by Simon Kewin
“Motorbikes,” said Danny. They ran toward the wooden fence that screened the back-garden off from the small driveway. They had to push their way through a large Fuchsia bush, smooth red flowers on it like thousands of tiny hearts. They peered through the gaps between the vertical slats.
Out on the street, five men climbed off large, silver motorcycles to stride toward the house.
“It's him,” said Cait. “The man at the library. He's found me.”
14. Death on the Ring Road
“Come on,” said Danny. “Out the back way.”
Holding the book, Cait extricated herself from the fuchsia, trying to make as little noise as possible, panic thumping through her. Danny followed.
Danny's parents wouldn't be able to stop this man. She thought, briefly, about going back inside the house anyway, not wanting to leave Mr. and Mrs. Greene to face her pursuers. But she couldn't risk them getting the book. She had no choice but to flee.
They ran across the lawn past the smouldering bonfire and around the old, sagging shed where Danny's family kept their bicycles and rust. A tall, wooden fence stood in their way. In it was a gate, lime-green with mildew.
Danny peered through a crack between the gate and fence. “Come on. There's no one there.” He yanked on the handle, but the gate wouldn't budge. Age and damp had warped the wood, jamming it into its frame.
“Let me try,” said Cait, her voice a panicky whisper. The gate still refused to open. They pulled together. After a few tugs it came free, the wood squeaking. It swung inward on creaky hinges and they hurried through, slamming it behind them.
They stood in a narrow back-lane, about the width of a single car, bordered on each side by a long line of fences and walls. The warm orange light that had suffused the garden was lost to the shadows here. Wheelie-bins stood scattered up and down the lane at random angles, as if they'd been dancing and froze when they saw people coming.
One end of the lane led onto a side-road, which joined the main street. The other end, closer to Cait and Danny, led to a patch of rough, overgrown ground where the ruins of an old house stood. They hesitated for a moment, unsure. A black cat, barely able to keep its eyes open, watched them from a nearby wall.
“Which way?” said Danny.
“Let's get away from the road,” said Cait.
They ran toward the rough ground, their footsteps echoing off the high walls on either side of them. It was hard not to feel trapped in this narrow, urban canyon. If they could get to the ruined house they might have a chance. Paths led off in many different directions from there, most of them too small for a motorcycle.
They were half-way there when motorbikes roared behind them. Cait stopped and turned to see two riders at the far end of the lane. The bikes sped forward, two headlights on each like great eyes. They dodged around the wheelie-bins without slowing down.
The walls around her were high here, much higher than she could climb. On one side, jagged shards of glass had been cemented onto the top to deter intruders. A gate led into the back garden of one of Danny's neighbours, but it was sure to be locked.
She thought about throwing the book into one of the gardens in the hope the riders wouldn't see. But it seemed pointless. She glanced at Danny, standing a few metres behind her. He, too, had stopped running, transfixed by the sight of the motorcycles bearing down on them, alarm bright upon his face.
Cait shuffled backward, desperate to get away from the riders but unable to take her eyes off them.
The motorcycles had nearly reached Danny's house when the black cat leaped into their path. She expected to see it run, alarmed by the noise of the two machines. Instead it sat nonchalantly in the middle of the lane, its back to the approaching riders. It began to clean its claws.
Cait was about to call out some warning, to try, uselessly, to frighten the cat out of harm's way. Instead she watched, open-mouthed, as something in the air near it shifted. The air there thickened, became a fog and then, rapidly, a cloud of blackness, like a fragment of night. It formed around the cat, obscuring it. She had the distinct impression of flesh, a texture of something shiny and leathery like a bat's wing or a beetle's carapace.
Then the fog thinned away and a spider's web was strung across the alleyway. A huge spider's web, its strands as thick as her leg.
The riders had no chance to stop. Smoke rose from their tyres as they braked hard, but they were travelling too quickly. They smashed into the huge web, which absorbed the impact as if they were insects. She half-expected to see them stuck, pinned helplessly like flies. Instead, riders and motorcycles crashed to the floor, the wheels of the bikes still spinning, their engines still roaring.
The cat still sat with its back to what was happening, indifferent to the whole thing. It stood, finally, stretched into an arc and walked away, ignoring the riders. It looked down the lane at Cait and Danny, blinked, then leaped effortlessly onto its wall, where it went back to sleep.
“Come on,” said Cait. She ran toward Danny, who stood for a moment longer, amazement on his face. Then he, too, sprinted down the lane.
At the end, a single concrete bollard, cracked and canted at an angle, marked the point where the tarmac petered out and the wilderness began. They ran into the long grass without slowing, following a path worn by many pairs of feet that used the rough ground as a shortcut. Soon, they reached the old building.
It had once been a grand house, but it had lost its roof years ago. Vandalism and the elements had slowly reduced it to rubble. Danny's dad had told her it was once a mansion, built when there were fields where Danny's estate now stood. Over the years it had been surrounded. Its gardens chipped away, triangle by triangle, until only this little, odd-shaped patch remained. People weren't allowed to build on it for some legal reason. It was an odd place; it always felt detached from the modern world, the city around it, as if lost in memories of its glory days. She liked it. Strange plants grew everywhere. Exotic trees that existed nowhere else in Manchester. Large shrubs with glossy, green leaves and vivid, sticky flowers that gave off a sickly smell in the summer warmth.
