"C'mon," he called to the girl. "Let's get out of here. Now." But she just stood in the doorway looking out into the yard. She looked up at the clouds covering the grey sky like they were artworks on the Sistine chapel ceiling. She stared at the rough brick and concrete walls like they were Odessa's Opera House.
She shrunk inside herself and cried. Whether of happiness or terror or some other emotion, he had no way of telling. He returned to her and gently pulled her over to the Subaru's passenger side. Her skin goose-bumped from the cold rain.
Then two more women ran out of the fire exit. Neither had coats but both had shoes.
"Hey, you mister, wait, what about us?" shouted one. Another girl with a strong Moldovan accent. They ran over to the car. He was tempted to accelerate away, leaving them behind. He'd only come for the chained girl anyway. Let the other women take their chance in this hellish city.
Instead, he stepped out of the Subaru and flung down the driver's seat. "Go on. Get in quick."
The women hustled inside. One caught her heel on his seatbelt and tumbled in. Caramarin gave her a shove on her bottom. Not interested in respecting her feelings. The second girl stepped in and the first wriggled over on the back seat to make room. He was about to slide the driver's seat back into position when the first girl; the one who'd caught her heel, pushed it down.
"I forgot my bag, I need my things," she called up to him.
"I can't believe this. Too late," he shoved the seat back as far as it would go and jumped in. The girl squeaked with annoyance. Caramarin fired up the Subaru's two litre engine, switched on the wipers and side lights then moved out down the side street.
Fuck-shit. Down the side street came Stanga's Range Rover 4x4, its bulk filling the narrow road. In the front seats he saw Pompiliu Stanga and Tibor Budescu. Stanga pointed at their car. Shit, if he'd driven away just a few minutes earlier he and the girls would be clean away. Now he had a battle on his hands. Caramarin jerked the gear-stick into reverse. The Subaru lurched to a stop then hurtled back out onto Oldham Road's traffic.
Death missed them by inches. Only a bus driver's excellent reflexes saved them. Everyone heard the blast of a horn as the bus stopped with only centimetres to spare. The girls on the back seat screamed with terror. The bus driver leaned out of his window. Caramarin now learned a new English word.
"Wanker," the driver shouted and made a gesture that needed no translation. Caramarin did the only thing possible. Gave the man the finger.
Caramarin slammed the gear-stick top left. Their car lurched forward. Shit, they drive on the other side of the road in this horrible country. He swung the Subaru out into the left hand traffic, along Oldham Road heading out of the city centre. He accelerated down the road, Stanga and Budescu now blocked by the bus. He glanced in the mirror; he'd bought himself at least a few seconds time. Now he had to use it.
Caramarin threw the car over to the left, wheeling round into the first road leading off Oldham Road. He hurtled past some Goods Station. In his mirrors he saw the mobsters 4x4 following them. Caramarin shook his head – really he hadn't expected to throw someone as skilled as Tibor Budescu off this early.
Ignoring the oncoming traffic, and the girls' shrieks behind him, Caramarin sped the Subaru out onto Rochdale Road. He cut up a blue Toyota minicab then floored their car in and out of the traffic. Guessed his new English word was repeated several more times behind him.
Stanga's 4x4 swung out after them, several car lengths behind. Saw an opening in the traffic on his right and flew down a side road called Sudell Street on his right, buying a little more space and time for them.
Another right, more blasts from other driver's horns. Past a red brick church and school then threw a left coming back out onto Oldham Road. At this point it was a much wider road than before, a dual carriageway. Looking back, Caramarin saw the 4x4 pulling out. Taking more risks with their lives, Caramarin drove along Oldham Road as fast as he dared, weaving in and out; Stanga's Range Rover doing the same behind him. Not gaining on them but not falling back either.
As Caramarin drove, he blanked out the women's screams behind him. He glanced at the young woman he'd come to save. She sat like a living statue in the front passenger seat. Her body swayed with the motion as he threw the car in and out of the traffic but her far away gaze never left the windscreen. Almost looked like she was enjoying a Sunday run out in the country.
He looked behind him. Now the Range Rover was gaining on them. They had a far more powerful motor – and Budescu was more used to the roads in this back-to-front country. Also, the longer this chase went on, the quicker the cops would get involved. No way could Caramarin risk getting involved with the law. Not when he was wanted for questioning for murder. So he had to end this chase quickly. And so had Stanga. He wouldn't want his girls speaking to the law. No way. But how to get away? The road curved away gently to the left, past another, more modern, church.
The traffic in front of him was stopped. Ahead, he thought he could see a red light. Caramarin took a big chance. Like putting his all on the turn of a card or the roll of a dice. He pulled out and gunned the Subaru up the wrong side of the road, shooting past all the stopped cars. He saw stares of amazement as he passed them. Pedal to the metal time.
