Bitter Sweet (19 page)

I scanned the road ahead; the next exit was about two miles away. And that woul
d force the M3 off the hard shoulder. However, the traffic ahead was thick in both lanes, ruling out the possibility of forcing my way along the outside lane. The M3 had the advantage. 

The only option was to weave my way through the traffic. I hit the gear selector, dropping down into third and shot left, accelerating hard, holding third gear. I zapped up the inside lane, overtaking two cars, and then pulled the wheel hard right, squeezing back into the outside lane.

I vaguely noticed Ivonne sitting forward in her seat, her fingers working on the buttons of her blouse.

Continuing to hold the car in third gear, I surged up to the next vehicle, swung the wheel left and zipped up the inside.

Weaving through the traffic with the BMW’s precision steering and its precise handling had an almost game-like quality, but one mistake, at speeds in excess of one-hundred-miles-per-hour, would injure or kill.

Halfway to the exit and the traffic began to slow and back up. I glanced left; the M3 was, still, just behind us on the hard shoulder.

Ivonne’s hands came out from under her blouse. In one hand she was holding her bra.

‘What the . . . ?’

‘Ever seen the effect of a set of perfect 34Ds?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They stop most men dead in their tracks,’ Ivonne said with a grin. ‘There is a river coming up. See it?’

I looked. There was a river running under the dual carriageway.

‘And,’ Ivonne said, pointing into the distance, ‘that’s where the hard shoulder runs out.’

I zipped up the inside of another car. ‘And?’ I asked, still not sure as to what she was planning.

‘Get right up beside the next male driver and you’ll see.’ She grasped the plackets of her blouse. ‘Better make sure it not some
real old geyser. Don’t want someone getting a heart attack.’

I zipped past two more cars on the inside, ever aware of the progress of the M3 on the hard shoulder.

‘Try the green Jaguar,’ Ivonne said.

I stood on the brakes drawing parallel.

‘Looks good,’ I said. The driver was in his mid-sixties with grey thinning hair and a thick pair of glasses.

Ivonne gave her nipples a quick rub. I hooted the horn. Ivonne whipped her blouse open, twisted in her seat and presented her breasts to the driver of the Jaguar. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged.

The girls giggled.

But, most importantly, I had to brake sharply to keep Ivonne parallel with the Jaguar. Horns started to blare behind us.

I checked the
rearview mirror; the traffic in the inside lane was now bumper to bumper. I pressed down hard on the accelerator, and within seconds the speedometer needle was nudging ninety as I raced to catch up with the next car in the outside lane. I weaved left, overtaking it on the inside. I checked on the M3; it was trying to get off the hard shoulder.

‘Try the silver Golf,’ Ivonne said. ‘Bald head.’

A hard stomp on the brakes and I got a good look at the driver of the Golf. It didn’t seem fair – an old boy concentrating hard on the traffic.

I hooted the horn. Ivonne did her bit.

I saw the old boy splutter. He then went into a coughing fit and slammed on the brakes.

I floored it. Horns, then the unmistakable crunch of metal impacting metal. A quick look in the mirror; the old boy had caused an accident. But, thankfully, his car was not involved in the crash.

I saw the M3 brake sharply as the hard shoulder came to an end. It shot through a gap into the inside lane. Shit, I’d been hoping the M3 might have got trapped. No such luck. The M3 barged into the outer lane, forcing a van to brake. The van went into a skid and got hit up the back.

Behind us,
both lanes were now blocked, and the M3 was still in pursuit. However, we’d managed to create a buffer of at least twenty cars. Now it was time to capitalise on that.

We had almost reached the next exit. What to do? Come off the ring road now, or press on? I decided to keep going, a half-baked idea forming. 

We sped past the exit
with the traffic flowing on to the dual carriageway, clogging the inner lane. I kept the speed up, where possible, and weaved to and fro, using
any
opportunity to put vehicles behind me, ever conscious of the M3 as it aggressively attempted to erode the buffer I had created.

With the next exit coming up fast, I began to concentrate on the traffic in the inside lane. Somehow, I had
to trap the M3 on the ring road whilst I took the exit.

Just under a
mile and a half to the exit. One glance told me it was a fast left-hand bend into a commercial zone. And best of all, there was no traffic light at the top of the exit.

The M3 was slewing to and fro behind each car that got in its way, flashing its lights and pumping its horn. The display of outrageous aggression was, unfortunately, working; the M3 was drawing ever closer.

There were two lorries, close together, in the inside lane, and I intended to use them as a screen. What I still needed was some sort of larger vehicle right on my tail.

‘Ivonne,’ I said, keeping my attention focused on the road, ‘we’re going to need your 34Ds one more time.’

‘Who is going to be the lucky punter this time?’

‘I need a van or a lorry behind us.’

‘One of those two up there?’ Ivonne asked, pointing at the two lorries I was intending to use to cover our exit from the ring road.

‘No, not them.’

‘Try that courier van.’

Timing was going to be critical. I needed the M3 close at the same moment as we drew parallel with the exit.

I drew level with the van – perfect, a young guy driving a Mercedes Sprinter. I hoped they’d both live up to their reputations.

Ivonne did her bit with the 34Ds.

‘Yes,’ I said, as the driver of the Mercedes Sprinter decided to give chase, pulling out behind me.

I floored it.

‘Ivonne, use my phone. Get the satnav up. I need to know where we are.’

The first of the lorries came parallel with the end of the exit. I drifted right to get a look behind the Mercedes Sprinter and checked my wing mirror; the M3 was some two hundred metres behind the rear of the second lorry. I cut in front of the first lorry and braked hard.

