock, 1983, Rockit.
An album full of sounds he had never heard in his life. A precious, precious record—the one that had first introduced him to the thing called electronic music. He carried the LP to the counter.
"Keep the change."
"Th-this is far too much, even so..."
"May I use the listening room?"
"Of course. I'll show you in."
Tennessee set the record on the turntable and lowered the needle with care.
Buh-bam! Buh-bam! Buh-bam-bam-bam!
The familiar electronic pulse filled the little room, as bewitching as the first time he had heard it. Music that set your shoulders moving on the introduction alone. He played the same track over and over, then left the LP where it lay and walked out empty-handed.
He followed the narrow lane for a long while. Unlike the record shop, he did not step into the next place until the sunglasses were on and his collar was hauled up to his chin. Even then he seemed uneasy, checking his reflection in the glass again and again.
No trouble, he decided, and was about to look around the shop.
"...?"
A tall East Asian was staring straight through him. What was this? Had the boy recognized him? For a moment he thought of turning straight around and leaving.
Then I'd be admitting I'm a Grosvenor.
Right. Hat, sunglasses—the lot. If he simply held his ground, the stranger would decide he had been mistaken and let it pass. He nodded to himself and prepared to brazen it out.
"...!"
Far from giving up, the other seemed to take the silence as a challenge and stared even more openly. Tennessee turned his head. The gaze followed, stubborn as a hand on his sleeve.
Damn it.
As if declaring defeat, he finally bolted from the shop.
Why did he leave?
I was a little dazed. And then I saw it properly: blond hair spilling from under a hat pulled low, and, behind the oversized sunglasses, the bridge of a nose that nothing could hide. I had only been staring because he was too striking to ignore. Had I given offense somehow? The man fled the shop as if someone were chasing him.
Well. Nothing for it. I would have to buy something and go. I went up to the counter.
"Do you have D-Que?"
"Which one sells better?"
"Card packs. By a long way."
"Really?"
"Then I'll take a card pack too."
While I was getting my money out, the owner readied a shopping bag.
"Haven't seen your face before."
"I just moved."
"Around here?"
"Yes."
"Still a student, aren't you?"
I nodded, and a puzzled look rose in his eyes. The only school nearby was the Royal School. That was the face he made.
"...?"
"In all the years I've kept this shop, I've never had a single customer from over there."
I grinned, and my answer seemed to please him. Then something occurred to him.
"Ah. So that's why you're walking out with a card pack."
Come to think of it, the day after tomorrow I would actually be enrolled. I finished paying, took the bag, and said I would come often.
"Kind of you to say so, anyway, student."
Kind of you to say so? I was the head of JH Network. Of course I would keep coming.
On the day of the entrance ceremony I packed my bag and set off for school. It was nine in the morning when I reached the hall. The ceremony itself was not until one, so until then I only had to collect my dormitory assignment, unpack, and wait.
A fair crowd had already gathered. The one who stood out, without question, was Olivia. She was taller than the others her age, and with features that sharp and that striking she drew the eye wherever she went. She must have seen me too. From across the hall she gave me a small nod, and I was just lifting a hand to answer when a voice cut in, blunt as a thrown stone, with no hello and no preamble.
"There you are!"
"Found you at last!"
A voice that drew a face the moment I heard it. Jack Grylls. I gave Olivia one brief look and turned to him at once.
I don't know if it's fair to compare a person to a dog, but he was exactly like those dogs that wag too hard when a friend appears—excitement he couldn't hide, down to the steam snorting from his nose. At that pitch, courtesy alone required me to meet him halfway.
"I looked everywhere for you."
"Did you really?"
"Why didn't you come to the preliminary muster?"
"Ah. There was a Navy Day ceremony."
He added the short explanation himself. His grandfather was a war veteran, so Jack attended every year.
"So that's why you like the military."
"You've never even met my grandfather."
"Even so, some temperaments you're born with."
"Fair. He wasn't even liable for the draft. He volunteered."
Sure enough, pride broke across his face, and he grinned.
Then came one more astonishing fact.
"I thought missing that day would cost me. Instead the headmaster put me in the honors class on his own say-so."
