Dead Wrong

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘I lied for you. I set Wallace up for you and you, you just pull us all deeper in the shit…’

  ‘Shut it,’ his rage distorted the words.

  ‘They’ll know you done Joey D now. They’re soon gonna suss that.’

  ‘It was an overdose,’ I blurted out in surprise.

  ‘Oh, yeah? And how come he gets pure smack? Little gift Rashid arranges to come his way once he’s tracked him down in Chester.’

  Oh no. I felt sudden tears and sniffed them back.

  ‘He wouldn’t have taken stuff from any of you. He was petrified,’ I protested.

  ‘He didn’t know who sent it, someone else made the delivery,’ Zeb said scornfully. ‘And now you want to do her. It’s not my head that’s in a mess, Rashid. You’re a fucking psycho. I’m out of here.’ He wheeled and stalked off.

  Rashid lifted me up and threw me into the boot, as if I was a child. He slammed the lid down. It didn’t catch. In the gloom I could see the line of light begin to stretch. I reached out and grabbed it, held it down, my fingertips clinging to a ridge of metal along the edge. It was instinct: a chance to escape. The boot must have looked all right to Rashid. My heart was pounding. I wriggled round trying to get in a good position for climbing out.

  I could hear footsteps grating on the tarmac. Grunts and a shout. It sounded as though they were some way from the car.

  Cautiously I inched the boot open. It creaked and I flinched, expecting a response but nothing happened. I clambered out, keeping as low as I could. Knelt on the tarmac and pulled the boot shut. I rolled on the ground at the side of the car and looked underneath the chassis and across the car park.

  I could see Rashid beating Zeb. Zeb was still on his feet though his arms cradled his head. Bile rose in my throat; I spat some out. My mouth was sour, my throat parched. I wanted to go and stop the fight. It tore me up to see this, one man staggering as the blows rained on him, the other dazzled by violence and his power to inflict pain. No matter how many times I watched this scene played out, I would never be immune to the anguish it called up in me, the distress and despair. There’d been so much blood, too much blood already.

  But I knew I had to think only of survival now. If I headed for the cinema I’d have to cover most of the car park and be visible to Rashid. The alternative was to clamber up the grassy hump, over the low wooden railing at the top and down to the side road. It would probably be deserted. I couldn’t rely on flagging a car down to help me, but there might be somewhere to hide.

  On hands and knees I scaled the hill. Even at this distance I could hear Rashid’s heavy breathing and Zeb coughing. As I reached the railing, Siddiq roared; oh, Christ, he’d spotted me! He began to run my way. Heart thudding, I reached the pavement Opposite was the Belle Vue Speedway, where they have the greyhound racing. To my left was the Belle Vue Road junction. I began to run that way. I could hear myself gasping, little pleas on my breath. No, no, please. Please, don’t hurt me. Just like that time before. Did Siddiq have a knife? No, no, he didn’t. He’d used Joey’s on Ahktar, hadn’t he?

  Someone would help me, surely. I remembered the case of the schoolgirl assaulted on the train full of passengers. Pleading for help, she was, and they all just sat there.

  There was a roaring sound. He was using the car. He couldn’t – he’d never get through that barrier. I heard him revving it up. I ran, my nose burning with pain as my feet pounded on the pavement. There was a roar again, a screech and then a splintering sound. I looked back. He’d got the car up the hillock and had torn partway through the railing. A piece of it was caught fast in the front bumper, the other end of it still attached to an upright stake in the ground. One of the headlights was smashed. He gunned the car again and the tearing continued. The wood ripped and split and he was through. He ran it down the slope at my side and spun round to follow me. He accelerated fast. He was going to run me over.

  I darted to the other side of the road. I think I had some daft hope that although he was trying to kill me, he wouldn’t break the law by driving on the wrong side of the road. Daft, like I say. He simply followed me.

  I tried to go faster, waiting in my mind for the impact as he crushed my legs before I buckled and. fell under the car. I glanced behind; he was getting close. I. thought I could just make it. I launched myself back across the road. I misjudged it and the offside corner of the car clipped my hip, spinning me round and slamming me against the ground. I continued to roll, hit the far kerb and scrambled to my feet. Pain rippled through me and my vision blurred. Go on, I urged myself. Go on! I can’t, a weak voice whined somewhere. I can’t. It hurts.

