The Chase

by Paul Finch

  Her pursuer’s headlamps, like two luminous eyes, constantly swung into view behind her.

  ‘He killed that cop! Just walked up and shot him!’

  It was absurd, but even saying those words aloud didn’t make it seem real.

  WHUUUMP! Another blow struck the rear of her vehicle, swaying it on its shocks.

  Good God, the bastard’s shot at me again!

  The road straightened out ahead, and she floored the pedal. Darkened hedgerows rocketed by on either side. There had to be someone around here whose front drive she could park on, whose front door she could hammer down. But perhaps even that wouldn’t save her. She goggled at the rear-view mirror; he was tailgating her by only a few feet, a distance he soon closed to a few inches. His engine revved insanely; he was so close that she could see his anthracite outline hunched behind the steering wheel. He’d kept his mask on. Of course he had, because he was going to need it when he was standing over her, to create a final instant of horror as he trained his gun on her face, the zippered mouth curved in a jack-o’-lantern smile, his leather-gloved finger crooking on the trigger …

  No … dear Christ, no! Don’t think like that. You’re going to get out of this! You have to! Joe’s waiting at home for you!

  Her normal life would go on. This was nothing; a nightmare, a nasty interlude …

  With a thundering impact, he rammed her rear end.

  Alex screamed as she swerved. A glance at her speedo showed that she was doing nearly ninety. If she lost control now, she’d roll the Corsa for hundreds of yards.

  CRAAASH!

  He struck her again – he was definitely trying to force her off the road, and his vehicle was clearly more powerful than hers.

  ‘Bastard!’ she sobbed. ‘You sodding maniac bastard!’

  A T-junction loomed ahead, a road-sign nestling beneath a single streetlamp. But Alex had no time to read it; she spun to the right at heart-stopping speed, her nearside wheels bouncing over the kerb, thrashing through undergrowth. The chasing vehicle copied the manoeuvre, but fell behind a little, allowing her a proper glimpse of it in the fleeting yellow light. She thought it might be an Audi Saloon, possibly black, but she didn’t waste time trying to be sure. The road arrowed on and on through her headlights. She got her foot down again, as hard as she could, and at the same time groped behind her seat with one hand to see if she could locate her mobile, but nothing came to hand.

  The road swung left; she flung the Corsa around it, the rubbery reek again assailing her. Then it veered right, sharply, terrifyingly. Alex ducked as branches and twigs rattled along her bodywork, as the passenger side window imploded against a particularly heavy bough. The car hit a manhole and leapt like a bronco, throwing her hard against her seatbelt. She gripped the wheel for dear life, gagging with pain – only to land upright again and continue headlong, trees and bushes flickering past like speeded-up movie footage.

  And then she spotted something: a break in the hedgerow coming up on the right.

  It looked like the entrance to a drive because it was framed by stone pillars.

  A farmhouse maybe? A pub or restaurant?

  She wrenched her wheel around, the Corsa jackknifing through the narrow gap, rending and crumpling its offside flank in the process; her lovely Corsa with its handsome, metallic-green finish – it was already virtually wrecked.

  She jolted along a rugged, unmade road, hemmed in on either side by tall barbed wire fences. In the bouncing glow of her headlights, she saw a dirt surface. fringed down the centre with tussocky grass; so much for this being the entrance to an inn or restaurant. She glanced at her rear-view mirror. The gateway receded behind her, but though her pursuer’s headlamps were visible there, they were stationary, falling behind, vanishing into the dark. Did that mean the bastard knew this was somewhere she’d find help? Or was he unsure and weighing up his options? Either way it was a chance Alex couldn’t miss. She got her foot down, speeding on along the rough, narrow trail – for an entire fifty yards or so before it ended abruptly. She hit her brakes hard, the Corsa skidding forward, its tyres scarcely able to grip the broken surface.

