Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (25 page)

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 record 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 “c
ul-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.

Despite the injection of adrenaline, my legs were starting to feel heavy. I couldn’t stay at full throttle much longer. A few hundred yards ahead I spotted a “T” shape at the end of the Close, bookended by two large houses. My silent prayer for a safe passage between them looked a long shot; the nearer I got the more I could see it didn’t exist.

A screech of tyres announced the presence of Tommy-come-lately in the Close
and re-affirmed my desperate
need for inspiration. If Wells Close had a redeeming aspect, it was the large detached houses set back from the road and the promise of large gardens behind. I kept looking to my right, but all I saw were gates and fences separating fronts from rears. No way through.

I allowed a look behind and saw the Range Rover gunning up the Close. A few seconds, I gauged, and it would be on my shoulder. I had nothing left to give, but my brain still flashed “full speed ahead” to my heart, lungs and legs.

Eyes forward again, I spotted a side gate swing open, a boy barrelling through it on a skateboard. They looked a fancy pair of wheels. Too bad I’d already passed the house.

As expected, the Range Rover was right on my shoulder now, and I sensed it switching to the wrong side of the road – my side. I looked across and slightly behind, to be treated with the sight of Tommy grinning through the front windscreen, aiming two finger barrels at me. I stuck out a single finger in retort. If he ever caught up with me, I’d have some serious words to say to that snapperhead.

On impulse, I dropped my left shoulder and feigned another dart into the road. The driver, on reflex, pitched the car to the left, struggling to keep it in a straight line. It bought me a little time, but no more opportunities.

A loud bump from behind followed by tyre roar told me the car had half-mounted the pavement. The reek of octane was close now, almost making me gag. It felt like its bumper was inches away from the backs of my knees. I didn’t dare look, but I could guarantee that Tommy would have a near-coital look of triumph on his face. My only hope was to get back to the swinging gate. It was time for “Hail Mary”, part deux.

I grabbed the next lamppost and pulled off a second slingshot about-turn, my trainers skidding for grip. Immediately, I heard the Range Rover go into a full emergency stop routine. A cloud of thick brake dust billowed past my nostrils, and I tried not to choke through my burning lungs. Over the sound of my own coughing came the high pitched whine of the car’s transmission as it bashed into reverse.

I sped past the first house on the left, my eyes already straining to find the next one, trying to lock in on my very own wormhole. Then, like a celestial vision, I saw the holy gap and adjusted my trajectory, cutting through a line of small trees and vaulting a low wall into the front garden of number 11. The side gate was still ajar, and I stared through to a spacious back garden. I dinked through the arched opening, and then flicked the gate closed behind me, as if that alone would shut out my pursuers. After bounding into the back garden at full tilt, I stopped, trying to take in the surroundings through the lights bouncing in my head. All looked green and pleasant, but my vision was blurred by sweat, my chest ached, and my legs felt like sodden sponge cake.

I wiped my eyes and scanned the terrain. The garden was long, wide, and enclosed on all sides by high wooden fencing. A large shed in the far right corner beckoned, but I saw no obvious way to scale it. As I looked around, Skateboard Boy glided into view. Closer up, he was lanky and thin, but no more than twelve, all his energy given to the thrills and spills of the curved paving he was using to practice. He saw me, shifted his weight to the rear of the board, and pulled up. A neat dismount, for what it’s worth.

 I put a finger to my sweaty lips, silently pleading for him to keep his peace. Standing there in his Vanns, baggy shorts, and Superdry T-shirt, it reminded me of younger days and happier times, albeit without the tidy branding. He flipped up his board and stared at me open-mouthed.

I winked at him and sucked in air. ‘Nice chops, kid.’

He shrugged back.

I could barely attach my breath to words. Panting heavily, I nodded at his longboard. ‘Digging the Alien wheels, my friend.’

He nodded at me, not sure whether to smile.

I put my hands on my hips, slouching, trying to catch my breath. ‘Listen, I’ll level with you, dude. I’m totally trashed here.’ I thumbed at the gate behind me. ‘In approximately six seconds, Voldemort and Malfoy will be crashing that there gate. I need to disappear, like, fast. What’s the best way out?’

A shy smile finally appeared on his face. ‘There’s a hole in the fence,’ he said quietly, jabbing his finger towards the bottom of the garden. ‘Just behind the shed.’

‘Thanks, man.’ A big smile wrapped right around my head. ‘Listen, whatever your mum says, you’re a good kid, yeah. And deep down, she knows it, too. Don’t forget where you heard it first.’ I started my sprint towards the shed. ‘I won’t forget this,’ I promised, racing past him. ‘I’ll even let you borrow my Superlight.’ Whether he knew what that was or not, his face brightened all the same.

When I reached the shed I turned back to him. ‘One more favour. Tell the no-bloods I went the other way.’ I added a wink, and he nodded. Our stand against the agents of evil was joined.

Somehow I squeezed through the hole in the fence and rolled into the garden next door. Regaining my feet, I spied a large bush a few paces away and scrabbled behind it. Hunched and hyperventilating, I made the most of not moving, and listened hard. From over the fence I heard voices, loud at first but then fading. Skateboard Boy done good.

As my breathing levelled out, I surveyed the new garden, wondering whether to keep moving or stay put. The perimeter fencing was as extensive and unassailable as it had been at number 11, and I cast around looking for a makeshift leg-up. That’s when I spotted a kids’ trampoline at the end of the garden. The gods were smiling and I’d soon be a jumped-up boy.

Keeping my head low, I scrambled over to the trampoline and pushed the frame up against the end fence. When it was in position I flopped onto its tight sprung surface. A few practice bounces gave me a view of what lay the other side: another garden, smaller, with obstacles none. On my next controlled bounce I sailed up and over the fence. Despite frantic arm-wheeling, my upper body got too far forward, and I landed heavily in a sprawl on the other side. I tipped onto my hands and knees and stayed in that crouch, not daring to move. My legs felt wasted from the long sprint, and my arms had to support most of my weight. I lifted my head and listened, hearing nothing at first but my own thudding heart. As that faded, I heard voices, but they were further away than before. Two car doors slammed, and finally, blessedly, a V8 roared into life. I heard it reverse and then squirt off back down the Close.

The relief was immense. I collapsed forward, lolled onto my back and let my chest beat itself into a steady state, all the while holding my shirt sleeve over my forehead. If Jesus wanted me for a sunbeam, he’d have to fork out for that invisibility cloak.

Having collected myself, I got up and walked through the garden, keeping a careful look-out on the back of the house. As far as I could tell, there was no movement. It had a “no one’s home” feel to it. The rotting stench coming from the bins by the back door confirmed my guess. No point keeping up with the Joneses when they were on tour.

I jogged discreetly alongside the house and padded over to the small front garden. After a quick coast-to-coast check, I bounded across the lawn and swung over a small fence onto the pavement. The road seemed familiar, and I glanced left and right for clues. The penny finally clunked. I was back on Dale Street, and only a pebble roll away from dear ol’ Uncle Bob’s.

Despite our bust-up, I felt a tingle of relief. This was a chance to be safe. But should I take it? I stepped forward and then hesitated. There was still a risk he would march me straight to the Big Blue House, which would defecate all over my pristine plan. On the other hand, I was all duelled out with Tommy’s wheels. The wrenching sound of said wheels turning into Dale Street made the decision for me. I had to make like a bandit. Despite running on empty, I dug in my heels and winged over to Bob’s place as if playing British bulldog with a thousand onrushing Vandals.