Liberation Day (43 page)

Lotfi was lying by the pit, a few feet from Goatee. Both were curled up, both leaking blood.

Sunlight poured in through the gap underneath the shutter. Shots ricocheted off the steel as Lotfi crawled over to the
hawallada
. I screamed at him, “No, let’s go, let’s go!”

He’d gotten on top of Goatee and was forcing the pistol into his face. Fuck him, we’d never get him to the DOP anyway. “Just do it, let’s go—come on!
Come on!
”

He looked over at me, his face covered with blood.

“Come on! Do it! The window!”

Sirens wailed. Rolling off Goatee, he lifted the pistol to fire at Van Man, who was still at the shutter, but he was in shit state; it would be a waste of rounds, and he knew it.

The weapon came down as I moved to the cover of the Portakabins, my head swimming, vision blurred, eyes wet with pain. “Come on, kill him,” I croaked. “Let’s go!”

We had to get out of there before the police threw a cordon around the complex.

Lotfi hauled himself onto his knees, clutching his stomach. “Take him, take him now…”

He was still scarily calm.

“Fuck him. Let’s go!”

“No, I need revenge, you need the
hawallada
.”

He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Baldilocks, firing two rounds into him as soon as he was close enough. One exited his head at an angle and ricocheted off the ramp.

As he headed for Van Man, I shuffled forward and got hold of Goatee by the feet, dragging him behind the Portakabin. His head bounced on the concrete as he tried to keep his hand over the gunshot wound in his stomach. His black shirt, wet with blood, glistened in the sunlight.

I stopped at the toilet door. I couldn’t catch my breath, everything was too painful. But I had to keep dragging. Somehow, I got to the window. Blood streamed from my mouth as I bent down and tried to get Goatee onto my shoulder.

I had to get on my knees to do so, then haul myself upright on one of the urinal pipes. He gave a whimper as I stopped to cough up and spit out another mouthful of blood, before trying to shove him out through the window.

53

H
e fell out of the window headfirst, gasping in pain as his shins scraped against the metal rim of the frame, before he hit the ground with a crump and a muffled cry.

I followed, trying to keep my weight off my chest as I wormed my way through, fighting to stop myself shouting with pain. I finally tumbled down beside him on the dried mud of the track. Sirens wailed in the distance. I got to my knees, trying to suck oxygen into my lungs without moving my ribs. Every intake of breath still felt as if I were being stabbed. I was sweating all over, the pulse throbbing heavily in my neck.

On my knees, I lifted Goatee by the armpits, manhandling him back onto my shoulder. I struggled to get myself upright, using my legs to push, and my free hand to claw my way up the wall. I tried to take deeper breaths, but the effort just made me cough up more blood that in turn blocked my nose.

As I stumbled toward the train tracks and Lotfi’s Focus, the sound of sirens got closer, coming down the road behind me and following the river.

I made my way to the end of the building and peered around it, toward the factory entrance. The white police patrol car was blocking it. The Lexus had smashed into its rear, spinning it around in its attempt to get away, and ending up off toward the farmhouse in the right-hand corner.

I couldn’t see any sign of the black-leather brothers, but the three policemen were ducking up and down on the far side of the patrol car. Their main attention was toward their left and the farmhouse area.

Lotfi appeared in the open ground, staggering toward the police with his weapon dangling in his hand. They started screaming orders at him as he made his way slowly toward their line. He was buying me time to get away. The gap between this building and the next was about two yards; after that I’d be in cover right down to the train tracks. He raised his hands as more orders were screamed at him, but held on to the pistol. He moved forward, blood drenching his clothes, taking his time to come level with the Lexus, making sure they were following his every move.

Would they spot me as I crossed?

Lotfi moved to the right.

I tried to fill my lungs, adjusted Goatee on my shoulders as Lotfi moved to the right, toward the farmhouse, firing at the black-leather brothers who were over there somewhere, firing back.

I went for it.

Sirens seemed to be coming from everywhere. I couldn’t tell if I’d been seen or not as I crossed. It didn’t really matter. All that did was getting to the car.

