“Home?” She stiffens. No! “No! Not home—I have a daughter ... his mother-”
“To the hospital then?”
“Hospital? What can they do for him?”
“Nothing, but they have a morgue.”
“But he tried to kill you!”
“I’m not doing it for him. Leaving a woman with her dead husband on her lap in the middle of the street would make me a callous monster. I’m no angel, but I’m not that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“It’s a vintage model,” Jessie says hand on the roof of a yellow Ford Escort. “Just like Lucy’s-”
“The woman who gave you a lift from the town to the city?” Viktoria asks.
“Yes,” Jessie explains. Walking across the city with the couple, Jessie had listened to their escape from the burning building and told them of her own horror at plunging from the sky as the aeroplane’s engines cut out and then their struggle to get back home. “It’s a vintage model so doesn’t use a computer to run its systems. We should be able to get it to run.”
“My husband can fix it,” Viktoria replies with certainty and a glance to the massive blond looking at a blue Lotus Elite one car along. “He’s good with his hands. Uri, you can make this car go. Yes?” He makes no effort to reply, absorbed by the car as he runs his hand along its roof. “Always the sports cars!” she laughs.
Weary and desperate to get to Bramwell, Jessie steps next to him. “Uri?”
Startled, he flinches. Viktoria tuts with an exasperated sigh. He turns and stares down at Jessie and the bright blue of his eyes bores into her. Unsettled, she breaks his gaze and takes a step towards the car’s rear. Why does he stare like that, as though he’s discovered something he can’t quite understand? She shivers despite the sun’s warmth. He’s good looking, but there’s something steely about his eyes, something bordering on dangerous. She keeps her composure. “I just wanted to ask if you know anything about these engines? Viktoria ... your wife—she says that you can turn your hand to anything. I know that the EMP has taken the electrics out so most cars won’t run, but these older models should. Do you think you can get this one going?”
“Da,” he replies but makes no further effort to speak.
“Uri! She only asks a simple question,” Viktoria chides. He stares at her for a moment as though uncomprehending then looks back to Jessie.
“Can you fix it?”
“Da, I can.”
Jessie nods. “Great,” she replies unable to shake the disquiet she feels.
“But I need key,” he says pulling at the car’s locked door.
Alex nudges her and points to the wide glass window of the showroom. “Jessie! Have you seen what’s inside?” Behind the wide glass of the showroom window are two rows of motorbikes—all vintage models.
“Perhaps keys are inside?” Uri suggests as he locks onto Jessie’s eyes once more. They search her face. Has she misjudged him? Is he just hard of hearing?
“Yes, perhaps they are,” she replies making sure to sound out her vowels as he continues to stare. His frown deepens as she finishes. “Inside—yes,” she says slowing her words and raising her voice whilst pointing to the showroom window.
“Come on Jessie.” Alex tugs at her sleeve, breaking the spell. “Come look.”
She turns from Uri with relief and peers into showroom. “Yes!” Inside is a row of vintage motorbikes, bodywork shining, leather seats polished. “We’ll have to break in.”
“We should try the door first,” Alex laughs.
Jessie nudges his shoulder. “Of course! Then we’ll steal one.”
“One? No way I’m riding two-up. We steal two.”
“Hah! Sure,” Jessie laughs and follows Alex to the wide glass doors at the entrance to the showroom with a lighter step. He pulls. They judder but don’t open. “Perhaps there’s a back entrance,” he suggests. “I don’t fancy smashing this door in.”
At the back is a smaller door, also locked. Alex takes a step back and kicks. The door doesn’t budge. He tries again. Wood splinters.
“Put your back into it!” Jessie goads.
“Pah!” He kicks with renewed force and the door bursts open, crashing against the inner wall.
“After you!” he says with a courteous bow and laughs.
The air is rich with the smell of leather and oil and Jessie’s heart beats just a little faster.
“The keys will be in the office,” she says with certainty as she walks along the row of bikes set out in the showroom. The keys were always in the office—usually in a locked key safe on one wall.
