Ivonne did her bit with the 34Ds.
‘Yes,’ I said, as the driver of the Mercedes Sprinter decided to give chase, pulling out behind me.
I floored it.
‘Ivonne, use my phone. Get the satnav up. I need to know where we are.’
The first of the lorries came parallel with the end of the exit. I drifted right to get a look behind the Mercedes Sprinter and checked my wing mirror; the M3 was some two hundred metres behind the rear of the second lorry. I cut in front of the first lorry and braked hard.
The cab of the lorry tilted forward; he must have hit his brakes hard. Just what I wanted. The driving gap between the two lorries should be as good as nothing. I turned the wheel, pulled on to the hard shoulder and, momentarily, matched the speed of the lorry.
I checked all my mirrors – I couldn’t see the M3. It should have been, by now, parallel with the second lorry. And most importantly the driver of the M3 should not be able to see us on the hard shoulder.
Now came the tricky bit: I had to brake hard, but I daren’t let the driver of the M3 see me in the gap between the two lorries.
‘Here’s hoping,’ I said, and stood on the brakes. The car came to an abrupt stop. I engaged reverse, twisted in my seat and hit the accelerator.
As the speed built up, the whine of the car in reverse became excruciating. Drawing parallel with the exit ramp, I slowed and twitched the steering wheel to the right. The front end went left. I slammed the car into drive and tromped on the accelerator, centring the steering wheel.
The car flew up the exit ramp. The bend came up, I was doing sixty. I kept the power on, despite the electronics’ attempts to correct the lateral wheel slippage.
I leaned my body into the curve with my right thigh and buttock pressed hard against the seat support. The bend opened up; the car already doing eighty.
‘We’re on Carlton Road,’ Ivonne said.
‘Need to get off it.’
‘Turn right at the lights, on to Abbey Road.’
I bit my lip, hoping that the light would stay green. Speed now ninety. I willed myself not to touch the brakes.
Two hundred metres to the lights – now. Both feet on the brake pedal – the speed dropping, dramatically. But it wasn’t going to be enough.
‘Hold on,’ I yelled, trying to get the auto box to hold second gear.
I lifted off the brakes, put my foot down on the accelerator and swung the wheel right. But the lateral G-force was too much for the electronics. The back end went left. The steering went floaty. I whipped the wheel left and kept the power on. The car straightened.
‘Where next?’
‘T-junction at the bottom,’ Ivonne said. ‘Go left.’
I held the gearbox in second; the speed building. It was a wide road with two lanes in each direction. There was a pickup truck in the outer lane in front of me, I crossed the white line, in the face of the oncoming traffic, and whipped past the truck.
I checked my mirrors – good, no sign of the M3.
‘Are we anywhere near Talbot Street?’
Ivonne looked at the GPS display on the phone. I glanced across at it.
I looked back at the road. ‘Oh shit.’
A flatbed lorry had pulled into the outside lane. Automatically, I slammed on the brakes and hit the horn. I wasn’t going to be able to stop in time, and there was no room in the oncoming lane.
The driver of the flatbed lorry swung hard left to avoid me. I saw its left-side rear tyres lift. Would it won’t it? It was on its way. I put my foot back on the accelerator. There was only one option; surge around the lorry before it tipped on its side.
I swerved across the white line. A Ford Mondeo veered left avoiding a collision. I was now right beside the flatbed lorry. One look at its cargo and I pressed down harder on the accelerator – the lorry was carrying bags of gravel strapped on to pallets. As I cleared the back of the lorry, I saw the first bags break loose. A look in the mirror confirmed the lorry’s fate; it was beyond the point of no return with bags of gravel falling and bursting on to the road.
‘Lucky escape,’ Ivonne said.
‘And not so lucky. Once the M3 gets off the ring road that overturned lorry will be a dead giveaway.’
‘See what you mean,’ Ivonne said, glancing into the nearside mirror. ‘And we’re still only halfway to Talbot Street.’
I closed my eyes for a split second in despair.
‘The ring road is the quickest option.’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I can’t hack that again. The speeds . . . it’s just too scary.’
‘You’re doing great,’ Ivonne said. ‘We’ll make it.’
‘Thanks.’
The fast approaching T-junction forced me to brake hard. I dropped into second gear and surged left.
‘We’re now on Quay Street,’ Ivonne said.
‘Doesn’t look good. Loads of traffic lights.’
I kept the power on anyway, racing towards the first set of lights which were red. Damn, the light stayed red. I braked and was still doing forty when the light changed with one car in front of me. I had the speed and stamped down on the accelerator, crossed the solid-white centre line into the oncoming lane and shot across the light before any of the others cars on the road had time to move.
The manoeuvre jangled my nerves.
‘What about hiding out in one of those office blocks?’
‘And then what?’ Ivonne asked.
‘Just hide?’
‘And phone the police?’
‘No way.’
‘Tina are you being stubborn?’
‘Sometimes, but not now. If we called the police we’d have an awful lot of talking to do.’
‘But we’re good at that,’ Ivonne said, smiling at me.
‘I mean explaining. And then we don’t know how the cops will deal with the girls.’ I looked into the rearview mirror. Yana was wedged in the middle, holding on to the front seats, Maria and Olga on either side. All of them looked apprehensive.
‘And I don’t know what will happen when the police enter our names into their computer. We might end up in handcuffs.’
‘We could spin the police a good story, not tell them our names.’
‘And then clear off? Don’t think they’d fall for that.’
‘True,’ Ivonne said. ‘And even if we did get clear of the police where are we going to go? I mean you and me.’
I blasted through the next traffic light. I could see, in the distance, that the road was clogged with traffic.
‘No matter what we do that’s going to be a problem.’
‘We’ll work that one out later,’ Ivonne said. ‘But we could still hide out in one of those office blocks, at least for a while.’
‘Too late,’ I said, taking another look in my wing mirror. ‘The M3 has found us.’ There was a black car, well back, with its lights on and it was going fast.
Ivonne looked at the satnav. I decided not to do any wild overtaking stunts, instead 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, nervous 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, Tina, 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 oncoming 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. ‘Once 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 junction 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 traffic 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 li
ght 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 his 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.
Bitter Sweet Page 17