On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  Who is this man?

  She knew nothing. Nothing! Other than he was remarkably strong for his frame.

  They were in a sitting room of sorts. Sofas, chairs, a drinks cabinet … a crazy man in a cream suit.

  ‘So.’ It was him again. ‘You’re. Sam. Green. The Sam Green? I think so. Don’t you?’

  His face was animated. It was like watching a cartoon character. His voice rose and fell - pausing for effect. It was Saturday night amdram.

  Her brain spun. Gareth was dead. Probably. How does that happen? She was in the clutches of a stranger who thought he knew who she was.

  None of this makes sense.

  ‘Who are you?’ She was fed up with not knowing with whom she was dealing.

  ‘Me? Ahh. Well. That’s a bit of a puzzle. Isn’t it?’ That face again. That tone. Like a primary school teacher speaking to a child who’s about to be sent to the naughty corner.

  Then a smile. Sardonic. Definitely. Crazy. For sure.

  All of a sudden, Sam didn’t feel so good. The man had control. Complete control. Outside of that tight perimeter she was in the Mafia’s den. Surrounded by the enemy, And no good was going to come of it.

  There was movement outside in the corridor. Heavy shoes on the carpet. Male voices. Then a female one, raised. In anger. Now the voice was screaming.

  A slap across her face.

  Oi! What the …!

  ‘I’m here, Sam.’ The crazy man, Charlie. But not Charlie. Definitely not a Charlie. Not now. ‘Don’t worry about what’s going on out there. This is about you ...’ He still had the programme in his spare hand. He tapped it on her forehead. More theatrics. ‘... and me.’ That smile again. Perfect teeth.

  No, it’s not.

  The red mist came on cue. Focus was all she had. She raised her knee with a ferocity that surprised even her. As her knee connected with his groin, not-Charlie lost his smile, his mouth puckering, his eyes opening wide.

  As he crumpled, letting go of Sam’s arm, she clenched a fist and jabbed upwards towards his chin. It was another Julie Barne. She was back in the playground, escaping the bully.

  There was a connection. Bone on bone.

  Fuck, that hurt.

  Crazy man not-Charlie fell backwards, his arms out wide. Sam turned.

  Then she momentarily stopped. He was on the floor. Writhing and groaning. She reached for the guest list in his hand. And was out of the door a second later.

  She looked right. There were men. Not guests. Too casually dressed. And then there was a woman. She had just come out of the study, her arms clinging to Giorgio. Behind them was Andrea Placido. The pistol was gone.

  Giorgio, whose face was a waterfall of tears, caught Sam’s gaze.

  ‘Go! Go!’ There was no noise accompanying the shout; just a shaking of his head. A soundless warning. A secret exchange between him and her.

  Go! Go!

  There was nothing she could do. If Gareth wasn’t dead, he would be soon. The Mafia would see to that. His body in a concrete block, or at the bottom of the ocean with dumbbells around his ankles. Giorgio was being consoled by his mother. He was broken. It was over. Sam imagined him being sorted, spruced and still making the ceremony. His father would say his tears were ones of joy.

  The door opened behind her.

  It was the crazy man. Blood - and a grin. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, which was now cream and smeared red. Not a bad colour combination.

  The chase was on.

  Sam knew her way round the house. And she was quick. Quicker than crazy man, not-Charlie. She played for time. Doubled back. Hid. Ran. Just a couple of minutes or so. But enough to give her a head start on the final dash.

  The entrance hall.

  It was big. Squash court sized. There were guests. And staff. Drinks. Champagne. And a butler - Italian style. He was taking bags and the odd over-jacket. It may be warm to a Brit, but it was autumn to the locals. Vests and jackets.

  There was a door leading to a … cloakroom? Sam saw a chance.

  The butler was some feet from the door. He was helping an Italian couple with their wedding presents. There was a table festooned with them across the hall.

  Sam waited. He was heading that way, overburdened with gifts.

  She darted into the cloakroom.

