by Chris Simms
He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Making their way towards him were his immediate neighbours. On seeing him, their conversation had instantly dried up.
He looked the woman up and down, sucked his teeth and raised a forefinger. 'Now I don't want you two coming back from your clubbing and rousing the rest of us with your boom boom music.' He smiled, knowing the reverse was usually the case. Avoiding eye contact, the couple huddled at their front door while the husband tried to get the key in the lock.
Laughing quietly to himself, Sly jumped down on to the freshly raked white gravel making up the Zen part of the courtyard and strode across its middle, his trainers crunching out a trail of footprints behind him. He could feel the couple's eyes burning into his back and he imagined how pissed off they must be – over a hundred grand for a one-bedroom city-centre flat and they end up with a gangster like him for a neighbour. Fuck 'em.
Beyond the front gate of the building, Dan's Ford idled on the street outside. Sly pressed the unlock button on the side panel and the gate slid slowly back into the wall. Stepping through, he crossed the pavement and leaned down to the driver's window.
'Dan, my man,' he said, letting a touch of Jamaican patois creep into his accent.
The black face smiled up at him and they pressed their knuckles together for an instant. 'Sly. Ready to roll?'
He nodded in reply, walked round the vehicle and slid into the front passenger seat.
'I thought we'd take a little drive out Wilmslow and Alderley Edge way,' Dan said. 'Our friends are still looking for BMW A5s, preferably black. Plenty of folks out there need them for getting over those nasty bumps in the Marks and Spencer's car park at Handforth Dean.'
Sly laughed, 'Yeah – or maybe we should find a footballer's house. Half those wankers playing at Old Trafford turn up in them on match days.'
The car pulled away.
'They still after Audi TTs?' Sly asked.
'Always.'
'Let's go via Didsbury, then. I want to check on that house from a couple of weeks ago – I've got a longer garden cane to play around with this time.'
Jon Spicer's radio finally came to life. 'Unit one here, we have a scrote alert. Blue Ford Mondeo turning into School Lane, two male occupants, passenger wearing a baseball cap.'
Jon was sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked Golf VR6. He'd been scanning the deserted Didsbury Street while listening for any sort of contact on the police radio for almost four hours.
Parked at strategic positions in the area were three other unmarked cars, each one waiting to catch a glimpse of the gang taking high-performance vehicles in the south Manchester area. Jon looked up. They were parked at the intersection of Atwood Road and Catterick Road, six streets away from School Lane.
The voice on the radio continued, 'Unit three, if he continues along School Lane you should see him on your right any second.'
'Unit three here; I'm looking,' Jon replied, leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the stretch of road leading down to School Lane. Twenty seconds passed and no car crossed the intersection. 'Nothing has shown, Boss,' he announced.
'OK, units two and four, anything?'
Both cars answered negative.
'Unit three, have a little scout around. There's not many side roads he could have turned down.'
Next to him, Sergeant James Turner of the Tactical Vehicle Crime Unit took the last sip from a can of Tango, crumpled it and dropped it into the small box on the floor behind the driver's seat that served as their makeshift bin. He started up the engine and turned right on to Catterick Road, then on to School Lane itself.
He cruised to the end of Ladybrooke Road and was slowly turning around when unit one came over the radio. 'We have a member of the public reporting a prowler on Moorfield Road. Some guy fiddling at the letterbox of number sixteen.'
Jon flicked on the interior light to look down at his blown-up page of the A to Z. 'That's the next street,' he said, thinking the address somehow rang a bell. Turner accelerated back up to School Lane and turned right. As they were about to enter the junction for Moorfield Road, a dark blue Ford crossed the road in front of them and Jon caught a glimpse of the driver. 'The Ford has just crossed in front of us, going into Parrs Wood Road. One occupant only.' He craned his head to the left. 'Registration Alpha 478 ... I've lost the rest. Shall we go after him?'
'Negative,' answered unit one. 'We'll intercept him. Get to number sixteen and see what's happening.'
