Hearing the echoes of the fire alarm still ringing in the ears for a moment before realising the clanging has stopped. Need to be quiet now as well as careful. The cops and paramedics' voices clearer, less distorted now. In the near distance, more sirens, the sound booming off the buildings, street noise muffling their clarity.
Dragging more cold air into the lungs. More sleet swirling around his face. Two deep breaths, three, four. Flexing chilled fingers, restoring some circulation. On now. Now. Keep going. Move away from the window and round the corner next. Left foot, slide along, now right following. Left, right.
What's that. A silver slug out on the ledge? A nudge with the side of the foot. No, some guy's tadpole bag. A late night shag after working hours? A quickie over a desk? Rubber tossed out the window. Dirty bastard. Forget it. Not important. Keep moving.
Now at the corner. A gust of wind blowing sleet into his face. Stinging chill flakes mixed with wetness. Blinking, a quick head shake. Very carefully, edge round the corner. Another step, another slip... careful... body edging round the corner, the sharp angle digging into his back, snagging the hi-viz, rucking up the polyester. Tricky, another shuffle, now bring the right leg round.
A pause and a breath of air. Out of sight of the cops in the side road. Their voices muted now and the blue flashes less insistent. Looking down, careful don't lean too far over.
Caramarin saw he was standing at the tip of an 'L' shaped wall. Below him, taking up the inner part of the 'L' was a small goods yard, lit by a security spotlight. The yard was enclosed by a corrugated metal wall, topped with coils of barbed wire. Old polythene bags and papers were snagged in the wire, mournfully fluttering in the chill breeze.
Overfilled dumpsters lined up against one wall with a stack of abandoned pallets piled up near them. Straining his eyes in the gloom, looking along the wall, Caramarin spotted a drainpipe. Marvellous. Careful, don't want to fall now the end is in sight. The wind getting up, a billow of sleet in the face, this ledge more wet and slippery. Control breathing, control hope, glide along.
Foot slipping on a patch of moss or lichen. Get balance back. Easy. Only a hundred centimetres to go, fifty, thirty, ten, one, fingertips quivering with tension. Safety. Sort of. Hand grasping the cast iron down-spout like it was his best friend. Which, just at the moment it was. Shuffled over and gripped it with both hands.
A commotion of noise coming from the office block behind him. Very little time. Caramarin swung out into space and shinned down the drainpipe and into the goods yard. Creaking noises from the pipe, and it trembled under his weight but it held firm. Caramarin dropped the last metre into the yard.
In the drizzle the cobbles were slick and treacherous underfoot. He ran to the dumpsters, shrugging off his hi-viz. He stuffed it deep into the first dumpster then pressed down its lid as hard as he could. Grabbing a nearby pallet, Caramarin propped it on the dumpster's lid to make a crude ladder against the corrugated metal wall.
Scrambled up on the dumpster, slipping on its greasy, sleety, wet surface. Almost fell back into the yard. Would be stupid to fail right at the end. He climbed up the pallet, and swung a leg over a narrow part of the barbed wire, resting his foot on the narrow top of the corrugated metal. The barbs snagged his jeans, pricked his calf. A quick glance along the back alley. No-one in sight yet. But not much time.
Caramarin gripped the wire between the barbs then swung his right leg over too. The pallet fell away off the dumpster, clattering to the cobbled yard floor. Caramarin swayed on his perch at the top of the fence then, trusting to fortune, he let go and dropped to the alley outside. From his awkward position, he couldn't judge his drop properly. Couldn't do a Paratrooper roll. He fell heavily; hitting his side, banging his knee, winding himself.
No time to waste before the cops sealed off the rear of the office block. Caramarin picked himself up and limped down the narrow, dark alley. Turned the corner, down the next side street and then back onto the hustle and bustle of Cross Street. He glanced behind him and saw a few cops grouped around the entrance to the office block. One of them, a burly young man, looked up and pointed.
The cop said something to the others and stepped off the entrance stairs. Caramarin turned and dodged through the crowds, for an instant out of view. Hurrying his pace, ignoring the pain from his knee, Caramarin jogged down Cross Street. Risking a look behind. The cop was following, mouth bent to his radio.
Maybe the cop had a description from the security guard or the receptionist. Hoping his knee wouldn't give out, Caramarin broke into a run along the crowded street; he elbowed aside a woman in a burqa, she stumbled and fell behind him. Her shopping strewn over the sidewalk. Shoved aside a young woman pushing a double buggy who shouted abuse, barged past a well dressed business man.
