He pulled out the keycard. She grasped the door handle. The keycard inserted, the lock clicked. Light switched from red to green. She pushed and the door swung open.
Inside a man, stood close up against the window, looking out. In his hand was a tablet computer, his fingers sliding slowly across it.
The controller.
Edith was shoved into the door. A hand on her back. Andrius rushed the man. He grabbed the controller and yanked it away.
The man, surprised, turned to look. A right hand swung instinctively and caught Andrius full on the jaw. Andrius staggered back. Conscious but reeling. His knees crumpled. He sank to the floor. The controller still in his grasp.
The man reached down for the controller. He stopped. Now he saw Edith standing in the doorway. He smiled and pulled himself up straight.
Edith looked back into the eyes of Hugh Mountgrace.
Hugh slammed Edith into the door for a second time and fled the room. She stared, stunned, at Andrius. He lay supine, rubbing his jaw with his right hand, unaware that his left hand held the controller. She glanced over her shoulder. Hugh was escaping down the corridor, toward the stairwell. She looked back to Andrius and at the controller.
There was no time for both. No time to hesitate.
“Andrius, stop the tanker!”
Before the last of her words had even left her mouth she was sprinting down the hallway. The fire door to the stairwell was shutting. She caught the door and pushed through. Hugh’s footsteps echoed upward toward her. She dived down the stairs after him, taking as many steps in a leap as she could.
The floors passed by, counting down. Every turn at the end of a flight and on every landing, she glimpsed his shape, or just his hand on the handrail, two or three floors below. She kept going, floor after floor, her body barely tiring in the excitement. But however fast she ran his steps never came nearer.
Another landing passed. Then another. Several more blurred by. She had no time to catch their number. Then she saw one, ‘11’. They were nearly half way down.
Did Andrius stop the tanker?She threw the thought away. It was unwelcome. Useless to worry about. Either he did or he didn’t. There was no way of knowing, and no way of changing it. She had made her decision.
More floors passed. Hugh’s lead only lengthened. She no longer glimpsed his hand on the stair rail. His steps could no longer be heard over her own. Her breathing roughened, the first sign of exhaustion. She could ignore it. She tried to catch the floor numbers as they passed. Six. Five. Four.
Nearly there.
Three. Two.
She heard the sound of panting. Was it her? It was a man. It must be Hugh. Then a swift sprint, footsteps fading away.
One.
At the bottom stopped. Now she panted, fighting against lost breath. There was none in her body. Still she had to go on.
Left, a fire door, undisturbed.
Right, a long, bare concrete corridor stretched away. At the far end a figure, outlined in daylight. The figure’s head moved as he scanned the street beyond. Then suddenly he dashed off to the right.
She bolted after him, heading for the daylight. His headway was dangerous now, there was a desperate need not to let him get too far in front. Unlike the stairwell there was no way of knowing where he would go. She forced her breathing into regular gulps. The walls rushed past in blank greyness.
Beyond the open door figures played out chaos on the street. Shouting, screaming, running, fleeing. The crowd now a sea of terror ebbed and retreated to the left. Away from whatever Hugh had run to.
Once she reached the door she saw it, though she could have guessed. The tanker, stopped dead, metres from the crowd barrier. She surveyed the ground wildly without any conscious purpose, instinctively looking for the dead beneath it wheels. There were none. None.
Andrius had stopped it in time.
Yet by the wheels of the tanker’s cab lay a single heap. Something bent and crumpled in an awkward fashion. A body? Just one? She stumbled forward in trepidation. The heap resolved itself: a mannequin.
A small black mass jetted out of the tanker’s window and smashed against the ground. She halted. The wires and mechanics of a broken machine. Was this the...? Why has he...?
The tanker shuddered into life.
Hugh had taken control.
