Quick Before They Catch Us

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘Near Rainy Town,’ he replied.

  ‘Manchester!’

  ‘Why not. Now, how the hell do I get back on to the motorway?’

  ‘It’s a step,’ I said, and pointed to one of the off roads from the system. ‘Up there, and keep going. You can drop me off anywhere. I’ll get a cab back to my car.’

  ‘You aren’t going anywhere,’ said Rajah. ‘Except with us.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ I said. ‘I’m out of this now.’

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and I looked back straight into Meena’s limpid black eyes which sparkled from the reflection of the oncoming cars’ headlights. ‘Please Mr Sharman,’ she said. ‘Please come with us.’

  ‘Meena,’ I pleaded. ‘Why do you need me? You’ve got Rajah.’

  ‘Because you said you’d help. And we did pay you, didn’t we?’

  ‘A quid,’ I said dismissively and I should’ve known better.

  ‘And you told us it was for as long as we needed you, expenses paid. Remember?’

  I remembered, and I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut at the time. Big man trying to impress a couple of kids. Big mug punter, more like. ‘I remember,’ I said.

  ‘Well we still need you. And a promise is a promise, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘A promise is a promise.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said, and sank back into her seat.

  There was no answer to that.

  ‘No chance of going back to mine to get a few things, I suppose,’ I said to Rajah.

  ‘No. You never know who’s waiting.’

  I thought of Ramsey and Patterson and had to agree. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. Follow the signs to Balham, then Clapham, and we go over Chelsea Bridge. The motorway’s signposted from the West End.’

  54

  It took us hours to get up north, what with stops for petrol and something to eat at a wind-blown service station somewhere in the Midlands, miles from civilisation, staffed by what seemed to be extras from The Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. And all that was after having to listen to Rajah’s taste in music for the entire drive.

  Inside the cafeteria I picked at some cod in batter, chips and peas that seemed to have some kinship in texture and colour with a damp cardboard box. The fish appeared to have last seen the sea when Britain ruled the waves, the chips only had a nodding acquaintance with pommes de terre and the peas you could have loaded into a Colt .45 in mistake for brass-coated bullets. The tea was cold and the ketchup was warm, but as I had little appetite it made no difference. Rajah chose a chicken casserole which he gave up as a lost cause halfway through, and Paul and Meena just ate everything in sight as usual.

  ‘Where is this place you’ve borrowed?’ I asked when we’d finished eating, or in my case pushing the unappetising mess round my plate.

  ‘A little village this side of Manchester,’ he replied.

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘A mate.’

  ‘Asian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A little village you say.’

  He nodded affirmation.

  ‘Big Asian community?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So we’ll stick out a bit.’

  ‘If anyone sees us,’ he replied.

  ‘They’ll see us. People in little villages do that sort of thing. See strangers, I mean.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to keep our heads down.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Rajah shrugged.

  ‘Like years?’ I asked a bit sarcastically. ‘I’ve got a life, you know.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Rajah. ‘I just had to get them somewhere safe.’

  Meena and Paul had been following our two-handed conversation like spectators at a tennis match, their eyes flicking back and forth between us. Eventually Meena said, ‘We are here you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied. ‘But it just seems we’re getting nowhere fast.’

  ‘And I can’t keep running,’ she continued. ‘I’ve got the baby to think of.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’ I was tired and could feel myself getting tetchy.

  ‘You’re impossible,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the Ladies,’ and with that she pushed her chair back and flounced off in the direction of the sign that pointed to the toilets.

  ‘She gets her temper off her family,’ said Paul by way of apology. ‘She’s grateful really.’

  ‘And pregnant,’ I said. ‘Pregnancy does that.’

  We sat in silence and cogitated on the ways of women, and on that subject I borrowed Rajah’s mobile phone and went outside to phone Melanie at her place.

  I told her some, not all of the story.

  ‘Where are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘On a far distant galaxy by the looks of it,’ I replied as I shivered in the chilly wind that kicked rubbish round the car park of the services and the traffic thumped past on the way back and forth between London and the north.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Christ knows. This is just a big mess.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, let me know when you do,’ and she hung up on me.

  I stood and lit a cigarette and looked at the orange glow on the horizon from the lights of what I supposed was Birmingham where normal people were doing normal things, and I don’t think I’d ever felt more alone in my whole life.

  55

  We left the services just after midnight and the motorway was pretty quiet except for the HGVs heading in both directions and the occasional private car. ‘How much longer?’ I said to Rajah, but he just shrugged in return. He put his foot down and moved over to lane three and I saw the needle on the speedometer swing round from 70 to 80 to 90 then over the ton to settle at 120, and that was the speed we were doing when we passed the cop car that was parked on one of those humps on the far side of the breakdown lane.

  I saw the blues start to rotate and heard the twin tones as the Rover came after us. ‘Shit,’ I said, ‘we’ve got company.’ Rajah just grunted and put his foot down harder on the accelerator. ‘Oh good,’ I said. ‘A car chase, as if we’re not in enough trouble already.’

  Rajah looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Kids, put on your belts and do them up tight.’