They had got halfway along the street, trying in vain to spot a number on any of the dark houses, when a car reversed sharply out of a driveway ahead. It quickly swung around, headlights sweeping across the front of Jon's vehicle, making his pupils contract so quickly his eyeballs hurt.
'Is it him?' Turner said.
By now they were level with the car. Jon looked to his right, saw the silhouette of the driver, a baseball cap on his head. He realized it was an Audi TT, and everything suddenly clicked. They were at Tom Benwell's house. 'Yeah, it's him! Turn around!'
Turner yanked the car sharply across the road and executed the fastest three-point turn Jon had ever experienced. As he was thrown back and forth against the seat belt, Jon said, 'Unit three here; we're following an Audi TT. It's turning left, left, left on to School Lane, repeat School Lane.'
Keeping in second gear, Turner floored the Golf and it accelerated up to forty in seconds. He shot out of the junction with School Lane, skidding slightly as the car veered to the left. Thirty metres in front the Audi suddenly bolted forward like a spooked animal.
The radio blared, 'Unit four here; we're at the junction of School Lane and Wilmslow Road. I'm parking sideways across the street.'
'Unit three here,' said Jon. 'He knows we're after him.'
A couple of seconds later unit four responded. 'I can see his headlights approaching! Come to Daddy you little bastard.'
The Audi showed no signs of slowing down. It raced past La Tasca's then, at the last second, cut up a tiny alleyway, joining Wilmslow Road metres away from unit two.
'Shit!' came the shout from the side-parked vehicle.
Turner mirrored the Audi's manoeuvre, bouncing out on to the main road. 'He's turned right, right, right on to Wilmslow Road, repeat Wilmslow Road,' announced Jon.
'Unit one here; no sign of the Ford. For God's sake maintain visual contact with the Audi. I've requested helicopter assistance for you!'
Turner raced along the high street, the trendy shops and bars thinning out as they left the village. 'He's heading for Kingsway and the motorway junction. We don't want him to make that – if he gets back onto home ground he can lose us in some maze of a housing estate, 'Turner said.
Jon nodded, eyeing the road as it opened up in front. They were now doing almost eighty, whipping past a church on their left. Suddenly the Audi began losing speed.
'What the hell is he doing?' asked Jon, unable to understand why the car should be suddenly slowing up. Turner was laughing. 'He can't find a gear, the prick.'
They had nearly caught up with him when the driver finally got the car in gear. But his speed had been lost. He turned sharply to the left, cutting between two traffic islands and into a narrow lane running alongside a huge cream-coloured pub.
'What the... ?' said Turner, screeching to a halt and spinning the wheel around.
'Oh, superb,' said Jon, slapping his free hand on the dashboard. 'It's a dead end. Just leads towards Didsbury Toc H's pitches. Beyond that is the River Mersey.' He lifted the handset to his lips. 'Suspect has turned right, right, right on to...' he looked up at the side of the pub as they entered the lane,'. . . Stenner Lane, repeat Stenner Lane. It's a dead end. Where's the helicopter? He's likely to be on foot soon.'
'About five minutes away,' answered unit one.
The Golf clattered along the uneven surface, its lowered suspension making every bump jar through the seats. Up ahead the red taillights of the Audi jerked up and down as the car also struggled over the cobbles. Suddenly the t
rees seemed to close in as a gate reared up from the darkness. Unable to stop, the car crunched into the thick gatepost at its side. The driver jumped from the car.
Thirty metres behind, Jon watched it all happen in the glare of the Golf's headlights. 'Suspect on foot, heading along the lane past Didsbury Toc H Rugby Club and towards the River Mersey.'
Before they had come to a halt, Jon's door was open and he was clear of the vehicle. Vaulting the gate, he began sprinting along the footpath, sets of white rugby posts just visible through the screen of trees to his right. He heard the sound of feet on wooden steps, reached them seconds later and bounded up. He was on a footpath. To his right he could just make out the dark figure running away, rasping breath clearly audible in the still night. He knew that up ahead a footbridge led over the Mersey to the next stage of the Trans-Pennine Way, a walk connecting Liverpool on the west coast and Hull on the east. 'I hope you enjoy running,' Jon shouted out, resuming the chase. 'You're on a pathway that's over three hundred and fifty kilometres long.'
