They looked at each other, then back at me. “No kidding?” asked Blue Hoodie, who I could now see was a thin-faced lad with bad acne.
“Who did it?” That was the third one, Black Hoodie, a pudgy guy with glasses. He glanced round apprehensively as he spoke, as if expecting to be attacked himself.
“Some blokes in a pub,” I told him. Which was actually the truth.
Grey Hoodie had a flat face and square jaw, and was gazing with interest at Laney’s bag, which I was carrying on my shoulder. “Nice handbag. Is it yours?”
“No.” The last thing I needed was for them to think I was gay. They didn’t look like politically correct people.
“Must’a nicked it then,” said Black Hoodie. “That why you got a smacking?”
“No, I didn’t nick it.” I was struggling to think. I needed a good explanation. “It’s my girlfriend’s.”
“You always walk round with your girlfriend’s handbag?” one of them said, and they all laughed.
“I reckon he’s a poofter,” Grey Hoodie added. There was a nasty glint in his eye. I suspected that he’d welcome the chance to beat up a gay. Or anyone else that looked like an easy target. Just then, I was an easy target, but it would be fatal to let them know how easy. Ignoring the pain, I pulled myself up to my full height, which was significantly taller than any of the three hoodies, and glared down at Grey. I was pretty sure he was the leader.
“Get lost!” I told him. “My girlfriend left it in the pub. I went back to get it and found some blokes going through it. So we had a few words, didn’t we? And I got the bag back, but they went and got some mates and it turned a bit nasty.” Best story I could come up with on the spur of the moment.
They looked at each other again, and back at me, obviously weighing up their chances. I was on my own and had already been beaten up once – but I was also bigger than any of them. They could probably take me, but not without getting hurt in the process. At least, that was the impression I hoped to convey. I glared at them, trying to show that I’d had quite enough nonsense for one day and I wasn’t about to take any more. Especially, I glared at Grey, making it clear that if it hit the fan, he’d be the first to get a smack in the kisser.
“So how did you end up out here, then?” he asked. It was a slight step back from confrontation, though he was still probing my story.
“There were a dozen of them, so I had to leg it.” They would assume that a dozen was an exaggeration, but if they reduced that by fifty per cent, it was still an impressive number and sufficient to justify a retreat. “Ducked in here and shook them off, but I need to get out again. My phone got lost in all the aggro, so I need to borrow one, get some help.”
“What sort of help? Who d’yer want to call?”
I wanted to call the police, but I was getting the impression that they wouldn’t go along with that idea, and suggesting it would probably put them back in favour of giving me a good kicking.
“My girlfriend. She’ll come and pick me up.” Hopefully in a car with flashing blue lights.
Grey gave me a long look. “Suppose I lend you my phone, then. What’s in it for me?”
The chance to be a good neighbour? The opportunity to cross “good deed for the day” off your checklist? Somehow, I didn’t think that these would be motivating factors. I went for something more basic.
I dug out my wallet, pulled out a fiver. “There you go.”
Grey snorted. “Five quid? Are you having a laugh?”
“What do you mean? A fiver for letting me use your phone for a minute?” I was genuinely indignant.
“Yeah, but you’re the one who needs a phone, ain’t yer?”
“OK. Here’s another. Ten quid, and that’s a rip off. I could buy a phone for that!”
“Not out here, you couldn’t!” Grey pointed out. “And those blokes are still looking for you, ain’t they?” He eyed my wallet with interest, obviously wondering how much more cash I had on me.
The answer was: none at all. I opened it up and showed him. “That’s it. Ten quid or forget it.”
He hesitated, looking at it, looking at me.
“Come on. It’s the easiest tenner you’ll make in your life.”
“All right, then.” He reached out for the money, but I pulled my hand back.
“Phone first.”
He glared at me, but held out the phone. This time, though, he was the one to pull back. “You’re not calling the coppers, are you?” he asked suspiciously. “Only they record all their calls, don’t they? I don’t want them knowing my number.”
“I’m not calling the coppers,” I promised him. Just one copper, actually, but he didn’t need to know that. “Just my girlfriend. If you like, I’ll give you the number and you can dial it, OK? And I’ll tell her to delete it. No record.” I held up the money again, and he stared at it greedily.
“So tell me the number, then.”
I repeated June’s mobile number slowly, digit by digit – wondering in the back of my mind why I had found it so easy to remember her number when I’d never memorized anyone else’s. Not the time to go there.
“OK, it’s ringing.” He handed it over, and I swapped it for the ten quid.
I had a sudden fear that it might go to voicemail again, but she picked up almost at once.
“Who is this?”
“June – it’s me. Rob.”
“Rob? Dammit, you shouldn’t keep calling me! I told you that. Especially now, when I’m at work!”
“Yes, I know, but listen, please – I’m in a bit of trouble.”
The Three Hoodies were showing a little too much interest in the conversation, and were edging closer as they did so. I took a step away and turned my back, hoping they’d get that it was a private matter.
June sighed. “I might have known. What sort of trouble, Rob? And make it quick. I am on duty, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sorry – but did you get that message I left earlier?”
