by Peter Ackers
"…A COUPLE OF LOWLY BOBBIES HAD CAUGHT THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER…"
It was so dark in the woods that I couldn't see where they ended until I'd pushed through some undergrowth and literally walked into another fence, stinging my chest.
I stopped, obviously, and put my hands on the top rail, and looked out and down over a sight that warmed me. A town! Buildings and lights and people, and salvation. Towns meant maps, buses, cash machines, life.
The land beyond the fence slipped downhill sharply, terminated at another fence that separated it from a wide but quiet road that curved away to my left and right, arcing away around a long, low warehouse with rows of windows covered by perforated steel grilles. Some of these on the ground floor hung loose, pried away by thieves and vandals, scavengers seeking anything they could trade for blow or a blow. The old building was either disused, or this was a very crime-ridden town to live in.
Around the building's top and side edges I could see the faint aura of artificial light: the warehouse was so long it seemed to block all the illumination from the town. To reach civilization, I would need to go down to the road and trek about fifty metres around the building, but something was putting me off. Town, I had thought. But I didn't know what I would find around the other side of that warehouse, which now loomed before me not as a building on the edge of a town, but as a kind of gate or barrier at its entrance, preventing any further progress. But even that thought metamorphosed before I could judge it: maybe instead the warehouse had no end; maybe where I saw the wall terminate far away in the gloom it only turned, that wall continuing at right angles, turning again another hundred metres away, and again, coming back on itself to create a squared building with at its centre a … what? Was the whole town contained within these walls? That was silly, I told myself. Who'd wall off a town way out here?
I was in the flow now. If not a town, what? What was this place? A prison, perhaps? A whole town turned into a prison built for those who were isolated way out here because their inhumanity was such that they should be kept away from everyone and everything?
That's silly, I told myself. I climbed the fence and started down the overgrown slope. I clambered the fence at the bottom and hopped out onto tarmac. A real road, finally. Immediately I saw litter, which refreshed me. It meant this place saw pedestrians, albeit careless ones. Unless the inmates of the prison were allowed external association time - way out here in the middle of nowhere, what harm could they do? They could be allowed free to roam and kill and eat rabbits or whatever, maybe prevented from escaping past a wider perimeter I hadn't seen by neck braces that exploded if the wearer passed a certain point. That was something I'd seen in films. And didn't the criminal tagging system employ such technology, albeit not as explosive?
Lights to my right, on my side of the road. Headlamps. I stepped back, off the road and onto the pavement. Should I hail this vehicle and solicit a lift? Did I trust anyone who was out around these parts this night, based on my experiences so far? I didn't think so. So I slunk back against the fence and crouched, waiting. And now I could hear the car's engine, which made it more real, and not some creature with giant irises that reflected moonlight. I held my breath as if fearing the driver might hear me over his engine.
The car slowed as it neared and I saw a pale face at the passenger-side window, looking out at my side of the road, and then another face, a female one, in the backseat, contorted with anger, mouth moving fast.
And then the car stopped right in the middle of the road and torchlight washed over me, and I froze like a deer caught in headlights.
The passenger-side front door opened and a man in dark clothing got out, holding the torch.
"You there! Stand up. What are you doing over there?"
I didn't move. I saw the driver of the vehicle turn to the backseat passenger and talk, waggling his finger at her. She flipped him a finger or two back. With the passenger's door open, the interior light had flicked on, illuminating the people within. One was a middle-aged woman in get-up befitting a lady of the night. The other was obviously a cop. As was his partner. So, the cops really did turn to prostitutes to liven up a boring graveyard shift.
"What are you doing there?" said the partner. I stood up. Cops, in a real cop car. Relief oozed through my veins. Unless I'd stumbled upon the Oakland Riders, I was going to be okay here.
"Nothing. I got a bellyache. Just thought I'd sit down for five." Sure, way out here in the dark in the middle of nowhere, I had decided I'd rest in the street to give my wobbling guts a breather. I could almost smell the handcuffs.
"ID, pal. Let's see if you're famous."
ID? Should I take them back to the little cottage to get it? Perhaps lead them to the village pub and the shepherds who plotted there? For putting an end to a terrorist organization, I might well become famous. That seemed like a good idea, and finally a way to end this surreal night.
"Oi! Stop!" the cop shouted after me as I tore off down the street, and even as I was running, I knew I shouldn't be, especially after my thoughts of heroism. I had a surplus of energy and my muscles buzzed rather than burned. I wanted to stop and explain myself, but at the same time I knew that I could outrun the police and that that was preferable to perhaps spending a night in a cell while the cops tried to work out who I was and what crime might have forced me to flee. So I ran, and I turned off my logic chip so that my survival instincts had full control of my body.
I thundered across the road, onto the side of approaching traffic (there was none, though) so the cop car couldn't come up my rear and run me down. The road and the wall of the warehouse rushed by, and I watched, waiting for the wall to end, which would indicate a corner. Behind me I heard shouting, then the revving of an engine. The chase was on. I knew the police wouldn't stop chasing me, and it wasn't just because it was their job to make sure they didn't lose a potential arrest. In their minds would be the idea that here was their big one, a fluke arrest that would get their faces in the papers, put a stripe or two on their arms. A couple of lowly bobbies had caught The Yorkshire Ripper that way. Maybe they were even now running through a mental list of infamous criminals still at large, because who knew who I might be, eh?
"You'll never catch the Zodiac Killer!" I yelled over my shoulder, and then thought Shit! What the fuck are you doing?
A corner loomed and I took it, my body bolting round the edge of the warehouse a mere half-second behind my sight. Another street ran off ahead of me. The left side was lined with closed shops and businesses built into the same building as the warehouse; the land to the right of the road was open grassland secured by yet another wooden rail-and-post fence. That was my best bet for escape from car-bound pursuers, but I reckoned I'd had my fill of werewolf country for one night.
The street was devoid of people but not vehicles. I hoped the line of cars and vans might shield me from my pursuers.
I passed a chip shop that was just closing for the night. A clock on the wall, clearly visible through the large plate-glass window, said 12:41. Jesus, it was early! Had it really only been a few hours ago that I'd had a smile on my face, love in my heart and an engagement ring in my hands?
I slammed into something, hard.
I reckon I went out for a second or two, because I don't remember the pain, or the fall. I just remember being on my back, looking up at the sky and the pinprick stars. I was outside the chip shop, listening to a motorized shutter descending over the window. There was something large to my right, and then a shape over me, blocking the moonlight. I made out a man, bending over me, holding a bag of steaming chips and peas, which I could smell very clearly.
And I heard the police siren wailing. Why had they put the siren on, I wondered?
The large shape to my right was a truck with a long trailer. The cab door was open - that was what I had run into, a door doubtless left open while the driver went for chips and peas. Of all the luck.
The police car zipped past, watched by the bearded man with chips and peas. He then looked
down at me, and I was sure he knew they were after me. He also looked a bit scared, as if fearing I might be dangerous, even though I was dazed and on my back and he was big and standing over me. One wave at the cop car and it would be game over.
When he tossed his chips and peas into the cab and bent over me and put his hands under my arms to lift me up, I was sure it was because he was making a citizen's arrest. When he helped me into the cab and climbed in after me, shoving me across into the passenger seat, I wondered what was going on. When he then started the great engine and pushed me down out of sight, I mentally sighed, thinking, Here we go again.
