Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12

by Weekend in Weighton (mobi)

  Not that I looked forward to seeing Bugg on a Sunday afternoon, either. Or ever again, if you want the actuality.

  Under my plan, while Kate made parley with Hobbs, I intended to stay blessed and stay out of trouble. Well, that’s what I told her. Actually, I needed to work on plan B. “B” bein’ for Bob.

  Aside from an over-generous pension, Bob’s other essential police benefit was to fix the rota so he was off on Sundays. Nothing religious in it for Big Bob, just Sunday lunch and live footy on the telly. So I knew he’d be home, and I figured a quick sortie to his downtown plod-à-terre would buy me some back-up.

  The grand plan was afoot, and with Kate carrying out most of the execution, what could go wrong?

  Back at Northside Comp the good news kept coming: my bike still stood where I’d left it. Sunshine glinted off its lime green frame, winking at the pair of us as we strolled across the playground. Before we reached the far railings, Kate stopped and looked around.

  ‘I didn’t realise the memories this place would bring back,’ she said, mid-twirl.

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘Both.’ She shrugged. ‘And everything in between.’

  ‘I’m in between, right?’

  ‘That you are.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘You remember that silly game we used to play? Where we only spoke in song lyrics?’

  I smiled and nodded.

  ‘You could keep it going until home time,’ she went on.

  ‘Those were the days my friend.’

  Kate boomed out a natural laugh. ‘I thought they’d never end.’ She reached out a hand to touch mine, her thumb rubbing the inside of my palm. ‘What would’ve happened do you think, if … you know, I hadn’t left?’

  I looked over at the windows of what had been my first form classroom. Only bad memories there. ‘It don’t do to dwell. The past is another pub. Isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘Not ‘til you just said it.’

  I squeezed her hand. ‘I hate to break up the reverie, Kate, but my bike needs me. And we have a timetable that makes NASA’s shuttle launch look like an open mic night.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, pulling away.

  I hadn’t noticed before, but as she turned, I saw her eyes were like sinking boats.

  ‘It will be all right,’ she said, ‘won’t it?’

  I tried on a brave face for size. ‘Hey, it’s me we’re talking about. It’s a sure thing, Cupcake.’

  ‘There you go. That’s all I needed to hear.’ She started to walk backwards. ‘Be careful, Ed.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  I treated her to a heavy metal salute, turned, and sprinted for my bike.

  As me and my Superlight left the playground, I thought back to my yearbook entry: man most likely to pull an exuberant wheelie. To fulfil the prophecy I hauled up the front wheel and powered onto the pavement. Hi ho silver.

  ~

  I decided to stick to the disused rail line that curved through Weighton. Not only was it quiet, but it would deposit me near Weighton Castle, and only a few streets from Bob’s place. Having gone as far as I could on the cycle path, I joined the traffic on City Road, sticking to the nearside and cruising to a halt at the traffic lights. Alongside me I noticed a black Range Rover. Every quark in my body told me not to look but an impulse made my head swivel. My beat-up blues came eyeball to eyeball with the front passenger. That’s when my Cherokee tom toms began pounding. Different car, same maniac.

  On seeing me, Tommy’s face contorted. He propelled his car door at my Santa Cruz, missing by a nano margin.

  There’s a time to stand and a time to pedal. With a front wheel power lift, I pedalled through the red light and into the traffic joining from the right. A switch to the inside lane allowed a near suicidal squeeze through the onrushing metal, splicing two cars. Horns blared, creating a fanfare for the common cyclist.

  Behind me, I heard the squeal of Range Rover tyres as it began its wheelspin pursuit.

  Without looking back, I pedalled like a demon, arriving at the Castle roundabout in seconds. A surge took me onto the roundabout, scattering cars as I went. I leaned to my left and squeezed the back brake, skidding into the middle. Having straightened up, I felt the wind rush of a car coming close by. With a sideways glance, I spotted the Range Rover accelerating towards my front wheel. I grabbed the front brake lever and threw my weight up, forward, and to the left, nailing a starboard pivot turn. Another power lift took me off the tarmac and onto the concrete centre of the roundabout. I stopped halfway over, just to check Tommy’s driver was going the long way around. He was. I applied a huge kick to the right pedal and hurled my front wheel in the opposite direction. Three full-power revolutions, followed by a huge bunny hop, took me over the “Weighton Welcomes Careful Drivers” sign and back into the roundabout traffic.