  Jackets. Male ones. Pockets.

  Keys.

  The first set was a huge bunch. House keys and everything. No good.

  Next. Two keys and a leather fob, with a badge.

  Piaggio.

  Scooter.

  Perfect.

  The butler burst in.

  ‘Che cazzo?!’

  Sam didn’t need to translate.

  She pushed past him.

  ‘Scusa.’

  And she was out. Quickly, through the guests and onto the gravel courtyard.

  Stop.

  There were cars everywhere. She spotted five Maseratis.

  And, no …

  Wait.

  There was a bike, scooter. Over there.

  Two. And one to her left. They were an odd choice for a wedding reception? How Italian.

  And there.

  A back box above the rear wheel with the Piaggio motif. Thirty metres away, under the trees.

  She ran, stuffing the programme down her bra as she did.

  Shit. It was a three wheeler; an MP3. Two small wheels at the front. She’d seen commuters use them in London. They were all the rage.

  Think.

  She put the key in, turned it, releasing the handlebar lock. She tried to push it off its kickstand. It wouldn’t move. She tried again. Nothing.

  Sam glanced behind.

  Shit.

  Crazy man, not-Charlie, in the cream and red suit. On the steps. Looking.

  Think!

  There was a silver handle sticking out from the body of the front of the bike, between where her legs should be.

  What’s that?

  A handbrake?

  She forced it down - it fitted into a recess in the coachwork. She pushed the bike forward, it rocked, dropped, and it was free.

  On it.

  She glanced behind. He’d seen her. He was running.

  Think. She’d driven a moped illegally in Spain as a 15 year old kid. Borrowed from a Spanish lad who had been trying to get in her knickers.

  To start.

  Brake on the handlebars!

  Pull that, and press the start button.

  Which is …?

  Shit! Where is it?

  There!

  The MP3 turned over as not-Charlie put his hand on her shoulder. She twisted the grip and the 300cc engine shot forward … but she remained still, pivoting sideward and backwards off the bike, which twisted and fell to the floor, its motor still running.

  She was on the floor; not-Charlie was standing over her. A foot on her left shoulder - the one that pops out of its joint unnecessarily and makes her pass out.

  ‘Hello again, Sam Green. Are you in a rush somewhere?’ That look on his face again. Distorted. A touch of blood. But happy. A smile.

  Crazy.

  Who are you?

  A car pulled up. A big Audi.

  Avant. A6. All Road. 440 bhp. She couldn’t stop herself.

  Not-Charlie noticed; his face a smudge of blood and flesh. His immaculate suit no longer ready for the party. He’d have to get it changed. He couldn’t go to the wedding like that.

  A male guest got out of the car.

  ‘Cosa sta succedendo qui?’

  She had no idea.

  ‘Solo qualche problema locale.’ Not-Charlie replied.

  Still no idea.

  The guest looks confused. This wasn’t right. It was an Italian thing. A woman being held down, attacked, by a man with a bloody face. That’s not what we do. Not here.

  ‘Help me. Please. Signore. Per favore’ Sam pleads. And then she moaned. ‘Signore. Per favore.’ She moaned some more. Tears came from nowhere.

  ‘Lasciala da sola!’ The Italian
guest was stocky - and now indignant. His wife, wearing a pale hat with some feathers, came to join him. Sam sensed not-Charlie was confused. He’s used to being in control. Never questioned? It’s his exacting way, or nothing. Not anyone else’s’.

  The forks. Perfectly placed.

  And then he lost it.

  ‘Fuck off, Mussolini. This is my problem - and I’m dealing with it. Now … va via!’ Not-Charlie waved the Italian off with a hand, and then looked at Sam. ‘These locals, you know …’

  He stopped mid-sentence.

  What?

  ‘Lascia andare la ragazza.’

  Mussolini hadn’t gone anywhere. He was right beside not-Charlie; he’d be breathing down his neck if he were tall enough. Sam moved her head to get a better view, but she couldn’t see much, save the Italian with his hand and something metal on the small not-Charlies’ back.