The tanker trundled forward. Edith lurched into an unthinking jog. Her body choosing before her mind to give chase. The noise of the tanker raised from rumble to roar. It swept a line of crowd barriers from its path. She ran alongside, intent on the driver’s cab. The tanker picked up speed. She lost pace. The trailer slid by even as she began a tired sprint. The tanker would soon be completely beyond her.
From the side of her eye she spotted the end of the trailer. A ladder. Her left arms stretched itself out, her left hand grasped. She found a rung. She gripped hard. The tanker clanked into a new gear with a jolt and yanked her off her feet.
Dangling from the rung, held by a lone hand, her legs floundered in mid-air. Her right hand swung loosely, wildly, seeking a grip. Another shudder jerked her head back, her body sideways and into the back side of the tanker. The pavement below, grey and hard, raced below her feet.
Her right hand dragged over smooth metal with nothing to grab. She tried helplessly to swing back and connect it with another rung of the ladder. All her fingers found was the head of a bolt, barely bigger than her own thumb. She dug her fingertips tight into it. With this extra purchase she lifted the whole weight of her body. Her legs, bent at the knee, drawn slowly up onto the metal bumper. Her feet rested on something solid at last.
She twisted round and found a new hold for her right hand, on the ladder. Then came her feet on the bottom rung. And with that she began to climb.
From her new position she surveyed the scene along Deansgate. Those who had failed to flee at the first report of the attack were now mindlessly running pell–mell from the approaching tanker. Crowds surged into alleys. People dragged their friends by the wrist. Parents hoisted their crying children and bolted. The street lay strewn with flags, pushchairs, food crushed underfoot. Anything which wasn’t worth carrying was left where it lay.
They had time to escape. The tanker was no longer accelerating. Its speed steady it made unthreatening progress. It slowed each time it reached a junction.
Hugh was looking for the royals.
Edith reached the top of the ladder and the tanker’s roof. In front of her a narrow steel grating ran the length of the trailer, giving access to the valves and manholes alongside. Attempting to crawl the tanker’s shaking threatened to throw her to the ground. Instead she lay down low, reached out her arms along the grating to find some hold. Then shifted up her knees. Again and again she reached forward, found a strong grip, then pulled up her knees. Barely creeping along the top of the tanker as it roamed the wasteland it had created.
Buildings passed by. She took no notice, face pressed into the grate. She reached out once more, took her grip, and began to draw up her knees. Suddenly the whole tanker lurched to the left. Her dislodged legs slid down the side of the tanker, hanging over the road.
She scanned the road. Why had the tanker moved?
The tanker picked up speed. It barrelled down a narrow side street. Deansgate shrank into the distance.
Blackfriars Street?
The waters of the Irwell came into view far below. Buildings along the banks, packed tight and rising straight up, loomed like cliffs on either side. They were crossing the river, away from the route of the parade.
Still she hung, clasping the grating with her hands and legs dangling over the side. With aching joints she tried to pull up the weight of her body directly. She hardly shifted. Her arms were not strong enough. There had to be another way.
She swung her legs back and forth. A little bit at first then, at every return, she pushed harder to build momentum. With each swing her feet rose higher until, with a final effort, she raised a foot high enough and wedged it in th
e grating at the top. Using the toehold she dragged her other leg over the smooth side of the trailer until her whole body was once again in the relative safety of her old position.
Relief was short–lived.
A great rush of wind passed over her body and her vision darkened.
What?
Railway arches zoomed above her head, terrifyingly near. She screwed her eyes shut and buried her face in the grate. The rushing passed as swiftly as it had come. Open sky was again above her.
She continued her crawl along the top of the tanker. It was too unsafe to tarry any longer. A few quick movements brought her to the end of the trailer nearest the tanker’s cab.
She considered her options, as limited as they were. She thought for too long. Looking at the road ahead, the decision would soon be made for her.
The tanker headed for the junction with the inner ring road. A few cars passed along the road, but it was empty enough for Hugh to take any exit he pleased. Straight on would lead out of town. If he wanted to continue his search for the royals, he would turn left or right, and either would throw Edith of the trailer once again.