Shot past five, six – more than he expected – then saw cars heading towards him. In the lead car, a black Audi, some young Asian guy, his mouth and eyes three 'O's of shock, almost matching his Audi's badge. The guy slammed on his brakes, his Audi's hood almost driving into the ground with the force of the rapid deceleration.
Caramarin swerved up onto the sidewalk; darted past the last few cars, all now stopped behind the Audi. Horns blasting away in fear and frustration. Pedestrians leaped out of the way as he sped past a row of auto repair shops. An old lady wheeling a shopping trolley legged it with a surprising turn of speed.
He hurtled round the corner, almost on two wheels, steering wheel flying through his hands, onto the crossroad past the traffic lights. Still up on the sidewalk.
"Shut up you two," he shouted, "we're not dead yet." The noise in the back went down a little. Maybe down from nine to eight hundred decibels. Increasing up to an even thousand as the wing mirror clipped a lamp post, the mirror ripping off and bouncing away in the backwash behind them. Caramarin flew past another line of five or six cars and vans waiting for the lights to change. As soon as he was past the cars; flew down onto a wide thoroughfare marked up as Alan Turing Way. The Subaru raced past a delivery office. A few couriers leaning by their vans waved as the red Subaru flew past at top speed.
"Other side of the road," shrieked one of the girls, "other side!"
"What?" shouted Caramarin.
"Other side," she yelled above the screams from the other girl in the back. Pointing with her left arm. He looked to the other side of the road. A few parked cars and vans, a derelict looking factory. Nothing to get excited about.
Looking behind him, he saw Stanga's Range Rover racing round the cross roads into Alan Turing Way. The vehicle grew larger in his mirror, accelerating, making up for lost ground after Caramarin's death-defying stunt.
Eyes back front. Fuck-shit. A large white van hurtling towards him. Now he knew what the girl meant. He'd forgotten they drive on the left in this fucked up country. Only his combat trained reflexes saved them from a smash up. Caramarin threw the wheel hard to the left, leaving rubber on the road, the car missing the van by a coat of paint. No more than that. Bet the girls pissed themselves in the back. Fuck's sake, he almost did.
Stanga's 4x4 much closer now, the more powerful car almost up their tailpipe. Caramarin wrenched the Subaru's steering wheel left and turned into a small industrial estate on Lord North Street. Hoping against hope the unexpected manoeuvre would throw off Budescu. There was a huge patch of fenced off wasteland to their right. Some narrow side streets off Lord North Street, lorries and vans parked up both sides, the gap between the lorries as narrow as an asthmatic's windpipe. Hooked a swift right into a packed parking lot before the second side street, Clifton Street.
Caramarin had to slow a little, lifting his foot off the pedal, as he flung the Subaru around the parking lot. Caramarin drove as fast as he dared, only centimetres between his Subaru and the parked cars. A couple of business men in suits stopped gossiping and stared open mouthed. Hooked a left out of the parking lot onto Lord North Street and found himself back on the main road. As the sign flashed past, Caramarin saw the road was called Hulme Hall Lane.
No idea where Stanga's Range Rover was now. Reckoned they were probably searching for him in the car park. Time to put more distance between themselves and the pursuit. Dropping his foot down the Subaru shot under a railway bridge; the noise and vibrations of a local train overhead filling the car. Back out into the rain now, their wipers working overtime. Oh shit, there was Stanga again. Further away than before but not for long.
Speeding past a cemetery on the opposite side of the road from a gasometer. The bone-yard’s wrought iron gates stood open. There was a woman selling flowers from a little cart. The other side of the gates, the carved stone angels looked dismal and forlorn in the rain swept gloom. Is that where he'd be buried if he couldn't get them away from Pompiliu Stanga and Tibor Budescu?
A few hundred metres further on, past a modern oval block of apartments, Caramarin spotted a turn-off into Gibbon Street. A bus trundled up Alan Turing Way, oblivious to the drama in front. Caramarin swerved around the bus, for a brief moment out of eyesight of Stanga and Budescu. He looked like he was continuing down Alan Turing Way but at the very last split second, he threw the wheel over to the left.
Tyres screeching, the Subaru heeled over and he hammered down Gibbon Street. A gentle curve past a McDonald's diner. Not too bad. In his rear view mirror, he saw Stanga's Range Rover fly down the wrong road: Alan Turing Way.
Caramarin blew past a roundabout, car horns blasting out as he slalomed round them at speed, flying past the bulk of the Manchester Velodrome. The Subaru sped down a dead straight road, dodging round a couple of slower-moving cars. The graveyard he'd seen earlier lay peacefully on their left. The shrieking from the girls on the back seat died down just a little as the car stabilised.
Now he'd lost Stanga and Budescu's car, Caramarin just wanted to get clear out of the area.