  A weapon? Guests are obliged to come armed?

  Not-Charlie lifted his hands to shoulder height. Definitely a weapon. Sam noticed the rattle of the MP3’s engine still running a few feet from her.

  ‘Togliti il piede.’

  Nope. Still no idea.

  Not-Charlie lifted his foot from Sam’s shoulder. He backed off a little. The Italian man with the gun had the upper hand.

  She didn’t wait for any further conversation. She got up on her feet and … God this is heavy … lifted the MP3 into the upright.

  And then she was off.

  There’s something about riding a bike without a helmet, and Sam wasn’t sure she enjoyed the feeling. The MP3 was quick, and having two wheels at the front didn’t stop it from leaning into the corners. She had no experience of riding a 300cc motorbike, but she’d watched them do it in the films.

  Lean left. The bike turns left.

  Up … and lean right. The bike turns right.

  Good.

  She was five or six klicks from the house now - and she needed a plan. She should ride for half an hour and then ...

  Shit!

  Behind her. A matt black Bentley Continental GT.

  And crazy man not-Charlie. There’d be blood on the leather seats. He wouldn’t like that. Doubtless he’d have someone to clean it up.

  He was right behind her!

  She accelerated hard, the MP3 eager.

  But so was the Bentley.

  It was a huge car. Black, menacing - and quick.

  She twisted, leant, turned, accelerated and leant some more. The Bentley was a match for her. On the short straights it came so close to her rear number plate, she had to shimmy the bike for it not to knock her off.

  And then ...

  A village!

  Brake! Turn, Accelerate. The back end of the bike was trying its best to overtake the front; she had to put a foot down to stop it from falling over and throwing her onto the road..

  A narrow passage.

  The Bentley braked and spun in turn, a shower of small stones pelting a cat which hissed and leapt behind a bush.

  Sam accelerated between two walls that were narrower than the width of the Bentley. She missed a set of stone steps, washing baskets and two small boys playing football in a tiny courtyard.

  A junction.

  She braked hard and put her feet down.

  Breathe.

  Ahead was another passage too small for the Bentley. It led to another road. To her left, the same; it also led to a road. To her right. A set of stone steps leading up to a low sandstone wall … and a church.

  Movement.

  She glanced to her left again.

  The end of the passage was now Bentley driver’s door shaped. She couldn’t make out the expression on not-Charlies’ face. But she could make one up.

  Crazy.

  She looked right, turned the handlebars in the same direction and twisted the accelerator.

  It looked easy in the films. She dropped the bike twice. And there were only 35 steps. But she got to the top in one piece and put her feet down in a small patio in front of the church. The views were far reaching - over the village and across to the hills on the other side of the valley.

  And then she heard the unmistakable growl of a Bentley in a car park off to her left. He had followed her up on the road.

  Sam looked around. The church was the end of a road. There were only two ways down. The steps - which would be the death of her - or through the car park, and a face-off with the crazy man in the Bentley.

  Wait.

  There was a gap in the wall to her right. A footpath into a vineyard. The gap between the vines big enough for a man.

  She’d make it big enough for a woman on a trike.

  Sam knew she closed her eyes as she accelerated through the gap in the wall, the fibreglass footplate of the scooter scraping against rock, a piece of faring being ripped off. And she knew she hardly had her eyes open as she navigated the vines, the odd thin branch slashing at her face and drawing blood from her arms.

  But she kept the bike going. She knew the Bentley couldn’t come this way, but not-Charlie was a resourceful adversary and crazy enough to try anything.

  She pushed on …gently climbing all the way.

  Slap! Ouch. Slap, slap! Shit. Ouch.

  And then there was a break. And a stone wall. And a wooden gate.

  She was over a kilometre from the church by now. She must be in the clear?

  Stop.

  Sam pulled the trike up to the wall, which was higher than its handlebars, stepped off and pulled it back onto its kickstand. She switched it off.

