December, 5th-6th 1955

8:00Am, Nassau Trophy Races

1955 Sports Car Finale

Jack Martin watched as his Porsche was lifted out of the cargo hold of a ship by a crane, he was nervous. His entire livelihood hung hundreds of feet in the air, and the harbor’s crew had already dropped one car today. It sat just behind him, a Red Ferrari production prototype called the “Europa.” It had Ferrari’s biggest engine yet, a 3500cc V12 that revved to 9000rpm, the pistons supposedly the size of a quarter. It’s crew was busy inspecting it for damage. Martin couldn’t help lusting after a car like that, maybe if it was damaged he could offer to buy it? Soon Martin’s car was safely on the ground, he unstrapped it’s wheels from the shipping pallet and drove it off into the harbor.

Every year as the regular season wrapped up, Nassau, the capital city of the New Providence Island in The Bahamas, held an international sports car meet, by invite only. The fastest drivers in the world were here, including some of the most exotic heavy machinery like that Ferrari. When Martin got the invite, he was conflicted. On one hand it was a great honor, but his poor performance at the Glen ment money was tight, and he also didn’t want to leave his grandmother alone for a full week. In the end, he borrowed some money against his car to pay her caretakers, he would have to place well if he wanted to pay it back by the new year.

There was lots of talk about 1956, and the massive changes the ASCC was planning. McClaire’s speech at the Glen had gotten through to the suits, and they were restructuring the whole championship. Now instead of tallying random races held across America, 12 Specific rounds, all but a few run on purpose built race tracks or airfields, would be required to contest the National Championship. The Schedule was still fuzzy, along with car classes, but rumor had it the 12 hours of Sebring would become a championship event. If that was true, the days of lone wolf gentleman drivers like Martin, Shepherd, or Schmidt were over, as a team would be required to contest the long endurance races.

Speaking of Charles Schmidt, he was here too, although he had no intentions of driving. Off the coast, he had relapsed into his roots, and was enjoying sailing around the island in the calm crystal blue waters. It reminded him of his adventures as a kid, and he was loving it. Martin headed towards the Nassau airport, however traffic was horrific. Seemly, thousands of racing cars idled in the streets as fans ran out with magazines and posters wanting autographs. There was a banner across the road, “Welcome Racers”, and decorations adored the city. It was hot, and some of the more particular cars were overheating in the traffic.

At the track, Stephanie McClaire was in a hanger, watching over as her crew unloaded the plane. She was nervous about something, but trying her best not to show it. McClaire had picked up quite the following after what happened at Watkins Glen, racing families, Feminists, and every racing official on earth knew her by name now. Some loved her, some hated her, but that wasn’t what was on her mind. No, it was her brother, step brother, Douglas McClaire. He would be here debuting Cooper’s new car for 1956, the T39 Bobtail, and he had gotten word he wanted to stop by. In her head, the skeletons in her closet were knocking, and it was important she didn’t let them out.

“Stephanie?” Called a familiar voice, she sighed and stood up.

“Doug, it’s been awhile.”

“Too long Stephanie, come here.” Douglas McClaire was a tall, handsome man, and he spared no expense to make it very clear he was from an aristocratic family. If he could have a brass band follow him everywhere, he would. He wore something that almost looked like a dress uniform for the British military, a red coat covered in gold buttons, tassels, and his family emblem, black dress pants, and dress shoes, all despite the heat. He walked over and gave Stephanie a hug.

“You look good, I’ve heard you’ve been doing very well over here with the Yanks.”

“You could say that, I’ve got a few friends over here.” Stephanie said, speaking quietly, sounding like she was attending a funeral.

“Well, I for one, am glad. It’s nice to see you finally blossom. Maybe you could be my springboard into the world of racing, huh?” Douglas said, hands on her shoulders. “Shall we go out for lunch?”

Martin meanwhile was still neck deep in traffic. A fist fight had broken out ahead after some teenaged kid rammed a bicycle into a Jaguar D type. It could have been the car that won LeMans, so Martin understood the drivers frustration, but now he was blocking traffic. Horns were blaring, motors revving in anger, even Martin’s mostly reliable Porsche was starting to overheat, so he pulled over onto the curb to let it cool down.

“The Glamour.” He muttered as horns sounded all around. He got out, and walked up onto the sidewalk, just down the road was a restaurant and he was starving. He got seasick easily, so he avoided eating anything before the boat ride over. Spending his last dollars, he ordered a burger and some coconut water and sat outside to watch the cars inch forward. A few minutes later though, he noticed McClaire walking his way with a man dressed to the nines. McClaire looked miserable, and Martin assumed it was a date going badly. They too entered the restaurant and stayed inside. Martin leaned back, and tried to listen.

“Father is wanting to know when you’ll make a trip back to the UK? He Misses you, you know?”

“I’m sure he does.” Stephanie replied bluntly, almost sarcastically.

“Well, how are you handling that enormous mansion by yourself?”

“Well.” It sounded more like she was giving a report.

“Stephanie, why are you still talking to me like this? We heard you on the radio, you sounded so happy?”

“I was happy, and will be happy, as soon as you leave!”

“Come on Sis…”

“Just shut up and eat Douglas, we both know that’s a lie.” Stephanie said and Douglas shook his head.

“Only because you make it one, the McClaire’s accepted you a long time ago Stephanie. I know you Miss your father, but nothing can bring him back…”

“I said Shut up!” Stephanie hissed slamming the table. Martin stood up, he had heard enough.

