by Nick Oldham
Claire, glad of the respite from the pressure, closed her eyes and rested her head on the seat, exhausted.
A few minutes later, Danny pulled up outside the sea front hotel on South Shore Promenade which was Claire’s home.
‘Here we are,’ she announced, and killed the engine. ‘Home sweet home.’
With a start, Claire opened her eyes. She had almost dropped off to sleep for the first time in thirty-six hours.
She looked quickly - wide-eyed, like a trapped rabbit – at Danny, who saw the expression on the youngster’s face; but it was only on later reflection, much, much later, that she recognised it as fear. There and then, Claire’s reaction to her arrival home did not really register with the detective. It just seemed to be a rude awakening. Nothing more.
‘C’mon lass,’ Danny urged her into action.
Claire’s shoulders slumped. The corners of her pretty mouth curled down and she pouted with a quivering bottom lip. With resignation she opened the door and climbed out of the car.
Danny unfastened her seat belt and got out too. The rain washed over her immediately, as if someone had thrown a bucket of water at them.
Side by side they walked across the paved parking area outside the small hotel towards the front door. Danny knew Claire’s parents were now home. Apparently they had been out at the Cash & Carry warehouse when Claire had been picked up, which was why the police had been unable to contact them. Danny was anticipating the very real pleasure of depositing the uncooperative little brat back into Mummy’s open arms.
She looked down at the grubby ‘misper’ – missing person - by her side.
Claire was dressed in raggy denim jeans, an ‘Oasis’ style anorak and a pair of multi-coloured Reeboks.
By contrast, the older woman was dressed in a practical but elegantly tailored long line suit in a colour described as ‘soft-grape’ and sling-back court shoes with three-inch heels on her feet. Ideal attire for office work as well as the wide range of other activities she carried out on the FPU; completely inappropriate, however, for pursuing a young lady who decided on the spur of the moment that there was no way in this world that she was going to be returned home.
About four yards from the door, Claire twisted unexpectedly. She legged it around a parked car and vaulted over the low wall separating the frontage of her parents’ hotel from the one next door. Then she shifted quickly into top gear.
Danny lunged for her. Missed. Grabbed an armful of fresh air. Swore with words from a vocabulary that could only have come from seventeen years’ police service. And without a second thought, gave chase.
‘You little bitch!’ she screamed, yanked her skirt above her knees and cleared the low wall with only millimetres to spare. Claire was fast and agile, as an eleven-year-old girl should be. But Danny was determined not to lose her, even though she was not in the peak of physical condition. It was a matter of pride.
She landed awkwardly, going over onto her left ankle, feeling it crick out of shape with a pop. She gasped, regained her footing and belted after the fleeing kid.
Claire looked over her shoulder, saw how close Danny was, and reacted by veering right, skittering round the front of a parked car and bounding over the dividing wall onto the next hotel forecourt. She lost her footing, skidded over, rolled, and was up and running again.
Danny followed.
This time she caught the top of the wall with the heel of her shoe and crashed down on the opposite side, landing on her hands and knees in a deep puddle of rainwater.
Her work suit was now ruined. The cuffs of her jacket sleeves were soaked in dirty water, the skirt was completely drenched and she had laddered her tights. Eyes burning with irritation, she scrambled to her feet, slithering and sliding, then was back in pursuit, determined not to lose her quarry.
Seconds later, Claire realised she would have to do more than simply leg it in order to escape from Danny. Despite her present lack of fitness, the detective was built with the loose-limbed athleticism of a cheetah and, in days gone by, before the evils of cigarettes, booze and late nights, she had been a superb sportswoman who had represented the county at running, tennis and netball. She was still pretty good over short distances.
Danny lunged for Claire a second time.
And would have had her if the girl hadn’t glanced over her shoulder at that exact moment, seen Danny’s fingers stretching out for her, ducked left behind a car, then shot towards the Promenade.
The road was busy, the traffic heavy, the rain making it worse.
