‘Sam! Now!’ yelled Birthday, breaking her from her trance.
As Mirela began to climb gingerly over the rags, Birthday leaned down and with his shoulders shoved her, squawking in protest, through the window. Samantha didn’t have to be told twice. She could feel the man coming towards them, a boiling wave of violence. Without even looking, she turned and dived headfirst through the window. Right now, she didn’t care what was on the other side.
Just as she felt half of her body clear the window she saw, directly below her, Mirela scrabbling in the fabric awning suspended over the road. And then Mirela sat up and her head and shoulders hooked in under Samantha’s diaphragm and propelled her forward.
Samantha flew over the edge of the awning.
It took a couple of blinks to realise that time hadn’t actually stopped, but that she swung upside down, two metres from the ground, her ankles gripped painfully from above.
Blink. Staring up at her, a woman with a pram met her eyes and screamed.
Blink. The shopkeeper with the broom spotted her, stopped sweeping, and smiled widely, evidently immensely entertained by her sudden appearance.
Blink. The original Nordic jock, leaning against a wall, swung his eyes upwards; froze. His cigarette fell from his lips.
Blink. The concrete pavement rushed up to meet her as the awning gave way.
Samantha knew that she owed her life to the lady with the pram and to an older Romanian woman. Without any thought for themselves, they’d rushed to stand beneath her and caught her, all of them crashing to the ground.
For maybe a second, the world was silent, peaceful, as she lay shrouded with her rescuers under the heavy awning. And then her hearing exploded into life again as the canvas was wrenched away from them by shouting passers-by. She struggled to her feet with the young mother, both of them desperately scanning the street for the pram. Another shopper rushed forward, pushing the baby towards them, and Samantha burst into tears. Thank God the child was safe.
Birthday Jones wrenched her by the wrist, dragging her off-balance. And she remembered that man. Up there.
‘Wait!’ she cried, as he started running, pulling her along.
The older woman sat dazed on the pavement, people bending over her to try and help her to her feet. The young mum still had not looked up from her pram. She had to thank them. And where was Mirela?
Arms suddenly wrapped around her, almost tackling her back to the pavement.
‘Are you okay?’ yelled Mirela.
‘RUN!’ shouted Birthday Jones.
They took off again, the tears on Samantha’s cheeks drying as she ran. Pain smashed against her skull with every step she took. Her shoulder throbbed in rhythm with the pounding from her head, and she tried to breathe through the pain, open-mouthed. To distract herself, she sent a prayer to Goddess Gaia to bless forever the lives of the woman still on the pavement and the mother and child, and she pushed her legs harder than she ever had to get away from what she had seen up there.
They bolted along the footpath of the busy street, shoppers clearing a path. She was vaguely aware of whistles and shouts, and of bare feet slapping the pavement as members of Birthday’s crew ran with them – in front of them, behind them, flanking them and then dispersing. They turned right onto the next road, also busy with lunchtime traffic.
And then a terrible, paralysing dread reached into Samantha’s innards and squeezed. They were closing in. An image of the tattooed man with the scar almost tripped her and she screamed in fear.
‘Birthday! They’re coming!’ She didn’t recognise her own voice.
She tried to push her legs harder, but the ruthless intent emanating from those chasing them was an emotional lasso, looping around her ankles, drawing her to a stop. It was pointless anyway to run. She felt that for every step they took, the creatures behind them took at least two. She could sense no desperation or anxiety; only their focused objective. The cold certainty invaded her lungs, freezing the air as she gulped desperately, sapping her strength. She stumbled. They wanted her. For some ridiculous reason, they wanted her, and they were going to catch her within moments. Maybe if she just stopped running they’d leave Mirela and Birthday alone. She slowed.
Mirela was by her side in an instant.
‘No!’ Samantha yelled. ‘Just keep going!’
Ahead of them, Birthday Jones skidded to a halt. Whistles and hoots from his crew bounced around them like bat signals. He bolted back to her side.
‘You idiot!’ he said. ‘I hope you can fight.’ He turned to face their hunters, the pole from the squat in his hand.
Samantha tried to tell herself that things would be okay. Surely one of the staring shoppers would call the police if these people tried to hurt them.
They rounded the corner, loping like cats. Three of them. They were Asian, heavily tattooed and utterly terrifying. Like Scarface, his friends’ heads were buzz-cut bald and they held something dark in their hands.
‘Oh my God!’ Mirela gasped. ‘Who are they?’
‘They’re carrying nunchuks,’ said Birthday.
‘What do they want with us?’ said Sam.
‘Nothing good,’ said Birthday.
Sam tried to calm her racing thoughts. Maybe we can talk this out? Give them money? Find out what they need?
Mirela took a step to her right towards a garbage bin. She rummaged through it, came up with a beer bottle. Held it, ready. Sam put her fingers to her mouth and gave out three sharp whistles. Hanzi, Luca and Tamas were in town today. If they heard the whistles they’d come. Other gypsies might also follow the sound.
Scarface caught her eye and smiled. And then everything happened at once. His right hand flashed up across his chest and suddenly, in his hand, silver and shivering, was a four-foot-long sword. He opened his ruined mouth, shrieked, and sprinted straight for them.
When the tattooed strangers had first skidded around the corner, nearby tourists and shoppers stopped and stared. A couple hurried their two children from the sidewalk and into a shop. Two elderly Romanian men, playing cards at a table outside a cafe, glanced up indignantly, offended by the ruckus during their lunchtime ritual. A battered hire car screeched to the kerb, front doors flying open, and a couple of backpackers scrambled out, phones pointed at the action, recording the scene.
But when Scarface drew the huge sword, the street erupted. Everywhere, people screamed and ran. Car horns honked and shopkeepers ran out onto the road to shout and watch.
Scarface and his friends ran straight for them. Samantha froze. Mirela screamed.
Birthday Jones dragged Samantha into the street, pushing her down behind a parked car; Mirela huddled in next to her. Birthday stepped in front of them, the pole from the squat held high. Samantha could feel fear pouring from him like kerosene fumes from the old heater at home. But now, dropping from shop awnings, running from doorways and ducking out from behind parked cars, street kids, gypsy and Romanian, abruptly surrounded them. They were everywhere: climbing up onto the car bonnet and roof, armed with rocks and bottles, they pelted the tattooed attackers who were now almost upon them.
All of a sudden, into the middle of the chaos, spilling out of the alley across the road, four Nordic jocks wielding wooden posts came running at Birthday Jones, shouting obscenities. They hit the hail of rocks and bottles and became even more enraged.
And then they saw the ninjas. A little too late.
Samantha moaned as the tattooed ninjas mowed down all four of the blond giants with blurred flicks of the nunchuks. Then they turned on the street kids, sending them flying. Samantha watched in terror as Birthday’s pole swung and connected with a tattooed shoulder. Off-balance, the warrior flicked the jointed black bludgeon, catching Birthday in the chest. Her best friend dropped to the road.