Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  ‘I’ll draw them away,’ he told Ryan, who was lying face down on the pavement and seemed too shocked to respond.

  Running for the corner, Joe stayed low, using a row of parked cars for cover. He was a little surprised by Danny’s loss of control. He’d always imagined that the Morton family would prefer to capture him alive. Danny in particular had a grisly aptitude for torture, but his old man, Doug, and even Valerie, his ferocious hard-as-nails mother, were almost as bloodthirsty.

  But there was no time to dwell on it. He had to focus on an escape route. Turning into Sion Hill, with the grand Georgian facade of the Avon Gorge hotel directly opposite, Joe sprinted up the hill towards the east tower of the Clifton suspension bridge. A trick of the perspective made the thick supporting chains seem as delicate as a spider’s web.

  Perhaps he should try to cross the bridge, he thought, then get hold of a car. Steal one. Hijack one, if he had to. Whatever it took to survive.

  No. The bridge was a bad idea. Far too exposed, and there were lots of people around. Lots of cameras, too. Joe needed a route that would be difficult to follow in a car.

  Cutting right at the next junction, he crossed the road and leapt up onto a grass bank. Then into Sion Lane, a narrow street of quaint cottages and slightly dilapidated workshops. It was clogged with parked cars. Better still, about halfway up it veered left, so he’d be out of sight within seconds.

  Just before the bend he risked a look back, and his heart sank. Danny Morton was pursuing him on foot. The only consolation was that he no longer had the gun in his hand.

  Joe put on a burst of speed. He had no idea where the Granada had gone, whether the driver would have been smart or lucky enough to intercept him at the top of Sion Hill. Bracing himself for an ambush, he emerged from the lane, the bridge now away to his left, and checked the traffic. No sign of the Granada.

  He dashed across the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pickup truck. Its horn blared as Joe made it to the opposite verge. Now he was on the edge of Clifton Down, an area of parkland with plenty of mature trees to give him cover, just in case Danny still felt inclined to take another shot at him.

  It was a steep ascent. Although Joe had been working hard for Ryan, he’d neglected his normal exercise regime for several weeks and he was punished for that lack of fitness now: his lungs burning, his knees jarring on the uneven ground. But he knew he was running for his life, and that meant enduring any amount of pain.

  He negotiated a diagonal path across the Down, heading broadly in the direction of Christ Church. Several times he glanced over his shoulder and saw he was extending his lead, but there was no mistaking the fury, the determination on Morton’s face. Having got this close to Joe, he wasn’t about to give up now.

  Then Joe heard him yelling: ‘Here! Fucking here, you twat!’

  He looked round. Danny was facing Gloucester Row, gesturing frantically. He was mightily pissed off, and Joe could see why. Having gone the wrong way, the Granada was caught in a line of traffic heading for the bridge.

  Then a quick double-beep caught his attention. Not from the Granada, but off to Joe’s left, near the church.

  Danny reacted to it as well. Joe saw the triumphant smile on his face as he nodded and made a broad sweeping motion with his arm. Its meaning was clear: Cut around and head him off.

  For Joe, it was like a punch in the gut. They had a second car.

  It was an old Vauxhall Astra. Like the Granada, it had seen better days, but it was more than adequate for its purpose. There seemed to be only one occupant. He was quick to respond to Danny’s command, racing along Clifton Down Road, no more than sixty or seventy yards away from Joe.

  Crossing into Canynge Road, Joe heard the distant screech of tyres and a chorus of angry car horns – no doubt in response to some kind of illegal manoeuvre on the part of the Granada’s driver. Soon he would be back in the chase.

  Thankfully Joe was now heading downhill. Running flat out, he calculated that he had no more than ten or fifteen seconds before the Astra caught up with him. He needed to vanish.

  The opportunity presented itself halfway along the street. He passed an office block on his right, then a narrow car park. The parking spaces backed on to a row of half a dozen tiny terraced gardens, bordered by a brick wall about five feet high. Perfect.

