Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Unit one here; no sign of the Ford. For God's sake maintain visual contact with the Audi. I've requested helicopter assistance for you!'

Turner raced along the high street, the trendy shops and bars thinning out as they left the village. 'He's heading for Kingsway and the motorway junction. We don't want him to make that — if he gets back onto home ground he can lose us in some maze of a housing estate, 'Turner said.

Jon nodded, eyeing the road as it opened up in front. They were now doing almost eighty, whipping past a church on their left. Suddenly the Audi began losing speed.

'What the hell is he doing?' asked Jon, unable to understand why the car should be suddenly slowing up. Turner was laughing. 'He can't find a gear, the prick.'

They had nearly caught up with him when the driver finally got the car in gear. But his speed had been lost. He turned sharply to the left, cutting between two traffic islands and into a narrow lane running alongside a huge cream-coloured pub.

'What the…?' said Turner, screeching to a halt and spinning the wheel around.

'Oh, superb,' said Jon, slapping his free hand on the dashboard. 'It's a dead end. Just leads towards Didsbury Toc H's pitches. Beyond that is the River Mersey.' He lifted the handset to his lips. 'Suspect has turned right, right, right on to…' he looked up at the side of the pub as they entered the lane,'. . Stenner Lane, repeat Stenner Lane. It's a dead end. Where's the helicopter? He's likely to be on foot soon.'

'About five minutes away,' answered unit one.

The Golf clattered along the uneven surface, its lowered suspension making every bump jar through the seats. Up ahead the red taillights of the Audi jerked up and down as the car also struggled over the cobbles. Suddenly the trees seemed to close in as a gate reared up from the darkness. Unable to stop, the car crunched into the thick gatepost at its side. The driver jumped from the car.

Thirty metres behind, Jon watched it all happen in the glare of the Golf's headlights. 'Suspect on foot, heading along the lane past Didsbury Toc H Rugby Club and towards the River Mersey.'

Before they had come to a halt, Jon's door was open and he was clear of the vehicle. Vaulting the gate, he began sprinting along the footpath, sets of white rugby posts just visible through the screen of trees to his right. He heard the sound of feet on wooden steps, reached them seconds later and bounded up. He was on a footpath. To his right he could just make out the dark figure running away, rasping breath clearly audible in the still night. He knew that up ahead a footbridge led over the Mersey to the next stage of the Trans-Pennine Way, a walk connecting Liverpool on the west coast and Hull on the east. 'I hope you enjoy running,' Jon shouted out, resuming the chase. 'You're on a pathway that's over three hundred and fifty kilometres long.'

Now gasping for air, it was the last thing Sly needed to hear. Worse, the pig who had shouted it didn't even sound out of breath. Emerging from the darkness in front was a bridge. He ran halfway out over the river and looked back. The dark figure was racing towards him. It looked like the huge bastard would never slow down, never give up. Sly's bottom lip began to go as a wave of self-pity welled up: he was going to be caught. He looked at the inky blackness below, climbed up on to the waist-high metal railings and leaped out into space.

Jon heard the splash and looked up. The silhouette had vanished from the bridge ahead. He got to the end of it, straining to hear anything. Silence except for the sound of the river gliding quickly past. He stepped back and went to jump down the grassy bank to the water's edge. The dark green cast-iron post caught him full on the left kneecap and before he knew what had happened, he was lying with his face pressed into thick grass that reeked of dog's piss. He had been kicked in the kneecap during rugby matches and knew that it was the next worst thing to being booted in the testicles. All he could do was lie still, clutch the sides of the joint in both hands and wait for the agony to pass. The searing pain didn't dissipate outwards or convert to a gentle throb — instead it remained concentrated in the bone itself, losing strength with the speed an oven cools down. Several minutes later he was able to hobble to his feet, just as he heard the thrum of the approaching helicopter. He realized his radio was in the car.

Tom was working in Daniel's office when his mobile rang. He glanced down at the phone's display and picked it up. 'Jon, how are you?'

'Fine Tom, cheers. Are you at work?'

'You could say that. I'm in the Seychelles, but believe me, it's no holiday. There's been a disaster at work.'

'Oh,' said Jon. 'I'm afraid I'm not ringing with good news either.'

'Go on. It can't get any worse.'

'Your Audi was taken off your driveway last night. I actually chased the guy. He crashed your car into a gatepost and, I hate to say, escaped. The car's pretty much screwed. It's in the police compound now, being dusted for prints.'

Tom let out a long sigh. 'They didn't do the house too, did they?' 'No,' said Jon. 'Just hooked the keys through the letterbox.'

Tom groaned. 'And you bloody warned me.'

Jon said nothing.

'Oh well, 'Tom continued. 'Cheers for letting me know. Look, I'd better go — there's all sorts going on.'

'OK mate, phone me for the number of the police compound when you get back.'

Two thirty arrived and with it Charlotte rapping on the door. Tom had spent the morning writing to his clients with the nearest deadlines, explaining their problems with the printers. He'd been able to speak with Ges at one o'clock, only to learn that the other two companies in the Manchester area with printers capable of producing building wraps were booked out for weeks with council-paid banners for the Games.

'OK, OK,' he answered irritably. 'Just shutting down.'

She came in and looked at the untouched sandwiches a staff member had brought into him an hour earlier. 'You've missed lunch again?'

'What? Oh yeah, I'm not hungry. It's this heat,' he said, even though the room was air-conditioned.

At the pool they stripped down to their swimsuits and climbed in the shallow end. 'Right,' said Sean. 'Tom, let's get yours on first.' He hoisted the single tank on to Tom's back and then pointed out how to tighten the straps. Turning to Charlotte he did the same for her. Tom noticed him gently reposition her shoulder straps, letting his hand brush against the outside of her breast as he did so. She glanced up, but Sean's eyes were hidden behind his mirror shades.

Once his own gear was on, Sean said, 'So, the way the regulator works is simple. You put the entire thing inside your lips and up against your teeth. When you want air you bite down on it and breathe in slowly. Of course, opening up your lungs goes completely against your instincts once your head is underwater, so take your time.'

Looking suspiciously at the black mouthpiece, Tom sniffed it then slipped it into his mouth. Immediately he found the size of it intrusive, the rubbery surface nauseating. It felt similar to the type of gum shield rugby players wore. He could never face using one of those during his playing career. Slowly he tried to bite down on the inner part, but the sensation was unpleasant — like chewing on especially tough gristle. His tongue made contact with it and he realized that it tasted the same as it smelled. Suddenly the presence of it under his lips and against his teeth was too much. He began to retch and pulled it out.

'Made you feel sick, yeah?' asked Sean.

'Yes. 'Tom wiped his lips, looking at the glistening object.

'Don't worry mate, plenty of people spit their dummy out to begin with. Just try again; there's no rush.'

Tom looked at him, wondering if the reference to dummies was part of some diving lingo or an attempt to belittle him. Gingerly he tested the mouthpiece in his hand, feeling its pliability and imagining all the other mouths it had been in before, picturing their saliva coating its surface, particles of food catching in its crevices. Meanwhile Charlotte, used to snorkelling, had sunk slowly below the surface. Aware of Sean watching him, Tom tried again. But as soon his lips stretched round the rubbery object, the retching returned, this time with some burning liquid at the back of his throat. He had to swallow quickly before its acrid taste flooded his entire mouth. 'I can't do it. I'll puke.'