  A white Transit van broke hard to avoid me as I darted across the oncoming traffic and crested the second exit into the castle car park. Without slowing, my pinpoint steer took me and the bike between barrier and bollard. I got to the furthest edge of the car park and flicked over the kerb onto the grass, racing alongside the castle walls. At the far end of the castle I pulled up at the sandstone steps that dropped down to the river. A quick gander over the drop confirmed a clear descent. Glancing behind, I saw Tommy’s Range Rover in a four wheel drift as it completed a three-sixty of the roundabout and careered into the car park. They’d have to trade hot rubber at the bollard for cold shoe leather. Advantage Santa Cruz.

  I pushed my weight as far and low behind the saddle as I could and pointed the Superlight down the steps. Twenty heart-stopping bumps later and I was almost down. As I reached the final step, I threw my upper body forward and pushed down, giving the front suspension a violent kick. “Rock Shox” don’t fail me now. The bike sprang off the last step, cleared the path, and bounded at an angle onto the grass mound of the river bank. Keeping low on my saddle, I applied every ounce of energy to the pedals as I scorched the bank and barrelled onto the towpath.

  A big smile took my face when I saw the pedestrian bridge a few yards ahead. I turned in at full speed, a fistful of rear brake straightening my Santa Cruz onto the wooden crossing. After reaching the other side of the narrow bridge, I allowed myself a long look back. No sign of the pursuing posse.

  When you have a Superlight, a little tomfoolery goes a long way.

  ~

  I dismounted at the rear of the rowing club and rested my bike against a wooden hut. My heart was beating like a techno bass line and my scalp was a sea of sweat. So much for stayin’ out of trouble. After a few gulps of water I sat on the kerb to catch my breath. It was time to think things through.

  The manifestation of my nemesis at the traffic lights – in its vehicular form at least – had been more than an inconvenience. In retrospect, it wasn’t a red light I’d jumped, but a flashing sign proclaiming, “Here be dragons”. The timing was a bummer, too. Just when I thought it was safe, along came the great white Tommy. Either he hadn’t been reprogrammed since Jimmy’s last set of commands, or the Kingpin knew I was up to something. Was my latest run-in just a coincidence? Or were Jimmy’s goons on a “seek and destroy” mission?

  Not being a fan of coincidence, I figured a contract was out. But how could Cartwright know about the day trip to Urmston? That left my “rumble” in the Mayflower as the smoking gun. Maybe Mr C had webcams in every pub in Weighton. Even the Mayflower. Especially the Mayflower. Whatever the medium, word had clearly got back I was warming up on the side-lines, and Jimmy was already reaching for his red card.

  With the sun giving up its pre-eminence in the sky, and Jimmy’s tag team on the prowl, I was tempted to take a kip in a kayak until the appointed hour. But when it comes to back-up, no man is an island. I knew I needed an ace in the hole. I needed to see Bob. And that meant a walk on the wild side.

  Even Tommy would figure I needed to get back across the river. There was every chance he’d be waiting for me at the Old Bridge. My best option was to
double back across the pedestrian bridge, skirt the castle walls, and stash my bike near the back of the courthouse. I could tiptoe from there to Bob’s place. That was my best bet unless “Q” emerged from a secret panel with an invisibility cloak. Once at Bob’s, I knew I’d need time to break through his force field, so I couldn’t hang tough with the rowboats for much longer.

  It was time to head over to Dale Street and Bob’s mid-terrace abode.

  ~

  They say it’s better to travel than arrive, and this was a case in point. I chained my bike to the railings at the top of Castle View and jogged cautiously over to Dale Street. But having set my sensors to max, it proved an uneventful journey to Bob’s front door. At least until the door drew back.