I lurched along the path, a stone building to my right and the brick wall to my left, bumping into both. My vision was blurred; I was feeling dizzy, I needed more oxygen, but it just hurt too much to fight for it. I heard a fusillade of shots from the police that seemed to last forever. If it meant they were still shooting at Lotfi as he ran out of rounds and went at them with his bare hands, I could only hope his end came quickly.

The track disappeared into a cutting, which was lined on both sides with bushes and caked with soda cans and cigarette packs. The cutting was no more than five or six yards deep on each side, but that would be enough to hide Goatee in while I went to get the Focus.

I scrambled and slid down toward the train tracks. Goatee was making spasmodic attempts to free himself, but they only lasted a few seconds. He lost it once more and slumped onto me. I could feel his blood soaking into my tar-covered sweatshirt and mixing with my own sweat. His beard rubbed against my right forearm as I struggled to keep him in position.

Signs that probably said “Do not cross here” were nailed up to warn users of the dangers of this rat run. I picked my way carefully over the stone bedding, then crossed the tracks. My nose was still blocked, and by the time we were on the far bank my mouth was full of blood again, making it hard to breathe.

I couldn’t muster the strength to get him up the other side of the embankment. I tried, but we fell together onto the dry earth path just a yard up the bank. Sirens were directly above us, on the road beyond the station. It was decision time.

I lay there in much the same condition as Goatee, both on our backs and desperately trying to take in oxygen. He mumbled to himself, then screamed out. I swung a clenched fist to make him shut up, hitting him somewhere in the face. I wasn’t too sure where, because my eyes were still wet and blurred, but it seemed to do the trick.

I rolled onto my front and crawled over him, leaving him where he was, and headed slowly up the bank, finally coming level with the cracked and potholed asphalt of the packed parking lot. The station itself, a dirty cream brick building, was immediately to my right. I lay there for a minute, fighting for breath, and against the pain that each breath brought with it. Blood continued to pour out of my mouth each time I coughed.

Craning my neck around the tires of the car nearest me, I spotted the Focus, parked facing the road about fifteen yards away, its tailgate toward me. People had stopped, trying to see what was happening, and were getting on their cell phones to tell their friends about all the excitement. More police cars swooped into the area, one passing left to right on the main road.

There was nothing I could do to hide myself. I just had to go for it, and get us both into the Focus before there was no way out.

It was fuck-it time again. I got up and staggered toward the black station wagon, squinting in the sunlight, trying to walk upright and stop myself coughing, and failing at both.

I burped up some more blood and spit it out. I was going to need to control my breathing soon, and McDonald’s came to my rescue. A garbage can to my right was overflowing with McDo burger containers and grease-stained brown paper bags. I picked one up, tipped out the used napkins and ketchup packets, and shoved it into my back pocket.

It was then that I heard the gentle thwack of rotor blades up above me somewhere. I couldn’t be bothered looking up, just focused instead on the car.

The glare of the sun made my eyes water even more as I bent down and started to pull at the thin rectangular license plate. With the key and fob in my hand, I pulled myself upright to go around to the driver’s door, and found myself face-to-face with a skinny, middle-aged black woman with a freckled face and multicolored dress. She stood on the pavement by the Focus with two bags of shopping. She just opened her mouth and stared at my bloodstained, tar-streaked sweatshirt, and at the blood and snot all over my face.

54

T
he fourways flashed as I hit the key fob. I grinned at her like an idiot, not having a clue what to say.

Half-climbing, half-falling into the driver’s seat, I settled for a smiley
“Bonjour,”
and, to my amazement, she just replied in kind and continued walking. Maybe she saw guys like me every day around here.

I closed the door on the stifling heat and smelly plastic of the interior and started the engine, checking the fuel gauge as I did so. It was just over three-quarters full. Good skills—he’d filled up at every opportunity.

I tried to turn my head to find the closest gap to the path, but the searing pain in my chest made me think again. I couldn’t get a lungful of air. It seemed to be going into my mouth all right, in short sharp gasps, but nothing would go down. I was starting to hyperventilate.