  Jesus, I thought. I wonder how fast this baby can go, as the speedo hit 140 without any effort from the big engine and kept climbing.

  But the police driver persevered and although he dropped back slightly he was still with us, and of course he had the advantage of a radio and just about as many other squad cars as were within range and fancied a bit of an adventure.

  Then Rajah got tired of the chase and decided to make things more interesting. Without warning he slammed on the brakes so hard that the Mercedes’ tyres shrieked and threw smoke. By design the ABS kept us in a straight line skid but I didn’t know what the hell he was playing at. ‘What the…?’ I shouted and just as suddenly he let off the brakes, smashed his right foot on to the accelerator and pulled the steering wheel sharply down to the left so that the big car went into a spin across all three lanes before heading back in the direction we’d been coming from directly at the police Rover and two massive articulated lorries that were trundling up the slow and middle lanes, blocking them completely as the police car overtook them, three sets of headlights aimed directly at us, airbrakes hissing and horns braying with seemingly nowhere for us to go. Meena was screaming, Paul was screaming, and I felt like screaming too as we accelerated towards the three vehicles approaching us as if Rajah was determined to commit suicide by smashing into one of them. I was holding on to the grab handle over the passenger door and I almost covered my eyes with my free hand as Rajah straddled the fast lane, aimed over two tons of steel and
rubber at the oncoming emergency vehicle and slammed his boot down so hard on the accelerator that I thought his foot would go right through the floor of the Merc. I could see the faces of the coppers in the Rover, both their mouths open in terror. The driver had only one choice. He pulled the car on to the edge of the fast lane and the Rover dragged along the central barrier in a shower of sparks. Rajah just twitched the wheel sufficiently so that we passed between the police car and the HGV in the middle lane and shot down lane three in the wrong direction at more than 150 miles per hour.

  I’ve got to tell you that was a close call, but Rajah didn’t turn a hair.

  The motorway was lit up like a Christmas tree at that point and Rajah slowed until he found a gap in the central reservation and pulled through it flattening some plastic bollards and we were heading back towards London.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said. ‘You nearly killed us.’

  He just shook his head, pulled into the slow lane and took the next off-ramp up to a roundabout and an A-road that was signposted to Manchester. ‘I think we’d better keep off the motorway for now,’ was all he said.

  I looked into the back where Paul and Meena were sitting wrapped in each other’s arms with terrified looks on their faces. ‘You can relax now,’ I said with a tremor in my voice. ‘I think we’re going to be OK.’

  And we were as we drove on the unlit minor roads with only the moon for company for the hour and a half it took us to get to the village, which of course was unsullied by street lamps, road signs and any other civilised means of finding one’s way around so that it took us another half-hour to locate the cottage. Not that it was a big village, it wasn’t. But big enough, with sufficient lanes and dead ends to fox even Sherlock Holmes. And of course we couldn’t ask anyone. Not that there was anyone on the streets – pardon my exaggeration, what passed for streets – in the boonies we found ourselves, to ask. It was early to bed with your mum, dad, brother and sister in these parts by the looks of it. And I guessed if you had no immediate family, a sheep or two would do.

  I hate the fucking country.

  But eventually we found the place we were looking for. Rose Cottage it was called, and as far as location was concerned it seemed to be perfect, being at the end of a winding lane with no other dwelling for a quarter of a mile. Rajah pulled into the empty drive, turned off the engine and slid the gear stick of the Mercedes into park.

  I looked into the back where Meena and Paul had fallen asleep with their heads close together. ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ I said.

  Rajah and I got out of the motor, he found a key under an upturned flower pot and we let ourselves in. Trusting souls in the country.

  It was cold and dark inside and smelt of damp. The electricity was off, but with the aid of my Zippo I found the mains box and flicked on the master switch. The cottage was small. Downstairs at the front was the living room, with a dusty three-piece suite, a couple of chairs, a table, and an antique TV set. On the table was an old-fashioned, circular dial telephone. I picked it up and got a dialling tone. Past the living room door, a narrow hall ran down to the kitchen at the back which contained a none too clean electric stove, a turned-off fridge with the door open, and a cupboard with some tea bags, half a packet of sugar and a tin of dried milk. Upstairs were three bedrooms, one double at the back and two singles at the front. The beds were bare. In the fourth corner was a bathroom and toilet with a cold airing cupboard that housed a motley collection of bed linen, blankets and four stained pillows. All the comforts of home.

  I was glad of the extra room. I hadn’t been looking forward to sharing with Rajah.

  There were the makings of a fire in the fireplace in the living room and I found a pile of soggy wood outside the kitchen door at the back and soon got a smoky blaze going, and more logs drying in the hearth.

  ‘Better get them inside,’ I said.

  Rajah went out to the car and he came back with our two sleepy and yawning charges.

  ‘There’s sheets, blankets and pillows in the cupboard in the bathroom,’ I said. ‘They’re a bit cold and damp, but we’ll survive. Meena and Paul, you take the big room at the back. Rajah and I’ll have the ones in the front. Does anyone want a drink before we turn in?’

