Nick Oldham - Psycho Alley

The passenger door of the Astra opened. Henry tensed up. The second guy climbed out on to the footpath, then leaned back into the car again, said a few words, then turned away, pulled the hood of his jacket well over his head and set off into Pharos Street, which ran towards the town centre. There was something strangely discomfiting about the hood thing, which Henry could not immediately interpret.

He got himself ready to move, thinking that Uren would now be ready to roll. He was wrong. Uren stayed where he was.

‘Where’ve you got to?’ Henry asked Jane over the radio.

‘Just passing Morrisons.’

‘Roger.’ Only a couple of minutes away, Henry thought. We might just get lucky here.

Just then the dark hooded figure of Uren’s passenger reappeared from Pharos Street bearing the unmistakeable carrier bag which screamed ‘takeaway!’

Henry snorted and allowed himself a wry smile, causing his facial swelling to twinge. Clearly he would not be belly-laughing for a while.

The passenger got back into the Astra. Again, Henry got ready, but Uren and friend were going nowhere fast; they began to feast on their fast food, making Henry’s stomach grumble jealously at the thought. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal for days. Not that a doner kebab could ever have been classified as real food, but just at that point in time, it would have hit the mark for the ravenous detective.

‘They’re eating a takeaway,’ he informed Jane. ‘We could be in luck here.’

‘What do you mean? Confiscate the meals?’

‘Yeah, that and arrest Uren. A double-whammy. Position?’

‘Just passing Freeport,’ she said, referring to the massive riverside retail outlet on the outskirts of town.

‘When you hit the roundabout, carry straight on, then as Dock Street bends into Queen’s Terrace, pull in. They’re parked just before Pharos Street. You know it?’

‘Yeah, gotcha.’

It seemed to take forever before the set of headlights belonging to Jane’s car appeared in Henry’s mirror, then stopped at the side of the road about seventy-five metres behind Uren, and were then doused. She had arrived.

‘OK — what’s the plan now?’

Always a good question, Henry thought. ‘Simple: pincer movement, sort of,’ he said. ‘You come up from behind, I’ll saunter down from here. Uren doesn’t know me, so we ought to be OK. By the time we meet up we should be at his car. You do the passenger door and I’ll slide across for the driver’s door and ignition keys.’

‘Sounds a wonderful, well thought out approach.’

‘Stop being a cynic and let’s get on with it.’

He climbed out of the Mondeo and began strolling towards the Astra, Jane doing the same from her car. They actually closed quite rapidly on their target, Henry already fingering his warrant card, ready to slap it into Uren’s face so there would be no doubt that he was the good guy.

Twenty metres away it went wrong.

Henry heard the engine of the Astra rev, the crunch of gears, saw the headlights come on full beam … somehow Uren had been spooked and was going to do a runner … the car moved and Henry came to a halt, wondering whether he should leg it back to his car, then realized the Astra was accelerating towards him. It had mounted the pavement with the nearside wheels and yes, it was definitely aiming at him. Not that an Astra could gather too much speed and momentum from such a short distance, but that wasn’t the point. Being struck by half a ton of moving metal was not something to be taken casually. For a moment, Henry did not react, his brain did not compute the facts, but then his disbelief diminished and he knew that Uren was intent on mowing him down. There could be no other explanation.

The car grew as it approached, engine screaming in first gear.

For a split second, through the double glare of the headlights, he saw Uren’s face clearly behind the wheel, but not the face of the passenger; and then the car was only feet away and Henry was stumped as to what to do. His feet had become clods of clay, heavy and cumbersome, and he could not command them to do anything to get out of the way. In a second he was going to discover just what the chassis of a Vauxhall Astra looked like from a mechanic’s point of view.

It was at this prospect that his legs suddenly found their raison d’etre. He could not move to his right or he would be flattened against a building, so he twisted himself towards the road. But not quickly enough or far enough. Uren yanked the steering wheel down and followed Henry, catching him a glancing blow on his thigh with the front offside wing of the Astra. Not for the first time that night Henry went into a spin. He found himself on all fours in the road, stunned by what had happened, then further horrified to find that Uren had not finished with him.

The white reversing lights came on and the car sped backwards, slithering dementedly as it raced to flatten him.

‘Henry! Look …!’ he heard Jane scream.

His head spun up to see the back end of the Astra bearing down on him, virtually on top of him. He felt his eyes widen in fear and amazement, almost popping out of his skull. He started to scramble as though he was on starting blocks for the hundred metres. The toes of his trainers slipped on the tarmac road, but he found enough grip to propel himself out of the way, scrambling into an untidy forward roll as his shoulder thumped the ground. The Astra missed him — so close he could smell the car — braked, then surged forwards, tearing away down the road towards the seafront, its lights extinguished as it went.

Henry was left sitting on his backside on the cold, but dry, road, slightly confused by what had just happened. And why it had happened.

If he read it right, George Uren had just tried to murder him.

But there was no time to reflect on that.

‘Henry!’ Jane screamed, running up to him. She swooped down on to her haunches. No other words came out, so shocked was she.

‘I’m OK,’ he gasped, grateful for the hand she held out to assist his battered body to its feet. He stood unsteadily, swaying slightly. ‘Let’s get the bastards.’

‘He tried to kill you,’ she uttered.

‘I gathered that — with a bloody Vauxhall Astra. Now get your PR on to Fleetwood’s channel and let’s get some bodies looking for it.’

He pulled his own TETRA out from inside his jacket and tuned into the local frequency, Jane doing likewise with hers.

‘Did you get the number?’ she asked.

‘Oh aye,’ he breathed unsteadily. The registration mark was as clear as day in his mind’s eye as the little projector in his brain re-ran the scenario of the car coming backwards to crush him to death. ‘It’s imprinted on my head — almost — shall we say?’

Initially the adrenalin rush eased the pain, but as that wonderful self-administered drug evaporated from his system, Henry’s leg began to throb dreadfully, making him suspect that some damage might have been done.

It was twenty minutes since the car had driven off. An immediate search by all the local available cops had failed to find it. Henry and Jane had criss-crossed the streets, also without success. As they sometimes do, the car had just disappeared. Now he and Jane were back in the yard behind Fleetwood police station, sitting in Henry’s motor, discussing what had happened. Henry found himself starting to shake as the pain grew in intensity.

Jane noticed. ‘You all right, Henry?’

‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Jeez — I think I might’ve hurt myself.’ He touched his leg and jumped. ‘Not having a great night, so far.’

‘Come on inside the nick and let’s have a look-see,’ Jane suggested. ‘You might have to drop your pants in front of me.’

‘Nothing new there, then.’