Bitter Sweet (20 page)

Ivonne looked at the satnav. I decided not to do any wild overtaking stunts, instea
d deciding to stay hidden with the flow of the traffic. The fact that my car was metallic-topaz blue did not help; silver or black would have blended in better with the other cars on the road.

Ivonne looked up. ‘Not this light, but the next, go right on to Canal Street. Don’t know if it’s any better, but it sweeps left and then runs parallel to this one.’

I didn’t like the idea of turning right; the car in its full blue glory would be highly visible in the turn. Staying on Quay Street wasn’t an option, there was lots of traffic ahead and I preferred to be able to keep on the move. If we got boxed in, Erjon’s thugs might have the opportunity to bust open the car doors.

‘Bollocks.’ The light turned red in front of me. I braked to a stop at the white line. A pedestrian light and there wasn’t even a pedestrian on it. Who the hell programmed the phasing of these lights? Must be an absolute moron.

I checked my mirrors and the road ahead, nobody watching, no cameras and no police. I crossed the light on red. The light ahead for Canal Street was green. There were three cars ahead of me, none of them indicating right. The oncoming traffic cleared the light. I put on my indicator and upped the speed. Wouldn’t-you-know, the light changed to orange. I floored it and just made it, the electronics correcting the back wheels as I powered right into Canal Street.

Thirty zone – not
good, and cars parked on both sides of the road. What if a kid or a dog ran out between the cars? Nightmare.

I pushed the speed up to fifty, constantly scanning the pavements, my left foot hovering over the brake pedal.

My phone rang. Ivonne answered; it was Mike. I told Ivonne to get him to phone back on her phone; we needed mine for the satnav.

Mike phoned back; he wanted to know where we were. Ivonne gave him our position. Then he told her the bad news; Erjon was no longer in Bedford Street and it seemed as if he was, generally, moving in our direction.

Mike pleaded with Ivonne to turn ourselves into the police; he’d make sure we’d get the best legal counsel in the city. Ivonne told him that we’d already considered the police. She added that with the M3, again, only minutes behind us that possibility just did not add up. Erjon’s thugs would snatch the girls before the police had a chance to intervene.

‘Ivonne,’ I said, interrupting. ‘I need you on the satnav.’ I could now see the M3 on Canal Street, well back, but drawing closer.

Ivonne said goodbye to Mike.

I pressed down harder on the accelerator. ‘They’ve found us,’ I said. ‘Give me some options.’ The canal ran along the right-hand side of the road, limiting my ability to manoeuvre if the need arose.

A big long section of road lay ahead with no streets off to the left. I overtook two cars. I was doing seventy and the speed was rising. I could hardly scan the pavements fast enough, trapped between my dread of someone wandering out on to the road and the need to stay ahead of the M3.

Approaching a street on my left, I touched the brakes, nervo
us about totalling ourselves with some car joining the street.

‘No,’ Ivonne said. ‘Keep going.’

Back on the accelerator. Helter-skelter, eighty-miles-per-hour down a built-up street in a thirty zone.

‘There’s a bridge coming up on the right,’ Ivonne said. ‘Take it.’

‘How far?’

‘Half a mile.’

I pressed down on the accelerator, speeding up to the hundred. The parked cars on either side of the road flashed past in a blur.

A street came up on my left. I eased the speed back and shot past doing eighty. A look in the mirror gave me a jolt; a car
had crept out of the side street and stuttered to a halt. The sight had all the hallmarks of a granny-driver who’d mucked up the gear change. The M3 had to brake hard; the driver pumping the horn. The granny car didn’t move or couldn’t. And I didn’t have the time to watch the outcome.

‘Brake now,’ Ivonne said. ‘On your right.’

I could just make out the bridge behind the rows of parked cars and tramped down on the brakes. With the speed down to twenty, I spun the wheel hard right. One glance told me the bridge was clear and I floored it.

‘Hold on,’ I yelled, realising too late that it was a hump-back bridge. ‘May as well,’ I said, keeping my right foot down.

The car went airborne and landed nose-down with a crunch. Front spoiler I guessed, but nothing rattled or banged.

‘Go, go, go,’ Ivonne said.

I pressed my right foot down. Somehow, she’d sensed my unwillingness to charge along at lethal speeds.

‘Straight down this road,’ Ivonne continued.

I zipped across the solid-white line into the oncoming lane and took out five cars in one go.

‘Good girl, T
ina, keep going.’

I zoomed up behind the next gaggle of cars and crossed into a right-turn-only lane to overtake them.

‘Well done, you’re halfway there.’

Cars and vans began to hinder our progress and I was glad of the chance to reduce our speed.

‘Tina,’ Ivonne said, reprovingly. ‘No slowing down. Get out there and overtake.’ 

I flexed my fingers on the wheel and jinked right getting a look at the oncoming traffic, floored the accelerator and popped in front of another car.

‘Good, next one,’ Ivonne said.

Twice more I crossed the solid-white line into the onco
ming lane before Ivonne said; ‘Go left.’

‘That takes us back on to the ring road
,’ I said, reading the signpost.

‘You got it.’

‘But I’m not going back on to the ring road.’

‘You are!’

I braked anyway. ‘I said I’m
not
going back on to the ring road.’

‘Just two junctions and you’ll be off it again.’

‘Okay.’ I turned the wheel to the left and dropped into second gear, powering around the corner.

‘Just keep going,’ Ivonne said. ‘O
nce you’re off the ring road it’s only half a dozen streets to Talbot Street.’

With my foot flat on the floor the car surged up the ramp for the ring road. A look over my shoulder told me that nothing had changed; the ring road was chock-a-block with traffic. At least the M3 wasn’t right on my tail; it had struggled to catch up having been impeded by the granny in the stalled car.

