Out of Towners (16 page)

Nobody's saying anything. We're way beyond words. The other people in the restaurant are starting to take cover. They know this is serious shit. Kirkie's grinning. Lightbulb Head and Red Cap have got a kind of wild look on their faces. The other lads seem a bit less gung-ho, but the thing is, they're all ready to rumble. It's what they do. Not like us. I've never had a fight in my life and neither has Robbie. Dylan thinks he's hard but has never had to back it up, and George couldn't punch his way out of a wet paper bag.

I stand up and move round to the front of the table, keeping the girls out of the firing line. Robbie and Dylan follow suit. Even George is on his feet. Whatever happens next, we're as ready as we'll ever be. Gemma and Nikita are frozen where they sit. Steph's wearing the strange expression of fear mixed with sadness that I first saw last night. I still can't actually believe that it's all about to go off. It just doesn't compute. But then the lad in the white anorak with the red tartan shoulders is lunging across the table at me and I know it's for real. I swing my fist and hit something. His head? His elbow? I'm not sure. He totters backwards then lunges in again.

All hell is breaking loose. It's like one of those scenes in a martial arts film where the characters hover above the ground, executing somersaults and chops. But in here it's not black-clad Ninjas swishing about. It's chavs in caps and hoodies and baggy jeans and lime green Adidas. And instead of nunchucks and throwing stars and samurai swords, it's trays and half-filled cups of Diet Coke and melting ice cubes. There's not a lot of skill on show. If this was a martial arts film, the audience would be demanding their money back.

The whole restaurant is in chaos. The customers who haven't found cover yet are scattering all over the place, running and diving under tables, screaming and shouting. Outside the windows, concerned faces are peeping in wondering what all the noise is about. Behind the counter the staff are playing statues, mouths open, eyes wide. I notice the bloke in the lilac shirt, Gordon Ramsay, push a girl out of the way and scuttle off into the kitchen.

Considering we're outnumbered six to four and one of our gang is so pissed he can hardly stand up, we're not doing too badly in the first few seconds of combat. I manage to get hold of the tartan shoulders of the lad in the anorak as he has another go. I push him down onto the floor, aiming and missing with a couple of kicks. Robbie whacks the fat kid with the buck teeth in the mouth, sending the fag behind his ear skittering to the floor and Dylan launches a left hook at Bulldog Boy.

But that's only the first wave. The heavy artillery is up next. Lightbulb Head is coming for me, Kirkie's making for Robbie and Red Cap is arrowing in at George.

I duck down, but something crashes into the top of my skull, sending me sprawling across the table. Before I can get myself back upright there are punches whistling in from all directions. It's not just Lightbulb Head, it's the buck toothed kid too. I wrestle myself round and see that Kirkie's got Robbie in a headlock while Bulldog Boy swings his cheap trainers at Dylan. There's a ringing in my ears. I feel dizzy and sick. We're going to get battered.

George still doesn't know what's occurring. Red Cap is staring at him, goading him, while George stands there, arms dangling by his sides. Red Cap darts to the left then jumps forward. Without thinking, George clenches his fist and brings it up to defend himself. And as he does, he connects flush with Red Cap's jaw. There's a crunching sound and Red Cap spins round, crashing to the floor. It looks like he's out cold.

The fighting stops. There are confused looks all round. This wasn't supposed to happen. Red Cap is moving now, pushing himself up. And as he gets to his feet, Gemma starts screaming.

At first I don't know what's going on. But then I see. A flash of silver in Red Cap's hand. He's got a blade. He's been made to look like a twat and now he wants payback. His little eyes are glittering with hatred.

Gemma lets out another high-pitched, eardrum-shattering scream. The sound is so loud, so startling, that everyone seems to be rooted to the spot. Even Kirkie and his boys. In that split second a channel opens up, right through the middle of the restaurant, all the way to the door. It's our chance to run and we've got to take it. This isn't the time or place to be playing the hero. Somebody's going to be heading for the mortuary.

“Go,” I yell. “Go.”

Snatching up a chair and making like a lion-tamer, I stand guard as Steph leads the charge to the street. Once everyone's past me, I chuck the chair and leg it.

