CHAPTER 31. TRAPPED INSIDE THE TRACTOR WORKS.
There had been a time of burning. Now was a time for floods. Patryk and Lukasz sprinted around the bend in Mareham Lane. For a moment they left the pursuing headlights behind until they hit the gates barring entry to the Bass Maltings. As always, the gates were chained shut with a heavy padlock so Lukasz crouched and made a stirrup with his hands. Patryk placed his foot in the stirrup and Lukasz boosted his friend up over the gate.
Patryk's hands slipped on the wet metal at the top of the gate. He swayed and nearly fell from his narrow metal frame. Recovering himself, he swung his right leg over and landed on the far side, his trainers splashing up a puddle.
As soon as Patryk was over, Lukasz tossed over the crowbar, leaped up and scrambled over the gate. He jumped down, landing in the same puddle.
Headlights swung around the bend, their light blurred and diffused by the driving rain.
"Come on," Lukasz shouted over the sound of the deluge. He hauled on his friend's arm and together they ran across the cracked concrete forecourt. Sheet lightning – a million, billion volts of electricity streaked across the sky and the rain fell in a cloudburst. Thunder rolled overhead. Already wet, within seconds, the two Poles were soaked to the skin.
Glancing behind him, Lukasz saw several cars pull up before the gates. Men jumped out and stood before the gates. In another blast of lightning, the men spotted the fleeing Poles and several pointed. Yet their shouts were drowned out by the boom of thunder. The storm was directly overhead.
Stumbling through the torrential rain, Lukasz and Patryk ran towards the first block of the Bass Maltings. Rain streaked down their faces, water stinging their eyes. Another electrical burst above and they saw Peachornby's BNP thugs scrambling over the gate, impatient to tear the Poles' heads off. One of the skinheads had come prepared and was attacking the chain with a bolt cutter. The thug rammed open the gates and one of the skinheads already climbing over lost his grip and face-planted the concrete.
Despite their danger, Patryk paused his flight and smiled. Slowly he raised both middle fingers and flipped the skinheads off. Then he turned and ran. An instant later, the two men stood in the partial shelter of a recessed doorway. Lukasz jammed the tip of the crowbar and levered ajar the corrugated iron covering the door. Holding it open for his friend, first Patryk and then Lukasz slipped inside the abandoned industrial space. The sheet metal snapped back plunging the two men into near total darkness.
Another and another lightning bolt split the sky and in the white flashes lighting up the roofless space, the two men saw the vast hall was filled with rusting, antiquated machinery. Rain fell in torrents, pouring down through the fire blackened rafters and empty upper storeys.
"We can't stop here. Those Nazis will break in any time now. Come on," Lukasz said. The two men ducked around a huge vat. Thunder cannon-boomed overhead. In the enclosed space of the hall, it sounded as if the sky had been ripped in two. Deluges of rain fell, cascading like waterfalls off the machinery. The two men legged it round the vat to the far wall. More rain streamed down the brickwork. They fetched up against a rusting iron staircase set against the wall. Several treads had been lost over the years and the handrail pulled away. But there was nowhere else to go – all the other doors and windows were securely boarded.
The two men ran up the steps passed the return and carried on. Another roar of thunder, more rain bucketing down. Lukasz shivered – with chill as much as fear. As he climbed, he looked down and saw the first of the skinheads push through the corrugated iron shutter. More and more followed and Lukasz recognised Mason and a taller dude dressed all in black. One of the skins called the man 'Malkie'.
Another million volts of lightning split the sky, that split second flash starkly illuminating the two Poles. In that burst of light Lukasz saw Malkie point their way. Then, in total contrast, the ruined interior was plunged into darkness. Thunder roared directly above them as if this was the end of the world. Doomsday, Armageddon and Ragnarök all rolled into one. And still the rain sluiced down.
Lukasz shoved Patryk on the small of his back. "Move, man. They've spotted us."
Patryk needed no further encouragement. Despite the slick steps, despite the deluge, he quickened his steps. Looking down Lukasz saw the skinheads running around the vat. Patryk and Lukasz hurried their steps. A moment later they were at the top of the iron steps. Above them was only the roofless void, the rain making the two men squint. Old fire blackened beams and rafters traced lines against the sky.
Down below, the first of the neo-Nazis had reached the foot of the staircase.
Another brilliant burst of light revealed an upper-storey walkway leading to the next unit. Like the stairway, this walkway was also in a poor state of repair. Standing on the small landing, Patryk kicked open the rotten wooden door. It sprung away from its frame but its crash was drowned in another burst of thunder.
The walkway was as rotten as the door. Planks were missing from the floor and in the intense white light from the lightning they saw the cobbled ground a long way below. On the far side of the walkway the two men saw another wooden door leading to the next factory unit. They looked at each other. Neither fancied crossing this treacherous, crumbling floor but they knew they had no choice. Coming up from behind them were the BNP thugs. One was yelling something but they couldn't make out his shouts.