I zoomed along the slip road, hunting for a gap in the traffic. A slot opened up in front of a plumber’s van; I took it, immediately concentrating on my wing mirror searching for a gap in the outside lane.

‘Forget that,’ Ivonne said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Use the hard shoulder.’

I jinked left, had a look at the hard shoulder, put my hazard lights on and floored it. We hurtled along, at one hundred and forty, zapping past the traffic on our right. Luckily, the road circled to the left, the bend hiding us from view.

We flew towards the first junction. At the last possible moment, I slowed and popped into a gap on the dual carriageway.

Ivonne’s phone rang; it was Mike asking for an update on our position. Ivonne gave him the j
unction number of the ring road. This sparked another impassioned plea for us to seek the protection of the police as Erjon was now only one mile from our current position.

Ivonne told Mike that I was doing a great job and that we’d make it to Talbot Street.

After passing the exit, the traffic slowed as vehicles flowed on to the ring road. As soon as I could, I nipped back on to the hard shoulder and racked up the speed.

Slowly I was beginning to feel confident that we’d make it to Talbot Street and the refuge. I had not glimpsed the M3 – that didn’t mean that it wasn’t back there.

Our exit came into view. It was a sharp left-hand bend, single file, crash barriers on either side and clogged with traffic. I stayed on the hard shoulder until I was forced to take the exit ramp. The traffic came to a standstill. There was still one hundred metres of dual carriageway on my right; I popped across, shot forward and forced my way back in, exactly at the spot where the exit ramp narrowed to single file only. I was blocked in to the left and to the right by the crash barriers, and from the front and to the back by traffic.

From here I could see why the t
raffic wasn’t flowing; a red light. It changed to green. The traffic moved forwards. I counted the cars going through the light – only eight before it turned back to red. A quick count of the cars in front told me that I wasn’t going to get through the next green light.

‘Not good,’ Ivonne said.

‘Bleedin’ red lights.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. We’ve got company again.’

I looked into my wing mirror and groaned.

The M3 had reached the end of the hard shoulder. With a sinking feeling, I watched it perform exactly the same manoeuvre I had just done. It muscled its way on to the dual carriageway, shot forwards and forced its way on to the exit ramp a mere ten cars behind us.

The light changed to green. I counted the cars going through, willing them to move smartly. The light changed back to red – just one car between us and the light. If only he had gone through, but he hadn’t, and we were now stuck with no way of going backwards or forwards.

The passenger door of the M3 opened.

‘Oh, shit.’

‘Real nasty,’ Ivonne said.

This time there was no leather jacket, just the jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt with Armani emblazoned on the front.

I selected R
and reversed left as far as possible, before spinning the wheel to the right. If the car in front were to edge sideways, I might just be able to squeeze past.

The Armani-T shirt was now running towards us.

I flashed the lights at the car in front and pumped the horn. The driver looked up. I waved my hand trying to make him understand that he should move to the left. Dumb and dumber, he just shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the light.

I clicked the locks closed.

I reversed left again, spun the wheel to the right trying to gain as much room as possible. If only that ass in front would shift left, only a bit would be enough. I charged forwards, flashing the lights. Aggression didn’t work – the idiot was now gawping at the Armani T-shirt running towards us.

The T-shirt reached the near-side back door, grabbed the handle and pulled.

Finally, the car in front, the driver with his mouth open in surprise, jerked forwards only to stall. The T-shirt was shouting at the girls in the back; they sat frozen like rabbits trapped in a car’s headlights. I edged the car forwards – there still wasn’t enough room to squeeze past. A fist slammed into the window beside Olga, she screamed.

The car in front shuddered as the driver turned the ignition. Yes! The engine sprang into life.

The T-shirt slammed his fist into the window again, still shouting at the girls. I centred the steering wheel anticipating the chance to floor it, if the driver in front ever got moving. The Armani T-shirt pulled at the door handle and kicked the side of the car.

The car in front jerked forwards. I shot through the gap and spun the wheel to the left. The T-shirt kept up h
is verbal abuse whilst pulling a phone out of his pocket, and then ran back to the M3, the phone clamped to his ear.

‘A real nasty piece of work,’ Ivonne said.

‘Did you see his eyes? He had that look you see in photos of criminals, and I mean the real hard-line criminals – the gangland hard men.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Ivonne said, pointing towards a street on the right. ‘That way.’

I took the corner at speed, the sight of Erjon’s thug had given me renewed impetus to drive fast, come what may.

Now on Faraday Road, the opportunities to overtake or to wind the speed up were as good as nil. I was on one of the city’s older roads with no bus lane, just a single carriageway which was congested in both directions. Forced to flow with the traffic my brain was no longer fully absorbed with driving and I connected two facts. Firstly, Mike had informed us whilst we were on the ring road that Erjon was only about a mile away. Secondly, after getting clear at the traffic lights, the thug had not immediately run back to the M3, but had instead brought out his phone. That meant that the thug had been relaying the direction we had taken to Erjon.   

‘Ivonne,’ I said, concerned. ‘Phone Mike right now, we need to know where Erjon is.’

Ivonne dialled and was told that Erjon was on Spencer Street.

‘Where is that?’

‘Four streets north of here,’ Ivonne said, consulting the GPS on my phone.

‘Keep Mike on the line. He’s to tell us the moment Erjon moves.’

Ivonne relayed the request and put the phone on hands free.

‘Is Erjon closer to the refuge on Talbot Street than we are?’

Ivonne’s fingers skimmed back and forth over the phone’s display. ‘No, he’s about equidistant.’

‘Tell me exactly.’