The cab of the lorry tilted forward; he must have hit his brakes
hard. Just what I wanted. The driving gap between the two lorries should be as good as nothing. I turned the wheel, pulled on to the hard shoulder and, momentarily, matched the speed of the lorry.

I checked all my mirrors – I couldn’t see the M3. It should have been, by now, parallel with the second lorry. And most im
portantly the driver of the M3 should not be able to see us on the hard shoulder.

Now came the tricky bit: I had to brake hard, but I daren’t let the driver of the M3 see me in the gap between the two lorries.

‘Here’s hoping,’ I said, and stood on the brakes. The car came to an abrupt stop. I engaged reverse, twisted in my seat and hit the accelerator.

As the speed built up, the whine of the car in reverse became excruciating. Drawing parallel with the exit ramp, I slowed and twitched the steering wheel to the right. The front end went left. I slammed the car into drive and tromped on the accelerator, cent
ring the steering wheel.

The car flew up the exit ramp. The bend came up, I was doing sixty. I kept the power on, despite the electronics’
attempts to correct the lateral wheel slippage.

I leaned my body into the curv
e with my right thigh and buttock pressed hard against the seat support. The bend opened up; the car already doing eighty.

‘We’re on Carlton Road,’ Ivonne said.

‘Need to get off it.’

‘Turn right at the lights, on to Abbey Road.’

I bit my lip, hoping that the light would stay green. Speed now ninety. I willed myself
not
to touch the brakes.

Two hundred metres to the lights –
now
. Both feet on the brake pedal – the speed dropping, dramatically. But it wasn’t going to be enough.

‘Hold on,’ I yelled, trying to get the auto box to hold second gear.

I lifted off the brakes, put my foot down on the accelerator and swung the wheel right. But the lateral G-force was too much for the electronics. The back end went left. The steering went floaty. I whipped the wheel left and kept the power on. The car straightened.

‘Where next?’

‘T-junction at the bottom,’ Ivonne said. ‘Go left.’

I held the gearbox in second; the speed building. It was a wide road with two lanes in each direction. There was a pickup truck in the outer lane in front of me, I crossed the white line, in the face of the oncoming traffic, and whipped past the truck.

I checked my mirrors – good, no sign of the M3.

‘Are we anywhere near Talbot Street?’

Ivonne looked at the GPS display on the phone. I glanced across at it.

I looked back at the road
. ‘Oh shit.’

A flatbed lorry had pulled into the outside lane. Automatically, I slammed on the brakes and hit the horn. I wasn’t
going to be able to stop in time, and there was no room in the oncoming lane.

The driver of the flatbed lorry swung hard l
eft to avoid me. I saw its left-side rear tyres lift. Would it won’t it? It was on its way. I put my foot back on the accelerator. There was only one option; surge around the lorry before it tipped on its side.

I swerved across the white line. A Ford Mondeo veered left avoiding a collision. I was now right beside the flatbed lorry. One look at its cargo and
I pressed down harder on the accelerator – the lorry was carrying bags of gravel strapped on to pallets. As I cleared the back of the lorry, I saw the first bags break loose. A look in the mirror confirmed the lorry’s fate; it was beyond the point of no return with bags of gravel falling and bursting on to the road.

‘Lucky escape,’ Ivonne said.

‘And not so lucky. Once the M3 gets off the ring road that overturned lorry will be a dead giveaway.’

‘See what you mean,’ Ivonne said, glancing into the nearside mirror. ‘And we’re still only halfway to Talbot Street.’

I closed my eyes for a split second in despair.

‘The ring road
is the quickest option.’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I can’t hack that again. The speeds . . . it’s just too scary.’

‘You’re doing great,’ Ivonne said. ‘We’ll make it.’

‘Thanks.’

The fast approaching T-junction forced me to brake hard. I dropped into second gear and surged left.

‘We’re now on Quay Street,’ Ivonne said.

‘Doesn’t look good. Loads of traffic lights.’

I kept the power on anyway, racing towards the first set of lights which were red. Damn, the light stayed red. I braked and was still doing forty when the light changed with one car in front of me. I had the speed and stamped down on the accelerator, crossed the solid-white centre line into the oncoming lane and shot across the light before any of the others cars on the road had time to move.

The manoeuvre jangled my nerves.

‘What about hiding out in one of those office blocks?’

‘And then what?’ Ivonne asked.

‘Just hide?’

‘And phone the police?’

‘No way.’

‘Tina are you being stubborn?’

‘Sometimes
, but not now. If we called the police we’d have an awful lot of talking to do.’

‘But we’re good at that,’ Ivonne said
, smiling at me.

‘I mean explaining. And then we don’t know how the cops will deal with the girls.’ I looked into the
rearview mirror. Yana was wedged in the middle, holding on to the front seats, Maria and Olga on either side. All of them looked apprehensive.

‘And I don’t know what will happen when the police enter our names into their computer. We might end up in handcuffs.’

‘We could spin the police a good story, not tell them our names.’

‘And then clear off? Don’t think they’d fall for that.’

‘True,’ Ivonne said. ‘And even if we did get clear of the police where are we going to go? I mean you and me.’

I blasted through the next traffic light. I could see, in the distance, that the road was clogged with traffic.

‘No matter what we do that’s going to be a problem.’

‘We’ll work that one out later,’ Ivonne said. ‘But we could still hide out in one of those office blocks,
at least for a while.’

‘Too late,’ I said, taking another look in my wing mirror. ‘The M3 has found us.’ There was a black car, well back, with its lights on and it was going fast.