Henry knew he had a decision to make. He made it quickly. He went after the man.
Running was very painful. His ribs jarred each time a foot crashed to the pavement. He kept his left arm pressed tightly across his chest in a V-shape to support himself.
As he ran he checked that his gun was loaded, releasing the cylinder with the thumb of his right hand and flicking it back into place when he saw the chambers were full. On his belt at the small of his back was a leather ring which held a spare speed loader primed with six more. 38s. The gorilla had missed it when searching him, as he’d missed the PR.
He veered out of the alley and ran in the direction of the promenade. About a quarter of a mile ahead of him the Tower loomed, bristling with lights.
He soon hit the Golden Mile. And people. Hundreds of people. He couldn’t see the killer.
‘ Get out of the fuckin’ way,’ he screamed, repeating it as he ran.
The crowd opened for him like the Red Sea as people scattered. Not surprising as it must have frightened the life out of everyone to see Henry careering towards them in his present condition.
Blood was still pouring from the reopened cut on the side of his face, as well as from his nose and mouth. His face was battered black and blue by the assault and his hair was in total disarray, matted with an unpleasant mixture of blood and cold, rotting food. There was a large area of blood and gore right aross his chest where the target had emptied the contents of the back of his head. With Henry’s left arm wedged where it was, it must’ve looked like he’d sustained a massive injury of some sort.
His clothing was torn and filthy. And he was waving a gun about.
And he was screaming like a madman.
He was only vaguely aware of the shouts, the music blaring out of the amusement arcades, the cars nose to tail, moving with desperate slowness one-way up the promenade.
Suddenly the man was there. Dead ahead. Unaware that Henry was behind him.
‘ Fuckin’ stop now,’ Henry yelled.
The man either didn’t hear or took no notice.
Henry bellowed again. Still no response.
Quickly he pointed his gun out across the promenade to the Irish Sea and fired a high shot, using the recoil to re-aim at the man. ‘Stop now,’ Henry said.
The man stopped. But in a blur he turned. There was a gun in his hand. A child ran across the gap, pursued by his mother — in the instant that the man fired. She took the bullet intended for Henry and pirouetted into the road on top of her child.
Henry weaved to retain his view. The man ran into the line of traffic and sprinted between the cars crawling up the promenade.
‘ Shit-fuck!’ uttered Henry, aware now, if he wasn’t before, he was in pursuit of a one-man killing machine.
Hinksman had been pleased to the point of smugness by the way things had gone. The information had proved correct, the hit had gone well, he had earned the last part of his money. Now all he had to do was get lost in the crowd, make his way to Manchester, then leave this godforsaken country. He was already thinking about the Great Barrier Reef.
He hadn’t bothered to find out who the goons were beating up. He’d simply eliminated everyone who appeared to be a potential threat — good, sound practice — then taken out Brown, finished the job. Four into the back of the head — a classic professional hit.
Now, as he twisted away into the traffic, he bitterly regretted not shooting the man on the ground. He hadn’t seemed a potential threat, just some half-dead loser. How was he to know the bastard was a cop?
Hinksman rolled spectacularly across the bonnet of a car like a stuntman, much to the surprise of its occupants, and started to put some distance between himself and the cop.
He glanced round. Yes, he was coming.
Hinksman upped his pace, running north along the promenade, between the cars and coaches, zig-zagging, keeping low, constantly checking over his shoulder.
Stubbornly the cop remained there.
To Hinksman’s left were tram-tracks which were laid adjacent and parallel to the road, used by the quaint trams which ran from Blackpool to Fleetwood in the north; on the other side of them was the wide pavement area for pedestrians only, then the railings of the sea wall, then the sea itself. Two hundred metres ahead was the North Pier, jutting out into the night. To his right was the Tower.
Hinksman’s mind raced. He quickly calculated how many bullets he had left in the magazine. He’d fired seven in the alley and one at the cop — the one which had hit the woman. That left him with four. The cop had fired one of his own; Hinksman had registered the fact that the cop’s gun was a six-shot revolver of some sort, so he was one up. If the cop was any good, one bullet could be a major advantage if it came to a confrontation. And Hinksman didn’t like anyone having any advantage over him.
He released the magazine and stuffed it into his waistband, replacing it with one from his back jeans pocket.
Twelve to five. Good odds.
He swivelled from the hip and fired two in the general direction of the cop, knowing he’d miss but be close enough to scare him.
Then he was running again.
At the junction of Talbot Square, the Illuminations traffic had ground to a complete halt at the traffic lights. Hinksman looked behind. The cop was still there, but some distance away, more wary in his pursuit since the warning shots.
Hinksman had reached the point where he had to decide whether or not to carry on northwards or turn inland into town. The latter was a manoeuvre he wasn’t completely happy about as it would give the cop a better target.
Then he had the answer.
In the stationary, nose-to-tail traffic sat a blonde woman in a red, open-top BMW, hood down, gazing at the Illuminations, unaware of Hinksman’s approach.
He came alongside her, stopped by the driver’s door, opened it, and before she could even scream, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her out onto the road where she landed on her backside in a bewildered heap.
‘ Thanks darlin’,’ he said and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, taking possession of the car. He was pleased to find it was an automatic gearbox. Selecting Reverse he put his foot down and rammed into the car behind, a Metro driven by an elderly man.
Hinksman laughed, gave him a wave with the hand holding the gun, and pushed the stick into Drive.
Now, with room to pull out of the line, he virtually stood on the accelerator pedal and yanked the steering wheel to the left.
His plan was to drive across the tram-tracks, onto the pedestrianised area and head up north where he would abandon the car and go to ground.
A perfect plan. Except for one major flaw.
The car accelerated very quickly — it had a fuel-injected 2.5-litre engine. Unfortunately, within moments Hinksman was travelling so fast that there was no earthly chance of avoiding a collision with a south-bound tram which seemed to appear from nowhere, bearing down on him at the stately speed of 10 mph.
He saw it, but could do nothing about it. It was just there. Ten tons of trundling tram. Unmissable.
The front of the car hit the front of the tram head on, and there could only be one winner. The bonnet crumpled with the impact and the tram ploughed the car a further 50 metres down the tracks before the whole mangled mess ground to a screeching, spark-flying halt.
Although Hinksman braced himself against the steering wheel, he couldn’t stop himself head-butting the windscreen. He sat there in the wreckage, dazed for a moment, amazingly still clutching his gun.
Then instinct took over.
He extricated himself from between the seat and the dashboard, feeling severe pain in his left leg. He slid over the side of the car and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He picked himself up and ran — ran like a drunk, staggering from side to side, feet hardly able to keep him upright. Not knowing where he was going, just aware that he needed to get away, despite the pain.