  A familiar, pocked face sagged with recognition the other side. Bob held the door open and stood aside to let me in, not bothering with a warm greeting or welcoming smile. An exchange of pleasantries seemed unlikely, a cup of tea an even more distant prospect. I followed him into his front room and sat down on a lounger chair. Bob sat on the arm of his sofa, arms crossed. He was unshaven, wearing a scruffy – of course, blue – polo shirt and tracky bottoms that were too short. “Tramp chic” didn’t suit him. The “set in concrete” look didn’t do his hangdog face any favours either.

  ‘Why’ve you come, lad?’

  ‘Missed you.’ I winked.

  ‘Don’t piss me about. I’m not in the mood.’

  I looked thoughtfully around the room. ‘Nice pad, Bob. You’ve got an eye for it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘A friend in need, right? Is that what you’re thinking?’

  He got up and stood by the window. ‘That’s the least of it.’ His tone reverberated like a barrel of doom.

  ‘How’s Mum?’

  ‘Goin’ frantic. Not that you give a shit.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t shit a shitter, Bob.’ I wagged a finger. ‘Anyway, now you’ve seen me, you can tell her I’m okay. Every cloud, hey.’ My face launched a starburst smile, but it was shot down by a shake of Bob’s unhappy head. Big picture, no sound. I shifted my weight on the lounger and tried to relax. ‘Yes, please, Bob,’ I asked expectantly.

  ‘What?’ A frown chiselled its way into his forehead.

  ‘Tea and biscuits. I thought I heard mention, no?’

  ‘You’re not funny, Ed. You have no idea of the shit storm you’re in.’

  ‘Now there you’re wrong. I’ve got a ringside seat.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Insurance.’

  ‘Forget it, lad.’

  ‘I came for a fair hearing, not a hanging.’

  ‘You’re gettin’ what you deser–’

  ‘Bob,’ I said, interrupting and taking a deep breath. ‘I’m on the tip of closing this case. My good name cleared and the bad guys behind bars.’ I brushed one palm over the other. ‘Everything cleaned up nicely. But I need back-up in case something happens to me. Someone who can close the loop.’

  Bob moved back to the sofa and sat down, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘And exactly who are the bad guys?’ His voice was strained and he crossed his legs.

  I paused to study his face, but whatever story it was telling I couldn’t read it. Did they all die at the end? Maybe it was better not to know. I had to prepare the way for my own ending in any case. That meant it was “fire in the hole” time.

  ‘I’ve got Jimmy C on toast.’

  Bob’s eye flickered and his chin twitched, as if he’d stopped short of a full shake of the head. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Bob. The fat lady’s finished rehearsals on this one.’ I held up a finger from each hand. ‘Get this, not one but two eyewitnesses. I’ve got ‘em lined up and ready to chirp for your DCI.’

  ‘Time to leave, lad.’ He got up and flicked open the lounge door. ‘While you still can.’

  I stood as slowly as I could. ‘You’re a diamond, Bob. No really. Dad would be mighty proud, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Leave him out of it. There’s lots you don’t know about your dad.’

  ‘Yeah, and there’s lots he wouldn’t have guessed about you. Like making eyes at his widow and being scared shitless to help his son.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll turn me in.’ I picked up his mobile phone from the side of the lounger and tossed it over to him. ‘Go ahead. Make the call, Sheriff.’

  Bob caught the phone and started tapping keys.

  ‘Three nines are a charm,’ I said.

  He looked up, scowled, and carried on tapping.

  ‘Don’t waste your time calling Hobbs. I have a feeling he’s busy.’

  ‘I’m texting your mum.’ He kicked the door open wider. ‘And then I’m finished with you.’

  I moved towards him and nodded at his phone. ‘Don’t forget to tell her you’ve got a yellow streak a mile wide.’

  Bob finished his text and put the phone in his pocket. He stared at me for several seconds. ‘You have no idea,’ he said finally. ‘But you’ll thank me one day.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  His phone beeped and he looked down to read the message. He blinked, and his lips pursed. ‘Aye, that we will.’

  I walked past him. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  I stood for a while on Bob’s drive, wondering what to do next. Five minutes passed, and the mists still hadn’t cleared. I was tempted to go back to his front door and practice expletives through his letterbox, but decided that would have to wait. Tic was gaining on toc, and I had previous scores to settle.