  A closed farm gate blocked her way, chained and padlocked. Her headlamps cast stripes of light through its timber bars, showing nothing beyond but a field. A pillared gateway like that, like the entrance to some country estate – and it led to this? She craned her neck around. The track behind still lay in darkness. Sweat stood on her brow as she released her seatbelt, kicked the driver door open and clambered out. The internal light came on, but it hardly mattered – she still couldn’t see her mobile. She lugged the back door open and frantically searched the footwells, groping with both hands under the seats. It had to be here somewhere, but all she encountered were paperclips, dusty pens and scrunched toffee wrappers.

  Light fell over her.

  She jumped up, ramrod straight. The sweat chilled on her cheeks as she watched a far-off glow coalesce into two distinct but fast-approaching headlights.

  What do you expect?–For all he knows, you saw his registration number!

  She scrambled out and flattened herself against the car for shelter, even though she knew that wouldn’t save her any more than it would if she hit the deck and slid underneath. He would check down there too; he couldn’t risk not checking. Good God, she was going to die here … she was really going to die. A desperate thought came to mind: could she get away on foot? She glanced at the fences to either side. They were six feet high at least, and Alex was only five-five, plus they were made from barbed wire.

  What about the farm gate?

  It was padlocked, as she’d seen, and as high as the surrounding fences, but its bars were simple timber struts and there was no wire. The headlights grew larger at her rear. There was no option. Alex hiked her skirt to her waist and climbed. Breathless, she landed on the other side and started across the field, which was evidently a pasture because it was rutted and comprised thick tufts of grass, making her trip and stumble. She blundered ahead, gasping as exertion took hold of her. After about fifty yards, the pasture sloped downward, which helped a little. But glancing back, she now saw that the Audi had parked up behind her own. Was he wondering which way she’d gone? She prayed that he was. Perhaps this was the end of the pursuit? She might have run off in any direction. But when she looked again she saw something that iced her blood. A powerful cone of light, extending for dozens of yards, penetrated outward from the farm gate, sweeping across the field like a searchlight. It would swing in her direction imminently, and with her blonde hair and white blouse she’d be a sitting target.

  It blazed past, catching her briefly. She hurled herself full-length to the ground, tasting dirt and damp grass. The light passed on, only to flirt backward, catching her again. Alex attempted to roll away. There were two loud booms, and a couple of smoking divots were torn up where she’d just been lying. Whimpering, she scrambled to her feet and ran on, attempting to zigzag. A third boom sounded as the light briefly lost her; something whined past her ear like a wasp. Unintentionally, she went to ground again; the field had dipped steeply, and she found herself rolling down a gradient, winded and bruised, but realising in the same instant that she was suddenly out of his eye line. She came to rest on her back, and saw the searchlight beam slashing back and forth overhead.

  Panting, she threw herself on to all fours and crawled to her left. The hillside steepened steadily. He’d have to jump over the fence and follow her; that was his only solution, and he’d have to do it soon. The angle of the field now blotted out the searchlight completely; the ridge behind her was a dark shoulder smudged against the stars. She got to her feet and hurried forward, still trying to keep low but risking further backward glances.

  The cone of light reappeared, but far to her left. It was narrowing, which meant that he’d come over the fence and was advancing. She stumbled on, lungs burning, heart knocking against her ribs. Ahead, the terrain flattened out and then rose towards a second ridge. She was sure she coul
d get over it; she was running on pure adrenaline – until she got close and saw that it was actually a dyke; a steep, man-made embankment. Its apex was maybe fifteen feet above her, and crowned by another tall fence.

  Alex’s whimpers became subdued wails as she gazed breathlessly up. She could probably climb it at a push, but how close was he? She looked round again – and was shocked to see that demonic orb of light jolting its way towards her. He was some distance away, but clearly he’d picked up her trail because he was running.

  How the fuck had he located her so quickly?

  She followed the dyke rather than attempting to scale over it, and almost immediately a tunnel came into sight, leading through to the other side. Scarcely able to believe her good fortune, Alex skidded to a halt. It was a black passage, cylindrical, rimmed with brick. She could just about distinguish a circular blot of grey at the far end. She went through at speed, stumbling on stones, sliding in what presumably was cattle-dung, turning her right ankle but battling through the pain. Emerging at the far end, her eyes adjusted more quickly to the starlight, and she saw that she was in a second field, though this was smaller – more of a paddock. About fifty yards away there was another fence, and beyond that a belt of trees. Even better, a gap in the trees revealed what looked like a track winding uphill towards the straight-edged outline of a building.

