Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Slater exuded menace in the driving seat next to him and Campbell felt almost as if his presence alone were making his ribs ache more. Swinging the car around a corner the seatbelt cut into him and he winced but tried to remain silent and deny the big man any further satisfaction.

Neither spoke a word as they moved through the early morning traffic. Slater still seemed to be full of anger at him although Campbell was not exactly sure why. He felt as if the other man might, at any moment, begin smashing those ham-fists into him again.

His ribs burned with each and every breath and his eye was half closed and swelling. In the mirror he could see it colouring red already and soon it would be much darker and angrier. There was a dark cut on the very top of the swelling and his now-plump bottom lip too wore a black line across it where Gresham had slapped him open-handed and split it open. A dark gash was darkening on his cheekbone as it dried. George had told him to clean himself up with the bucket of cold water and that had actually felt very good against his raw skin and he had dunked his forearms in up to the elbow.

Pulling his car right up behind the tall red shape of a bus Slater revved the engine of his car impatiently and swore through his teeth, clenching the steering wheel tighter. Campbell watched with his head half turned, scared to stare at him directly but unable to look away. He could not help but think about what awaited him when he did hand over the disk. Would Slater leave, satisfied that he had done the job he had set out to do, content with his prize? Watching the man’s barely controlled fury twitching through the muscles of his tense body, Campbell doubted it.

The bus in front was still stationary. Slater suddenly shifted in his seat, wound down the window and leaned half out, propping himself on an elbow, impatient to see what was happening up in front.

His eyes fixed, utterly intent on Slater, Campbell’s hands began to move slowly, almost independent of his will and his rigid fear. His right dropped smoothly and silently to the seat belt clasp and began squeezing it ever so gently.

Slater leaned further out of the window.

Campbell didn’t even blink. His hand squeezed a little more, a little more.

Click!

He thought his heart would burst right in his chest but Slater didn’t flinch, fixed on the motionless traffic ahead of him.

Campbell’s left arm moved quickly to the door handle now and he curled his fingers inside the latch. He felt as if he might pull it open just by the shaking in his hand. It was too far to turn back. Too late to change his mind.

‘OOYYY!!!’ bellowed Slater but he was shouting at the cars ahead of him.

In one fluid movement Campbell yanked the door handle and straightening his legs up from the floor thrust himself against it, bursting out and through and rolling into the road. His battered ribs exploded in pain as he rolled across the Tarmac and he felt stiffness and tightness in his muscles the like of which he'd never known.

He heard Slater shout again as he realised what was happening but Campbell was up in an instant and sprinting away though the gaps in the cars. Without looking back to see how quickly Slater had disentangled himself from the car and started after him Campbell raced for a gap in the buildings which he had recognised as an entrance to Spitalfields Market. It would be quiet at this hour but there was activity nonetheless and most people stopped to look up as Campbell dashed across the open space for the other side. Past halfway he heard a shout behind him that filled him with terror and the adrenaline surged and boiled through his veins.

Campbell flew. He barely slowed pace as he went out through the exit at the far side and began running along the road beyond. Pain like fire roared through his chest and flared through his arms and legs as he ran. Either side of him were the tastefully restored and redeveloped brick buildings and warehouses and further ahead at the end of the road was the glass and steel of the City. It was a stark and swift transition between the old and the new, barely a few streets between the shiny office blocks of investment banks on one side and the urban rot of Whitechapel on the other but he knew it well enough. Round the next corner would be Liverpool Street Station. That was where he was heading.

His vision tunnelled and he could hardly see the people and buildings flashing past him. As his lungs worked harder he tried not to notice the pain in his ribs or any tiredness as his feet kept pounding the road beneath him.

Campbell, wearing training shoes and with more than a decade on Slater, began to put some distance between them and as he dashed round the corner and onto Bishopsgate he deftly side-stepped a woman coming the other way without breaking stride. He looked around him urgently as cars passed on either side of the road, none of them cabs, no buses nearby.

He risked a look back over his shoulder and saw Slater come barrelling round the corner and collide heavily with a group of suited young men.

Campbell turned right sharply, still running and looked each way along the road. It was busy but not fast moving and a little further along he saw people gathered at a crossing, the traffic light still red. Behind him he could hear raised voices as the suits protested with Slater, shouted and swore in surprise and pain.

Before the light changed he skipped into the road, judging the gap in traffic as sufficient. He could make it. And if he couldn’t then they could probably stop in time.

Up the steps and through a small flow of commuters coming the other way Campbell swept through the entrance, galloped down the escalator two at a time and out into the cavernous space of the station. His shoes squealed on the polished floor and he made his way toward the huge blue arrivals board, dodging in and out of the people with an agility he had not known since his younger sporting days. Even at this hour he was surprised at the number of people there were.

Looking back again he saw movement at the escalators which seemed now far behind him. Slater was barging his way angrily through the crowd, like a bowling ball through skittles. In moments Campbell was in the underground ticket hall, fumbling for the wallet that he still had stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. He ducked rudely in front of two women at the ticket barrier who protested noisily but he slapped his Oyster card to the reader and was through and away before they could make any more of a fuss and then he was dropping swiftly down the next escalator toward the platform below.

He slowed to a trot as he hit the platform but there was no train and the dot matrix sign was too far away for him too see when the next was due. He kept moving along the platform, looking back to the entrance to see if Slater would appear. But there was more than one tunnel to choose from after the ticket barriers as well as this one. Surely Slater had been too far behind to see which one he had chosen.

Walking now, his breath came hard and heavy. He noticed the roaring pain in his chest again, riding with every breath but never falling. He felt his legs jburn and his arms cramp and his head began to spin. He winced and pulled his arms around his chest.

Behind him came the clank and the rush of a train pulling through the tunnel and then the whole platform was filled with noise as it rolled along the platform to a stop and the doors hissed open. Still just halfway along the platform, Campbell strode a few paces the other way, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and Slater as he could.

And then he appeared.

Stumbling onto the platform in his haste he almost ran straight into the side of the train and then he looked up and straight at Campbell, almost as if he knew where he would be. Campbell turned and ran again, keeping close to the train but his energy was gone. The long sprint from the car and through the streets having drained his final reserves.