Take the A-Train (20 page)

‘Good,’ she said. That was all and we kissed again. I’ll never forget the look on her face in the soft light or the feel of her mouth slithering over mine.

We lay on top of the covers for a few minutes, holding each other. ‘Pass us me pants, Sharman,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m leaking. I’ve got to go to the loo.’

I did. She went. It got colder without her.

I got up and put my clothes back on. I was missing a button from my shirt. I went out into the corridor and Fiona was in the kitchen helping Stan with the drying up. I saw her through the half-opened door. I went and talked to them. We didn’t talk about where we were going.

The car arrived on the hour as promised. It was a Sierra 4x4, white as it happened, which was fine by me as it wouldn’t stand out in the snow if we had to hang around Emerson Park for long. The guy who delivered it said little and took a twenty for cab fare. We didn’t have to sign any papers and I didn’t ask where it had come from.

Stan found a webbing strap with clips at each end that mated with the rings welded to the barrel and grip of the riot gun. I adjusted the strap and hung the Winchester over my right shoulder. Fiona found me an old trench coat. It was greasy and creased and matched my mood exactly. I put it on over the Winchester. The open poacher pockets allowed me to hold the weapon down beneath the coat, close to my leg, and get it up and ready to fire in a second. It could make a mess of the material, but
c’est la guerre
.

Fiona went out and filled up the car with petrol. She checked the oil and tyres and brought it back. We left. Stan waved from the doorway and I waved back.

F
iona drove. I didn’t want to use a clutch with my leg. She’d done a bit of packing before we left and there was a canvas holdall on the back seat. Next to it was a cheap black baseball cap with Ford picked out on the front in pale blue thread. I put it on and pulled the peak down over my eyes. ‘Very stylish,’ she said.

‘It’ll do,’ I said back.

She pulled the Sierra into Lambeth Palace Road and headed east. We drove down York Road, round the roundabout and down Stamford Street. The roads were fairly clear that close to the centre of town and we made good time.

As we drove I opened the holdall and examined the contents. On top were two down-filled sleeping bags. A depressing thought, but the nights were cold. Underneath the bags were the goodies. A half bottle of Smirnoff, a flask of coffee and a loaf of bread made up into sandwiches and wrapped in silver foil, a handful of ready rolled joints in a tobacco tin, and a dozen Duromine from Fiona’s bathroom stash. I held a tab of speed between my finger and thumb. ‘Want some?’ I asked.

She looked at me and grinned. ‘Do you think we’ll need them?’

‘We’re on the run, girl,’ I said. ‘And you’re with a bad motherfucker. Worse still, everyone’s after us – the bad guys and the good. I think we’ll definitely need something.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But they’re murder on my complexion.’

I didn’t comment. After what I’d seen, I knew there were worse things. I gave her two of the pills. ‘Want some vodka to wash them down?’

‘Go on then.’

I broke the seal on the new bottle, unscrewed the top and passed it to her. She swallowed the pills, took a hit and pulled a face. ‘Wicked,’ she said. I took the bottle back and did the same myself. The spirit was warm and I almost gagged. I put the other pills in with the joints and hid the tin in the glove compartment.

We stopped at the lights on the south side of London Bridge and a Panda car pulled up on the inside.

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘It’s all right,’ said Fiona. ‘I’ll beat him out easy in this.’

I pulled the shotgun up on to my lap and slipped the safety. ‘You won’t have to,’ I said. ‘If they get nosy, I’ll blow the front off that son of a bitch.’ The cop at the wheel glanced round at me, then to the front, then at me again. I nodded politely and he nodded back. My stomach was in a knot as the lights changed and the police car pulled in front of us and its brake lights flared. ‘Fuck it,’ I spat through gritted teeth, and pumped a cartridge full of ball bearings that would not only take the front off the son of a bitch but maybe the legs off the son of a bitch who was driving it as well, into the breech of the shotgun. The blue lamp on top of the car spun slowly, then faster, and my hands were slippery on the action of the Winchester. The Panda’s siren yipped and it indicated right and took off down a side street to parts unknown. I relaxed and blew out my breath. I felt sweat trickling down from my armpits and dampening my shirt.

‘Let’s go to Essex.’