  With new strength, Alex ran forward. All the time she glanced back, focusing on the black mouth of the tunnel but seeing no light pour out of it. Had he given up? If he knew there was an occupied building near here he might well have done.

  She reached the track. This too was muddy, stony and deeply rutted – probably by the passage of tractors and other farm machinery. All to the good. She hurried on, trees enclosing her from either side, but with the building firmly in her sights.

  “HELP!” she screamed. “HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE HELP!”

  It was a risk – if he’d lost her trail, she’d now draw him right to her, but letting the occupants of the house know in advance that she was coming would give them more chance to call the police.

  Except that it wasn’t a house.

  It was a barn.

  She realised this just as she reached it, the rough wooden boards with which it had been constructed emerging like phantoms through the gloom. Her first reaction was to hammer furiously on its nearest wall, crying out in despair. But then it occurred to her that it might only be one of a clutch of farm buildings. She stumbled along the side of the barn, her legs like jelly now that the adrenaline rush was flagging. The palm of her left hand stung fiercely. She glanced down and saw a gash crossing it diagonally. The whole hand was dark and sticky; fresh blood squelched between her fingers. She’d probably done it climbing over the farm gate. It would likely need stitching and a few shots, but there was hardly time to worry about that now.

  Wheezing for breath, she reached the other side of the barn, only to find no additional outbuildings save a couple of cowsheds and a gherkin-shaped silage tower. Another track led away from this, again cutting through the encircling woodland. But how far would it go on? How much more running did she have to do? Alex hadn’t done much exercise in recent years and she was now bone-weary, her body damp, cold and stiffening.

  She continued probing along the side of the barn, hoping against hope that she’d find something – a tractor, a quad bike, maybe even a tethered horse – anything she could use to affect a getaway. But all she found were two slightly open doors.

  She hesitated, peering at the darkness inside with heart pounding. She didn’t like the idea of hiding and possibly trapping herself, but running was getting her nowhere and at least if she was hiding she could rest. She sidled into a dank interior, which, though she couldn’t see it, she could sense was enormous. There was an eye-watering stink of manure, but if she poked around in here there had to be somewhere she could conceal herself. It didn’t need to be the best hiding place on Earth. This guy was surely running out of time; that cop would be missed at some point.

  She might even be able to lie low until dawn; though how far off was that? Alex wasn’t sure she could tolerate the stench in here for six minutes. Grimacing, she lurched forward, arms outstretched. Even so, she managed to miss a solid wooden stanchion, which she walked into face first. It caught her right on the nose and brought fresh, hot tears to eyes already swollen with weeping.

  Irritably, she wiped them away and glanced back. The entrance was defined by a narrow slice of darkness vaguely paler than the darkness around it. She listened, but there was no sound from outside. Satisfied, she scrabbled leftward of the stanchion, and found an upright ladder. It was firm, secured in place. Without really thinking, she began to climb. No doubt it would lead to a hayloft; there’d be no escape from up there if she was cornered. But at least she’d be looking down on him,which would give her an advantage of sorts. That said, she climbed much higher than she would have been happy with. Eventually, about sixteen feet up, she ascended through a square aperture, and clambered from the ladder onto a straw-covered shelf, though in the pitch dark she couldn’t see how far it extended.

  There were other things she couldn’t see.

  As she crawled away from the ladder, she put her hand on a small shape covered in rancid fur, which squealed and scuttled, a long, thin tail whipping her face. Alex almost choked on her efforts not to shriek. She backed away, only to find herself on the very edge of the loft. There was no barrier, just a lip over which she could easily fall. Teeth clenched, she eased herself around before glancing down, fixing on the dim oblong of the barn entrance. Again she wondered if he’d cut his losses and run. Increasingly this possibility made sense, regardless of what he thought she knew about him – he simply couldn’t afford to stick around.

