His friend, Colin the Commando, with whom he had stashed the cash, lived on a housing estate about three miles away.
The big, burning questions for Keith at that point were — how much did they know about him? Did they know of Colin, his mate? What, if anything, had Grace blabbed?
He was under no illusions. They would have tortured the poor cow. So Keith knew he had to work fast and put some real distance between him and them, keep a step ahead and get the hell out of the city.
Three miles on the hoof would take too long. He needed transport.
Keeping to the dark spaces, Keith spent several valuable minutes in search of a suitable motor.
He found an ‘F’ registered Ford Escort Fresco that fitted the bill nicely. It was the sort of car that could have been started with a spoon, but Keith used the screwdriver he always carried with him and jammed it into the ignition. Within a minute he was on the road, threading his way through the streets towards Colin’s pad.
It was a nightmare journey for him, constantly believing he was being tailed. But he arrived intact and pulled up down the road from Colin’s house, which was in a cul-de-sac. He remained in the car for a while, eyes peeled and watchful, his thin-walled heart pounding — for a change — a self-induced drug, adrenaline, through his veins. He pulled out the screwdriver and the engine died. Then he sat there a while longer in the darkened car, watching, waiting. Everything seemed fine. Colin’s house looked normal, in as much as a house with a US army tank and a British army Land Rover parked in the front garden could be.
Eventually Keith climbed slowly out of the car, senses pinging with tension, and walked to the front door of the house. He knocked gently, head hunched down between his shoulders. From inside he could hear the sound of a battle raging. He knocked louder and tried the handle, but the door was locked. Annoyance got the better of him then and he hammered on the door until, suddenly, the sound of warfare stopped, the door was unlocked and opened.
In full World War Two battledress, the chubby yet diminutive figure of Keith’s best friend, Colin the Commando, stared at him from under the rim of a tin hat.
‘No need to knock so bloody loud!’
‘Let me in.’ Keith shoved past.
‘I’m just watching Saving Private Ryan.’ Colin locked the front door.
‘Fancy that,’ Keith said sarcastically. ‘That sports bag I left you to look after? I need it.’
‘Summat up?’ Colin sensed his friend’s tension.
‘You could say that. Where is it?’
‘You OK, pal? You look shell-shocked.’
Keith caught his breath with a stutter, momentarily realizing just how bad things were. ‘I need the bag, man. . OK?’
‘OK, OK.’ Colin saluted, then removed his helmet, revealing his totally bald head. ‘Under the sink.’ He led Keith through. ‘So what’s going on? You look like you’ve shat yourself.’
‘You don’t need to know, OK?’
‘Whatever,’ Colin shrugged. He placed his helmet down in a space between ration tins on the draining board, opened the cupboard below and pulled out the sports bag.
‘You haven’t looked in it, have you?’
Colin the tubby commando shifted uncomfortably. ‘You told me not to, so I didn’t,’ he tried to blag it.
‘Good.’
‘What’s in it?’
Keith opened his mouth, but his proposed little speech about what was and wasn’t good for Colin to know was terminated before it began by a pounding on the front door. ‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘You expecting anyone other than Germans?’
Colin looked towards the front door, then at the ash-grey face of his friend from school days. ‘No, I’m not. . but you’re in deep shit, aren’t you?’ he said perceptively.
‘Yeah, look pal,’ Keith said urgently, ‘stall the bastards for me, will ya?’
‘Colin? Colin Carruthers?’ a harsh voice demanded through the letterbox. ‘We need a word, matey.’
‘You go out back and leg it. . I’ll sort these people out. . go on, shoo, fuck off!’ He urged Keith towards the back door.
‘Thanks — you’re a mate.’
‘No sweat.’ Colin saluted him again, then said grimly, ‘I just hope that twenty-five big uns is worth it.’
The two friends exchanged knowing looks.
‘Cunt — you peeked.’
‘Yeah, now go,’ Colin ordered him with a push, ‘and thanks for bringing the heavies to my house.’
‘No probs.’ As Keith turned towards the back door, a chill of deep fear spread through him faster than Ebola as the voice through the letterbox shouted, ‘Colin, we know you’re in there. We can hear voices. Open up or we’ll kick the fucking door down.’ He yanked open the back door and ran into the obstacle course of discarded, rusting army machinery that littered Colin’s garden.
Inside, Colin donned his tin hat again and went to the understairs cupboard. He pulled out a Thompson sub-machine gun, strapped the weapon over a shoulder and turned menacingly to the front door, which was now being kicked violently.
‘OK, OK,’ he shouted and flung open the door, stepping back into a threatening combat stance, Tommy gun at the hip, trained and ready to fire. . except it was empty. ‘Right, you mothers,’ he screamed, ‘what the chuffin’ hell do you want?’
There were two men there, hard-looking and eager — but when they saw the gun in Colin’s hands, they stopped dead. Their own hands shot up and they backed off warily.
‘Whoa. . hold it, pal,’ the best-dressed one of the two said. ‘Take a chill pill.’
‘Why the fuck you tryina knock my door down?’ snarled Colin.
Keith jumped and stumbled through Colin’s garden, climbed through the broken fence into next door’s less cluttered one, and started to run hard. He was not thinking now, just responding to the stimulus, getting as far away from danger as possible. And then his small brain kicked in and directed him back to the stolen Ford Escort parked down the road from Colin’s pad. If he could just get back to it, sneak into it, get it going again. . that could put real distance between him and his pursuers.
He fell spectacularly through a hedge and found himself back on the cul-de-sac, only metres away from the car.
Ducking low, he crept round the back of it, down the side and slid into the driver’s seat. He kept his head down at the level of the dashboard, one eye on the road, whilst he started to fiddle with the screwdriver. He jammed it back into the ignition and rived it round.
The engine whirred over, died.
Keith cursed desperately.
Down at the gate leading to Colin’s house, he saw the dark figure of a man appear and stare in his direction. Keith’s head bobbed down out of sight as he fiddled with the screwdriver again.
Once more the engine turned reluctantly. And died.
The man at the gate was peering with more interest towards him.
‘Come on, come on,’ Keith muttered.
There was a shout. The man at the gate took a few strides in Keith’s direction.
He twisted the screwdriver desperately. This time the car started with a backfire and a plume of blue smoke. Ahead, the man stepped into the road and shouted again. He was joined by a second man who vaulted Colin’s garden wall. Both then began to hurry towards the car.
Keith rammed it into gear and the old banger lurched.
In the glow of the fluorescent street light, Keith saw both men reach underneath their jackets. At first, his intention had been to mow them down, but as their hands came out with guns, he had an immediate change of heart and courage. He literally stood on the brake and found reverse gear. Within a second the Escort was slewing backwards, picking up speed, the engine and the gearbox screaming in unison as speed increased.