Without even looking, Claire flung herself dangerously in the path of an oncoming van.
Panting now, Danny ran after her round the same parked car, only to hear an ominous ripping sound as her skirt caught on the bumper and tore.
This, however, was not something which immediately bothered her because she had seen Claire’s reckless dash into the road and the van bearing down on her.
Danny shrieked the girl’s name.
Claire stopped immediately. She became rooted to the spot on the tarmac and turned to face the van.
Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream.
Everything slurred down into slow motion.
The driver had been motoring along, not concentrating particularly, listening to some very loud classical music and exceeding the 30 mph speed limit by a dangerous eighteen miles per hour. His windscreen wipers were working hard against the sluicing rain. The last thing he expected to see was the ghost-like apparition of a young girl darting out directly in front of him and stopping stone dead.
‘Jesus!’
He gripped the steering-wheel tightly enough to crush it and literally stood on the brake pedal, his backside lifting off the seat. The classical music pounding in his ears lost all form and substance, becoming a deafening, blare.
The brakes slammed on. The wheels locked. The tyres vainly tried to grip the surface of the road which was a river of rain. The back end slithered round towards the front end as the van entered a skid and lurched towards the petrified Claire.
On the roadside Danny watched the scene unfold with a kind of morbid fascination. Even as she stared at the inevitable accident-to-be, her mind told her she would be the one to blame; she was the one who had chased a frightened eleven-year-old into the path of a vehicle; the one who would have to answer all those awkward questions in a Coroner’s court.
Claire was only inches away from the front grille of the van. A fraction of a second from being mown down.
Then, amazingly, she moved.
She leapt out of the way and ran across the road, over the tram tracks towards the sea.
Everything clicked back into real time.
The van shuddered to a skewed halt over the spot where Claire had been standing a second before. The driver was white-faced. His heart had stopped momentarily. His fingers were still wrapped solidly around the wheel. His eyes bulged in their sockets like someone had whacked him with a spade on the back of his head. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d hit the girl and she was underneath the front wheels, whether it had been some sort of spiritual apparition or whether he needed to see an optician.
With one last judder, the engine stalled.
He watched in fascination as a tall, slim woman, drenched to the skin, hair plastered to her head, dressed in a filthy suit with a tear right up the back of her skirt to her knickers, dashed past his vision.
The Promenade was being bombarded by a fusion of crashing waves and heavy rain, supported by the strong wind.
Claire was running along, perilously close to the railings next to the sea wall. Danny was behind her, leaving more space between herself and the angry sea. She was finding it increasingly difficult to make up any ground on Claire. The elements didn’t seem to want her to catch up - running against the gale-force wind was like swimming in porridge - she was approaching the limit of her fitness and also by now her ankle was hurting like hell.
All rational thoughts were then purged when a huge wave burst
over the sea wall and landed on her, almost drowning her in an ice-cold sheet. For more than a few moments Danny had to fight against the terrifying elemental force of the water as it retreated back to the sea. It tore at her, trying to unbalance her and drag her back, pulling at her legs and ankles. It was all she could do to remain upright against such power which had knocked all the breath and spirit out of her.
She was worried about Claire: if the foolish youngster should get hit, would she be able to resist the strength of the sea?
With that in mind, Danny stopped chasing, giving Claire the opportunity to get away from both herself and the sea. Nothing was worth putting lives in danger.
Up ahead, Claire ceased running. She turned and faced Danny, looking like a half-drowned squirrel.
Some thirty yards separated the two females.
Claire shouted something which was whisked away in the wind and the water.
Danny took several paces towards her.
‘Don’t come any closer!’ Claire yelled in warning.
Danny stood still. She could see utter anguish on the girl’s face.
‘I won’t, I promise,’ Danny shouted in reply. ‘Just come away from the edge, it’s very dangerous. Then we can talk.’
‘I’m not coming home. You can’t make me go home. If you do, I’ll run away again.’