Once we're outside, I grab Steph's hand, check everyone's with us, put my head down and run. We race back up the alley heading for the middle of town, dodging through the nightclubbers and the pissheads. I spin round, hoping to see that we're in the clear, that Kirkie's mob haven't bothered to give chase, but it's bad news. They're bundling out of the doors and charging after us like a pack of wild dogs, skittling people all over the place.

In the central shopping area we bear left towards a T-junction then go right at Primark, in the general direction of the Bus Depot. We're flying along on pure adrenaline, but in the corner of my eye I can see George is running out of steam. His head is starting to droop and his arms and legs aren't flailing the way they were a few hundred metres back. He stumbles across the pavement, grabs hold of a lamppost and hangs on like a drowning man. He's fighting for air, wheezing like a pair of bellows.

We all skid to a halt. Gemma's on the point of crying, but there isn't time for sympathy. I take hold of the front of George's shirt and try to yank him along with me. It's no good. He won't let go of the lamppost. I shoot a glance back down the street. We've put quite a bit of distance between us and the locals, but this is giving them the chance to close the gap. I finally manage to pull George away from the post, manhandling him round to face me.

“George, you're going to get us killed,” I scream. I mean it. I'm shaking him like a huge rag doll, trying to get the message across.

George's eyes are vacant. I look over his shoulder and see Lightbulb Head, Red Cap and Bulldog Boy steaming our way. I shake him again and he snaps back to the real world. He blinks a couple of times and nods to show that he knows what's needed.

We set off again, hurtling hard and fast, along past the crossing where all our troubles started. The further out of town we get, the darker it is. Only one in five streetlights seems to be working. My lungs are burning and everything around me is a blur. Without warning, a drunken bloke in a red fez staggers out from behind a wheelie bin, shouting and shaking drips from his dick. Robbie, Dylan and Nikita skip round him and keep going, but I haven't got time to adjust my stride. The next thing I know, I'm flat on the tarmac, staring up at the night sky framed by the faces of Steph, Gemma and George.

Steph's the one close to tears now.

“Chris,” she says, her voice cracking. “Chris, you've got to get up.”

I don't know if I'm hurt or not, but my adrenaline's still in full flow. I scramble up, looking back along the road, expecting to see Kirkie's mob charging into view, but there's no sign of them. A thought crosses my mind. We might have got away. The bloke in the fez is groaning, pulling himself onto all fours.

“You alright?” Steph asks, calmer now.

I shake out my arms and legs, checking that they're working. They seem to be. There's grit embedded in my hands, my knees are skinned and my head's throbbing, but apart from that I'm in one piece.

“Yeah, reckon so,” I say. “You'd better check on him, though.” I point to the spot where Fez Man was grovelling a few seconds before, but he's already on his feet, shuffling his way back to the sights and sounds of Whitbourne town centre.

Robbie and the others have twigged what's happened now, and they're jogging back to where we're standing.

“I think we've lost them,” I say, picking a stone out of my right palm.

Dylan nods.

My grazed knees are stinging. I pull up my left trouser leg to inspect the damage. It's not nice, but so what? We've given Kirkie and Co the slip. I look back along the road again. If the local lads were still on the hunt we'd definitely be able to see them. I roll my trouser leg down and straighten up. I feel great.

It doesn't last. Two hundred metres down, by the Health Centre, the headlights of two cars burst into life and the sound of revving engines and thudding music fills the air. It's the Citroen Saxo and the Peugeot 205 we saw the lads in when we first arrived in Whitbourne. We haven't got away at all.

And we're in big, big trouble.

The two cars lurch into gear and start closing in. A jolt of panic goes right through me. It's like being wired up to the mains. We turn and run. It's a primeval drive for survival keeping us going now. After hitting the deck, my equilibrium's shot to pieces. I'm losing track, but it looks like all our gang are still here. Now that Kirkie's lot have got wheels though, we're sitting targets. We've got to get off the main road.

