Chapter 25: A Standing Start And A Surprise.
Ron's amazement hardly had a second to fully reach the top of his brow where it seemed his eyebrows now nestled after witnessing what should be impossible.
His 'tail' had apparated – if they could be called a 'tail'; their behaviour had just seemed so outlandish.
However the behaviour had simply done nothing more than add to the overall shock of apparently easy apparation in one of the most heavily restricted and apparation-licensed areas on the face of the Magical planet.
It was simple: it shouldn't have happened. Ever.
The next second was filled with these thoughts and then these too were dispelled as the next second of time was filled with the thud and percussion of yet another shot ramming into the swiftly deteriorating plastic of the tourist booth. Another second followed, filled with the distant shrieks of Muggle police sirens, quickly sounding as if they were hungry to be at their destination and gradually getting louder; announcing the imminent arrival of the Muggle 'cavalry', Ron couldn't help bitterly thinking.
And then more shots hit the booth.
In that very short time, Ron realised he was now the only person in that area of street for several tens of yards. How the hell was he going to get out of this? Could he apparate? He somehow knew if he tried, either nothing would happen - or he'd be splinched over most of Greater Birmingham and the West Midlands conurbation.
It'd make his funeral a simple affair…
The other option of being caught in the open with ordinary units of the Muggle Police in attendance could be extremely embarrassing; if supposing he wasn't mistakenly gunned down first, by Armed Response Units. Or just arrested? It could still be hours before he'd be released. Patronus?
In the few seconds he's been debating his choices, several other things had occurred. Shouts and screams of terrified Muggles had increased again as a Muggle Police car had pulled up, lights and siren still going, about two hundred yards away, at the junction of Corporation Street and New Street. People crowded the Police officers, shouting against the noise of the sirens as the officers emerged from the car's doors, gesticulating clearly back down New Street to where Ron lay, cradled against the back of the booth as if he were on the only life raft in the midst of the Atlantic. Two more shots rang, in quick succession, now beginning to make the decidedly frail booth rock on its base and causing, as far Ron could see, the Muggles to scatter away from the deceptive security of the Police car and the Police officers themselves to immediately hunker down, seeking shelter behind their still-open car doors. Ron was sure, if they were a Special Armed Response Unit, guns were being removed from holsters; with that thought, Ron realised his options were now decreasing: against the background of the Police car's sirens two hundred yards away, other sirens now joined the general cacophony – the main 'cavalry' would be here very, very soon.
It was 'do something time' – now or never. But what?
Thinking of his choices stopped with the crashing of one last shot into the booth; its very dramatic teetering on its base, Ron holding on for dear life to keep it steady; the unmistakeable 'pop' from above his head, strangely magnified several times, of someone apparating, as the blare of sirens increased to be nearly an all-round sound with practically nothing else able to be heard – and the drawing up of a very old, very battered and very patched-up Fiat Uno by the pavement where Ron still lay, holding the booth's base.
A door shot open, screeching as if in agony and protest, on rusted and dry hinges, revealing an unoccupied, tatty leather passenger seat and past that, a driver who Ron thought was in London.
'Ron! Don't look at me like you've seen the bloody rebirthing of Merlin! GET IN!'
Ron hadn't moved.
The sirens were now so loud the driver had had no choice but to bellow; now putting a wand to their throat and in a commanding Sonorus charm repeated the order.
'GET IN! NOW'
The sirens were now overwhelming. The Police would be on top them in a matter of seconds, mere moments. But still he didn't move. The roar of sound hadn't dulled his caution; not after what had just happened. A trap?
He put his wand to his throat.
'Code?'
'What!?' came the incredulous reply. 'We haven't got fucking time to –'
'CODE?' his Sonorus thundered back.
'Nine – Four – Six – Two – Sir Thomas Malory.'
Ron was on his feet the next second, sprinting to the open passenger door, as the first of the 'cavalry' pulled up behind them.
It's at times like these that the strangest thoughts can come to us all, he mused, as he wondered what amazing forces adrenaline and fear and love are, that enable a six foot four man to jam his frame into a passenger seat and space ideally designed for someone a foot shorter.
He ignored the shouts to stop from the arriving Police behind him, barely getting the door shut as the Fiat did a rather good impression of a Muggle sports car's standing start, something which he'd experienced with Harry a long time ago, the sudden acceleration shoving Ron back into his seat and making him even more aware of the tightness of the space, his head finding the term 'head room' to be ironic.
He turned a pair of quizzical and less-than-approving eyes to the driver as the little vintage car sped down and around the back streets of Central Birmingham in a way that only Magical transportation can.
The driver's head turned for the briefest of moments and gave him the most radiant smile before looking back to the road.
'Hello,' she said.