Whole walls of the house still stood, even with glass in some of the windows, but the building was an empty shell, as much vegetation growing inside as out. Nevertheless, it felt like the walls offered them protection. They dashed into a large, square room, hidden from view of the lane, both of them panting.
The room must once have been impressive. She could still see patches of ornate tile work on the floor. A blackened circle, the remains of someone's fire, filled the centre of the room, several empty beer-cans scattered nearby. The place smelled of earth and decay.
Danny's chest heaved. He bent forward with his hands on his knees as he spoke. “What was that thing? That black cloud? The web?”
“Don't know. Something sent by Gran perhaps. But there's no time to think about it now. What are we going to do with the book?”
“Going to destroy it. Like you said.”
“But where?”
“We need a hotter fire. Only one place round here I know of. The factory where your dad worked.”
“The factory? No.”
“It isn't that far. If we go cross-country we can be there in an hour.”
“No, I mean I don't like the idea of it. I haven't been there since, you know …”
He stood up straight and looked at her, his breathing becoming calmer. “It's the only place, Cait. I bet the book won't survive being thrown into a blast furnace.”
It was the furnace that had gone wrong. Some monitoring systems had been poorly maintained, they'd said. It had overheated. There was an explosion and her dad had been standing nearby. He probably died instantly, the policewoman had said, trying to comfort her.
“I don't like it.”
“Yeah, I know.” He put his arm around her. “But it's our only chance. We can make it.”
“We can't just walk in there.”
He stood back from her, thinking. He glanced outside. “We'll tell th
em who you are. They're bound to let us in.”
“Why?”
“We say you've come to see where your dad, you know, died. You've finally plucked up the courage, that sort of thing. There's no way they can refuse you. Then we ask someone to chuck the book in for us. Tell them … tell them it has some special meaning for you, yeah?”
She tried to think of a different plan, something that didn't involve going to the factory. But she couldn't. Time was short and they had to keep moving. There would be other riders seeking them, perhaps surrounding them even now. She hated it, but he was right. Could she do it? If they went before she had chance to think about it, perhaps she could.
It was hard to read Danny's expression in the fading light but she thought she saw concern there, overlaying his usual easy-going expression.
“You know,” she said, “This is not turning out to be a great day for me.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“You don't have to do this.”
He shrugged and said nothing. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
It was her turn to smile. “Because. Come on, let's go. If we get across the canal we might be a bit safer. Maybe they can't cross running water.”
“Yeah, right.”
They ran from the old house, out of its long shadow and into bright sunlight as the low rays of the setting sun found them again. They followed a path through a small wood of spindly white saplings, the place where supermarket trolleys gathered to die.
On the other side of the trees a mud bank sloped onto the towpath of an old canal, cutting through the heart of the city. A road bridge spanned the canal farther down. A double-decker bus waited on it, internal lights on, probably stuck in traffic. High above it, a ragged flock of gulls wheeled and called, their voices rough and raucous even from this distance. A single crow flapped through the scene.
“Let's go the other way,” said Danny. “There's a footbridge.”
They set off, walking quickly rather than running. The waters of the canal to her right stood still, so that it was impossible to tell which way they flowed. Buildings on the far bank reflected darkly in the opaque, brown surface. Here and there tree branches dipped into the water, as if they bore weights too great for them.
They came to the bridge. It was, in fact, just a large, iron pipe that crossed the canal. The pipe erupted from the bank, rose vertically for a couple of metres, spanned the water then dropped into the ground on the other side, like the loop of a huge metal serpent. A simple plank was bolted on top of the pipe, with wires strung across on either side to hold on to. At each end, a fan-shaped gate, with barbed-wire wound all around it, had been padlocked on so no one could climb up. A sign at the foot of the ladder said, in faded red letters, Danger. Keep Off.
Danny climbed and, expertly, unhooked the gate on the opposite side to the padlock. He stepped onto the plank, then reached down to Cait.
“Give me the book,” he said.
She handed it to him and climbed the rusting rungs of the ladder.
“Done this before haven't you?” she said.
“Once or twice. Don't worry. The water's not really that deep.”
“Oh, great.”
They stepped their way across the plank, each footstep a hollow clang. The wire railings were low, coming up to Cait's thighs. She held on with both hands and took it slow while Danny carried the book. Half-way across, he stopped.
“Look,” he said.
On the road bridge, standing at its centre, a figure watched them, silhouetted against the sky. He or she gesticulated, as if directing someone they couldn't see. The gulls circled around in the air, mere flecks of black ink from this distance.
“That's them isn't it?” she said.
“I reckon,” said Danny. “Come on.”
Cait stood a moment longer, wondering who these people were, why they were so desperate for the book. The water below her lay in shadow, a path stretching up to the other bridge and the figure who stood watching her.