  A quick look back: no one in sight. Joe raced through the car park and dropped to his knees behind a red minibus. A moment later he heard the Astra roaring past. As soon as it had gone, he hauled himself up onto the final section of wall. From here he was able to leap across a narrow alley and clamber up onto a flat-roofed building.

  In a crouching run he crossed to the far corner and lowered himself onto another flat-roofed structure that faced along the next street. Breathing hard, he caught a faint tang of chlorine in the air.

  It was only when he dropped to the pavement that Joe found he’d been climbing over the premises of Clifton High School’s swimming pool and gym. As he hit the ground, a woman locking her car turned and gaped at him. He straightened up, gave her a polite smile and was on the move again, his ankles protesting at every step.

  At the bottom of Clifton Park Road he went left, checking in both directions for Morton or the cars. Still nothing. He crossed the road and turned right. Now he was into the home straight: College Fields.

  It was a beautiful place to live, a wide, quiet street with the school’s playing fields on one side and a succession of large detached properties on the other. Big square bay-fronted villas, faced with pale Bath stone. Some had been converted to flats, but others remained as single dwellings.

  Joe’s landlord was Lindsey Bevan, a retired professor of philology. After several decades of renting rooms to students he’d become tired of the aggravation and now ran something of a cross between a modern B&B and an old-fashioned boarding house. There were two long-term residents, Audrey and William, both retired academics and contemporaries of Lindsey’s. All three tended to be effusively nice to Joe even while they bickered like children among themselves.

  Arriving in late August, Joe had negotiated an attractive deal by paying for the first two months in advance. Lindsey had been more than amenable to Joe’s offer to carry out maintenance on the property in return for use of the washing machine and other appliances.

  It wasn’t home – nowhere was home any more – but it was the best accommodation Joe had had in well over a year.

  As he approached the house, there was no traffic in sight except for a refuse lorry passing the junction on Percival Road. The playing fields were deserted. He could see nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary, and yet he felt a tingling as the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

  He slowed his pace. Directly ahead, a middle-aged woman emerged from her garden gate, a small dog scuttling beside her. She registered Joe’s presence with a sniff of disapproval, then cut across the road to avoid him. That was when he spotted the girl.

  She was standing in the road beside an ancient Peugeot hatchback, parked at the opposite kerb, almost parallel to Lindsey Bevan’s home. Probably in her late teens or early twenties, she was short but bulky, wrapped in a pink fluffy cardigan over a tight denim skirt. Spiky blonde hair with dark roots and lots of big, cheap jewellery.

  Her back was to Joe as she gazed over the roof of the car at the sports field. There was a phone at her ear, and it struck him that she was listening with an unusual intensity.

  Joe reached the boundary of Lindsey’s property. The house looked peaceful enough. Lindsey’s Volvo estate was parked on the drive, next to a brand new Seat which belonged to a German family – some distant cousin of Audrey’s who was staying for two nights.

  Before he stepped through the gates Joe took another look at the girl. At the same time she glanced round, saw him and flinched, then turned away, speaking quietly but emphatically into the phone. Joe couldn’t make out the words but the urgency, the tension in her body language, worked like semaphore: He’s here. The man you’
re hunting is here.

  Four

  JOE DIDN’T WANT to believe it, but in his gut he felt certain. They hadn’t just traced him to Bristol. They had found out where he was staying.

  If he was right, the girl must be calling them in now, which meant he wouldn’t have time to retrieve his belongings.

  He’d become accustomed to travelling light, with no more than a rucksack needed for his clothes and toiletries. He had two fake identities and kept one of them on him at all times, together with a couple of hundred pounds in cash. The other ID and the rest of his savings were inside his lodgings, as were the only personal items that meant anything to him: photographs of his daughters.

  As a natural precaution in a house he shared with strangers, Joe had made sure his valuables were well hidden. He’d stashed them in a far corner of the loft, beneath a layer of rock wool, having offered to lay fresh insulation for Lindsey. It should ensure they were safe from discovery, but that didn’t make the prospect of leaving them any easier to bear.