The journey would have been a nightmare without the four-wheel drive on the Sierra. The roads had been gritted but were slick with melted snow, and icy water sometimes lay inches deep on the surface. Black spray from other vehicles covered our car and the windscreen was thick with a mixture of sand, salt, mud and water which had the consistency of glue. The windscreen wipers were finding it hard to cope. Sensibly, Fiona had checked the reservoir bottle before we set off that morning, but we still had to stop at a garage on Ripple Road when the nozzles for the washer got blocked up with dirt or ice just past Newham. To help the flow she added anti-freeze to the washer bottle and I thought that whoever
did
own the Sierra wouldn’t thank us, but that’s the way of the world. Whilst Fiona was fiddling about under the bonnet I found a telephone box and called Jack Dark’s home number. I let the phone ring twenty times before I hung up.

We pressed on and eventually saw signs for Hornchurch. We came off the A13 and got to Little Beverly Hills about four. It was already dark and the temperature was dropping again. We drove around the snowy, tree-lined avenues for what seemed like hours, looking for the address on the card I’d taken from Jack Dark. It’s real swanky up there if your idea of swanky is a swimming pool, a rotating satellite dish in the back garden, a stone sphinx on the front lawn, frou-frou nylon net curtains and a professional footballer for a next-door neighbour. Personally, I’d rather live in Beirut.

‘I had a boyfriend lived here once,’ said Fiona as she pointed the car down yet another broad boulevard.

‘He didn’t live
here
, did he?’ I asked, reading out the street name on the card.

‘No, but he used to take me to a smashing disco in Romford.’

‘Don’t tell me, the Hollywood,’ I said.

‘Do you know it?’

‘No, but I’ve heard of it. Did he drive an XR3i cabriolet?’

‘That’s right, an electric blue one. His name’s Joey Harris. Do you know him?’

‘No, but I know the type.’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘There’s not a jealous bone in my body, Fiona.’

‘I believe you, you uptight bastard.’

We drove around some more and kept squinting out for road signs. If there were any they were covered in snow and invisible. It seemed that nobody walked in Emerson Park. The streets were deserted. Finally we fell in behind a nearly new Peugeot 205 which must have been low car on the totem pole in the area. It indicated and pulled up on a snow-covered drive. I told Fiona to stop, and gave her the card with Jack Dark’s address. She went over to inquire of the driver. She picked her way daintily across the road, through the ice. A young blonde woman got out of the Peugeot and Fiona spoke to her briefly. The woman pointed in the direction we were heading and said something to Fiona I couldn’t hear. She came back and got behind the wheel, bringing a blast of frigid air in with her. ‘Christ, but it’s cold out there.’

‘Well?’

‘Left and left again.’

‘Great, let’s go.’

Fiona put the Sierra into gear and we slid along the icy road.

The woman had been right. When we had followed her simple directions, I finally found a street sign and cleared off the snow and we were there. Fiona drove the car slowly down the street and we found the house.

It was much as I’d expected – a sprawling, ranch-style residence built on a good-sized piece of land that sloped upwards away from the road towards the tree line and God knows what beyond. It was dark up there. The snow covered the drive and garden, and as far as I could see no cars had been or gone since the last heavy fall. Only a few footprints broke the path to the front door and snow had drifted steeply against the triple garage door. The house was dark. Even the fairy lights on the Christmas tree close to the front porch were off.

‘No one home again,’ I said.

‘Someone’s been to the door,’ said Fiona.

‘Just single tracks, postman I’ll bet. The front door hasn’t been opened. There’s snow piled up against it, see.’

‘Where do you think they are?’

‘Who knows? Looks like he’s taken his family and buggered off.’

‘Do you think he’ll be back?’

‘Eventually, maybe tonight, but Christ knows when. And we can’t wait here. It’s too bloody cold and the neighbours will call the police if we hang around the streets too long. I don’t want to go back to town. If we push on a bit we’re bound to find somewhere to stay. I don’t fancy sleeping rough tonight, even with sleeping bags.’

‘Do you think it’ll be safe?’

‘We’ve got to take a chance. Have you got plastic?’

She nodded.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘I can’t use mine. That’s taking too much of a chance. Let’s go. Head away from London.’

Fiona started the car and we drove out of Emerson Park and along some minor roads until we joined the A12. We found a motel on a roundabout near Pilgrim’s Hatch, wherever that is. There was a sign outside that said
VACANCIES
in blue neon.