"Keep to the sides – it'll be firmer there," Patryk shouted.
Lukasz nodded and crept, crablike, along the edge of the wooden walkway, keeping his back to the wall. Rain pelted the wooden sides and slashed in through a broken window. The two men edged past the opening. Lukasz shivered as the rain splashed his back and neck. Another bolt of lightning split the air outside and in the sharp, white light they saw the maelstrom outside. The storm looked like it was the end of the world. The access road below was underwater and looked like the Vistula in full spate.
The two Poles jumped as the thunder roared directly overhead, shaking the walkway. For one moment, Lukasz thought it would split in two and they would crash, screaming to the cobbles below. Hurriedly, they picked up the pace until they stood before the further door. Patryk tried the handle, more than half expecting the door to be locked.
The handle moved, but the old door had swollen with the damp. The door only opened an inch, scraping over the wooden floor. Patryk stepped away from the safety of the side of the walkway and kicked hard at the door. It scratched open another few inches but not enough. Lukasz crossed over the walkway, ignoring a creaking sound and a sagging board beneath his feet.
He joined his friend at the door and together they rained kicks at it, every blow forcing it open another inch at a time. A few more kicks and then Patryk squeezed through the gap into the next factory unit. Lukasz sucked in his already flat belly and wriggled through after his friend. His jacket snagged on a splinter or nail, pinning him between the door and its frame.
"C'mon," Patyryk yelled from beyond the door, his voice muffled by the wind and driving rain. From the staircase behind him, Lukasz heard the shouts of the BNP boot-boys. They were getting louder as they climbed up to the walkway. Now Lukasz could even hear their booted footsteps.
With a wrench, he ripped himself free from that nail, his jacket tearing and the nail gouging a bloody furrow in his back. Blood mixed with sweat and rainwater. Like a cork from a bottle, Lukasz popped into the next factory. It seemed to be an exact counterpart of the first with massive, rusting machinery with rainwater dripping or pouring in through the holes in the roof.
The instant Lukasz was through the door, Patryk shouldered it closed. He rammed it shut and then cast around. There was another flash outside, making everything leap forward in stark contrast to the darkness. Another peal of thunder but there was a second or two between the flash and thunder. The storm was starting to move away.
"Give me a hand," Patryk called to his friend as the rumble died away. Patryk picked up one end of a baulk of timber and started dragging it over the floor.
Seeing what he was doing, Lukasz bent his back and between them the two men hauled the beam to the door. They stood, panting hard. No way could those skins push open the door now. They'd have to batter it down now, which would waste time. Even as the two Poles got their breath back, they heard a thud as the first skinhead slammed against the door. The two Poles looked at each other, their faces pale ovals in the gloom. They drew in a last ragged breath and then moved away from the door.
The skins were now hammering on the door with their fists. They were wasting their time, the door was unmovable, but sooner or later a skin with fractionally more intelligence than a sea-slug would fetch a beam or heavy length of iron and batter the door down. No time to waste.
Carefully, avoiding the worst of the debris scattering the floor the two men picked their way over to an ironwork spiral staircase. It led both up to an attic space and down to a dark, cavernous lower floor. More rain fell in torrents through the holes in the roof and the charred ceiling beams.
"Which way?" gasped Lukasz.
Patryk looked both ways. Unsure which way was best. He came to a decision. Not much point going up. Sure, there were hiding places in the loft area but the skins would be sure to find them eventually. Down; down to the ground floor and then out. With a bit of luck they should be able to find a way into one of the other eight massive factory units and there was no way Peachornby's skinheads could search the whole of the Bass Maltings for them. The site was simply too massive with far too many hiding places for anything less than an army to search thoroughly.
In another lightning blast, the two men ran to the spiral staircase. Rainwater trickled down the ironwork. It was rusted from decades of water damage and neglect. Moss and algae slicked the treads.
"Careful, Lukasz," Patryk called over his shoulder as he made his way down. He gripped the handrail, his fingers scraping away flakes of rust and grime. Lukasz followed him. They followed the spiral down, almost reaching the bottom when Lukasz's foot shot out from under him and he fell, crashing and cursing the last few steps fetching up in a heap on the concrete floor. Patryk turned back.
"Stop fooling about down there," Patryk said to his friend with a smile.
Lukasz tried to stand. He cried out with pain. "My ankle. I think it's broken." He sat on the bottom step and gripped his ankle.
"No it's not – only a sprain," Patryk said optimistically. "C'mon, Lukasz, we can't stay here. Those skins'll be through the door soon. We can't let them catch us sitting here – they'll kill us."
Lukasz looked up. "You go on, get out of this mess. Draw them off and I'll find somewhere nearby out of the way to hide."
"No way, I'm not leaving you. No way."
Lukasz winced. "Thanks, mate. You know, Kassia was right. We should have cut and run before all this got out of control." He put out his arm and Patryk helped him stand.