At the far end of the showroom rows of helmets sit on metal shelving hung beneath with racks of protective black leathers. A table holds neat stacks of what Jessie presumes is jeans and t-shirts. A coffee machine sits to the side of a couple of square leather chairs with chrome frames. Alex knocks at the coffee machine.
“It’s not working, muppet!” Jessie teases as he knocks it again.
“I know—it’s just ... frustrating.” He bends down to the cupboard below and pulls at the door. It opens. “Hah!” The door swings open to reveal cans of fizzy pop and bottles of water. He pulls out a can of orange Tango.
“Ugh! How can you drink that muck?”
“I’ll drink my own piss I’m that thirsty.”
Jessie grimaces at the thought. “Better for you than that rubbish,” she chides.
“Alright, Mum! I’ll have some water once I’ve necked this. I need the sugar.”
He rips at the ring-pull, takes a long swig from the can then belches loudly. He smiles with satisfaction. He’s waiting for a reaction. She won’t give him the satisfaction of mock disgust.
“Better?”
“Yep.” She turns to the racks of leathers. “Catch!”
Startled, Jessie turns as a bottle of water flies through the air and grabs it.
“Good catch!”
“You bugger!”
“Hah! Got to keep you on your toes,” he says bending again to the fridge.
“Yeah! Because that’s just what I need!”
“One for the road,” he says as he takes another can.
“Take them all.”
Unscrewing the lid of the bottle she takes a sip. It tastes sweet. She drinks her fill then packs the remaining bottles into her rucksack. There should be enough for them all to make it to Bramwell, well, at least it will if they get the cars and bikes running.
Her thirst satisfied, she turns to the shelves and chooses a black helmet with a full visor. Alex picks a khaki helmet with white, military style lettering.
“What about leathers?”
“Sure,” she says. “But they only have men’s here. I don’t’ think they’ll fit.”
“Try the small. A pair of denim Kevlars might be better—better than those things you’ve got on at any rate.”
She’d forgotten about the state of her jeans. Grubby and singed with holes where the fabric was eaten by the flames they must stink by now. She groans inwardly and suppresses a wave of anxiety. It probably wasn’t only the jeans that were beginning to stink. Across the room is a door with ‘Changing Room’ in a grunge-like font. Next to it another reads ‘Toilet’. She takes the smallest pair of reinforced jeans and holds them up. “Just going to try these on,” she calls to Alex as he picks out another jacket to try for size.
“Sure,” he says with a wink as he pushes his arm through a black leather jacket with white detail.
“Shut up!” she throws back to his amused smirk. “A lady’s got to do what a lady’s got to do.”
“Pah! Where’s the lady?”
Jessie grunts, gives him a roll of her eyes and disappears into the privacy of the toilet.
A small room painted cream. A sink, hand dryer, black bin and a single toilet is all that the room contains apart from the gag-inducing odour of stale urine. Peering into the toilet bowl. a greasy-looking skin has formed over yellow liquid. She grimaces as she reaches for the flush. It pushes down, but nothing happens.
“Oh, great!” Of course! No resistance to the handle means no water pressure which means no water in the taps. She’ll have to use some of their precious drinking water.
Taking the bottled water from the rucksack, and undoing the button on her jeans, she wets a paper towel and reaches for the bar of soap at the sink. It sticks. She digs her fingernails into the bar of yellow soap and pulls, prizing it away from the porcelain. The smell of coal tar fills her nostrils as she lathers it with the bottled water. She lifts the soap to her nose and sniffs. Ease washes through her; it’s the same smell that pervades the bathrooms at home. Tension reduced, she lathers the soap, rubs beneath her armpits then between her legs and washes away the sweat and fear of the last days.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
“You coming?” Alex calls.
“Yep,” she calls back. “Just a minute.” She throws the used paper towel into the bin, screws the bottle’s lid back on, and picks up the soap to take another sniff. Heaven!