‘You check in,’ I said. ‘I’ll carry the bag and stay back. If anyone says anything tell them we’re on our way to Colchester and you don’t like the look of the weather and we decided to stop off for the night. OK?’

‘OK,’ she said.

I took hold of the bag, pulled my cap down over my eyes and followed her into the reception area. It smelled of nylon carpet and warmed-over food like all cheap hotels. But it was warm and we needed the shelter.

Fiona marched across to the desk and plonked down her handbag. There was only one receptionist on duty, a middle-aged woman with a too youthful hairstyle and a white blouse under a navy blue cardigan. She looked up as Fiona approached.

‘Yes dear?’ she said in a pleasant voice.

‘You’ve got some vacancies?’ asked Fiona.

‘Yes, a few.’

‘Thank goodness. I thought we’d have to keep driving and the roads are awful, and it looks like it could snow again soon.’

Don’t overdo it, I thought.

‘I know, dear,’ said the woman. ‘We’ve had some cancellations, so you’re lucky.’

‘Have you got a double room?’

The woman looked over at me. ‘Of course. Are you going far?’

‘Colchester,’ said Fiona. ‘But we’re in no rush. So we decided to stop off overnight and carry on tomorrow. Perhaps the weather will have improved.’

‘It might,’ said the woman. ‘But I doubt it.’

‘We’d still rather drive in daylight.’

‘Of course. I always say it’s safer.’ The woman looked away from me and told Fiona the rates for a double room with en-suite bath. And told her, yes, we could eat in our room and took the details of her credit card and gave her a key. ‘It’s one of our best rooms,’ she said. ‘Just down the corridor, away from the public rooms, so it’s nice and quiet.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fiona and I followed her, and nodded politely to the receptionist and hoped she’d forget all about us.

We found the room and Fiona let us in. It was nondescript, just like a million other hotel rooms in the world with a small double bed, a TV, a long, wall-mounted unit, on top of which was a plastic folder with a room service menu and writing paper and envelopes inside, plus a tourist guide to places of local interest. Next to the folder was an electric kettle and a tray holding a bowl of tea bags and sachets of coffee, sugar and little containers of long-life milk, two cups, saucers and spoons. Above the unit was a mirror with wall lamps on either side. Half of the wall opposite was taken up by a fitted wardrobe. In the other half was another door leading to a tiny bathroom. I dropped the bag on to the bed and took off my coat and hung it on the chair and put the shotgun in the wardrobe.

‘Tea?’ I asked.

‘Love one,’ said Fiona.

I filled up the kettle in the bathroom and plugged it in and put on the TV with the sound down. The news was on, but I didn’t feature. I
was
on the local news, but right at the end and the photo they showed did me no justice, but I hoped the receptionist didn’t catch it anyway.

‘Christ!’ said Fiona. ‘What happens if someone recognises you?’

‘It’s a chance we’ve got to take, babe,’ I said. ‘We couldn’t have stayed out all night in this weather, we’d have frozen. No one’s going to recognise me from that poxy picture.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘So do I. But I’ll keep out of sight when the food comes.’

‘Shall I order something?’ she asked. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Do it. I’m going to have a bath.’ I went into the bathroom and started the taps. When the bath was full and the water felt right I got in. It felt good on my leg. I lay there until Fiona came in.

‘The food’ll be here in half an hour. I ordered roast beef. Is that OK?’

‘Sounds good. Did you get anything to drink?’

‘A bottle of wine.’

‘You’re as good as gold,’ I said.

‘Sure. Now stay here until the food comes. I’ll give you a shout.’

I did as I was told.

About twenty minutes later I heard voices in the room and I got out of the bath and towelled myself dry and started to get dressed. As I was buttoning my shirt, Fiona stuck her head round the door.

‘Dinner.’

‘I’m with you.’

She’d laid out the food and drink on the table. The beef was surprisingly good and we cleared our plates and drank all but the dregs of the bottle of wine. After dinner we smoked a joint and went to bed and made love. But neither of us had our heart in it.

I watched myself on the news again after the ten o’clock bulletin. This time my photo was only on for a second and I doubted if anyone would recognise me from its brief appearance. We smoked another joint and went back to bed to sleep. I couldn’t, and lay awake most of the night looking at the ceiling.