Downtime - Marc Platt [58]
As he passed the van on the way back, he slammed his fist against the side and shouted, ‘Good morning!’ He looked in at the dirty windscreen. There was no tax disc. The seats were old and torn, and were covered in rubbish. From inside, he heard the sound of a baby crying.
The back door slammed. A young woman with a thin, weathered face and greasy hair climbed out. She wore a faded
‘Hobbiton Rules’ tee-shirt.
‘Can’t you leave us for five minutes?’ she snarled.
This wasn’t a surveillance unit. It was travellers or squatters. The Brigadier was about to give the woman a good basting on moral responsibilities, when he heard a car approaching at speed.
A black-windowed Porsche cut straight in at him. He grabbed the woman, pulling them both behind the van, out of its path. It shot past, so close it was a blur.
‘Bloody fascist yuppies!’ yelled the woman and hit at the Brigadier too. ‘They’re the trouble, not us!’
‘Get inside and stay there!’ he ordered. He ran across the avenue to his Range Rover. He was an idiot thinking that techniques hadn’t advanced in the past twenty years. He didn’t even know who these people were, or what they wanted.
‘ Where is the Locus? ’ said a voice in his mind. A voice he thought he had dreamed.
He turned the ignition. Ahead, further up the leafy road, the Porsche was turning to make a return run. The Brigadier put his foot down and started away.
The Porsche came straight up the middle of the avenue.
Straight at him. He saw the open gate in the school wall and swung the wheel. The Range Rover went straight through the gap out into the wide arena of School Field.
He heard a screech of brakes behind him. A second later, the Porsche shot into view through the opening. It came at him like a homing shark. He did another highspeed turn, which sent a shower of earth up from the pitch. Water sloshed onto his windows as he cut through the range of the sprinklers. He tried to weave back and forth, but the Porsche followed his every move and was cutting down the distance.
The Brigadier cut sharply to the right and kept turning as if he was on the tightest of hairpin bends. Every loose item inside avalanched across the car. For a moment, the vehicle was turning on two right wheels only. He nearly stalled in the process, but the manoeuvre caught his pursuer unawares. The Porsche sliced narrowly past him, its brakes screaming.
Making the most of his chance, he headed for the gate again, but as he approached, he saw another car coming in through the gap towards him. A cream Triumph Herald with Celia at the wheel. As he swerved to miss her, he saw her astonished face.
‘Stupid, blasted woman! You’ll get yourself killed!’ he shouted uselessly.
The Porsche was already gaining ground. The Brigadier tried to zig-zag, but the steering-wheel jerked as if a third hand was controlling it. His engine roared like a wild beast.
Something was pulling on the car. A force dragging against it.
In his mirror he saw, ever closer, the black malevolent reflection in his pursuer’s windscreen. The Porsche started to pull alongside. He pumped his foot on the accelerator, forcing his protesting vehicle straight on. He began to make headway, but he was running out of field. Ahead, the school assembly hall was looming.
The Range Rover left the field and mounted the footpath. In desperation, his foot still on the gas, the Brigadier jammed the handbrake hard on. The car skidded wildly, the dragging influence suddenly released. There was no road. He angled sharply through the first arch of the school cloisters. The Porsche came behind him.
They tore along the stone corridor under the ancient arches, rattling classroom doors as they passed. Notices were ripped from their noticeboards. Litter bins were sent clattering. The school Chaplain, drawn by the noise, dived for cover into a doorway as the cars thundered through.
The steering-wheel began to jerk again, trying to force the Range Rover against the walls. With a crash, a wing mirror smashed against an arch, but the Brigadier had a firmer grip now. He kept on a steady