‘Okay, okay, just move away from there. .. Claire! LOOK OUT!’ Danny bellowed out the last two words of warning as she saw a massive swell build up and then break like a huge claw right over Claire.
The crushing weight of the water rammed the youngster to the ground as effectively as if a sack of coal had been dumped on her shoulders. When the water rushed back, its tentacles took her with it. She screamed and writhed in a fight against it, but it was no use. She was hauled across the concrete back towards the sea like a fish on the deck of a trawler, her screams muted as the bitter salt-water filled her nose and mouth and lungs, choking her.
For the second time in less than two minutes, Danny was compelled to watch in horrified fascination as the fate of the young girl was enacted in front of her eyes.
Then Danny moved into action. Drawing on her last reserves of strength and energy, she flung herself towards the pathetic figure.
She knew she would not make it, though.
Claire was too far away and being pulled too quickly. She would be gone in seconds ... and explain that one, Detective Furness. Not now a fatal road traffic accident, but a drowning victim. . .
Claire slithered towards the precipice of the sea wall and was dashed sideways against one of the perpendicular posts of the railings - which she grabbed instinctively - but still the sea pulled her backwards and tried to unwrap her fingers from the post. She clung on desperately, but with failing strength and great pain inside her chest where she had slammed against the iron post. At the same time a new, even more powerful swell was building up behind her, one designed to finish the job started by its predecessor and claim a victim. Or two.
Danny saw it rise. She also saw that Claire’s progress had been halted by her collision with the railing post. But not for very long.
She weighed up the odds.
If she did reach Claire and grab her, the chances were in favour of them both being sucked into a watery grave. If she didn’t, Claire was definitely dead. The poor odds did not prevent her from flinging herself across the last few feet and risking her own life to save Claire’s.
At the precise moment Danny got hold of her sleeve, Claire lost her grip and her legs went over the edge of the wall. The sea boiled only inches away from the soles of her shoes. Danny wrapped herself around the post and shouted, ‘Hold on tight.’
The new wave rose like a monster from the deep and exploded spectacularly over them, twice as savage as the previous one. Through it all Danny and Claire held grimly onto each other, their eyes locked into each other’s gaze, looks of solid resolve on their faces as they fought to live, whilst the Irish Sea did its utmost to separate them once and for all.
‘Don’t let go, don’t let go,’ Danny chanted as much for herself as Claire.
The water whooshed back past them, battering them, trying its damnedest to draw them into the sea and almost succeeding. Had it continued a few more moments, Danny would have had to let go.
Suddenly the water all drained away, leaving them clinging to the edge of the Promenade. Alive. The wind had changed its angle ever so slightly and the tide whipped away to a point further south.
Danny did not hesitate. She knew from past experience just how fickle the sea was - she had pulled four bodies out of it in her time - and this respite would only be brief. They had to make use of it, even though their natural reaction would be to stay put and get their breath back.
‘Oh God, oh God,’ Claire spluttered.
‘Come on, we’ve got to move!’ With one last effort, Danny heaved Claire back onto the Promenade. ‘Come on, get up, we can’t hang around.’
Claire was on all fours, coughing and retching up the water which had cascaded down her gullet. Danny yanked her up. ‘Run!’ she shouted.
The howling wind changed again. The sea was about to make another attempt on their lives. The burgeoning swell looked enormous.
‘I can’t,’ Claire wept.
Danny grabbed her roughly by the collar and hoisted her bodily away from the edge. They reached the comparative safety of the tram tracks just in time to turn and watch the next monstrous wave explode against the sea wall.
Had they been underneath it, they would have been fish food. For sure.
Danny pulled a blanket around her shoulders, brushed her damp straggly hair back from her face and said, ‘Claire seems to be unhappy for some reason.’
‘I can’t think why. God knows, we give her everything she wants,’ said Claire’s mother, Ruth Lilton.