Seconds to act, no time to think. As soon as the tanker slowed for the junction, she stood. Unsteady on her feet, but no room for hesitation. She leapt forward from the trailer to the roof of the cab. She landed in a squat and grabbed anything she could get her hands on. She found herself grasping a horn in one hand and an antenna in another. It was hardly enough.
It would have to be enough.
The tanker lurched left without slowing. Her feet slid from beneath her. The force tore on taut arms. The metal of her handholds digging into the soft skin of her hands. The flat roof of the cab was her saviour. Her legs never became extra weight, dragging her over the side. Once the tanker completed its turn and accelerated along the ring road she could immediately resume her advance.
She plunged a foot over the passenger side of the cab. She kicked once, and the dull thud assured her that she had found the window. Suddenly the tanker began to veer from side to side.
Hugh knew he had a passenger.
She kicked repeatedly, violently, urging the glass to shatter. It didn’t yield. She lowered herself down further and bent her leg. She rammed her knee into the window. The pain was immense. She kneed the window again and heard a crack. She raised herself again and kicked out the glass as well as she could, feeling the window frame only with the toes of her foot.
The tanker powered through a junction as the road curved gently southward encircling the city. Up ahead the road narrowed, ready to pass under another set of railway arches.
The tanker veered leftward. It mounted the kerb. It headed for the wall.
“Shit!” Edith screamed. She hoisted herself fully up on top of the cab.
The tanker ploughed through a signpost and sheared into the wall of the railway bridge. Metal grated against brick. Sparks flew, dust billowed. She tucked her limbs and curled tight into a ball. Eyes shut against the dust, the screeching filled her skull.
Then the sound stopped. They were out from under the bridge.
She glanced around. There was a sharp right coming up. Another one. She groaned at the thought. Her arms already ached, she doubted she could hold on forever.
She dangled her legs wholly off the side of the cab. She swung them until she found the window she had kicked out, and stuck her feet in as far as she could. As the tanker took the sharp turn she released one of her handholds, pushed her legs in further, then let go of the other.
For a second she hung over the void, poised to fall away utterly, away from the cab and down to the hard ground below, chancing a meeting with the wheels of the tanker. Yet within that second a hand found the frame of the window. Then the other hand. And with just enough grip she pushed her legs fully into the cab. Then, bending her arms awkwardly, she worked her abdomen inside, before finally pulling in her head.
Quiet. No rushing wind in her ears. Darker. No windscreen. And soft. For a moment she was stunned. She saw Hugh driving at the other side of the cab, but in front of her. She had entered the sleeping compartment to the rear.
“Bitch!” Hugh spat out his words as he glanced back at the intruder. “Get the fuck out! Fuck off!”
Edith didn’t reply. There was nothing worth saying and she had the advantage. She crawled along the bed and knelt behind the driver’s seat. She threw her arm around his neck and throttled him.
He yanked his head left. He reached up an arm to grab her, but she dodged. Then he slammed hard on the brakes. She flew over the seats and into the windscreen. Perched momentarily on the dashboard, she slid forward into the passenger footwell when the tanker accelerated.
Dazed, trying to rise from the floor, Edith took a punch straight to the face and fell back. She lay there, staring up at Hugh. He reached out with to grab her. She shrank away from his grasp, curling into a ball as near to the far door as she could.
He put his hand back on the wheel, glancing constantly at her. She stayed in her ball, searching Hugh’s face for some sign of his intentions.
Was he still chasing the royals, willing to kill them if he could find them? Or was he making his escape?
For the first time she questioned why she had followed him on the tanker. Now she was within striking distance of stopping him, it was obvious she stood little chance.
She crept up, her body a sliver squeezed against the passenger door, keeping her body out of his reach. When she was at sitting height she saw the nervous flicker in his eyes as he glimpsed at her. She was emboldened.
“Where are you going, Hugh?”