  My memory dived back to the day I’d had Maddie. Blood then too, and the sensation of being ripped apart, wild with pain. Maddie. I whispered her name. Caught the smell of her child’s breath.

  Siddiq swung the car back my way again. I couldn’t run but I could move. I crossed back, moaning at the pain in my side and down my thigh. I didn’t want to die, not like this. I didn’t want to die at all, but to be run to ground by a car, killed on the road, breathing my last on greasy wet tarmac…No, I wouldn’t let him. ‘No,’ I said it aloud, repeated it in rhythm as I lurched along, ‘no, no, no.’

  There was a row of bollards along the edge of the pavement, parallel to the concrete walls of the Speedway. In a couple of places there were gaps where big metal gates were installed. I made for the bollards, got myself past them and over the broad pavement to the concrete wall. Suddenly, thankfully, I heard another car coming. I inched forwards and waved my arms wildly. It went sailing past.

  I waited. He was coming back, down my side of the road. He couldn’t get through the bollards here, but a hundred feet on, by the double gates, he turned the car through the gap and pointed it to face me. He had a clear run at me now, down the wide pathway. I stumbled back onto the road, putting the bollards between us again.

  How long could we play cat and mouse? How long could I stay upright? My teeth were clenched to control the pain, my fists balled tight. He roared the length of the pavement, slewing out onto the road near the other gates.

  I set off for the gates he’d just passed, dragging my left foot. I used the concrete wall to push against as I shuffled along. He was doing a circuit; it wouldn’t take him long. He was going to get me. I was making mewling noises now, little screeches. I reached the gate. Metal bars and wire mesh. A clear view inside the compound to the turnstiles. There were lights on in the main building – a large blue prefab with an arching glass and metal stairwell at the front. If there were lights on…I clung to the bars.

  A woman appeared, carrying a bin-liner which she stuffed into a skip.

  ‘Help!’ My first attempt was too feeble to carry. ‘Help, please help me,’ I found enough volume to startle her. She was only a few yards away. ‘Please.’ She hesitated, looked away, then back. She seemed familiar. I swooned slightly. Maybe it was a mirage. I heard the car skid as he drove back onto the pavement. ‘Let me in!’ I screamed, ‘Please.’

  She walked hurriedly towards the gate, her face swimming into focus. Blue check nylon overalls, a roll of bin-liners under her arm. She peered at me.

  ‘He’s trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘The car…’

  ‘It’s you,’ she said, bemused. ‘What are you doing here? I’m Mrs Grady, remember? Next door to Mr Kearsal’s.’

  I couldn’t handle this. He was coming. ‘Please!’ I glanced to my side. Siddiq roared towards me. I pushed myself off the metal bars, reeled back to the pavement’s edge just in time. I felt the rush of warm air, the stink of petrol fumes as he belted past me.

  I looked across at Mrs Grady’s shocked face. ‘I’m not sure which is the right one,’ she cried. She was fumbling with a large bunch of keys.

  I watched Siddiq gain the road once more and race down to the other gates. I couldn’t get back across the path, I felt so weak.

  ‘Open it!’ I yelled at Mrs Grady. The car was nearly on me again.

  ‘It is open,’ she sn
apped, pulling it back. I launched myself through. The car roared past, Siddiq bellowing, the smell of burning rubber. I heard the squeal of brakes.

  ‘Lock it!’ I shouted.

  ‘I am! What on earth’s going on? Are you all right?’

  ‘Call the police.’

  I looked through the wire mesh, hanging onto it to take the weight from my damaged leg. Siddiq turned out onto the road. He revved the engine till it howled. The air was full of exhaust. I tried to swallow but there was no spit in my mouth and I gagged on the action.

  He accelerated fast, drove down the road and did a fishtail turn, ramming the car towards us, towards the big metal gates. We both moved back. He braked at the last moment. Far too late. The skid sent him careening down the path and into the concrete wall. There was the shriek of metal on stone, the smashing of glass. The crack of the collision.