‘She’s spoilt rotten,’ her stepfather grunted, a tone of real nastiness underneath the words. Joe Lilton was a big, brusque individual who intensely annoyed Danny. She thought she knew him from somewhere - way back when - but could not quite place him. ‘She’s going through a rebellious phase, that’s all. Needs it knocking out of her.’
And you’re just the one to do it, obviously, Danny nearly said. Instead she ignored him, turned back to Mrs Lilton and commented: ‘Well, this phase seems to be pretty extreme, wouldn’t you say? Shoplifting? Missing from home? Ruth, if you’d like to bring her down to the police station, I could spend some time with her, interview her again, maybe less formally. Perhaps that’d get to the root of the problem.’
‘That’s a good idea-’ the woman began, but her husband butted in rudely.
‘There’s no call for that,’ he interrupted. ‘We’ll sort her out. What she’s short of is a good old-fashioned leathering. No need for you lot to be involved any further you’ve done enough. Family matter from now on.’ He seemed to brighten suddenly. ‘Thanks anyway.’
Danny shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ But to Mrs Lilton she said, ‘I’m always available if you need me.’
Mrs Lilton said a quiet thanks.
The three of them were sitting in one corner of the crowded waiting room in the casualty department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. After the fright on the seafront, Danny and Claire had stumbled back across the road to Claire’s parents’ hotel. From there Danny had driven her immediately to BVH because Claire had been creased double with an agonising pain in her chest. Mr and Mrs Lilton followed in their car.
After an interminable wait, an X-ray had confirmed two cracked ribs, caused when Claire had been smashed against the railing post.
Danny herself had been given a swift check-up by a very dishy doctor and been declared fighting fit. He had rather sensuously eased a tubi-grip bandage around her ankle which, from X-rays, was diagnosed as being sprained. All Danny had wanted, though, was a double vodka-tonic and a drag of a Benson & Hedges Gold. But she didn’t have any spirits to hand and her ciggies - which had been kept in her jacket pocket - were a sodden mush.
‘Here she is,’ said Danny, looking up.
A nurse was guiding the still-bedraggled young girl down the corridor towards the waiting room. Claire was shuffling rather than walking. Each step looked painful, because other than the broken ribs, she had suffered a multitude of other bangs, cuts and bruises during her sea-front ordeal.
She looked exhausted and ready to drop. She was in need of a good meal and a rake of sleep.
‘Sweetheart,’ cried Mrs Lilton. She stood up. Open armed, she went to Claire and embraced her gently.
‘Little cow,’ Joe Lilton muttered under his breath. He got up and put on a false face of concern. ‘C’mon girl, let’s get you home.’ He rubbed her head with his hand in a fatherly gesture. Claire reared away from him, fireballs in her eyes. He withdrew his hand. His mouth became a hard line.
Danny rose wearily, aware that the tear up the back of her skirt was hanging open like a pair of curtains. She didn’t have the energy to care who saw her knickers any more.
Claire walked up and murmured a meek, ‘Thank you,’ to Danny, who nodded. She could not fail to see the expression of absolute desolation on the youngster’s face as her parents led her away. She looked as if she was going to the scaffold. Danny heard Mrs Lilton saying, ‘The first thing we’ll do is get you into a hot bath and then. . .’ Her voice faded.
Danny wondered how long it would be before Claire Lilton went on the run again.
The Detective Constable limped into the ladies’ loo. After she had relieved herself, she studied herself in a mirror over a wash basin, stunned by her reflection. Talk about the witch from Hell City. She looked appalling!
Her pretty ash-blonde hair had dried like strands of thick, coarse string. Most of her make-up, which she always took great pride in applying, had been washed away. The remnants of her eye-liner and mascara made her look like the victim of an assault. Her suit was ruined beyond cleaning or repair and she knew there would be no earthly chance of the police footing the bill for its replacement. Her tights had more ladders in them than a board game and her shoes, which had partly dried out, had gone all crinkly.
