An argument seemed to be going on in the blue car. Finally, the driver got out and walked forward towards Slow Kid, his voice unnaturally ingratiating.
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm done. These things happen, don’t they? Bloody road humps, that’s what it is.”
As he came up the bloke saw Slow Kid more closely, and started to look puzzled. I took off my flat cap. Then he turned and recognised me.
“Shit,” he said.
“Hello, Rawlings.”
“Shit,” he said again, failing the conversational challenge. Rawlings began to back off, bumping into the kids milling about behind him.
“Don’t you want to exchange names and addresses?”
One of the kids laughed at this. “He don’t live around here, that’s for sure.”
“Maniac driver,” said another.
“A bit old to be a joyrider, aren’t you, mister?”
“Come back tonight and we’ll give you a race on the rec.”
“Piss off out of it, you lot.”
Rawlings was taking the wrong attitude. He was likely to start a riot going on like that. Some of the mums didn’t take kindly to their kids being spoken to that way, and they were a fearsome lot, these mothers. A lot of coppers would tell you they were the worst thing they had to deal with during the miners’ strike by far.
“Two hundred thousand miles this thing’s done, with a careful owner,” I said. “Now you come along and rip the bumper off. That’s not nice, Rawlings. You’ll have to pay for it.”
The passenger door had opened now. Josh Lee stood leaning against the door, apparently unaware of the crowd milling about him. He was staring at me, and his hand was creeping slowly up towards the pocket of his jacket, like a snake slithering towards a toad. I started to wonder where Doncaster Dave was. Metal should have dropped him off just round the corner. Okay, so he was probably still asleep in the back of the van at that point, and he had to walk a few yards. But it was about time he was here, wasn’t it?
“Well, what do you say, guys? Are we going to exchange details, or do we have to phone the police?”
The word ‘police’ seemed to rouse the figure in the back of the blue saloon. He leaned forward to rap on the window, and gestured angrily to Rawlings. I don’t think he wanted to exchange details or call the police. What an irresponsible citizen.
“Later, McClure,” said Rawlings. Lee didn’t speak, but his face said it all. He stopped leaning on the door and got back in the car.
One of the older lads had a German hub cap in his hand, but Rawlings just pushed him out of the way and climbed back into the car. There was another argument inside, and some foul language from Rawlings that seemed to include my name. Then he leaned on the horn and the car began to inch backwards. Some of the kids banged on the panels or sat on the bonnet, grinning through the windscreen. But Rawlings gritted his teeth and kept going, so gradually the kids dropped off until the road was clear. Then the engine roared, Rawlings swung the steering wheel to the right and the German car accelerated away, narrowly missing Slow Kid as it went round the Morris.
A youth of about sixteen on the far side of the car gave me a thumbs-up sign and waved a wheel brace at me. We all stood and watched as the blue saloon got up into second gear and accelerated to take the bend into First Avenue, trying to catch the van. It had almost made it round the corner when one of its back wheels fell off.
There was an interesting spray of sparks as the axle slid across the road and the car slewed to an undignified halt. There were more curses, louder this time. Rawlings got out again, looked at the wheel, then back at me, as if somehow it might have been my fault. Then the first police car came round the corner.
Rawlings bolted up the street, while Lee jumped out of the car and backed away, knife in hand. A shape loomed up behind him, and in the next second Lee was on the floor with Doncaster Dave standing over him. The knife was in the gutter.
But it wasn’t Rawlings or Lee I wanted. I was interested in the bloke in the overcoat who came out of the rear passenger door and legged it towards the garden of the nearest house. He was quicker on his feet than Rawlings, and if he got among the back gardens and into the Crescents he might just get away.
There was nothing else for it. I set off after the bloke from the blue saloon, thanking God for the jogging, because without it I wouldn’t have made fifty yards.
We ran through one set of gardens and over a fence at the back into Lime Avenue. There was a ginnel here that led between houses to lock-up garages in a back lane. But the bloke ran past the garages, came out onto the corner and went through the gardens on the opposite side. I could hear sirens and wheels screeching somewhere as the police picked up Rawlings, him being the easiest target, of course. But to get to my man the cops would have to go round the end of First Avenue and back down Oak Lane. Long before that, he’d be over the next fence and up the black slope of the slag heap rearing ahead of him beyond the gardens.
He wasn’t dressed for mountaineering, but he went up the slope well, only slipping a bit when he got near the top, sending some of the slag sliding back down towards the bottom. I had my boots on, so I was better equipped. But I was starting to get breathless, despite the exercise, and I was wishing the coppers would get out of their cars and come and give me a bit of a hand here.
Over the top of the heap the landscape changed completely. We were on the pit site now, looking at the plateau of rubble and coal dust. The runner was legging it as fast as he could across the site. He probably didn’t realise it was only me behind him yet, but in a minute he would, when I got into the open.
At this end, the demolition teams had left a couple of bulldozers and a JCB to give the impression that work was still going on. The bloke ran straight past them, kicking up the dust like a company of cavalry. This just went to show that he didn’t recognise an asset when he saw it, and he probably wouldn’t know how to nick a bit of machinery anyway. Me, though, I had a pretty good idea about both these things. I also knew that if we kept up this Linford Christie bit much longer I’d be chucking my ring, and the overcoat would get away. I’m not Slow Kid Thompson or Metal Jacket when it comes to nicking a motor, but I’m not Mary Poppins either.
I chose the JCB, being as how it’s a bit nippier and has better torque to make cornering easier. There was no stereo and the upholstery was kind of basic, but I wasn’t intending to be in it all day. It took me a few seconds to get at the right wires before the engine rumbled into life. I looked through the windscreen and saw the overcoat making ground through a valley between the hills of rubble and debris. I needed to cut him off before he vanished past the engine house and was lost. If I could delay him for a few minutes, I reckoned the cops would eventually catch on and come over the hill.
The JCB bucked and bounced over the rough ground. I jammed the accelerator down as hard as it would go, which wasn’t far. Just now, I’d even have been glad of the Morris Traveller. It could have farted as much as it liked, as long as it got me across the next few hundred yards.
Even as I careered across the pit site in my own personal cloud of dust, I thought I could see figures appearing over the slope to my left. This looked like being a fair cop, as they say.
But in the next minute the whole thing fell apart. The figure in the overcoat stopped and turned to face the JCB. As I got nearer, he could see who I was. And Michael Cavendish and I stared at each other with mutual loathing. It was inherent, that hatred. A product of hundreds of years of playing at lords and peasants, and the peasants always losing. Until now, Mr Cavendish.