I grip Steph's hand and drag her down a side street just as the cars screech past, missing the turning. It's bought us some time, but not much. We race down the middle of the road and go left, down a street of terraced houses, each one with a low front wall and brick gateposts. There's nowhere to hide. I'm already imagining the feeling of cold steel sliding between my ribs. We need a miracle. Fifty metres up, there might be one. In amongst all the cars squeezed in nose-to-tail, there's one that stands out. A dark, 3 Series BMW saloon.

“Steph,” I shout, pointing. “Bimmer.”

Steph's seen the motor and she knows exactly what I mean. There's no need to explain.

“Going to have to smash the window,” she says. “Not got time to wedge the door.”

My eyes start flicking around, searching for something to put through the tough glass. As we pull level with the car, I see what I'm after. A pair of concrete eagles, sitting on the gateposts of a stone-clad house. I get hold of the nearest one and yank it upwards. There's a crunching sound and the bird comes away, heavy in my hands, a big metal spike sticking out of the underside. In one movement I swing it through the air and crash it into the driver's side window of the BMW.

The sound of the alarm tears through the night. All up and down the street, lights are coming on and curtains are twitching but there's no time to worry about that. I lob the concrete eagle onto the path then stand back as Steph pushes her hand inside the car, springing the central locking system. Gemma dives into the front passenger side, Steph jumps into the driver's seat and the rest of us pile into the back, squashed in like sardines. I don't know who I'm on top of, I don't know who's on top of me.

As the doors are slammed shut, I squint between the front seats. Steph's scrabbling under the steering column, pulling away some clips and ripping down the plastic covering. A few more seconds, some twisting of wires, and the alarm cuts out. A few seconds after that, the engine roars into life. Steph guns the accelerator and we scream away from the kerb.

I'm going into a sort of sensory overload. Nothing seems logical or real any more. My brain can't process all the information. The growl of the engine. The squeal of tyres. The crunch of gears. The thudding of my heart, the rasping of my breath. The smell of perfume and aftershave and sweat and beer. The texture of upholstery as my face is pushed into it. The weight of people on top of me. Elbows and knees pressing into my ribs and thighs. The buildings and the lights flashing by. The force of being hurled from side to side as the big car swerves round corners. A hundred different emotions all at once.

Through it all, I'm starting to think we've escaped. It's the second time I've thought that. And for the second time, I'm wrong. Suddenly the car is filled with dazzling white light. It's the spots on the front of a pair of motors directly behind us. Kirkie's Saxo and the Peugeot 205.

I lever myself up and catch fragments of what's going on. A freeze-frame image of Kirkie and Red Cap's snarling faces, leering through the windscreen of the Saxo. Steph swings right, then left. Down past CarpetWorld, up a terraced street, round a corner by a big church with thousands of flints set into its walls, round another corner, along a row of lockup garages.

The streets are like a maze, but Steph seems to have a sixth sense guiding her through. When she said she was quite a good driver, she wasn't telling the whole truth. She's unbelievable. We should be stuck down a cul-de-sac, being surrounded and getting the crap kicked out of us, or worse. But we're not. And something's changed. Our car isn't lit up now. It only seems like seconds since they were right on our tail, but we've lost Kirkie and his posse. We flash past Poundtastic and tear down the road with the souvenir shops and the cafes. The pier is coming up and we're away and free.

We could stop now, but we don't. There's still a chance Kirkie hasn't given up the chase. Turning right, we head out along the deserted seafront, past the bandstand, the lifeboat station and the pine trees. Soon we're beyond the last of the hotels, speeding out of town, following the road as it peels away from the coast and climbs into the hills. The entrance to Wonderland is a few hundred metres ahead. Steph moves down through the gears, swivelling round in her seat.

“Shall we ditch it here or keep going?” she asks. It's the first thing anyone's said since we got into the car.

A voice comes out of the pile of bodies on top of me. It's Robbie.

“Keep going. Head for Bellevue Point.”

Steph nods and slides back up into fifth.

Beyond Wonderland, there are no streetlights any more. The back roads are steep and narrow and winding, hemmed in on both sides by overhanging trees. We come to a crossroads and Steph guides the car left, out across the downs and towards where England comes to an abrupt end. There's a sign just beyond the turning.
Bellevue Point 1 Mile
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