  He stayed on the pavement until he was level with the girl, then abruptly cut across the road. Once again she turned, instantly read the determination in his face and took a step backwards, bumping against her car.

  ‘Give me that.’ Joe grabbed her right hand, squeezing the phone from her grasp.

  She cried out and struck at him with her free hand, but he blocked it, keeping his arm raised to ward off further attack. As he brought the phone to his ear he heard Morton’s voice: ‘Stacey? You there? Stace?’

  Joe disconnected the call and lobbed the phone over the high chain link fence onto the school field. The girl launched herself at him, clawing at his face and shrieking: ‘You fucking bastard!’

  He fought off her blows, not wanting to retaliate but aware that time was running out. Grabbing her shoulders, he spun her round and trapped her against the car. Pinned her arms against her sides and clamped one hand over her mouth. She made a muffled screeching noise in her throat.

  ‘Be quiet, Stacey, or I’ll have no choice but to hurt you. Nod if you understand.’

  She bucked and writhed, trying to open her mouth enough to bite him. He tightened his grip until her resistance subsided. Finally, a nod.

  ‘I’m also taking your car,’ he said. As he moved his hand away from her mouth, she spat on his palm.

  ‘It’s my boyfriend’s. He’ll kill me—’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have got involved.’ Joe eased her round until she was facing the opposite kerb, then propelled her away from the car. She sprang back to confront him.

  ‘Danny’s gonna catch you. I hope he fucking rips you to pieces.’

  Ignoring her, Joe opened the driver’s door and got in. Fortunately, the key was in the ignition. He started the engine while fumbling for the lever to move the seat back. He caught movement in the wing mirror. The Astra had turned into College Fields and was coming up behind him.

  Joe put the Peugeot into first gear and released the handbrake. His foot was on the accelerator, itching to get moving, but then he had a better idea. He stayed where he was.

  Stacey was positioned in the middle of the road, gleefully beckoning the Astra and jabbing a finger at Joe: Here he is.

  In the wing mirror Joe watched the Astra closing in: fifty yards, forty, thirty. Slowing down, but not too much. A situation like this, he guessed the driver wouldn’t hit the brakes till the last minute, pulling up close to box him in.

  Stacey grasped that Joe wasn’t going anywhere and darted towards the car, her face contorted with hate.

  ‘Fucking dead now, you are!’

  That was when Joe put his foot down. The Peugeot lurched away from the kerb just as the Astra was about to draw alongside. Stacey was sandwiched between the two cars.

  In other circumstances Joe might have been concerned for her well-being. Right now he couldn’t care less. As he moved diagonally into the road she leapt back, straight into the Astra’s path. The driver reacted on pure instinct, swerving right to avoid her. He was already braking hard, and the violence of the turn sent him skidding across the road. The Astra mounted the kerb and struck a stone pillar that marked the entrance to Lindsey Bevan’s driveway.

  The impact was like a bomb going off. The Astra’s bonnet crumpled, a burst of steam escaping from the punctured radiator. Both front tyres had deflated, and that was good enough for Joe. It meant the Astra was out of the game.

  Reaching the junction with Cecil Road, he looked left and saw the Granada speeding towards him. Danny Morton was back in the passenger seat, howling at the driver as he spotted his quarry.

  Joe went right and accelerated as best he could. There were deep grinding noises as he moved through the gears, and the Peugeot’s engine didn’t sound too healthy. He willed it not to give up the ghost on him in the next few minutes.

  From a tactical standpoint he knew it made little sense to keep the car. It was no match for the Granada’s speed or power. Right now that advantage was negated by the terrain: short residential streets with frequent junctions. But if Joe tried to find a route out of the city in the Peugeot he would soon be outrun.

  He took the next right, College Road, then left into Guthrie Road. The suspension groaned. He felt the tyres struggling to gain traction. The noise and the speed attracted anxious looks from a group of women pushing buggies along the pavement. He was skirting the grounds of Bristol Zoo, which meant these streets had a much higher concentration of pedestrians: a lot of scope for tragedy should either car lose control.

  But he was committed now. There was no option but to keep going.