  I peered up and down the solitude of Dale Street, knowing I had to keep moving. Bob didn’t know it, but he was a lucky hombre. Any other day and there’d be a reckoning. For now I’d have to stockpile my bad feelings and dump them on Mum when I was good and ready. No doubt Bob would get his bad-mouthing in first, though, the git.

  To recover my senses I stepped away from Bob’s drive and began recalculating my next play. The first part was easy: get moving quickly. I opted for a left turn and hurried down Dale Street.

  Part two was trickier. My original plan “B” was now plan zero. I didn’t even have a “safe house” to hide out until the rendezvous, and I obviously couldn’t stay in sight. So I decided to head back to the rowing club and wait it out. But first I would retrace my steps to Castle View and retrieve “La Superlight”.

  At the end of Dale Street I turned right and uphill into Brook Lane. When I looked ahead to get my bearings, I stopped in a rush. My bearings didn’t look good. Coasting towards me, making no engine noise was a black Range Rover. Down periscope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sunday – 17:15

  In certain circumstances, basically shit ones, it’s fight or flight. With Tommy it’s always fright and flight. So it came to pass that I turned and ran. I didn’t know where I was going, but I hoped I’d get there soon. Behind me, I heard my auto-nemesis fire into life. I don’t recall a Top Gear run-off between a hunted man – with a fifty yard head-start – and a Range Rover, but this was going to settle the argument.

  With arms seesawing and lungs expanding, I got to warp factor ten within a few yards. My trainers thudded into the pavement and my rucksack paraglided over the top of my head. For a couple of strides I was in danger of tipping too far forward; I had to scrub off speed to retain my balance. Keeping my head aerodynamically straight, I pinged my eyes left and right, looking for a dodge, any kind of dodge, but nothing seemed willing to oblige.

  As my head filled with the cacophony of V8 engine strains bouncing off Brook Lane semis, I tried to focus on an escape plan. I couldn’t outrun them, that was for sure. The nearest safe haven was Bob’s. But that had its complications, including the prospect he might turn me over to Hobbs. Besides, I’d already whistled past Dale Street. And there was no way I could get to my bike; I was running in the opposite direction for a kick-off. Options were disappearing fast.

  I know I’m on reco
rd as saying you can’t count on a town like Weighton for a diversion, but just then, one appeared. Up ahead, on the right, a pick-up truck turned onto Brook Lane from a side street and then accelerated steadily up the hill towards me. Weighton one, desperandum nil.

  Without slowing, I eased over to the edge of the pavement, knowing what I needed to do. The timing and placement had to be perfect. From the sound of its jangling rev limiter, the Range Rover was only a few yards behind. That meant it was close to “Hail Mary” time.

  When the truck got to about fifteen feet in front of me, I dipped my left shoulder as a sign of intent and leapt into the road, directly in its path. I flashed a crazed look at the driver and flapped my arms albatross-style. Panic flooded over his face, and our eyes tangoed frantically for the best part of a second before he realised it was time to leave the dance floor. With no time to brake, the pick-up swerved hard left to avoid me. Stage one complete.

  Over my shoulder I saw the truck’s chassis wobble like an armchair on a scooter as it swerved back the other way, trying to miss the oncoming Range Rover. Tommy’s driver was already skewing in that direction under heavy braking. The impact may not have been immediate, but it was unavoidable.

  I carried on running, eyes front, but the commotion behind me was unmistakeable: the rent of crumpling metal overlaid by a squeal of tyres beyond their limits. I’m not one for keeping score, but I’d have to say it was the sound of Eddie G two, Range Rover nil.

  With adrenaline still flowing to all points south, I picked up my pace and quickly reached the side road from where the pick-up had emerged. My only thoughts were to keep moving, keep changing direction. Turning right into the unobtrusive side road seemed my best option, so I curled my hand around a lamppost and catapulted myself into the adjoining street.

  As the centrifugal forces weakened and I came out of the slingshot, I glanced across at the road name on the opposite verge. “Wells Close” didn’t sound like a dead-end neighbourhood, but the inclusion of “cul-de-sac” in the small print meant it was. Before I could even think about turning back, the screaming growl of a high-revving V8 attacked my ears from around the corner. One diversion does not an escape make.