He ran along, dodging out into the road to avoid a knot of young Afro men. The cop was following, pounding along. Caramarin might as well have a neon sign over him flashing 'Stop! Murderer!'.
Heard a siren wailing behind him. Fuck-shit. The cop had called up the cavalry. Caramarin raced past a large group of women waiting for a tram, for a moment out of view of the cop. Sprinted down some side street. This wasn't as solidly crowded as Cross Street but still busy.
It was lined with smaller shops of a more ethnic character. Passed a small supermarket. Fruit and vegetables stacked in racks and boxes outside. Hanging in the window, a rack of blood red Santa costumes, complete with cotton wool beards. Caramarin braked and burst into the shop, already fumbling in his breast pocket.
An elderly Indian looking gent with a white Islamic beard stared goggle-eyed at Caramarin. The old man must have thought he was about to be robbed as he raised his hands disarmingly. Caramarin threw a purple twenty onto the till and snatched up a Santa suit from its rack. Several more tumbled unheeded to the floor.
In front of the staring man and his few Asian customers, Caramarin shrugged off his combat jacket and pulled on the Santa jacket over his head. No time to take off his boots so just stepped into the red trousers. At this point he couldn't care less about ripping them. Shoved the hat on with its long, floppy crown and adjusted the itchy beard over his chin. A quick glance at his reflection in the shop window. Totally unrecognisable now.
The shopkeeper had laid out his change on a magazine by the till. The man had backed as far as possible away from the till and the dangerous lunatic who had burst into his store. Caramarin took enough for the bus fare but left the rest. He shook his head forcefully at the old gent and hoped the man understood that meant not to say anything. Then he rolled up his jacket around the bulk of the hunting knife and shoved the bundle into a plastic bag. He nodded politely to the customers and stepped outside. As he closed the door he heard them start talking behind him.
He saw no cops in this street up to now. Feeling a little calmer, he turned away from Cross Street and walked the other way up to Market Street. A few people glanced at him in passing. Caramarin hoped he just looked like a lad out on the lash for the night. And not like a man wanted for questioning.
Caramarin jumped the first bus he saw without caring where it went as long as it took him out of Manchester's city centre. He sat at the back, head down, out of sight behind the steamed up window. It seemed like the first chance to relax for ages. The bus trundled along the main shopping street of Deansgate towards a suburb called Stretford.
No-one chose to sit next to him. Which was hardly surprising. Heading into the city centre, on the other side of the road, several squad cars raced past. Caramarin shrank back in his seat. But no way could they spot him hiding at the back behind condensed windows.
He waited a few kilometres until the bus drove through a housing estate. Definitely no CCTV cameras here. Caramarin stepped off. Instantly, sleet bejewelled his Santa suit. Checking his street atlas he started walking. Halfway along a small parade of shops, Caramarin saw a barber's shop was still open. It had pictures of African-American sports stars in the window.
A tall man in a Hawaiian shirt with short dreadlocks was shaving gang stripes into a young man's cropped forehead. They both looked amazed when Caramarin walked in wearing his blood red Santa suit. Too polite, or maybe too worried, to let their jaws hang open but the effect was the same.
Caramarin took a seat next to an older black man took off his fake beard and waited. As soon as the stripes were etched and the young man brushed down, the barber spoke to Caramarin and gestured to the chair. The older man next to Caramarin nudged him forward. Obviously, they wanted rid of this crazy white dude before he picked up a pair of scissors and went berserk. He noticed the young man take his empty seat instead of leaving. Just in case something happened.
Caramarin gestured to the clippers and mimed shaving his head. The barber looked at his two customers. Caramarin knew what the man was thinking. Wishing he had a few more Afro men in the place. Preferably big strong men who worked the doors.
Pointing to the shortest setting; a number one. He smiled in the mirror, catching the gaze of the two customers behind him. He hoped he looked non-threatening but the two men still looked wary. Then he mimed shaving his head again.
With a shrug of his shoulders, the barber set to work, clippers buzzing like an angry bee. Within seconds, Caramarin's long dark hair fell to the floor around him. In a way he felt a little like Samson losing his strength. The barber worked quickly and within minutes he'd finished. Caramarin stood, now with short stubble covering his head. He ran a hand over his head feeling his bumps, a chill on his ears. Looking in the mirror, he had to agree. Yes, he looked different now. It had been years since he'd had a convict cut. And then it was a genuine one.
The barber and his customers looked pleased after he paid and left. Pleased and well relieved that they hadn't had to deal with a raging lunatic after all.
A group of young men lounging by a pub watched Santa pass. They looked at each other, nodded, and then swung down from their wall. Caramarin's troubles weren't over that evening.