They regarded each other, as if they could make out each other's features. She had the weirdest feeling of the space between them shrinking, then, something drawing them together. She felt dizzy. Distantly, the wires cut into her where she grasped them. She found herself flying through the evening air, her body left behind on the little bridge, sweeping over the dark waters of the canal right up to the shadowy figure.
It was the man she'd seen at the library. He smiled as she came, as if enjoying himself, enjoying the hunt. But she could sense the surprise in him, too. It didn't register on his face but she could tell, without knowing how she did it. She understood then. He wasn't pulling her in; she was doing this. She could feel his anxiety, too. His fear of what would happen if she and Danny and the book slipped out of his hands. He would stop at nothing to get them.
Anger flared in her. Anger at being pursued, anger at what had been done to her, and to her gran and Jane. And to Danny and his parents, too. She wanted to shout at the man, attack him. She wanted to reach out and hurt him. She could do it. He was within her grasp. It would be so easy …
“Come on,” called Danny from the other end of the bridge. “They know where we are now. We have to go.”
A moment of dizzying disorientation and she stood, swaying, back on the bridge, the figure distant once more. She shook her head. She was tired. The whole day had been too mad.
Danny handed her the book and climbed down the ladder on the other side of the canal. She threw it to him and followed.
“We have to get across the motorway somehow,” he said. “And they'll have the bridges watched. They must know which way we're going.”
“We could run across. Wait for a gap in the traffic.”
“You're crazy! There's no way we could make it.” He looked horrified. “Besides, there are cameras everywhere. They're bound to see us.”
“I guess.”
He seemed thoughtful for a moment, while Cait glanced around for anyone approaching them.
“How about the footbridge?” he said.
“Which footbridge?”
“You know, it crosses at Wythenshawe. It's too narrow for a motorbike and it's hard to find anyway. You have to know the roads through the estate to get to it.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Come on.”
They made their way up the far bank, avoiding patches of nettles, to reach a tarmac path. This led between garden fences to another housing estate. They weren't too far from Cait's own home, Northenden or Northern Moor maybe, everything vaguely familiar to her. The houses looked more or less the same as her own: square, semi-detached, unremarkable. But the layout of the streets confused her. To fit so many houses in, the streets wound around and around like a knot. She was soon disorientated.
Fortunately, Danny knew the area better. They walked along the pavement trying to be inconspicuous. She imagined eyes watching them from every house. Each time a car passed she looked for an escape route, a narrow path to run down if it stopped.
They moved in silence. The gardens were better tended here than back home. Each house had a small square of ground in front, most planted with flowers. Some were given over entirely to roses, heady smells drifting from huge flamboyant blooms on top of spiky, skeletal stems. Other gardens were laid out more intricately, with little pathways between carefully trimmed plants she didn't recognize.
She thought about what had happened on the bridge. Had she imagined flying out of her body? Some effect of the stress? It felt like she'd controlled it. How could that be? She couldn't do anything like that. It was good, though; she'd felt powerful. Assured. It wasn't like her. It was like finding a singing voice you didn't know you had. It felt right.
They reached the footbridge without further incident. It rose in a gentle arc over the M60, which ran through a cutting at this point. Cars and lorries streamed along the motorway in both directions, a river of oncoming white lights and
receding red ones, their roar constant. Cait and Danny stood and watched, wary of stepping from the shelter of the houses. She was surprised at how quickly the cars travelled, how close together they were. It wouldn't take much - one mistake by one driver - for there to be a terrible pile-up.
Tall motorway lights, orange like clusters of small suns, shimmered above the carriageway, although the sunlight hadn't completely faded from the sky. The bridge rose higher than the lights but she and Danny would still be visible from down there, silhouetted against the deepening blue. Attached to some of the lights, cameras spied on the traffic, but they all pointed downward.
“Let's go,” she said. She wanted to get this over with now. Get to the industrial estate where her dad had worked, not too far away in Stretford. Talk their way into the factory and destroy the book so this whole, crazy episode could be over.
The wind picked up as they crossed the bridge. She shivered. Neither of them were very well-prepared, still in thin summer clothing. She clutched the book to her chest as they walked.
They weren't even halfway across when silver bikes appeared on the motorway. There were three of them, riding in a V-shaped formation in the fast-lane. She tugged at Danny's arm and pointed. The riders raced toward them at high speed.
“They can't get to us,” said Danny, raising his voice against the roar of the traffic. “We're quite safe.” The wind ruffled his fringe as he looked down.
They stood still as the riders approached, afraid to move in case they caught the riders' attention. She felt exposed standing there. She tried to find the state of mind she'd slipped into at the canal, but it eluded her. Instead she heard Danny shout.
“They've seen us!”
Down on the motorway the riders braked hard, swerving across to the hard shoulder. She watched in horror as cars and lorries skidded to avoid them, the straight lines of traffic breaking down as vehicles veered out of their lanes. Brakes and tyres squealed. For a moment she thought they were going to avoid each other, but then a lorry jack-knifed, its cab slewing one way and the container it hauled going the other. The lorry ended up across two lanes before crashing onto its side.