I reached into the back of my jeans, pulled out the McDo bag, and got it over my nose and mouth. With both hands cupping it in position, I concentrated on breathing slowly in and out a few times, puckering my lips. It was a bit shuddery, but I managed to get at least half-lungfuls before holding my breath for just a second, then exhaling slowly.

Leaning forward over the steering wheel with the bag over my face, I repeated the cycle. My eyes flashed up as a red
pompiers
ambulance passed me on the main road. This just wasn’t happening quickly enough. I was fighting to draw oxygen, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. And then, painfully slowly, I started to succeed. The bag collapsed halfway, then filled out again. It was a big effort and took me several attempts, but at last I got things under some kind of control. That was all I could do for now; I really needed more time if I were to get my breathing back to anything like normal.

I reversed the Focus out of its space, scraping it along the Peugeot next to me, and continued backing into the gap nearest to where I’d left Goatee. The heels of my hands stung as the raw skin ran over the hot plastic of the steering wheel, smearing it with blood.

Leaving the engine idling, I got out once more, opened the tailgate, and scrambled down the bank. He’d shifted onto his side, and was curled up in pain. I got him onto my shoulders once more, and began to work my way up the bank. His weight pressed against my lungs as I moved up the hill, and I couldn’t stop coughing.

Still more sirens—in the distance, but closing in.

When I finally got on to level ground, I felt like cheering. I reached the car and tipped Goatee into the trunk just as the helicopter closed in. There was next to no resistance from him as I pushed and bent his legs to fit him in. I checked that the back tray came down flat and closed the tailgate, pushing down on whatever part of him was in the way until he moved it. Back in the driver’s seat, I got the bag over my mouth once more, trying to regulate my breathing before I made my move. My eyes were still watering, my head banged, everything was blurred.

The quickest way out of the city was north into the mountains. I turned the ignition and rolled out of the parking lot. The sun was still fairly high and to my left.

To help relieve the pain, I had to lean my body left or right rather than turn the wheel with my hands. I caught sight of my face in the rearview mirror: I was really messed up. I screwed it up further to try to keep the sweat out of my eyes as I moved into the traffic.

I continued out of the city, concentrating on the road ahead as best I could. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve didn’t seem to make much difference. Goatee found another little burst of energy, kicking out at the back and screaming, then went quiet again.

The road narrowed and we were soon climbing steeply. The pain in my chest was too bad for me to change gear, and I had to stop in a turnout to let a small convoy of cars pass before they got terminally annoyed at my snail’s pace. I used the opportunity to take controlled breaths into the bag, the paper inflating and deflating like my lungs weren’t.

I didn’t know where I was, but the sun was still to the left of me. I was definitely moving north. There was no way I was going to take the risk of driving back into the city, just to get onto the main drag that I knew led directly to Villefranche. I was going to do it cross-country.

I stayed in the turnout for maybe ten minutes, breathing into the bag. Now that I had time to do it properly, I was able to breathe back in the carbon dioxide that I needed in my blood to relieve the symptoms. Willpower alone wouldn’t have done the job: I needed the bag to break the cycle of hyperventilation. I knew I must be in shit state for this to be happening.

Breathing a lot better but still in small gulps, I thought about how I was going to get to the DOP. From here, I knew that as long as I kept the sun on my left, to the west, the coast would be behind me. I’d take a right at the first opportunity, and head east, with the sun behind me, paralleling the coast. That way I’d be able to bypass the city. When I took another right, heading south, I’d eventually hit the sea. With luck, I’d be able to figure myself out from there.

I rejoined the road, keeping in first gear, only shifting up into second when the engine was screaming. There was another outburst from Goatee in the trunk and I turned on the radio to drown the noise. It was monotonous, rapid dance music, but at least it was louder than he was.

Even if I got Goatee successfully to the DOP, I didn’t know what I was going to do next. There was no way I could go to a hospital. No identification, no money, no nothing—I’d be picked up in minutes. What had happened down in the industrial complex would be a massive deal, even for such a rough
banlieue
. The police heli was up: they’d be looking for runners. TV and radio would carry saturation coverage any minute.