  The Granada missed Joe’s turn. It had to brake and reverse, while Joe raced past the zoo and took another quick right, slamming his own brakes on at the last second when he saw a motor scooter approaching. The back wheel of the scooter had barely cleared his path when Joe sped forward. The Granada was closing in fast.

  A left into All Saints Road, and Joe almost rammed a car that was double-parked on the corner. He managed to swerve round it, but in straightening up the Peugeot fishtailed and the offside rear scraped against a skip, making a noise like fingernails on a blackboard. A couple of builders ran into the road and watched, slack-jawed, as he accelerated away. In his rear-view mirror Joe saw the Granada looming up behind them and he winced, bracing himself for a terrible impact.

  If Danny Morton had been at the wheel he probably would have ploughed into the builders, but his driver was slightly more merciful, leaning on the horn until the two men jumped out of the way. The Granada slowed, giving Joe a few more precious seconds. Now he had to make that time count.

  All Saints Road was another quiet, leafy residential street. It ran straight for a couple of hundred yards, then gently curved to the right. By the time he reached the bend Joe had managed to coax the ailing Peugeot up to sixty miles an hour: an insanely reckless speed.

  Thankfully the road was clear. The junction with St John’s Road was coming up fast. Tall trees and a four-storey building obscured his view before the turn, but he knew he would have to take a calculated risk.

  He worked the brake, slowing to fifty, then forty, then he changed down to second gear and went back to the accelerator, the engine screaming as the Peugeot lurched onto the wrong side of the road. St John’s Road was now dead ahead. A car passed from left to right, but there was nothing coming in the other direction.

  Praying it stayed that way, Joe steered a wide arc to take the junction without reducing his speed. The Peugeot slithered and squealed its way around the corner. Joe was glad of the noise – the ‘calculated’ part of the risk being that anyone travelling along St John’s Road would hear him coming and take avoiding action.

  The only traffic heading north was a cyclist, a young man wearing thick glasses and a lime-green helmet, wobbling to a halt just a few feet short of the junction. Joe raised a hand, not in thanks, but gesturing towards All Saints Road in warning: There’s another one coming.

  In a concession to the rules of the road, Jo
e flicked on the right indicator, kept the car in second gear and braked a little more before his next turn: into the car park for Clifton Down railway station. As he turned he checked the mirror and saw the Granada nosing out of All Saints Road, the bewildered cyclist mercifully still intact just beyond it.

  The car park was long and narrow, on a steep downward slope, with parking bays on the right-hand side and the entrance to the station at the bottom of the hill. Joe threw the Peugeot into the first vacant space and jumped out, leaving the key in the ignition.

  He sprinted down the hill, attracting odd looks from a group of students loitering outside the Roo Bar. Once past the pub he veered left, staying close to the boundary wall. He was now in another car park, this one reserved for the university; more importantly, he was out of sight of anyone in the public car park.

  Breathless, he couldn’t help but slow his pace as he ran up the slope. At the top he glanced back and saw the Granada parked behind the Peugeot. Leather Jacket was standing between the cars, hands on hips. There was no sign of Danny Morton.

  Joe emerged into Whiteladies Road, hoping he could lose himself in the lunchtime crowds around the Clifton Down shopping centre. There were lots of people about but they all gave him a wide berth. Catching his reflection in a shop window, he immediately saw why.

  He was hot and dishevelled, the grimy T-shirt clinging to his skin, his face flushed and dotted with white paint. At just under six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular physique, he looked like a sweaty, rampaging thug.

  Time for Plan B, he thought, as the ideal solution rumbled to a halt on the other side of the road. Joe darted between the traffic, took one more look to make sure Morton hadn’t caught up, then dug in his pocket for some change.

  The bus had pulled up at the stop opposite the railway station. Joe didn’t know exactly where it was heading, except that south on Whiteladies Road would carry him towards the city centre. Good enough for now.

  The cool, damp weather had caused the windows to steam up. Joe took a seat halfway back, on the driver’s side, cleared a patch of condensation with his index finger and peered through the glass.