Bitter Sweet (18 page)

The bus came around the bend. It flashed its lights at me – so what. Right behind the bus was the M3. 

I could see the girls eying me in the rearview mirror; Yana’s eyes imploring.

I kept my left foot pressed hard down on the brake pedal and put my
right foot on the accelerator, building up the revs.

I watched the traffic to my left and right on the intersection. It started to slow. The light changed.

I lifted my foot off the brake. The car shot forwards, with a brief squeak of rubber, before the electronics caught the wheel spin.

I glanced into the
rearview mirror, noticing that the girls were looking out the back window.

‘Ivonne, tell them what’s going on,’ I said, my attention flicking between the road in front and the mirrors. ‘Then phone Mike and tell him.’

The road ahead was clear with a traffic light and then a roundabout. My foot was still pressed to the boards, the car surging towards seventy.

  Another look in the
rearview mirror. Oh shit. The M3, now with its lights on high-beam, had just got around the bus. I saw the car squat down at the rear under the immense transfer of power to the back wheels. The M3 exploded towards us.

I was getting really worried – the speeds were getting scary. With my foot still on the accelerator, we were already doing eighty in a thirty zone. One false move, one idiot misjudging our speed . . .

I gripped the wheel tighter and pushed my shoulders into the shoulder supports. With my left foot poised above the brake pedal, we shot through the green light.

Rearview
mirror. Shit and damn, the M3 was closing on us,
and
it would make the light.

Arms slightly bent, both hands on the wheel, and with my right foot still pressed hard against the pedal, the hundred came up. Distance to the roundabout? Didn’t know. Distance to stop the car? Guesswork.

As the car reached one hundred and twenty, I chickened out and dumped both feet on to the brake pedal.

The ABS juddered, constantly. The seatbelt bit into my shoulder.

Oh shit – I was running out of road.

I hit the gear selector stick, putting the box into third. The revs went all the way to five thousand, bouncing against the rev limiter. I hit the stick, again, and it stayed in third.

My legs began to tremble with the pressure I was exerting on the brake pedal.

Roundabout dead close – still doing fifty.

Traffic on the roundabout – oh shit. There was nowhere to go. I wasn’t going to be able to stop the car.

Olga screamed.

I slammed the gear box into second and rammed my fist down on the horn.

I was going to crash. Ivonne was waving frantically at a tanker on the roundabout. It slowed. I couldn’t see what was on the other side of it.

Christ! Which exit was the ring road?

With my feet still on the brake pedal, the car shot towards the roundabout still doing thirty.

Roundabout
now
!

Ring road
. Left! Thank God. I spun the wheel round. Feet off the brake. The steering went floaty. Right foot hard down. The back of the car bucked.

With the lateral force no longer try
ing to drag the wheels sideways, and with the power now full on, I steered for the exit. A short left-hand exit. The road straightened.
Horrible
. Traffic and lots of it.

I glanced left, then right. Where to go? A look in the mirror told me that the M3 had reached the roundabout, but it was being forced to go around the back of the tanker. Something at least; a minor advantage.

The
ramp on to the ring road narrowed into a single lane; on both sides steel crash-barriers. I steered for the white hatching of no-man’s-land in an attempt to put as many cars as possible between us and the M3. The no-man’s-land petered out. I squeezed as close as I could to the crash barrier and forced my way in front of a big Nissan Navara.

The traffic edged forwards. I couldn’t see the M3; the Nissan was blocking my view. But I was damned sure the M3’s driver had seen me
take the exit for the ring road.

‘Have you phoned Mike?’ I asked Ivonne.

She shook her head.

‘Do it now before the ring road
.’

I took one hand off the steering wheel, rubbing my forehead. I could feel the adrenalin in my veins; my muscles had that pumped-up feeling
, not that of exercised muscles flooded with oxygen, but muscles full of chemicals. I put my hand back on the wheel – now was not the time to start shaking.

A horn sounded behind us. My eyes jerked up to the
rearview mirror. There it was, the M3, muscling its way across no-man’s-land.

Ivonne had reached Mike and was telling him what was happening and where we were. I knew it wouldn’t do us any good. Mike didn’t work on this side of the city and with the exception of calling the police; no help would come our way. We were on our own.

The traffic started to move faster. I craned my head to the right, trying to assess the traffic on the ring road. I seldom used it, but I knew it was a type of dual carriageway with mostly two lanes and sometimes three. What I couldn’t work out was how busy it would be in the direction we had to take.

The goal remained getting the girls to the refuge, somehow.

The slip road came into view. I eased the car over to the right, selecting second gear on the semi-automatic gearbox.

A Tesco lorry was bearing down on the slip road. I nipped in front of it. Got a flash of lights, but my foot was hard down on the accelerator. I left it for dust.

The driver of a very muscular looking Aston Martin to my right saw the manoeuvre and speeded up, trying to block my attempt to reach the outside lane. Pillock. I had the advantage of the overlap; I kept the power on, and eased the car over. The guy backed off.

I held the car in third gear, the revs around the four thousand mark with the full power of the turbo charger on tap. Of course, the Pillock in the Aston Martin decided to give chase. What did he expect? Over one hundred grand of supercar against a ten-year-old oil burner.

Speed limit – fifty. The speedometer needle flashed past the seventy mark. The Aston could sit on my tail for all I cared.

I forced myself to read the road ahead. T
he dual carriageway spooled out in front of me for the next two miles. In the far distance were a number of lorries, in the middle distance were some vans, but, critically, there were no obstructions, and not too many cars in the outer lane.

