I say again –you're all so lovely! Thank you.
There is quite literally nowhere to hide.
And it doesn't matter how fast they race towards the city-lit horizon, the Jaguar gains. Faster.
Faster.
"Take the next junction off," he orders firmly, "we'll have to lose them where the traffic is denser. It'll be fine."
"Fine? Forgive me Harry but I fail to see the logic." She overtakes a white Volvo at increasing speed, the tail close behind – occupants of the vehicle almost invisible.
"I have passport, and money, in answer to your previous question about having a plan," he explains, "In a safe house which – luckily for us – is relatively close. I can direct you if you drive as fast as you can."
The grave silence of her reply is all he needs as the cat lights zoom past like flickers of exploding fireworks, the engine screaming as the wheels burn along the road. He knows, eventually, the tail will catch up. The fact that they're doing so already as opposed to following at the same speed blatantly implies it's a hunt, and they won't stop. Whoever 'they' are. She finds the junction as the tail becomes close enough to ram the car, and God decides they deserve a chance, putting a large red four by four between them that slows, for whatever reason. They make the traffic lights at the welcoming roundabout and head further into the west of the city again. There is a brief moment, as they take another turning, where Harry opens his mouth to claim victory. But Ruth cuts him short,
"They're behind the taxi," her hands grip the wheel so tightly the blood ceases to reach past her knuckles, "Harry they're going to find us."
"Just keep going, next right," he presses, and she does without hesitation. Two cars miss them by a hairs width, a pedestrian leaps from the road yelling abuse - rightly - as they surge further into town. Fast, faster. And the enemy not too close but close enough to trace their path with gaining confidence.
"It's near a large set up of flats. Down here," he points as the roads get gradually smaller, the engine louder, "Follow this road to the box junction and turn left."
She does so, hastily having to break as a van charges towards them avoiding roadwork cones.
"They're still there Harry!" she struggles to speak without the nerves cutting up her words, focusing it seems more on the mirror than what's ahead. "We're not going to outrun them!"
He points to the next street, the tyres bite the tarmac to hold on, "You're doing brilliantly so far Ruth."
"What do we do when we get there?"
"We'll have to ditch the car before we do," he replies, equally as panicked now as they reach a straight and the tail quickens to meet their speed. "And run."
"Run?" they screech around a sweeping corner, she thumps down the accelerator but the brake soon after as a motorbikes pulls out and swerves. As a result, it falls behind their car, causing the tail in turn to swerve and mount the pavement briefly. But recovered, the driver pushes on and ruthlessly thunders down the streets for his victims, now more of a fading red light in the distance. Before he can determine exactly which break lights are theirs, they have taken another turning into a maze of side streets. He follows and by the time he catches the target, the car is abandoned messily at the roadside and the runaways lost to the night.
"Here!" Harry shouts as they emerge from an alley to a quieter street, Ruth at his side panting with her rucksack gripped tightly in icy sore hands. Quite unbelievably the key is hidden behind a loose brick to the side of the blackened window, which he takes and rams the door open recklessly before pulling her inside where they stand - finally safe – in disbelief, watching the icy air transform their heaving breath to smoke-like ghosts in the unlit hallway.
She drops her rucksack to the floor, one hand over her mouth before she wipes her forehead and allows the wall to take her weight, falling back on it, legs weak but adrenalin still raging through her tired system. In catching their breath they say nothing. She doesn't even look around, simply relieved and unspokenly stunned that she's brought them to safety. The gratitude is evident in his expression as he looks to her without any single remark, leaning on the dusty chest of draws - the only furniture evident in this cold, dead safe house. Their frantic gasping provides the only life in the building until finally, eventually, they stand straight and stare at each other. Naturally, they act before they speak. She falls into his arms as he opens them almost as if it's practised. He holds her there, breath slower now but heart still pulsating against his aching insides through his muscles, bones, skin and shirt so fiercely she can feel it against her chest. She hadn't noticed before, in her house, the size difference created between them when he curls one arm around both of her shoulders easily in one sweep. Her hands struggle to meet around his frame but she doesn't force them – all the while they were running, he had one hand to his ribcage.
"How long," she mumbles to his chest, "How long do we have here?"
"Minutes."
Gingerly she separates their bodies and smiles at how quickly they've become accustomed to sharing each other's warmth.
"Do you think they'll really have followed us here?" she asks, praying he'll take the hint for her sake as well as his own. "You're running on empty Harry. Me, not so much. You have to rest."
"Ruth – "
"It's called a safe house for a reason."
"Circumstances are somewhat different this time I think you'd agree."
"It's still a safe house," she presses, "And we weren't followed here."
That much is true, he'll admit in silence.
"Please Harry, there must be a bed or something in this place. You need to rest. Don't think I haven't noticed you're still in pain."
"I'm fine."
"No. You haven't slept for what – forty eight hours?" And dropping her smile at his feet, she lifts her rucksack and walks away to the adjacent room, which in turn is revealed as what was once probably a sitting room. He follows as she taps the sofa, thickly blanketed in dust in the same fashion as the carpet, curtains, floorboard and dim metal lamp. "At least rest your eyes. Just for ten minutes while I see if we've any running water in this place, and I'll have a look for your emergency passport."
He's always loved this about her. Whatever the situation, however absurd or testing or dangerous, she will see the logic no one else can, take it, and fashion an answer from it. He knows it's in his best interest to listen. She's right; his ribs blaze with his bruised muscles. Like a child, he drags his feet to the sofa and collapses onto it. Within two minutes, he is asleep.
More soon.