He refused to look at her again, keeping his eyes on the road. He broke into an uncertain smile, then a full grin. “I’m not sure, but you’re coming with me.” He laughed. “And I’m going to make you wish you hadn’t.”
“You should know, Hugh, before we go any further,” she paused for effect, “I killed Gervase last night.”
“What?! Bitch!” Hugh leant out as far as he could to strike her. The tanker swerved as the wheel turned with his body.
She dodged his hand.
He pulled back and straightened out the tanker’s course. “You killed him?”
“Yes.” She didn’t think the exact credit for his death was worth explaining. “He told me all about your delusional little club.”
“You’re just a stupid bitch, how the fuck would you understand? Women aren’t exactly here to think.” He struck out again, still no nearer to hitting her. “What right do you have to interfere with things you don’t understand?”
“I killed him because he tried to kill me.”
Hugh chuckled. “We did, didn’t we? And a damn shame we weren’t successful.”
“And the fact that you were killing the Faircotes for your crazy beliefs.”
“They were just in the way,” he shrugged, “nothing personal. Well, actually, I guess it was personal.”
“Personal for you?”
“How do you mean?”
“You want to be king?”
There was silence. He smiled to himself. He concentrated for a moment on driving. There were sirens in the air. Distant, but focussed. They were coming.
“I’m a Gloucesterite, if that’s what you’re asking. Yes. I’m sure you could have guessed. Even a stupid bitch like you.”
“You think this will work, then? That all you have to do is kill the royals and one day you will be king? Don’t you know how crazy that sounds?”
“I won’t be king! I accepted that years ago. It was never on the cards. But my sons, my grandsons, maybe their sons and grandsons, at least take a step nearer. We’ve been working on this for years, hundreds of years! Nobody expects it to come overnight. We’re laying the foundations or...we’re demolishing the old house.”
“You make me sick. You kill without remorse, and all for what, a title?”
“For a principle. The king is the ruler of his country, just as the father is the ruler of his house. That’s how it’
s meant to be, always and forever. No authority comes from women, and the world needs to relearn that.”
She shook her head. Gervase had said the same thing. She had no reply that wasn’t simply an insult. She examined the road ahead. The way forward was increasingly clear. Cars were pulling over or slowing. They had witnessed the tanker’s crazed rampage and took the sensible decision to get out of its way. Maybe they had even begun to hear what had happened on the news. Certainly the police were responding now. A helicopter beat away louder and louder overhead, keeping its distance, but following. The sirens were nearing, still out of sight.
“They’re coming, Hugh. You can’t escape.”
“Escape? That’s not my plan.”
“I doubt you have one! You haven’t thought this out, have you? You should have escaped while you had the chance.”
“So should you!” He grabbed something from the door compartment and threw it violently at her head.
It missed widely but she ducked nonetheless.
The road rose as it reached the south side of the city. The carriageway narrowed, hemmed in either side by crash barriers. The Mancunian Way, perched on concrete stilts, cut its way through the city’s fabric. Towers and blocks stood on either side, almost within touching distance. People sat in their living rooms three or four stories up were now at eye level as though they lived on a suburban street. Edith caught the glances of a few who, running from their televisions to their windows, realized what they were witnessing.
Neither Edith nor Hugh said a word. He craned his neck to spy the helicopter overhead. He wound down his window. The sirens intruded on the cab. He examined his rear view mirror.
He sighed. Without turning to her, he spoke.
“Well, at least I can get rid of you.”
She saw his feet shift. He eased off the accelerator. His foot was up, moving toward the brake.
She stretched out her leg and kicked at the steering wheel. She struck his left hand on the knuckles. He raised his hand in shock. The wheel jarred right. The tanker veered toward the central barrier.
He pushed his right hand round, over–correcting the veer. The tanker barrelled toward the outer barrier. He placed his injured left hand back down on the steering wheel and tried to steer back.
Inheritance Page 34
