Another long straight road coming up. A sign told him it was called Bank Street. Caramarin slowed down to a fast but more normal speed. Suddenly, he stamped on the brakes, rubber skid marks tracked out behind him along the wet tarmac. More screams from the two girls behind him. A young man, late teens, jeans half way down his arse, earphones wedged tight, leaped back from a crossing.
"Wanker," he and Caramarin yelled at the same time. Caramarin smiled. He was getting the hang of English now. Slammed the car into gear and onwards. The young man aimed a kick at their rear bumper. Caramarin knew he had to get away very soon. Couldn't be much longer before the cops showed up. And then it would be all over. No way could he out run the cops for long in this Subaru. Not when they had an all-seeing eye in the sky with their helicopter.
Some side streets opening off Bank Street were coming up ahead. Another main road crossed the bottom of Bank Street. Plenty of choices to dodge down. Except, suddenly, with no warning, Stanga's Range Rover pulled out of the main road. The huge 4x4 swerved out and aimed at the red Subaru on a direct collision course. That cut Caramarin's options down to one.
"He's gonna ram us," shrieked one of the girls. "We're all gonna die."
Caramarin pointed the Subaru straight at the Range Rover. No way. He saw Stanga and Budescu glaring at them through their windscreen. The two vehicles rushed together, the smash up inevitable.
But it was Caramarin who blinked first. He threw the wheel over hard, flying past the 4x4 with nothing to spare. Rocketed past the mobsters, skidded, braked, leaving more rubber tracks behind him. The Subaru skidded over to the left so he turned into the skid, the steering wheel hard in his hands. The wheels clipped the kerb, climbed up onto the sidewalk, a hubcap bouncing down the road behind them.
The Subaru stalled; now facing along the main road, Ashton New Road, the way Stanga and Budescu had just emerged from. The Range Rover looming large in the windscreen. No time to throw the car into reverse and turn round again, instead he thrust the gear-stick back into first, the car jerked forward. This time along Ashton New Road.
Tibor Budescu reversed the Range Rover, trying to block the road with the 4x4's bulk. Cutting them off from escape. Caramarin accelerated, back up onto the sidewalk, swerved round their huge vehicle. More shrieks from the back. Caramarin had an opportunity now, so he seized it with both hands. While Budescu got the Range Rover back on the road, Caramarin powered along Ashton New Road.
Shooting through the lights at the junction with Ashton New Road, he slammed on the brakes to avoid a dirty white van, then gunned the Subaru back up the first stretch of Alan Turing Way. Back north – back up the way they'd come down originally. Even in the stress of the chase, Caramarin couldn't help but notice Manchester City Football Club's massive Etihad stadium crouching menacingly on the corner like a giant, grey, multi-legged spider. Or like some huge alien space craft. It was so huge, so out of place.
But more ominously, out of the corner of his eye, Caramarin noticed people standing on the sidewalk calling into their cells while watching them. No, they couldn't have much time left before the cops showed up.
Stanga's Range Rover was delayed slightly at the crossroads but the mobsters would be on them within the minute. Once again, racing past Gibbon Street, the Range Rover in hot pursuit. Stanga and Budescu would be on top of them any time now. Caramarin hammered north along Alan Turing Way. For a change, there was a gap in the traffic. He stayed on the right hand side of the road for a moment, dangerously overtaking, then swung back into the left. The Range Rover much closer now, filling up the rear view window.
The bone-yard on their right again. So he did the unexpected. Stood on the brake, jerked up the handbrake and at the same time wrenched the steering wheel hard over to the right. The engine howled in protest as the Subaru swung round in a handbrake turn. An arc of rubber on the wet tarmac. There couldn't be much tread left.
Dropping the handbrake, he stamped on the gas pedal and the red Subaru shot through the cemetery gates. The elderly woman selling flowers leaped away in horror, the car just missing her. Caramarin gunned the car along a rutted path between the tombstones. Threw a u-turn before pulling up and leaping out of the Subaru.
"Stay here," he shouted to the girls. They stared at him, wide-eyed.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out the CZ-75 pistol. Thumbing off the safety catch, Caramarin racked the slide, then took up a shooter's position, arms braced on top of a grave stone. Aiming along the path they'd just driven up. He breathed deep, trying to calm himself after that mad, chaotic drive. His chest heaved and his arms shook with the adrenaline. Not good enough. In the sudden silence, he heard rooks cawing in the trees. Black birds of ill omen.
Stanga's Range Rover pulled through the cemetery gates a moment later. Caramarin paused. Tried to clear his mind but found it was not that easy. Breathed in and on the exhale, squeezed off a shot. It went wild. A miss. The 4x4 kept on coming. This time, Caramarin allowed himself another breath before firing.
