Nick Oldham: Big City Jacks

For Blackpool it had been a fairly quiet evening, even though at the last count there were forty-two jobs outstanding on the log in the communications room. Most could wait, some needed attention, but even so, this duo of officers had told comms a lie (that they were busy) and had decided to chill out for a few minutes (by watching the ladies of the night tootle by).

Neither officer had been particularly motivated by their work that evening. Most of it had been boringly mundane and they were hoping that something interesting — and fun — might happen. A good fight, maybe; perhaps a sudden death or a good car crash. What they didn’t realize was that they were about to get a combination of the latter two.

They had sat in silence watching the crazy world called Blackpool speed past their windscreen as they faced the traffic lights at the junction of the prom and New Bonny Street, quite close to the central police station.

Then both officers shot bolt upright in their seats as they simultaneously clocked the blue Ford Escort which had stopped at the red lights, then kangarooed through, heading north, when they changed to green.

Even from a distance of twenty-five metres and with the road lit only by street lights and the windows of the car reflecting the bright glare of Blackpool’s myriad coloured lights, both men recognized the driver and passenger.

‘The cocky little shits!’ one said.

Their blue lights flicked on and the police car slotted in behind the Escort which, as expected, accelerated.

That ‘something interesting’ they had wished and hoped for was about to happen.

‘Yes!’ Triumphantly Roy Costain punched the air, looking over his shoulder, his eyes a-gleam with excitement. ‘The plods are with us. . hold on,’ he warned Renata, who had a grim smile on her face, heart pounding with the rush of adrenaline. The chase was on and both of them loved it to bits.

Her right hand slid across to Roy’s thigh and she jammed the edge of it up into his crotch.

Roy dragged the gear lever down into second and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The old car responded quite well, actually.

Behind them, the police siren came on in accompaniment to the blue lights.

‘Stolen earlier tonight from the Greater Manchester area,’ the comms operator informed the two officers on the tail of the Ford Escort in response to their PNC enquiry.

‘Bingo!’ the driver blurted.

‘Doncha just lurv it when a plan comes together?’ his mate said, rubbing his hands together. Into his radio he said calmly, ‘We are behind this vehicle now, heading north along the prom, just gone past Talbot Square. It looks like he doesn’t want to stop.’

‘Roger that,’ the operator said.

‘We’re taking up a following position,’ the officer doing the radio said, very aware of the force pursuit policy.

The comms operator started to direct other patrols to the area.

Traffic was light on the promenade and it was easy for Roy to put his foot down in the battered Escort as there was nothing to get in his way. He was going to enjoy himself and then get into a position where he could ditch the car and leg it with Renata. He knew there was a good chance he would get locked up for it at some stage but that did not bother him unduly. In fact he rather liked getting arrested. It was great being obnoxious to the cops and there being nothing they could do about it. They even had to feed him!

He checked his rear-view mirror. The cop car was still behind, keeping his distance. Roy tutted with frustration. He also knew the force policy on chases and that he could lead them on a merry dance all over town without them even trying to ram him or stop him or box him in if he didn’t look likely to endanger life. If he drove really recklessly they would back off and let him go, or maybe just follow him with the helicopter if it ever appeared.

‘C’mon, put your foot down,’ Renata encouraged him. She squeezed his thigh. ‘If we outrun ’em, I’ll give you a blow job,’ she promised him.

That made him press even harder.

His plan was to do a scoot around the highways and byways of North Shore, then head back to Shoreside Estate, or nearby, and dump the car, then run.

‘C’mon, c’mon!’ she urged, tightening her grip.

‘I’m doin’ the best I can,’ Roy rasped. ‘It’s bloody clapped-out, this thing.’

‘So?’

The Escort hurtled along the promenade. Another police car swerved out of a side road and slotted in behind the first one.

‘Seventy miles per hour now,’ the officer riding shotgun in the first police car commented down his radio. ‘No other traffic to worry about, though,’ he added.

‘Roger,’ the comms operator acknowledged. ‘Be careful. Oscar-November ninety-nine has been scrambled,’ he said, meaning that the force helicopter had been turned out from its base at nearby Warton. ‘Be with you in a few minutes.’

‘Thanks for that.’

When they shot past the Imperial Hotel on North Shore, the speedo in the Escort was hovering somewhere in the region of 75mph. He knew that some very sharp braking and cute manoeuvring would be required for the roundabout at Gynn Square. In his mind’s eye he was working out where he would position the car, how he would brake, which gears he would use. It must be said, though, that because of Renata’s hand working excitedly away on the outside of his trousers, his brain was not 100 per cent focused on the driving.

Roy almost lost it on the roundabout, the car skittering sideways and the back end slewing wildly. Gripping the steering wheel for grim death, he managed to keep control, accelerated right around the hazard and back down Dickson Road, the two police cars on his tail.

Renata screamed delightedly.

By going along Dickson Road, Roy had changed his plan, as this road ran almost parallel to the promenade and back into Blackpool town centre. He had now decided to ditch the car in town, where he knew he and Renata would have a better chance of disappearing into the alleyways of the night.

There were actually more cars and pedestrians using Dickson Road than the promenade, all serving to slow down Roy’s progress.

He weaved the car in and out and overtook a slow-moving taxi as he passed the rear of the Imperial Hotel and then shot right across the two mini-roundabouts and plunged down the slight gradient before hitting the town centre again.

The cop cars were still with him. He wondered if they had managed to get any other cops up ahead to roadblock him, but he doubted it. This chase was only really seconds old and he knew the cops wouldn’t have yet been able to deploy too many officers to it.

Ahead of him was the old cinema now converted into Funny Girls, one of the country’s leading nightclubs. The road here split into a one-way system. Roy squeezed the Escort between parked vehicles on his left and oncoming traffic, but he was going far too fast to make the almost 90-degree left-hand turn into Springfield Road, which was the one-way street looping round the nightclub.

‘Christ!’ he muttered and slammed on the brakes, wrenching the wheel down to the left.

Nothing happened. The car did not slow down. There was no pressure on the brake pedal.

‘What?’ cried Renata.

Roy held on grimly, pumping the pedal repeatedly.

Still nothing.

‘Fuck!’

The Escort swerved and the back end came round. Roy found himself travelling broadside into the path of an oncoming black cab.

Renata screamed, realizing the car was totally out of control. It was not a scream of delight anymore.

Roy knew there was nothing he could do. He braced himself for the coming impact.

‘Ooops, he’s lost it,’ one of the officers in the following police car stated coolly.