The speed had just passed the eighty mark and I was fast approaching the first car – a Mazda. I flashed the lights and held my hand on the horn. At first, the driver did not react. But, I was shooting towards him at such a pace that the driver decided not to fuck about and got out of the way.

Ninety, the Aston Martin was still behind me. But, in the corner of my rearview mirror I saw the M3 gain the outside lane, its lights on high beam.

At least now, the pillock in the Aston might be of some use.

One hundred-miles-per-hour – foot still hard down on the accelerator. I flicked my lights on, high beam and fogs, and stuck on the indicator.

I was
fast
approaching the next car in the outside lane. So fast that I wasn’t sure if I could stop in time if it didn’t get out of the way.

I bit my lip and kept on accelerating whilst pumping the horn. Jesus Christ, thank you. The Volvo cleared left.

One hundred and ten. I saw the Volvo being buffeted in our and the Aston’s slipstream.

And, I saw the M3. I was now dead sure it was the real thing. As an M3, it had two huge advantages over my car. First the sheer power of over 400 bhp, and secondly a turbo-charged diesel just did not h
ave the engine braking of a big, normally aspirated petrol engine.

The M3 was gaining on us, even in that brief glimpse of it in the
rearview mirror.

One hundred and twenty. My right leg began to tremble on the accelerator pedal. The speed was now reckless. All it would take was one clot to pull out in front of me and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop the car in time. And, there was no escape to the right, not against the crash barrier.

As the car continued to accelerate under full throttle, fear began to seep into my veins.

I scanned the road ahead – starting at the furthest visible point.  An exit on to a roundabout. Then a cluster of lorries and
, closest, a car in the outside lane.

One hundred and thirty. I leaned on the horn. The car shifted into the inner lane. I blasted past, doing at least twice the speed of the other car.

I couldn’t take it anymore and lifted my foot off the accelerator.

The M3 was now weaving back and forth, right on the tail of the Aston Martin.

I let the speed drop back to one hundred and twenty as I hurtled towards the first of the lorries.
Please
don’t let one of them pull out.

With a solid wall of lorries on my left, I dropped the speed back to one hundred. All three cars, me, the Aston Martin and the M3 had nowhere to go but straight ahead.

Now, I was glad that the pillock had reacted as macho-male drivers are prone to do.

Again, I scanned the road ahead. In the far distance there was an exit. But, there was an exit closer, and, it was coming up real fast. And each exit meant there was, also, a slip road to allo
w traffic to join the ring road.

Sure enough, as we blasted past the lorries, leaving them to lumber along in our slipstream, I saw a long stream of vehicles heading on to the slip road.

I was still doing the ton. The Aston was right behind me. But, somehow, the M3 had snucked into the inside lane, and was almost parallel with the Aston.

The traffic was spewing on
to the dual carriageway. ‘Here’s hoping,’ I breathed.

I rammed my fist on to the horn, and at the same
accelerated
. I had no choice: I had to block the M3 from overtaking up the inside.

My left foot was poised on the brake pedal, my right flat on the accelerator. Three hundred metres to go. The driver of the M3 saw the gap closing and drew in behind the Aston Martin.

A Royal Mail van emitting a plume of black smoke darted into the outside lane.
Oh shit
. I jammed both feet, hard down, on the brake pedal. The car went into nosedive and the seatbelt bit into my shoulder.

I locked my arms, expecting to hit the Royal Mail van.

‘Nooo.’

Another pall of black smoke from the Royal Mail van. The ABS juddered through the soles of my feet. Five metres. Oh shit! I braced myself for impact.

Ivonne gasped and rammed her hands tight against the dashboard. The girls screamed.

Jeez! It couldn’t have been closer – inches. I breathed out, and, momentarily, closed my eyes.

The Aston Martin was still behind me, but now the driver was holding his distance, and I could see him concentrating on his rearview mirror.

‘Don’t give up now,’ I breathed. ‘Just stay behind me.’

I stayed tucked in behind the Royal Mail van, happy for the moment to be doing a mere sixty-miles-per-hour.

The inside lane was thick with traffic and the Aston Martin was still behind me. Both factors prevented the M3 from overtaking up the inside.

The driver of the Aston Martin flashed his lights. I looked up into the mirror and saw him pointing to the left. There was a gap in the traffic. Was that what he was getting at? He was two, or maybe three car lengths behind me. I guessed that he had a better view of the inside lane.

I jinked left. There was a clear slot. I floored it and raced up the inside of the Royal Mail van, just managing to squeeze in front of it.

Now I had two vehicles between me and the M3. The Aston Martin driver had blocked the M3 from following me up the inside, maybe he wasn’t such a pillock, after all.

A clear slot opened up in front of me. I didn’t hesitate and hoofed it.

Oh no! A Renault – a mummy wagon full of kids. I jinked left and zapped past her before she even knew it.

I checked the mirrors. God damned Royal Mail van was still out there. The Aston Martin behind it, flashing its lights. I drifted as far right as possible to the crash barrier, attempting to get a clear look behind the Aston – no M3. Oh, oh. The Aston Martin driver was warning me.

I hit the accelerator, drifted left and turned my head, scanning the traffic behind. Shit. The M3 had gone all the way left, on to the hard shoulder, surging forward, dust boiling up in its wake. 

Ivonne had sat most of the
time gripping the door’s grab handle with one hand, the other clamped to the thigh support of the seat. Now she was sitting up straight with her head turned, watching the M3.

I dreaded the thought of blasting along, again, at
speeds of over one-hundred-miles-per-hour. But, I had to do something; the M3’s pursuit was relentless.