This time the bullet found its mark. It punched into the driver's front wheel. Chunks of rubber shredded off the tire. He watched Tibor Budescu struggle for control, the steering wheel sliding through his hands. The 4x4 swerved over onto the grass and smashed into a large granite tomb dedicated to some long gone Victorian merchant. The headstone toppled to remain at a drunken angle. Instantly, the two men disappeared as the air bags exploded in their faces. That would keep them busy.
Caramarin stood. Only then did he realise it was still raining. Drops pattered from the trees all around him. Caramarin ran a hand over his head, trying to think straight. Too much going on at once, his brain mush. But he knew he had no time to waste. He ran back to the Subaru. One of the girls in the back was trying to struggle out. He pushed her back inside.
"Stay there," he said. "Nearly home free now." He stooped and smeared mud over the Subaru's number-plates before jumping back in and firing up the car. He pulled out in a smooth turn and headed past the Range Rover and out of the cemetery.
"You two in the back, get down. The cops'll be looking for a car with three women in it so get out of sight." The girls looked at him. "Now." he shouted. Caramarin wriggled out of his green jacket as he drove and put on his baseball cap. Not much of a disguise.
The two women lay flat on the back seat; nothing much he could do about the catatonic girl in the front seat. She still sat there, oblivious to what was happening all around her. Gone off in her own world. Caramarin drove carefully out of town avoiding Ashton New Road, keeping to back streets and rat runs as much as possible, glancing down at his road atlas from time to time.
He heard sirens racing towards town. Cops. With a bit of luck they'd catch Stanga and Budescu stuck in the graveyard. More sirens. They were taking the chase seriously; just a few minutes too late.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a police van flashing past along Ashton New Road, blurred outlines of bulky men in the back. Was that an armed response vehicle? They must have heard his gun shots. He turned left, away from Ashton New Road. Desperate to put some distance between himself and the cops.
Heading out away from the city now towards the suburb of Droylsden. Caramarin drove slowly and carefully, hoping nobody would link them to the chase. Checked his road map again. Opposite a small park was a row of large Victorian villas. He drove slowly along the row, counting numbers. The one he wanted was hiding behind a large, overgrown hedge. A mossy gravel drive led towards a rambling detached house.
A couple of cars were parked at the far end of the drive near the house. It had been whitewashed with large leaded windows and a massive porch dominating the front. Now, the original whitewash was a dull greyish mottled white.
Caramarin pulled up.
"Here we are. You can get up now, you two." The two women sat up, taking in their new surroundings. Caramarin opened the door and gently helped the young woman out of the front. She stood, unmoving on the sidewalk. She looked out of place, standing in just her dirty vest and underwear. She shivered as the rain fell on her bare arms and legs, an involuntary movement.
"This is a woman's refuge centre. For battered women," Caramarin explained to the others. "I don't know if they can take you in, but they must be able to sort something out for you." He handed the digital camera to one of the girls. "Give them this. It'll help prove what you've been through."
Turning to the near catatonic girl. "Go with these ladies," Caramarin said quietly, "They'll look after you now." He kissed her on her forehead then placed her hand in one of the girl's.
"Thank you," she said, so quietly he almost didn't hear her. He was surprised she said anything. So that must be a good sign as he thought she was almost completely comatose.
"Do either of you speak English?" he asked. Both women nodded. He handed the older woman's cell phone to the more sensible of the two; the one who'd screamed least on that nightmare chase.
"Ring this number at eight thirty tonight," Caramarin told her. He gave her instructions on what to say. "Remember, I'm trusting you with my life, I need you to ring this. Otherwise I'm dead meat. I got you out of Stanga's hell; now just do this one thing for me."
The girl nodded. "I won't let you down. I promise," she said. She threw her arms around Caramarin's neck and kissed him. "I don't know why you've helped us all but thank you, thank you so much. I won't let you down."
That would have to do. She let go, then the three women crossed the road and walked up to the over large porch.
Caramarin watched as a CCTV camera mounted above the porch swivelled to focus on the three women. No way would they open up if a strange man, especially one looking like him, stood at their door. But for three women, one in just her underwear, they'd have to let them in.
The front door opened. A tall woman with long hair, glasses and wearing a navy blue sweater, opened the door. He watched as the girls said something to the woman, before handing her the camera. The manageress peered over her glasses at the traumatised girl in her underwear then stood aside and showed them in. The door shut behind them.
He climbed back into the red Subaru. Rain drummed on the roof. He sat for a moment with his head thrown back. Exhausted, totally wiped out. He'd done all he could for those women. They were in the system now. He was sure the poor traumatised girl would get all the help she needed; detox, a psychologist, lots of support. He hoped she'd make it.
Fuck-shit. Should have remembered. He'd forgotten to wipe the digital camera's memory chip. Now there were pictures of him, Narcisa and the others in the system. Something else for the cops to chew over. But nothing he could do about any of it now.
He shook out the last grains of coke onto the dash, lined it up then rolled up a five and took a hit. Feeling a little better, he sparked up the Subaru and then drove back into town along the back streets and rat runs again.
Left the Subaru by the side of the road.