There was always a chance.
The Earth tilts. In for a penny —
The Mechanic steals a white Ford Fiesta. He drives out to the lock-up at Pickering. He parks near the lock-up. He sits in the Fiesta. He watches the lock-up. He waits. He sees no one around. He approaches the lock-up. He takes out the keys and opens the doors. He looks around. He leaves the Fiesta in the lock-up. He takes the bus to Scarborough. He catches a coach down to Hull. He walks to Hull Royal Infirmary. He sits in Casualty. He waits for visiting to begin. He steals a grey Ford Escort from the car park. He drives back to Pickering. He parks. He sits in the Escort. He watches the lock-up. He waits. He sees no one around. He takes out the keys and opens the doors. He looks around. He waits. He goes to work on the cars. He sprays the Escort black. The Fiesta red. He puts the Fiesta plates on the Escort. The Escort plates on the Fiesta. He waits until it’s dark. He drives to the Dalby Forest in the Escort. He parks. He waits. He walks through the Dolby Forest to the place. He stops. He waits. He digs up the guns. He unwraps them. He takes out the Browning automatic. The twelve bore. He wraps up the .38. He puts the .38 back in the hole. He buries it. He puts the pistol and the shotgun in the bag. He walks back through the forest to the car. He drives back to the lock-up. He parks near the lock-up. He sits in the Escort. He watches the lock-up. He waits. He sees no one around. He unlocks and opens the doors. He looks around. He waits. He makes certain. Bloody certain —
In for a pound. The Earth turns again.
‘There can be no forgiveness,’ the President had said. ‘No forgiveness.’
The President had been electric. The President had brought the whole place down. He had stood alone on the platform. No trade union support. No Labour Party support. Just the President. But everyone who had heard him had been convinced by him. Everyone would leave Sheffield City Hall more determined than ever. Terry Winters too. The President had shaken his hand as he had left the platform –
The President had even smiled at Terry.
It was late now. Terry didn’t want to go home. Terry didn’t want to go back to work. Terry made his way through the crowd to the exits. Terry saw Bill Reed –
Bill Reed saw Terry.
Terry looked away. Terry pushed through the crowd towards the exits –
Bill Reed was calling his name.
Terry got to the door. Terry went down the steps. Terry broke into a run –
There can be no forgiveness.
Terry escaped. Terry sat in his car with the heater on. Terry was hungry –
Terry drove to a Chinese restaurant in Swinton. Terry sat on his own in a corner. He made notes on his napkin. He put it in his pocket. He asked for the menu. He ordered a pint and prawn crackers. Chop suey and chips. Ice-cream for after.
Terry sat in the corner of the Chinese restaurant and thought about bad things. Debts. Divorce. Death. Then he forgot the bad things and thought about other things. Promises. Promotion. Paradise. But the bad things never forgot Terry. The bad things followed him. Tailed him and taunted him. Hunted him and haunted him –
To recognize and remember them. To love, honour and obey them.
Terry picked up his chopsticks. Terry put them back down again –
‘Not losing your appetite, are we, Comrade?’ asked Bill Reed.
Terry looked up at Bill. Bill winked. Terry looked back down at his plate.
The waiter pulled a chair out for Bill. The waiter handed Bill a menu.
‘What do you recommend, Comrade?’ asked Bill.
‘Suicide,’ said Terry.
‘Now, would that be for me or for you?’ asked Bill again.
‘Both of us,’ said Terry. ‘It could be a pact.’
‘But that would mean you’d have to keep your word, Comrade,’ said Bill Reed. ‘And there’s a few folk out there who might bet against you on that one.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Terry.
Bill Reed put down the menu. He stood up. He said, ‘Let’s go for a drive.’
Terry Winters pushed his food away. He asked for the bill. He paid by credit card. He followed Bill Reed out into the car park.
Bill opened the door of his brand-new Granada. He said, ‘Take mine, shall we?’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Terry.
Bill Reed smiled. He winked again. He said, ‘You’ll see, Comrade.’
Terry got into the Granada. Terry had no choice –
He never did.
The backseat was already covered in papers and briefcases. Files on the floor –
‘Excuse the mess,’ said Bill and started the car. He pulled out fast into the road –
Foot down, he laughed and sang, ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go.’
Thick fog blanketed the county, the land lost under cumbrous cloud –
The roads dark, the roads dead. No sound, no light –
Just Bill and Terry hurtling through the night in a brand-new Ford Granada –
‘Here we go, here we go, here we go —’
Bill taking every corner blind –
‘Here we go, here we go, here we go —’
Every bend faster than the last –
‘This the kind of suicide you wanted, Comrade?’ he shouted.
Terry shook his head. His whole body –
‘Here! We! Go!’ shouted Bill –
Terry screamed, ‘Let me out! Let me out!’
Bill slammed his feet onto the brakes and the Granada screamed to a stop –
Terry flew forward. Hit his head. Down into the dashboard. Up into his seat again.
There was no light. There was no sound. The road dark. The road dead —
Terry turned to Bill. Bill was staring straight ahead. Terry said, ‘Where are we?’
Bill put a finger to his lips, then his ear. Then his eye. Then the windscreen –
Terry Winters peered out through the glass into the fog. Terry listened –
He could hear a deep, low rumble approaching. He wound down his window –
The rumble was getting louder. Terry got out of the car into the night and the fog –
He stood on the wet road. Between the wet hedges. Under the wet trees –
He turned to look behind him. Lights hit him full in the face. Blinded him –
He put his hands over his eyes. But he wanted to see. To see what it was. To see –
Transit after police Transit tear through the fog in a massive metal motorcade –
One, two, three, four, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, forty –
Fifty police Transits, one straight after another. Eighty, ninety miles an hour –
Then gone again. No light. No sound. The road dark. The road dead again –
Just the smell of exhaust. Between the hedges. Under the trees.
Terry got back in the car. Bill had his eyes closed. Terry grabbed his arm –
‘Where are we?’ said Terry again. ‘What’s going on?’