She throws the burned and stinking jeans into the bin. They land half in and the bin falls over. Ignoring it she pulls on the new jeans. They’re a good fit although a little wide at the waist and the protective Kevlar layer makes her feel a little less vulnerable. She checks out her reflection in the small mirror and her smile drops. She leans forward. There’s a large bruise, angry, purple, and tinged with red above her left eyebrow. Blood cakes her hair. Even her ‘good’ eye is puffy and her lip has a deep split. Her top is stained with sweat beneath the armpits. Shocked at her appearance she pulls back, reaches for the water and splashes some onto her face. Traces of dried blood and dirt cling to the sides of the sink’s bowl. She reaches for the band that holds her hair in its ponytail. Pain surges across her scalp as she pulls at the elasticated tie and she lets it go. Tidying her hair would have to wait. Were there any tops among the jeans outside? She can’t remember, but at least she knows she’s clean, even if the top isn’t.
She takes a large and final sniff of the soap then drops it into her rucksack and joins Alex back in the showroom. He’s in full leathers.
“Looking good!” she says with genuine appreciation and leans over to kiss him.
“Someone’s been scrubbing with the coal tar!”
“Well, better than the alternative!”
“Sure is. You were getting a bit ripe!”
“Hah! Says you!” she retorts giving him a playful glare although to be honest, he is starting to hum a little. “Don’t you want to go and freshen up?” she suggests.
“Nah! I’m all man,” he says raising his arms towards her. “The girls love it.” He wafts imaginary odour towards her with his hand.
“If you say so.” She snorts with laughter and pulls a joking grimace then looks towards the piles of neatly folded jeans and t-shirts. “Well, you might like to. They’ll smell us coming before they hear us if you don’t!” She pushes down the urge to laugh as she looks through the t-shirts. “Here’s a fresh top for you.” She throws him one marked ‘medium’. She takes another marked ‘small’ with long sleeves and pulls off her own blood and sweat-stained top.
“Steady on!” he says as she drops the top to the floor, her torso naked apart from her bra. “That bloke’ll see you.”
“Don’t be daft,” she replies pulling the fresh top over her head. “He’s not even looking this way and even if he did what’s he going to see?”
“You!”
“Well, I’m all covered up now so you can stop worrying. I’m just a body getting changed into a fresh set of clothes—that’s how you’ve got to see it.”
“Not much chance of that,” he says holding her gaze.
“Why’s that then?”
“Well,” he says stepping forward and slipping his arm around her waist. “Because of this.” Held tight against his hips he bends to kiss her. She closes her eyes and loses herself to the softness of his lips. The pain and grief of the last few days disappears.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Uri, hand held between his forehead and the glass, peers in and gestures for them to come outside then points to the yellow Ford Escort and gives her the thumbs up. He walks back to the car and slips into the driver’s seat. Seconds later the noise of the car’s engine vibrates through the glass.
“Time to go,” Alex says turning back to the row of bikes, his leathers squeaking as he walks.
“So, which one?” Jessie asks.
He looks down the line of vintage bikes. “Well these two are out of the question,” he says stroking the headlamp of the first bike. “It’s pre-war by the look of it.” He reads the label on the handlebar. “Yep, a 1938 BSA B21 Sport, and this one,” he says moving to the next, “is from 1936.”
“Way too old!”
“Yep,” he agrees.
He walks up and down the line then places his hands on a 1962 Triumph Bonneville.
“Nice bike,” Jessie remarks admiring the gleaming paintwork.
“Only 650 cc though.”
“Perhaps this one?”
“What is it?”
“Another Triumph Bonneville,” Jessie replies. “Hardtail, but from 1976,” she says reading the tag tied to the handlebars. “That’s before I was born!”
“Well, I’ll take this one.” Alex reads the label. “1972 Triumph Tiger—so mine’s even older.”
“But at least not pre-war!”
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Uri stands at the window, tapping again, gesturing once more for them to come outside.
“He’s keen.” Alex waves at the blond.