“Excuse me?” he said walking up to their table.

“Jack?” Stephanie McClaire said, startled by Martin’s intrusion.

“You know this gentleman Stephanie?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Jack Martin, I drove with Miss McClaire at Seafair in Seattle.” Martin said introducing himself. Douglas suddenly stood and stretched out his hand.

“Mr.. Martin, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Douglas McClaire, Miss McClaire’s brother, at your service.” They shook hands and Martin looked to Stephanie.

“My Porsche broke down, down the way. Think I could have you steer while I push?” Martin asked and Stephanie nodded, immediately and stood.

“Could I offer my assistance too sir?” Douglas asked.

“Nah, I wouldn’t want to mess up your fancy coat. I wouldn’t mind having something like that one day.” He said admiring the golden family crest.

“Huh, then I suggest you pick your bride well Sir, good day! Stephanie, I will see you later today I assume?” But Stephanie ignored him and walked out the door, Martin followed, and Douglas grabbed his glass and sat back down.

“Are you okay?” Martin asked as they walked.

“Yeah, I’m just not exactly a family person…” She replied. “Thanks.”

“No problem, but it’s not like you to be the damsel in distress. You acted like you barely knew him?” Martin said, offering her his keys. She laughed and took them, and together they rejoined the flow of traffic.

Later that night, McClaire laid in the cot hanging in her plane. Staring up at the ceiling, she struggled to rest without falling asleep. She knew nightmares awaited, and wanted to hold them off as long as she could. Soon though, the darkness closed in and McClaire was left looking into her father’s old wrinkled face. The look of surprise haunted her as it flashed into view with a lightning strike. The thunder cracked and bellowed, as the wind howled outside.

Stephanie McClaire was originally born as Stephanie Winstrup, her father was a grizzled wartorn General in the British Army in World War II. At home he was broken and abusive, relying on booze to get through the day, but he was also a hero to the british public. So to those outside he was a caring, loveable family man, capable of no wrong. But at home, he was a monster.

One night in a drunken rage, he beat his wife to death with a bottle in front of Stephanie and the house staff after she refused to rub his feet. She watched as her mother screamed, trying desperately to crawl away, the bottle coming down over and over again until it finally smashed through her skull. The house staff stood by, powerless to stop him knowing they too could be next. Her body was dumped into the pond the next day, for days life went on as if nothing happened. No one said anything, not the house staff, and especially not Stephanie. She was locked in her room everyday for everything except dinner, mostly for her own safely. She was only eight at the time, and the housestaff were terrified she would be old man Winstrup’s next victim. At dinner he would berate her and smack her, scaring her into silence whenever in his presence.

One night, after a particular bad beating, Stephanie snapped. She snuck out of her room in the middle of the night, rain hammering down in a terrible thunderstorm. The electricity was out, and the house staff was downstairs trying to fix it. She snuck into her father’s room, gently opening the massive window that overlooked his bed. Quietly she snuck to his closet, hanging there was his cavalry saber. She took it, and as thunder clapped in the background she walked over to his bed. Stephanie was a master of silence at this point, the old man didn’t even stir as she climbed up onto his bed. She took the sword and aimed it squarely into his chest. With a howling scream she slammed it down and the man’s eyes shot open in shock. His eyes looked into Stephanie’s, it was probably the first time he had seen her while sober in years. She panted looking terrified, looking like an animal cornered, but her eyes glowed with the murderous fire she held back for so long. She twisted the sword in his chest, and left him to die.

The house staff all knew what happened once they found him, however they fabricated a story. “It was someone sympathetic to the Nazi cause and dedicated to getting revenge...” they told investigators. “He had killed Mr.. Winstrup as he slept, kidnapped the Ms', killing her and dumping her body in the pond.” An international manhunt started, and in the meantime, Stephanie was placed into the custody of the McClaire family. Her name was changed to protect her, and the Winstrup family fortune was siphoned off to raise her. Overnight the McClarie’s became one of the richest families in all of the UK, and they spent most every pence they could get on themselves. When Stephanie turned 16, she inherited whatever was left and headed to restart her life for the third time.

McClaire awoke crying. She didn’t regret killing her father, she regretted not killing herself too. But then she would have gone with him, straight to hell, and never escaped his torment. As tough as it was, this way was better. She was using his money to make life better for people that deserved it, and if she happened to die driving a race car along the way, at least she would have been having fun in her final moments. But Douglas was a pain in her ass, a little reminder the McClaire’s Missed their little piggy bank. Suddenly there was a knock on the door, and McClaire sighed.

“Go away Douglas.” She said quietly.

“Hey it’s me.” Martin said, cracking open the door of the plane.

“Oh…” McClaire rolled over and fell out of her cot gracefully to the floor. She walked over to the door and opened it.

“Hey, sorry. I know it’s late.” Martin said.

“I wasn’t asleep yet, what’s up?”

“I need your help.” Martin explained his predicament with his grandmother and his debts.

“Look, I’m not here asking you to slow down for me, but I am asking you to be careful around me tomorrow. I have to finish well to pay back my debt, so if I crash out, I’m boned.” Martin begged, and McClaire nodded.

“I understand, we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

“Thanks, McClaire.”

“Yeah, goodnight.” She said shutting the door.

Great, just one more thing to think about tonight.