  I lunged back at the gate, face against the mesh, in time to see the car lift into the air and roll onto its side. My heart beat once. Then there was the thump of an explosion and the air was sucked from the night. The fire burst up and into the trees above, deafening in its rage. Thick, tarry smoke plumed. I could feel the heat of the blaze; I was cold. And I wanted, for that frozen, timeless moment, to go and embrace the flames. To lie down in that unimaginable heat and sleep.

  Shivers began to tremor through me, making my teeth clatter and my limbs dance. My fingers lost their hold on the wire fence and I slid down to the ground. Slipped away, far away, where nothing could hurt me any more.

  Epilogue

  Shock cushioned me through the next twenty-four hours. And it was weeks before I could resume any normal activity, like walking the kids to school. I had deep bruising to my hip, ribs and thigh, and I’d been running around on a broken ankle.

  As for my psyche, I had a few sessions with the counsellor who had helped me after a previous near-murder experience, and I’ve also been seeing Eleanor since then for hypnotherapy. I’ll keep it up until the gremlins leave me alone. I’m getting there. The nightmares have gone, I sleep more easily now and it’s been three weeks since I had a panic attack. I’ll be OK.

  Luke Wallace is home now, his case discontinued. Dermott Pitt has been in touch – he sent flowers. Made me cry. Mind you, the state I was in, crying was a way of life for a while. He tells me Zeb suffered severe concussion from his beating at Rashid’s hands, and they still don’t know whether there will be any lasting brain damage.

  No new charges have been brought against anyone for Ahktar Khan’s death. I’ve asked Pitt to make sure Dr Khan hears the tape or, failing that, someone tells him what Joey D saw. The system might not deliver him justice but he has a right to know the facts. Will Pitt let him in on Jay Khan’s role in it all, or not? I don’t know. I got a hint from Pitt that the police are currently more interested in gathering information on the Khans’ drug smuggling than in their part in the death of Ahktar. Especially with Siddiq dead.

  Chris McPherson has been unable to work since his ordeal. His physical injuries have healed, but he has post-traumatic stress disorder. Ricky has been charged with GBH. Gary Crowther has continued to stalk Debbie Gosforth, ignoring the injunctions issued. Until the law is changed he could go on indefinitely. Debbie has plans to leave the area.

  Sheila keeps giving me homoeopathic remedies which she swears will help rebalance my system. I’ve told her it was never balanced in the first place, and as I can’t stop drinking coffee they won’t work anyway, but she smiles and tells me to take them regardless. She has been helping out with the school run and the shopping and the other chores.

  Things are still uncomfortable with Ray. We’ve tried to talk about it a couple of times but we both overheat too quickly. He is baffled at how I can contemplate continuing in my job after all this, and I am outraged that he thinks I’d even consider giving it up. I have promised to do a self-defence refresher course when I’m up to it. It’ll help my confidence, I suppose, though to be honest when faced with a Rashid Siddiq or knives and guns I’d have to be a martial-arts fanatic to be able to escape safely. I will practise running fast as back-up.

  They’re still rebuilding Manchester; no one knows how long it will take. The Corn Exchange and the Royal Exchange remain closed, along with part of Market Street. The people of the city will be invited to contribute to plans for redesigning the Centre. I think a lake would be nice. Whatever they come up with has got to be an improvement on what was there before.

  Rebecca Henderson is doing a job for me now – seeing if I can get some compensation for my injuries. It would help with the cost of the holiday. We made it to Anglesey towards the end of the summer holidays. It rained. We peered into rock pools and drew pictures in the sand. We ate blackberries from the hedgerows and chips in the car. We found lucky pebbles to wish on and wove scraps of bright nylon rope into a mermaid’s blanket.

  It was magic.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  So I called at the travel agent’s yesterday and booked a last minute flight – a week on the island of Rhodes for my girl and me, leaving Sunday. I used my credit card. I’ll miss another week working, she’ll miss school. But I reckoned we deserved it, a bit more sunshine in our lives.

  You only live once.