Now gasping for air, it was the last thing Sly needed to hear. Worse, the pig who had shouted it didn't even sound out of breath. Emerging from the darkness in front was a bridge. He ran halfway out over the river and looked back. The dark figure was racing towards him. It looked like the huge bastard would never slow down, never give up. Sly's bottom lip began to go as a wave of self-pity welled up: he was going to be caught. He looked at the inky blackness below, climbed up on to the waist-high metal railings and leaped out into space.
Jon heard the splash and looked up. The silhouette had vanished from the bridge ahead. He got to the end of it, straining to hear anything. Silence except for the sound of the river gliding quickly past. He stepped back and went to jump down the grassy bank to the water's edge. The dark green cast-iron post caught him full on the left kneecap and before he knew what had happened, he was lying with his face pressed into thick grass that reeked of dog's piss. He had been kicked in the kneecap during rugby matches and knew that it was the next worst thing to being booted in the testicles. All he could do was lie still, clutch the sides of the joint in both hands and wait for the agony to pass. The searing pain didn't dissipate outwards or convert to a gentle throb – instead it remained concentrated in the bone itself, losing strength with the speed an oven cools down. Several minutes later he was able to hobble to his feet, just as he heard the thrum of the approaching helicopter. He realized his radio was in the car.
Tom was working in Daniel's office when his mobile rang. He glanced down at the phone's display and picked it up. 'Jon, how are you?'
'Fine Tom, cheers. Are you at work?'
'You could say that. I'm in the Seychelles, but believe me, it's no holiday. There's been a disaster at work.'
'Oh,' said Jon. 'I'm afraid I'm not ringing with good news either.'
'Go on. It can't get any worse.'
'Your Audi was taken off your driveway last night. I actually chased the guy. He crashed your car into a gatepost and, I hate to say, escaped. The car's pretty much screwed. It's in the police compound now, being dusted for prints.'
Tom let out a long sigh. 'They didn't do the house too, did they?' 'No,' said Jon. 'Just hooked the keys through the letterbox.'
Tom groaned. 'And you bloody warned me.'
Jon said nothing.
'Oh well, 'Tom continued. 'Cheers for letting me know. Look, I'd better go – there's all sorts going on.'
'OK mate, phone me for the number of the police compound when you get back.'
Two thirty arrived and with it Charlotte rapping on the door. Tom had spent the morning writing to his clients with the nearest deadlines, explaining their problems with the printers. He'd been able to speak with Ges at one o'clock, only to learn that the other two companies in the Manchester area with printers capable of producing building wraps were booked out for weeks with council-paid banners for the Games.
'OK, OK,' he answered irritably. 'Just shutting down.'
She came in and looked at the untouched sandwiches a staff member had brought into him an hour earlier. 'You've missed lunch again?'
'What? Oh yeah, I'm not hungry. It's this heat,' he said, even though the room was air-conditioned.
At the pool they stripped down to their swimsuits and climbed in the shallow end. 'Right,' said Sean. 'Tom, let's get yours on first.' He hoisted the single tank on to Tom's back and then pointed out how to tighten the straps. Turning to Charlotte he did the same for her. Tom noticed him gently reposition her shoulder straps, letting his hand brush against the outside of her breast as he did so. She glanced up, but Sean's eyes were hidden behind his mirror shades.
Once his own gear was on, Sean said, 'So, the way the regulator works is simple. You put the entire thing inside your lips and up against your teeth. When you want air you bite down on it and breathe in slowly. Of course, opening up your lungs goes completely against your instincts once your head is underwater, so take your time.'
Looking suspiciously at the black mouthpiece, Tom sniffed it then slipped it into his mouth. Immediately he found the size of it intrusive, the rubbery surface nauseating. It felt similar to the type of gum shield rugby players wore. He could never face using one of those during his playing career. Slowly he tried to bite down on the inner part, but the sensation was unpleasant – like chewing on especially tough gristle. His tongue made contact with it and he realized that it tasted the same as it smelled. Suddenly the presence of it under his lips and against his teeth was too much. He began to retch and pulled it out.