"Too late to worry about that now. Come on, lean on my shoulder and we'll get out of this." Lukasz stood, leaning on his crowbar as a temporary crutch, grimacing with pain as his left foot touched the floor.
From above, there was a booming sound as the skins started in on battering down the door. Supporting his friend, Patryk crossed the ground floor. It was littered with rubble and tiles dislodged from the roof far above. The whole layer was covered with pigeon droppings and in the rain the surface was slick and treacherous. Patryk knew they could not falter. If the Smashers caught them in here, out of sight of anybody, they would be killed. Savagely and brutally beaten to death.
Unless Willard was on the ball, it might be months before anyone found their bodies in the Maltings. A sudden vision of their skeletons, their bones bleached white – no, he amended, covered in pigeon shit – were found. By which time, even the most pea-brained Smasher would have come up with some alibi. The two men hobbled over the floor towards another boarded door.
"Give that here," Patryk called over another boom of thunder. With difficulty, he wedged the tip of the crowbar between the stone jamb and the corrugated iron. Using his full strength, Patryk leaned on the bar. Flakes of rust showered down. Straining his muscles, Patryk heaved with all his might. One screw popped out, then another and another.
One last crash immediately followed by a splintering sound came from up above. This was followed by a hoarse yell. A great beam of wood sailed down towards the two Poles. Lukasz watched in horror as it fell tumbling towards them. The rafter crashed with a dull clang onto a ruin of rusting machinery of no obvious use before bouncing away.
The wind dropped for a moment and in the sudden hush, Patryk shouted up, "that the best you can do, you morons?"
One of the first skins through the smashed door was Malkie. He took something that looked like a deodorant aerosol from his pocket flicked a lighter and an orange flame, about a metre long, rushed out lighting up both the top of the stairs and Malkie's ecstatic expression.
"When they see the smoke of her burning, they will exclaim, ‘Was there ever a city like this great city?’ Revelation 18:17-19," Malkie roared out.
There was nothing to say to this – the guy was obviously a complete nut-job – but as if in response the storm renewed its violence, buffeting even the solid Maltings. The skinheads ran down the iron stairway but one or two looked anxiously overhead. It wouldn't take much to dislodge the remaining tiles and send them whirling down in lethal shards.
"I'd hurry it up, mate," Lukasz yelled down Patryk's ear.
Patryk said nothing, but kept labouring at the obdurate sheet of corrugated iron, pulling its edge away from the door frame. A couple more rusted screws lost their grip.
Lukasz looked back. Malkie and Mason had reached the bottom of the staircase and were hurrying as quickly as they could over the treacherous ground. They disappeared momentarily, out of sight behind a huge iron container.
"Now," Patryk said, pushing open the corrugated iron. Lukasz didn't need a second invitation. He shoved past Patryk and out into the open air. An instant later Patryk joined him. There was no point trying to replace the corrugated iron sheet. It banged as the wind caught it, smacking it against the door frame. Patryk cursed in Polish – they'd left the crowbar inside. No way was he going back for it, though. Blinking against the storm's raging fury, Patryk and Lukasz looked about.
Far away, on the other side of a ditch and a high chain-link fence and over the muddy fields, they saw the friendly lights of a housing estate. It might as well be on the other side of the moon as far as the two men were concerned. Even if they could climb the fence with Lukasz's twisted ankle, they had no hope of reaching the estate. Peachornby's Smashers would be on them within fifty metres and beat them to a pulp.
"The cars! Can we reach their cars?" Lukasz said.
It sounded like a good idea. Still supporting his friend, Patryk stepped out of the shelter of the huge brick building. The wind and rain caught him, knocking him off balance for a moment. His jacket billowed like a sail. His foot slid on a loose tile, blown off by the howling gale. He was immediately soaked again.
Shielding his eyes from the blown rain Patryk squinted down the service road running the length of the Bass Maltings. He saw the Smashers' cars pulled up by the opened gate. Even Peachornby knew enough to leave a couple of men on guard. There was no way out that way. Even if Patryk and Lukasz felt up to fighting a couple of bruisers – and they didn't – then the rest of the Smashers would be on them within moments. Then the outcome would be a foregone conclusion.
Turning away from the service road, Patryk put his shoulder under Lukasz's armpit and helped him stumble through the storm to the third massive block in the row. It wasn't far but they slipped and slid over the slick cobbles. A dislodged slate crashed down shattering by their feet. Lukasz smiled weakly at his friend. If that tile had hit either one of them, they could have been killed. He shuddered as another peal of thunder grumbled overhead. The storm was definitely moving away to expend its fury over the Wash.
No way out over the fields, no way out down the lane. So that left only one option. As more lightning tore through the sky, the two men had a stroke of luck. Fetching up against the third massive unit, they saw the metal shutter had already been wrenched open.
"In here," Patryk called over the gale.