“Yes, I got it, but I haven’t had time to do anything about it. I’ll get back to you on that, OK?”
“Yes – I mean no! Don’t hang up! There’s been a development… I was at the Prince William. That’s where I met the old bloke I told you about.”
“You went to the Prince William? To Canoso’s pub? You moron!”
“Yes, you’re probably right. But the thing is, I had a bit of a – a confrontation. With Canoso. And it got a bit physical… I got away, but he’s after me now.”
“A confrontation? Are you hurt?”
I was pleased to hear some concern in her voice. “A bit. But I really need some help, June.” The hoodies had ignored my right to privacy, and were crowding close, listening intently. “I can’t say too much. But I found out a few things that he won’t want me talking about.” I took another step away from the gang, and lowered my voice. “Regarding what we talked about – you know.”
“La Paz?” A sharper interest came into her voice, overlying the concern. Professional reaction.
“Yes. Exactly that. I have some –” I was about to say “evidence”, but the hoodies were crowding me again, and they might not like that word – “… stuff you’d be interested in.”
“Right. Where are you?”
“Delford Mills.”
“The project? That’s a big area. Whereabouts, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle of it.”
“Oh, great. OK, I’m on my way. Try and get over to Gladstone
Street. I’ll come down there.”
“Which one’s Gladstone Street?”
“It runs down the east side of the demolition site.”
“Which way’s east?” I had lost all sense of direction. The sun still wasn’t visible, and I had no idea how to navigate with it anyway. I’m Generation Sat-Nav.
“Never mind. Just look for a street with a lot of boarded-up houses next to it. I’ll be there ASAP.”
“OK. Thanks, June.”
“Stay safe.”
/>
She broke the connection, and I offered the phone back to Grey Hoodie, who snatched it quickly. There was a strange look in his eyes; in all their eyes.
“You didn’t say it was Canoso who was after you!” he blurted out, and from the tone of his voice I identified the look in his eyes. It was fear.
“Yeah, well, it’s my problem, not yours,” I told him.
“If that Spanish git finds out we helped you…” Blue Hoodie began. He was backing off from me as if I’d turned radioactive.
“Listen – you never saw us, right?” Grey was also backing off. Black was already legging it.
“Right, OK, no problem. But – just a minute – which way’s Gladstone Street?”
“You’re a dead man!” Grey shouted, then turned and ran, with Blue close behind him.
It seemed they’d heard of Canoso.
I started to follow them, hoping that they were heading for Gladstone Street. The pain was as bad as ever, but I was re-energized by hope. June was on her way. I was nearly safe.
There was a faint path, winding through a patch of weeds. It took me out into the open again, and my skin crawled with apprehension, but I followed it anyway. It must have been the way the hoodies had come in, so offered the best chance of getting out. I looked round at every step and kept stopping to listen. Nothing moved. The only sound was my breathing. Long may it continue, I thought, and moved on.
The path took me to yet another crumbling wall, which gave me some cover again. I followed the wall until another huge pile of broken masonry loomed up in front of me. It was too high to climb in my present state. Left was blocked by the wall, which had grown to a substantial height. So it was right, then, though that would take me back into a more open area. I looked around again, listened. Still no movement, no new sounds. Right it was.
I was stumbling more. It was such an effort to keep lifting my feet over the uneven surface, and I had to keep looking at the ground just in front of me; not thinking about where I was going, just trying to keep moving.
It was a shock when the ground disappeared. I was so far gone by then that I nearly stepped over the edge before I realized it. As it was, I snapped out of my stupor and found myself teetering over a twenty-foot drop.
It had probably been a cellar at one time, or perhaps the base for some vast piece of Victorian engineering. A huge square hole in the ground, about forty feet on each side, as far as I could tell. The mound I’d been following carried on into the pit, filling half of it.
And on the other side there were houses. They didn’t look occupied. The windows and doors were covered with metal sheets. It was still part of the project; they just hadn’t got round to demolishing it yet. It had to be Gladstone Street.
I struggled to get my breath under control, and felt relief welling up. I’d made it! I just needed to get round this pit, then across another short stretch of wasteland, find a hole in the fence and I’d be out.
Above me there was a rattling of bricks. I looked up at the top of the mound. Grinning down at me was a beefy young man dressed in black. The last time I’d seen him had been in the cellar beneath the Prince William. He had a gun in his hand, and was pointing it at me.
“There you are!” He was red faced and sweaty, the climb up to the top of the mound having been a tough one. “You stand still, or I’ll put a bullet in you!” He pulled out a phone with his free hand and speed-dialled. “I’ve got him!” he announced, loud enough for me to hear at the bottom of the mound. “He’s over by the big pit on the far side. No, he’s not going anywhere.”
I was, though. As soon as he started talking, I took a step backwards.
“I said stand still! Are you stupid, or what? This is a gun I’m pointing at you!”
I knew what it was. Part of me was still in shock from being caught, but another part stepped back again.
Beefy swore. “You make one more move and I’ll fire!”
The gun was a short-barrelled pistol of some sort. I’d played enough first-person shooters to know that it couldn’t be very accurate. Not over any sort of distance. From the top of the mound to me was fifty feet. At least that. Not less than forty anyway. Thirty-five, minimum.