  Her breathing lessened, her heartbeat slowed. She peered around the interior as her eyes gradually attuned to the darkness. It was a barn and nothing more. Yes, she could lie low here for six hours, if that was what it took. So long as it meant that he was far, far away.

  Glaring light sprang into view below.

  Banging the barn doors open, he entered, blasting his intense beam into every corner.

  At first, Alex was too frozen with shock to withdraw from view. She saw trampled mulch on the barn floor, deep corners crammed with heaps of rotted straw. Then the light flashed towards the hayloft. She catapulted herself backward, falling flat, lying as still as she could. Glimmering shafts speared through the gaps in the planking. Cluttered shadows rolled across the sloped ceiling some six feet overhead. Briefly, everything was illuminated up there, albeit in flowing, kaleidoscopic fashion. The square aperture with the ladder jammed through it; a pile of bulging bags of feed on the other side; a pair of closed double-doors some twenty feet to her right – a window with shutters, she realised. She even saw the rat again, scampering across the top of a beam bridging the interior.

  Gunfire bellowed – a chunk of wood was kicked from the beam, and the rat was blown apart, shattered into a bloody pulp of meat and fur.

  A second shot followed, a third, a fourth, pumped seemingly at random into the underside of the loft. Alex almost fainted as she lay there; on all sides fist-sized holes were punched up through the floor, splinters and straw flying, stiff rods of torchlight penetrating through. A fifth and sixth followed before he stopped.

  Beads of sweat dotted her face like ice cubes. Had he heard her moving up here, had he spotted her when he came in, or was he just trying his luck?

  There was a rapid metallic clicking, and she realised that he was reloading. Silence followed, during which she hardly dared breathe. She could picture him down there, waiting tensely, wondering if the sole witness to his crime was close at hand. A light footfall sounded, followed by another and another – and then by a hollow thud. His foot on the ladder! A second thud followed, and a third, and the ladder began creaking. She watched the top of it, fascinated to see it juddering in the torchlight …

  The torchlight!

  She sat bolt-up
right, bathed in fresh sweat but thinking quickly. He was directing the torch above him, which meant that he couldn’t be pointing his gun as well. He had to use at least one hand to climb, so the gun was in his pocket or his belt.

  She jerked into motion, clattering across the loft on her knees, clutching one of the feed sacks by two of its corners. God it was heavy – so heavy that at first she could barely move it. But he’d heard her. The thudding on the ladder became frantic. Digging her heels into the planks, she levered herself upright, her back agonised as she swung the sack around towards the aperture, releasing it at just the right second. It flew clean into the square gap and dropped. There was an immediate impact; the sound of breath gushing from a pummeled body. Another impact followed, a double one as the killer and the feed sack fell to earth together. With a crunch of glass, the light went out.

  Alex’s hair stood on end as she realised the ploy had worked.

  She scrambled to the aperture. She could see nothing down there but darkness, though she heard fumbling movement. There was a tinkle of broken glass. He was checking to see if the torch was still serviceable, and by the sounds of it, it wasn’t. That was some kind of result at least. Hope surged in her breast. Surely he’d run now? Surely? But then she heard another loud metallic snap – he’d cocked his gun. He could just keep firing, of course. Now that he knew she was up here. He could pepper the underside of the loft, blowing holes through every part of it. At some point, through sheer luck, he’d hit her.

  This, it seemed, was a night of no options.

  She toppled away from the aperture, heading to where she thought the shuttered window had been, praying that it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t – both shutters opened to her touch and she almost pitched through. She teetered on the brink, embraced by cooler, fresher air. She could vaguely distinguish the ground; but even hanging by her arms, it would be a terrible distance to drop. She might break a leg or ankle. She couldn’t believe she was contemplating such a risk, when she suddenly realised there was a rope dangling about five feet in front of her, fastened by a pulley to a projecting beam overhead. She couldn’t quite reach it. But behind her, feet again slammed on the ladder.