An extract from Lost&;#063;

Cal drove up Wilmslow Road, blinking at the harsh lights of the
vehicles heading towards Withington, hat, gloves and scarf on the
passenger seat. It was a cold January night, but the pavements of
Fallowfield and Rusholme were still busy, even on a Monday. The car
turned down Moss Lane East, passing The Whitworth on the left, and the
park on the right, and slowed down as it passed the Coronation
Street-style Playfair Street on the left. Cal tried to spot any sort of
van between the terraces, but couldn't see one. He pulled up thirty
yards after the junction, alongside a high wall, no houses. The winter
woollies went on, and he got out and locked up. He could feel the knot
in his stomach as he sauntered with false ease past the three phone
boxes, and turned right into Playfair Street - ironic name. It was
deserted. He walked a hundred yards down the right hand pavement,
crossing the junctions with Haydn and Ruskin Avenue, surreptitiously
checking out the parked cars. No vans. There was no possible hiding
place. All vehicles seemed transparent and empty. He crossed the road,
and came back up the other side. With a final 'nonchalant' look around,
he entered the gateway to Dave's house, and knocked on the door. No
answer. He knocked again and
waited for a minute, glancing around nervously. The lights were on but
no-one was home. At least they weren't answering the door. Maybe they
were scared to answer it, after all, it was nearly eleven o'clock. Cal
decided against shouting through the letter box, and left the place to
its own devices. He headed back the eighty yards to the Fiesta.
Up ahead on the opposite side of Moss Lane, a man walked with a
similar demeanour to Cal, glancing around, apprehensive. He disappeared
from view behind the corner house, level with the toilets at the
south-west entrance to Whitworth Park. Cal crossed
between two parked cars. As he reached the kerb, three more figures
appeared and hurried past the toilets at a canter, too broad to fit
three abreast on the path, so one was in the road. Cal hesitated, and
slowly walked up to the last car on the street, just before Haydn
Street, focus kept on the men now running along the edge of the
park.
The single man had turned to fact the trio, with hands out of his
jacket pockets, palms facing the menacing posse in supplication. They
surrounded him on three sides, a small wooden fence behind him
completing the net. Ignoring pleas that the stationary Cal couldn't
quite make out, the middle man pushed heavily, two handed. His prey
fell backwards over the fence, and the hyenas leapt over, two dragging
the struggler further into the park, away from the road. The free man
glanced around. Cal ducked behind the accommodating car, watching
through the windows, as the first punch landed on the jaw of the
restrained one.
The man kicked out, thrashing like an epileptic as trainers kicked his
ribs and stamped on his legs. Sixty yards away, Cal stared transfixed,
as at a horror film in slow-motion, as two men held the powerful arms
in the shape of a crucifix and covered the mouth, while the third took
an object out of his inside pocket.
Cal saw the glint of a metal bar, reflecting the street lights, as
blows rained down on the shins of the man unable to scream. His legs
stopped thrashing, and instead the body twisted at the hips. Another
arc traced down to the solar plexus, making the knees come up towards
the chest, until they were kicked back down. The death-grip on the jaw
was released as the victim struggled for breath. Cal wanted to leave,
but didn't want to be seen.
He was dragged to his knees, arms pinned behind his back. The bar
broke across his jaw, shattering teeth and allowing blood to flow out
of the mouth, on to the grass. Enamel followed it. Two more cracks to
the left cheek and side of the head made even Cal wince. The assailants
allowed their charge to slump face first to the floor, unconscious. A
parting kick or two elicited no flinch, so they slunk off into the
darkness of the park.
Cal stood unsteadily, his whole body shaking with fear as he stumbled
back to the car. His stomach was churning as if he was about to be
sick. Sweat rose to the surface and was absorbed by wool on the
forehead and hands. He knew his face had drained of colour.
The corner was turned, and Cal saw the telephone boxes. He decided to
phone an ambulance. He could put on a false voice, not wanting to get
involved with the police as any kind of grass. He entered the nearest
one.
The figure could still be made out between the trees, as the operator
asked which service was required.
"Er, ambulance please." - He sounded more like a Scouse than a Manc.
Cal kept his eyes on the prostrate body as cars came past. A small bus
stopped further up the road towards Moss Side, so he turned to face the
phone, hiding his face from any passengers.
"Cannav an ambulance f Whi'wuff Park..." - in his broadest
Mancunian.
Unseen by Cal, the beaten frame raised itself to its knees as the
second operator asked for a more precise location.
"Moss Layne, by Playfair Stree'."
Across the road, energy was mustered.
"Fuck yew, muvfuckas!"
Cal turned sharply at the words slurred through broken teeth. He
froze, silent. The operator was questioning, but went unheard.