  Meena and Paul declined but Rajah opted for a cuppa.

  I put the kettle on and the other three went upstairs to get their beds organised. Rajah came back alone as I finished making the tea. ‘Only dried milk, I’m afraid,’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t worry me. I drink mine black. But we’d better get some supplies tomorrow.’

  ‘Got any money?’ I asked.

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. I haven’t. And from what I gather, going to a hole in the wall will only let Khan know where we’ve been.’

  ‘There’s lots of Indian guys work in banks,’ he said.

  ‘What about supermarkets with a credit card?’

  ‘Risky.’

  ‘So I’m in your hands. And talking of hands, it was you, wasn’t it?’ I said as I put the cups on the draining board.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The car in Manchester. The one that nearly ran me and Melanie down.’

  ‘It was just to frighten you off.’

  ‘Didn’t work, did it?’

  ‘It was worth a punt.’

  ‘You could’ve killed us.’

  ‘No. You’ve seen me drive. If I’d wanted to kill you I would’ve.’

  I punched him then. A good right to the jaw that seemed to have about as much effect as punching an elephant. Except that I popped a knuckle.

  ‘Shit!’ I yelled, putting my injured hand under my arm. ‘What’ve you got? An iron jaw?’

  Rajah smiled. ‘I guess I owe you that. But next time I’ll hit you back, so be warned.’

  I looked at his mighty hands and was warned. ‘Fair enough,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said.

  Gingerly I held out my hand and he took it in his and popped the knuckle right back. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. I suppose in a way it was a gesture of friendship. At least I took it as such.

  ‘Thanks. I suppose I will,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said.

  ‘Are you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You never gave me that impression when we were driving around Manchester those couple of days.’

  ‘I thought you were just a poofy southerner.’

  ‘Cheers. What changed your mind?’

  ‘That night in the restaurant with Deepak and Sanjay when they pulled out their guns and you just walked away.’

  ‘I was shitting myself.’

  ‘It didn’t show.’

  ‘You don’t do my laundry.’

  He laughed out loud at that. ‘You should’ve seen their faces. And when you put the chair through the door they didn’t know what was going on.’

  ‘I thought they might shoot.’

  ‘Not without Daddy’s permission.’

  ‘Well thank Christ for small mercies.’

  ‘I’ve told you about him before.’ Then he picked up his cup and said, ‘You coming in to drink your tea in front of the fire?’

  56

  When we’d finished our drinks Rajah said, ‘Come outside, I’ve got something you should see.’

  He took the torch and we went out into the chilly air to the Merc. He opened the boot and the interior light popped on. Inside was the usual stuff. Spare wheel, tool box, spare pair of trainers, a couple of old magazines. Nothing unusual there. Plus an old rolled up tartan blanket. He gave me the torch and unrolled it. ‘Fuck me,’ I said when I saw what had been wrapped up inside. There were two 9mm semi-automatics, a Glock and a Browning, spare clips and a box of ammunition. But what really caught my eye was an Uzi Desert Eagle .44 with a foot-long suppressor screwe
d to the barrel, a laser sight mounted on top lying next to an AK47 with a banana clip. ‘Fuck me,’ I said again. ‘We going to war?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rajah. ‘But whatever, I like to be prepared.’

  ‘Regular little Boy Scout, ain’tcha?’ I said back. ‘How are you on knots?’

  ‘Do what?’ he asked. Obviously he’d never been one of the Rover boys like me.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘No wonder you didn’t want those traffic police to flag us down. And there’s me just thinking you were overreacting. We’ve been driving around with stolen plates and these in the back. We would’ve looked good if we’d got a pull.’

  ‘I never get pulled.’ He sounded quite hurt at the idea.

  ‘Maybe not in Madchester,’ I said. ‘But we were on the open road. We’d’ve all ended up in the clink.’

  He slammed the boot lid. ‘No we wouldn’t,’ he said chillingly and I knew that if we hadn’t lost those cops they wouldn’t have lived to see morning. I was glad Rajah was on our side.

  ‘Aren’t we going to take them inside?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘They’ll be all right here. I don’t want Meena to see them. She doesn’t like guns.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said and we went back inside.

  When I eventually got to my room and made up the bed, I couldn’t get to sleep for ages. It was too damn quiet. And every noise I did hear convinced me that someone was trying to get inside the house. But in the end, around three, I dropped off, only to wake up again before seven.

  Exhausted, I clambered out of bed, made a rough toilet, dressed in yesterday’s wrinkled and grubby clothes and went downstairs.

  Rajah had beaten me to it. He was sitting at the tiny table in the kitchen sucking up a cup of tea. ‘There’s fresh in the pot,’ he said.

  I poured out a cup, added powdered milk and sugar and sat opposite him, our knees almost touching. ‘We’ve got to get some fresh milk,’ I complained. ‘This powdered stuff tastes like shit.’

  ‘We’ll have to get some food too,’ he replied. ‘We’ll take a ride later.’

  ‘And toothpaste and soap. And a razor,’ I added. ‘And I need something other than this lot to wear. I’ve got nothing thanks to you.’