  And collapsed in a heap on the grass next to the wall.

  Breathe.

  She was out of sight. There was a road on the other side of the wall. She had found some space …

  … for her mind to spin.

  Gareth was dead. She’d brought him here.

  Hadn’t she?

  To his death.

  It was her idea ...

  Breathe.

  Why did this always happen? People close to her?

  She was a plague. A menace.

  Breathe.

  But …!

  Breathe. Concentrate.

  She took out the programme from the front of her dress and opened it up at the guest list. She scanned it.

  Signor Bianchi, Signore Bianchi, …

  There were 174 guests prefixed with Signor and Signore. The 175th was a doctor: Dottor Romano.

  And there were three with English titles. Miss S Green. Mr D Cassidy - Gareth had chosen a pseudonym and went for his grandmother’s favourite singer.

  And a Mr F Derwent.

  With a cream suit, two-tone brogues and a pink shirt, sleeves sticking out the regulation length from the jacket.

  The crazy man.

  F?

  F.

  F for …?

  Shit.

  Sam shut her eyes as her world pressed in and started to disintegrate around her. Gareth was dead. Probably. Giorgio was now likely married to a woman he never wanted to wed.

  And she had just come face to face with the man who persecuted her in her dreams?

  She was sure of it.

  F was for …

  She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  But …

  … she had to push through. To think positively. To overcome. There was too much at stake.

  But …

  … she was tired. Emotionally spent. And the man in her dreams now had a face. He would be there. Every night. Without fail.

  But …

  … she knew what he looked like. She could paint a pixel-perfect photofit. And she had the Swiss registration of his matt black Bentley Continental GT.

  Grave

  Chapter 15

  McDonalds, Trafalgar Square, London

  Martin took a final slurp of his coke, put the covered cup on the table, had a flash of conscience about plastic straws - which he disregarded almost immediately - and reached for the last of the fries he’d put in the top of the Quarter Pounder box. They were only warm to the touch, whi
ch irritated him. One of the problems with thin chips was they lost their heat quickly. It was a surface area thing. That’s how radiators in cars worked. Lots of fins to dissipate the heat.

  ‘We should get a move on.’ He chirped. ‘We don’t want to miss the show.’

  He was talking to his mate, Simon, who was absently stuffing the remains of a Big Mac into his mouth, whilst staring at a girl’s arse as she made her way with a tray full of rubbish to the bin.

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Simon replied, still gawping at the girl’s backside whilst chewing mindlessly.

  Martin didn’t quite get why he’d befriended a man with an insatiable appetite for fast food and even faster women. He guessed there was a gravitational pull between the two physics majors which had something to do with the fact that they both liked board games, real ale and classic cars. And they were both in the same halls of residence at Warwick University. His pal also liked women. A lot. There was nothing he wouldn’t sleep with. Nothing. Martin wasn’t so keen on that side of his pal.

  Simon had driven them to London in his orange MGB; chrome bumpers and wire wheels, please. Nobody in their right mind drove the later version with rubber bumpers - MG having sold their soul to meet the US market’s safety requirements - and Rostyle wheels. They both agreed with that.

  He stood, put his and Simon’s packaging on his tray and walked over to the bin. Simon was left finishing his own coke.

  ‘Come on. We need to be outside the Foreign Office in 20 minutes. I want to see the whites of his eyes and hurl abuse so loud he can hear me above everyone else.’

  The arrival of the US Vice President and a clear day in both of their lecture schedules had been a fluke. It was too good an opportunity to miss. A day off, a trip to the big smoke and a chance to shout loudly at a man who was half of an administration that was driving a Greyhound bus through the future of the planet. They’d have preferred an opportunity to throw eggs at the top man, but the Vice President was the next best thing.

  Simon caught up with him as he squeezed past scores tourists all queuing up for their lunch. A few seconds later they were out on Whitehall, a couple of hundred metres from King Charles Street, He had no idea how many protesters would be at the Foreign Office. All he did know was they’d be at least two.