“He’s odd, don’t you think?” Jessie asks as she looks at Uri through the glass.
“Odd? In what way?”
“I don’t know—just the way he looks at you.”
“Looks at me?”
“No, me.”
“You? But he’s married!”
“No, not that way. He looks at me as though he’s confused.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Maybe he doesn’t hear so well.”
“Dunno.”
Uri waves again then strides back to the car.
“They’re waiting.”
“Best get moving then.”
“Best find the keys then.”
Both bikes wheeled out to the open space in front of the car showroom, Jessie slots the key into the ignition. Alex sits astride his Triumph Tiger, key in the ignition, and waits.
“Go on then,” he urges.
She nods. Her heart thuds, her mouth is dry. What if they don’t start? It’ll be a miracle if they do.
“Come on, Jess. Try it.”
She stamps down onto the kickstart. The engine roars into life.
“Yes!” Alex shouts.
“Go on then,” Jessie shouts as the roar of the bike’s engine runs through her. “Your turn.” If his bike starts the first time too it really will be a miracle. No way it can be this easy!
Alex steadies the bike and places his boot on the kickstart. He pushes down. The engine fires but doesn’t catch.
“Again!” Jessie calls over the hum of her engine.
He stamps down on the starter and again the engine fails to catch. Again, try again! He rises in his seat, stamps down with force, and Jessie breathes a sigh of relief as the engine roars into life. Alex yelps as the kickstart peg slaps the back of his legs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A discontented grumble makes Harry turn his head. Maz mutters to Jenny. Her red hair glints in the sun, shining like plastic fibres.
“Something wrong?” he asks. He wasn’t one for keeping his mouth shut. It got him into trouble at times—too many times, but it was better to be direct.
Maz looks up, his dark eyebrows lifting in surprise. Harry holds his gaze. The body swings between them.
He grunts in return.
“What is it, Maz? Something’s on your mind.”
“Why are we even doing this?”
Harry knows he’s not referring to the dozen people walking with them to the hos
pital. “This?” he questions though he knows the answer.
“Yeah. This”, Maz replies with an exaggerated strain.
“It’s not much further. I’m sorry,” Nareen apologises.
“No need to apologise,” Harry replies softly, noticing the pain working its way across her face as she takes in Maz’s discontent.
Maz grunts again.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it!”
“He tried to kill us! Why the hell are we taking him to the hospital? It’s not as if there’s anything anyone can do. He’s dead.”
A pained moan escapes from Nareen. Harry stops and glares at Maz. The man holds his gaze. A challenge.
“We’re doing it for Nareen.”
“Why the hell should we?” he retorts. “She’s one of them!”
“She didn’t hurt anyone, Maz,” Harry replies. He can understand Maz’s frustration, his prejudice even, to an extent. Fear had made them all wary. When your lives were being threatened it was easy to see evil where it had never sat if the face fit expectations.
Maz grunts. Nareen hangs her head. Harry’s frustration riles.
“What were we supposed to do? Leave her in the street with her husband’s body bleeding out all over her?”
Maz looks to the patches of dark blood drying across Nareen’s middle. He shakes his head and looks away.
“Exactly! We’re not monsters, Maz. We’re not like them. Show some humanity.”
Harry turns back to the front and moves forward. The sheet pulls in his hand for a moment and becomes taut. For a second, he thinks Maz is going to be stubborn and refuse to budge but then the tension eases and they move with their burden, another step closer to the hospital.
They make slow progress through the streets. Hamed wasn’t a small man, he must be nearly six feet tall and on the heavy side, if not a little fat. Harry’s strong, but even he’s beginning to wilt beneath the strain. As they cross another junction a supermarket comes into view. Trolleys sit abandoned on the forecourt and several lay on their sides in the road. He looks down at Nareen. It doesn’t seem right to dump a body into a trolley, but perhaps some of the injured could use them too? It would seem less ... ridiculous? No, it would be ridiculous. Embarrassing for her? Perhaps.
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