The headmaster's discretion. Professor Middleton was more than capable of that.
"So I protested. Why are you exiling people whenever you feel like it?"
A laugh escaped me.
"Then your face popped into my head. The moment I heard it meant the same class as you, I just said thank you and bowed."
Peak Jack. So very Jack.
"Same class means we might be roommates, doesn't it?"
"Does it?"
"Two to a room. We could end up sharing."
Sadly, the wish did not come true. My room was 3020, the last door on the third floor, standing a little ajar. I knocked, and the boy who had arrived ahead of me turned toward the entrance.
Oh? The white boy who had sat beside me at the debate. I had been wanting a word with him.
Perfect.
I smiled and stepped inside.
"Peter, right?"
"How do you know my name..."
"We were in the same group. Don't you remember?"
"Ah..."
"Park Jihoon."
"I know. You're f-famous."
He scratched his head, shy, and asked which bed I wanted. If I chose, he would take what was left.
"They look the same. What does it matter?"
"Still, people have preferences. Nearer the window, or..."
"Doesn't matter to me."
I sat down across from him.
"That's a lot of luggage."
"Ah. I brought a computer."
"A computer?"
I grinned. "Good. I was curious anyway."
"About what?"
At that, Peter drew his neck in like a turtle.
"Th-that's only an idea. It has nothing to do with what I actually believe. Really."
"I know."
"You know?"
"Of course."
"You... you actually believe me?"
I nodded. He looked as if he doubted it—or, more precisely, as if he had not yet let his guard down.
"Why?"
"After the debate last time, I heard people whispering."
"Who?"
"Just... our classmates."
"..."
He said it lightly enough, but bitterness lay thick across his face. I spoke because that face was too bleak to leave alone.
"I think the opposite."
"Huh?"
"I'd be grateful if you saw it that way, but..."
He still had more to say. I waited.
"It isn't only the violence."
"Then what?"
"You can steal whenever you like, and if you put your mind to it, even robbery..."
He swallowed. His Adam's apple jumped.
"If only adults are playing it, what's the fuss?"
"You really think that?"
By then the wary light in his eyes had nowhere left to hide. Some of what followed was simply his own history.
"O-our house used to be a noble family. Then it collapsed completely. My grandfather even had to sell the castle, so by my generation there wasn't a drop of nobility left."
He went on, matter-of-fact. "But listen. There are an insane number of rules. Fallen or not, a noble is a noble. So even one meal... even one suit of clothes... blah, blah..."
There he let out a long sigh.
"I mean, if they'd at least give me a little money, I wouldn't say a word. There's nothing worth inheriting, so why is there so much I'm supposed to uphold? School's the same. I said I'd go somewhere ordinary, and they insisted on dragging me here, where the fees are absurd... ugh. Forget I said anything."
I looked at him quietly.
"I went on too long with a boring story, didn't I?"
"No. You can keep going."
"There's nothing more. It's all gloomy."
"..."
"Strange. Just hearing it felt good."
I grinned. Maybe it was the first time he had gotten a reaction like that. He laughed, awkward.
"Even so, I'll never finish it."
"Why?"
"It's too much to make alone, and even if I did, the world wouldn't accept it."
Friend, it was far too soon to despair.
Shall I sound him out?
I asked with the calmest face I could manage. Again his neck drew in like a turtle's. He had something in mind, and the look of someone too embarrassed to say it. Sure enough—
"No. It's nothing."
He tried to blur past it, eyes unfocused. I opened my mouth as if I knew nothing at all.
"True, it's a long way from finished. Odd that a title's already floating around."
"R-right..."
"Still, there must be a working title."
"Huh?"
"I mean, it isn't anything that grand..."
"So there is something."
"..."
"What? What is it?"
"The name's a bit ridiculous..."
"...?"
"I-it's only temporary. Really..."
He stalled for a long while. Then he seemed to give up, squeezed his eyes shut, and said it.
"The Great Car Thief..."
My grin stretched wide.
"I'm absolutely not saying I'd use it as is..."
"It's brilliant."
"What?"
"I said it's killer."
Perhaps it felt like comfort. Peter turned an awkward smile on me.