'Made you feel sick, yeah?' asked Sean.
'Yes. 'Tom wiped his lips, looking at the glistening object.
'Don't worry mate, plenty of people spit their dummy out to begin with. Just try again; there's no rush.'
Tom looked at him, wondering if the reference to dummies was part of some diving lingo or an attempt to belittle him. Gingerly he tested the mouthpiece in his hand, feeling its pliability and imagining all the other mouths it had been in before, picturing their saliva coating its surface, particles of food catching in its crevices. Meanwhile Charlotte, used to snorkelling, had sunk slowly below the surface. Aware of Sean watching him, Tom tried again. But as soon his lips stretched round the rubbery object, the retching returned, this time with some burning liquid at the back of his throat. He had to swallow quickly before its acrid taste flooded his entire mouth. 'I can't do it. I'll puke.'
Sean waded slightly closer to him. 'It's called a gag reaction. Plenty of people experience it. You want to give it another try?'
Tom looked down at the sun-dappled form of his wife beneath the water. Every so often a stream of bubbles rose to the surface. 'Can she continue the course without me? You know ... the buddy system you described.'
Sean flicked a strand of sun-bleached hair from his face. 'I can buddy for her; that's not a problem.'
No, thought Tom, I bet it isn't. But he couldn't insert that disgusting thing in his mouth again. Old memories began to stir, ones he tried to suppress: the days of struggling with physics and chemistry, lying awake in the early hours of the morning wracked with worry. The dream still recurred now whenever he was under pressure: him looking at the timetable in the corridor at school and realizing there was an exam that afternoon for which he had completely forgotten to revise. The dread sense of impending, and completely unavoidable, failure.
Full of trepidation, he raised the mouthpiece to his lips once again. Immediately his stomach constricted and, as he felt the bile rising at the back of his throat, his mouth formed into an 'o' in readiness to vomit. He dropped the regulator into the water. Attached to his tank by a long black tube, it snaked lazily off to the side.
Not looking at Sean, Tom moved over towards his wife, bent down and held a hand beneath the water to touch her. She got to her feet, breaking out into the air, water cascading off her. Plucking the regulator from her mouth, she swept back her streaming hair. 'Everything OK?'
Tom tried to mask his sense of humiliation w
ith humour. 'It's bizarre, but I can't do it, babe. There's something about the rubberiness of the regulator. All slippery and bouncing off my teeth.' He shuddered in disgust. 'It makes me want to puke more than a shot of tequila. Listen, Sean here can buddy you, so carry on without me. I need to try and sort out this work stuff anyway.'
Charlotte placed a hand on his arm, 'Are you sure? You really can't stand the feel of it in your mouth?'
'No.' He shook his head, grinning. 'But hey – the only fish I like to see come served with a lemon wedge. You enjoy yourself.' Before she could object further he began shrugging off the canister.
After a quick shower Tom hurried back over to the hotel's office, head bowed as he picked over the problem. He realized he was now barely noticing the beautiful scenery around him.
By the end of the afternoon they had located a printer in London who could, for a price, print two of the building wraps over that weekend. Once they'd negotiated a price for transporting the wraps and the printer crew up to Manchester to actually hang the things, that was two of the four jobs with the most imminent deadlines taken care of. Next Ges suggested looking for printers in Europe or even North America.
'Jesus,' answered Tom.' But what about the logistics? And do we know if they even use the same Vector and In Position software as us?'
'Well, unless you can come up with anything else, I suppose we're going to have to find out,' Ges answered, now sounding as stressed as Tom felt. That evening, as they ate red snapper cooked on a barbecue by the side of the main pool, Charlotte asked if everything had been sorted out yet.
'We're getting there, babe,' he replied. 'Two of the most urgent jobs are sorted, and we're now trying to find another printer for the remaining two. Problem is, we're talking twelve-floor-high images here, and that takes a specialist...'