I took another step backwards.
“You little bastard!” He took a step towards me, starting on the downward slope, treading carefully on the uneven footing but still keeping his gun pointed at me and with his phone still in the other hand.
I turned and ran.
There was a shout, a bang, a sudden burst of dust and soil from the ground a few feet to my right, and I discovered that I still had some adrenaline left in me. I ran faster, round the edge of the pit, heading for the fence.
Two more shots. I didn’t see them hit – more importantly, didn’t feel them hit – then there was a scream from behind. I glanced back. Beefy was tumbling down the slope, arms and legs flailing, heading towards the pit.
The fence was twenty feet away. Ten feet away. Just in front of me now. But it was intact here, and six foot high. I followed it, desperation driving me now as the brief surge of energy faded.
There was another shout: another of Canoso’s men coming out of the wasteland, gun in hand. He fired. Three or four shots, but he was still a hundred yards away. Bullets were ricocheting off brick and concrete, but none came near me. And there was a gap! An entire section torn from the posts and trampled down. I tripped on the loose wire mesh as I crossed it, somehow kept my feet, staggering across the road.
Where was June? I looked up and down the street. On one side the ruins of Delford Mills. On the other, rows of shuttered houses. No cars.
Behind me, the shooting had stopped, but I could hear the man’s footsteps crunching through the rubble as he ran towards me. Up the street, there was movement: a figure in a white shirt clambering over the fence from the wasteland. Canoso.
I crossed the street, desperately scanning the houses for an open door, an unboarded window – anywhere I could run to for cover. I just needed to stay ahead of them for a few minutes. June would come, I was sure of it. This place was supposed to be full of squatters, wasn’t it? They had to get in somehow.
There was an alleyway just ahead, an arched entrance leading into darkness between and beneath two of the houses. I made for it at the best speed I could. Behind me, there was a shout. But no more shooting. Perhaps he’d emptied his magazine.
My breath was coming in gasps, each one agonizing, but I couldn’t stop panting, not while I was still trying to run. I pushed myself to keep going, and the shadows of the alleyway closed round me. Hiding me.
But not protecting me. They’d seen where I’d gone; they’d be right behind me.
The alleyway was half blocked with rubbish: rotting timbers, plastic bags filled with decay, a bicycle frame. I pulled the frame round, jamming it crosswise between the walls. It might slow them.
There was daylight at the end of the alleyway. I came out into another wilderness, where the tiny gardens and little vegetable plots that had once been the pride and joy of the householders had been left to turn into a miniature jungle. Brambles poured over the low walls on either side, thorns grabbing and tearing at me as I forced my way past.
Ahead of me loomed the backs of more shuttered houses. At one time there had been a maze of little alleys here, giving access to the back gardens and kitchen doors. Now they had all but disappeared under the wild vegetation. The faintest hint of a path still showed where they might have been, and perhaps where squatters had found access. I followed it, holding my hands up to avoid the huge stinging nettles that crowded me on either side.
There was movement behind me. Someone stumbling in the dark alley, swearing loudly as they came across the bike frame.
“Do you see him?” Canoso’s voice, shouting from the street.
“No, but he came down here. No place else he could have gone.”
“Then you keep after him! And where is Gazza?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“He doe
s not answer his phone. No matter. We look for him later. First is to get Seaton out of there.”
“OK. I just need to reload.”
“Shoot for a leg. I want to talk with him. And then I will kill him myself.”
I had kept moving throughout the conversation. The last line was encouragement not to stop. The path was becoming clearer, as if more used at this end. Another path joined it, running towards the back of a house. Perhaps one that had hosted squatters? I couldn’t see if it went to an open door or window. But even if it did, I could find myself trapped inside – I’d already seen that there were no openings onto the street. And I had to get back to the street, to meet June.
I kept on, hoping that they would explore the other path. There were noises behind me again: someone forcing their way through the jungle, cursing at the nettles and brambles. They would be able to see me if it weren’t for the rampant plant life. They would probably hear me if they weren’t making so much noise themselves.
The path split again. Left and right. Left, an apple tree was forcing its way through a wall, half choked with creepers, and the path beyond was impenetrable without a machete. Right led back towards Gladstone Street. At least I thought it did. I was losing my sense of direction, and I didn’t have time to try to work it out. My pursuer was right behind me. But which way would he go? Left or right? If he went a different way, I might have a chance to double back, get out onto the street the way I’d come.
That gave me another idea, another option. I went forward. Grabbing a tree branch, I pulled myself up and over the wall, and dropped down the other side into a tiny gap between wall and trunk and brambles. I tried not to scream or even moan as the effort sent new pain stabbing through my chest, because Canoso’s man had caught up now. I could hear his heavy breathing just the other side of the wall. He might even have seen me climbing over, in which case I was finished. I struggled to breathe as lightly as possible, not to move or even twitch, as he stood a few feet away, cursing quietly to himself. Then his phone rang.
“Did you get him yet?” Canoso’s voice, faint but clear.
“No, boss. There’s another fork, and no footprints this time. I don’t know which way he went.”
Local Poet Page 14