The blood-stained head faced towards the pub. From his left-hand side,
three shadows loomed out of the blackness. They'd been waiting! One
grabbed the hair of the kneeling man and forced his face towards them.
He let it drop and put his hand in his pocket. The bar came out,
pointed at the head of the man, next to his left temple. It was a gun!
Fuck! Jesus! No! Cal's mouth dropped open and went dry.
A small explosion of light married with a larger one of sound.
"NAAAAAOOOWW!" - Cal screamed instinctively. He tore out of the box,
leaving the handset dangling as the men looked over. The now dead man
lay at their feet, a fountain of blood gushing out of his temple,
three, four inches high, before landing on th
grass by his nose in an expanding crimson pool. Executed.
Cal held the wall as he nearly overbalanced cornering into Playfair
Street. He sprinted for his life down the empty road, as behind him one
murderer and two accomplices hurdled the fence and steamed across the
road. By the time they entered the street, he'd turned right into
Haydn. Adrenaline kept his legs pumping high, and he could hear the
clomp of his boots, the noise of his breath and heart.
Haydn Avenue lead up to Maine Road, but Cal was never going to make
the hundred odd yards. He had to keep out of sight, not give them
anything to aim at. He turned left onto Acomb Street, another right
angle, and saw the pack out of the corner of his eye, coming around the
corner fifty yards away. The garden wall of the corner house prevented
him being a target. His brain worked furiously, telling him in an
instant that he'd not outrun them. He needed it to work.
Without thinking, he vaulted the four foot wall that ran around the
end of the terrace, and collapsed in the garden. Pulling his hat over
his face, he hoped it would cover his breathing noises as he lay face
down.
He listened intently for three nightmare seconds that lasted minutes.
The running footsteps grew louder until they came around the corner and
alongside the house. If they were tall enough and looked down to their
left, they'd see him! Cal's hair tried to stand on end as the feet went
by less than a yard from his head. They sounded so loud, he thought
they were going to run right over him. He held his shaking breath. The
footsteps didn't slow as they plodded into Ruskin. This ran parallel to
Haydn, both running between Playfair and Maine Road.
The hunters turned west towards Maine, their footsteps grew quieter.
The hunted knew he had to move quickly before they realised he'd gone
AWOL. The frightened face reappeared. The hiding trick - known as a
Chino at school after the lad who first did it - had worked. Cal should
have sauntered back the way he'd come without a care in the world, but
this was no time to be cool.
Peeping through the patterned breeze blocks that adorned the top of
the wall, he saw no person connected to the noise of running. They were
hidden by the gardens/yards. He scaled it and tried to land quietly on
the other side, but in his haste, his Caterpillar boots landed too
loudly. A shout came from Ruskin. He'd been rumbled. He took off once
more, for Moss Lane this time, no time to be quiet. By the time he
entered Moss Lane, the Chino had gained him an extra thirty yards. Not
enough. He'd never make the car and drive past Acomb Street before they
saw him. Sitting, or more like driving duck. He might if the engine
started first time, but this was no movie.
Cal passed the lonely Fiesta still at top speed. He had an instant
thought of being glad it was still the football season, and he was in
good shape. Full pelt across the junction, the road, and into the park,
twenty yards from a still warm corpse, almost unthought of, irrelevant.
It was the only place that could shelter him.
The tarmac path was too dark to see. It jarred Cal's knees as he ran
on it. He veered left on to the grass, now well away from the road.
Another childhood trick came to mind. This time from night time games
of Army in the park at Hunters Bar, Sheffield. Cal again dropped to the
floor. His knees cracked as they bent. He looked up in fright, but
there was no sign of anyone. This time he was flat out in the open
grass, where he knew they were unlikely to look. Peeping at the
entrance, he saw the men coming out of the lights. They were toiling
now. Unfit, huh. He should have kept running, but where to? From this
level, he could also see a lump to their right, his left.
Another flash thought - how ironic that a place he wouldn't even go in
during the day for fear of his money was being entrusted with saving
his life.
Hiding in the pitch black, his heart pounded audibly. He could tell
exactly where it was - bottom right of left nipple. It was trying to
escape from his ribcage like the brain does from a head with a good
hangover. If they came close enough, they'd hear it.
They were still visible through the stretched hat, dark shapes
emphasised by the lights disappearing and reappearing behind them. 60
yards and counting, they trotted up the path. Cal's whole body was
rigid. His breath made the inside of the hat damp. Fingernails dug
through wool into his palms. Fifty yards, now they were walking!
Keep still! Don't even think, blink or anything. Forty yards! Cal
tried to keep from swallowing. His open mouth was completely dried out,
but it was the most quiet way to breath.
They were now directly in front of him, so close he could hear one
wheezing slightly! Bizarrely, Cal thought of Emo Phillips' asthma
attack joke. That was in a park! Shit! Stop it! Concentrate! Quiet!
Still!
A siren interrupted the general buzz of traffic as a blue light
appeared on Cal's left, Wilmslow Road. This was where the men were
heading.
'Stop, please! For fuck's sake, come here!' thought Cal desperately.
'Help!' He saw it was an ambulance. 'Shit! Bastard!'
The men started running towards Wilmslow Road. They'd missed him,
scared off by an ambulance! It went down the wrong side of the road to
turn right into Moss Lane, past The Whitworth.
Of course! THE ambulance! MY ambulance! Took its fucking time. Cal
looked left and saw the three figures running towards the north east
entrance. His forehead dropped to the ground in pure relief, as the
tension left his body. This time he knew they'd gone. They had to get
away. He was safe.
Cal's neck snapped his forehead back up as he realised three things in
order. The grass was cold and wet, a police car had just gone screaming
down Wilmslow Road, and they weren't the only ones who had to get away.
So did he. Getting involved with this would be signing his own death
warrant.
He got up from the floor, unruffling his damp clothes and brushing off
any loose grass. The police hurtled down Moss Lane. The car was out of
the question - too close to the action. The decision was made for him.
It was an uncomfortable one.
He headed off after his would-be killers, in the direction of the main
road. It made him feel sick, but he watched them go on to the cycle
path that ran parallel to the road, next to the park. They went north
towards the original University, so they wouldn't be hanging around,
would they? Behind Cal, torches beamed into the park. With a start, his
trot turned into another adrenaline fired sprint. Quiet! Please let
them have gone!
Another police car sped down the road. Cal slowed. He had to be
careful. A cautious check up the path revealed no-one was visible. They
could be hiding again, but it wasn't likely was it? He walked up the
cycle path, making sure there were no blueys around as he moved on to
the pavement in front of The Whitworth Gallery. His heart was fucking
pounding! Jesus, this was horrible! Hiding from everyone! Act normal,
resist the urge to keep looking around! He crossed the road and walked
the way he didn't want to go. People were coming towards him. He
couldn't turn and go back. He couldn't walk home as wet as he was. What
then? Think! Please!
A black cab passed him, but he had no money. Woawah! ?13 and more in
his pocket. He'd forgotten about that. Not for the first (or the last)
time in his life, Cal cursed his fiscal memory. He turned to look
south. Another blackie with the yellow 'for hire' sign showing was at
the Moss Lane lights. Cal waited, facing his ride home.
The group passed behind him, seeing only his best side: the dry one.
From the front it looked like he'd fallen face first into a puddle. Cal
shuddered as he remembered someone who had: a puddle of his own
blood.
An arm waved at the approaching cab, which pulled over to let another
past, and did a U-turn. Cal got into the back with his woollies still
on, scarf still covering his mouth. The act had to continue. His third
crap accent of the night came out, this time student sub-cockney, the
accent picked up by some impressionable youngsters from all over the
country in no time at all, when they went to college, no matter which
provincial establishment they studied at. More than anything, it was
that accent that made people hate students.
"Bladdy hell, it's cold out there. Fallowfield please, driver."
Cal couldn't hide his surprise when he saw the clock: 11:17. It felt
like hours since he'd left the car. The cabby noticed.
"La'e are yu?"
"No, I've been in bed all noight, you kney how id is."
Be careful, don't volunteer too much info, a sure sign that you've got
something to hide.
"Best place to be on a nigh' like this, wrapped up in a good woman.
Ooo, ere comes another."
Cal laughed along. He wanted the driver on his side. Then he saw what
'another' meant. He'd pulled in for a police car. No, not a car, a dog
van! Fuck's sake! Get out of here!
"Wha's hepning?"
"Dunno, bu' look over there!"
Through the trees of the park, blue lights were visible everywhere.
Most had come down Moss Lane West.
"Probly the mans blowin' each others brains ou' wiv any luck, eh?
Hu-hu-huh."
'Fuck off you twat.' thought Cal, surprising himself as the cabbie was
spot on. He thought it was strange that anyone who made comments like
that always assumed that they weren't educationally sub-normal, and
everyone else agreed with them. This was no time for a political
argument, so Cal just hmmed and settled back into his seat as the
monochrome disco went out of sight.
He thought about Mark's car, and the dog van, even nearly smiling as
he imagined the dogs following the tracks of the night. The handler
would think they'd lost it.
Cal had never been so pleased to see Brook Road, and gave the cabbie a
good tip. Not that he liked him, it might help his memory loss if needs
be - rich southern student, yeah, not a Manc or a Tyke. Jesus, this was
nowhere near over. It could be just the start.

This novel is available on Amazon.com under the name Robert Darragh.
Please don't buy it.