The long-awaited conclusion to the Barclay & MacDonald trilogy
I hear a siren. I look in the rear-view mirror and there’s a flashing blue light racing down the street. I floor the pedals, playing them like a drummer on speed, racing through the gears before executing a brutal handbrake turn and taking us on the sharpest of lefts and into the thundering traffic of a dual carriageway. Nought to sixty in fractions of a second.
I’m panting rather than breathing, all animal, wild, unstoppable. I’m in my element. I jump a set of red lights and miss a dog walker by inches.
I haven’t got time to blink. I grip the wheel so tightly it might well snap under the pressure. In and out of the lanes I thread the Sierra. It’s the most exciting car I’ve ever driven. Left. Right. Left. It’s me and the car, as one, in perfect harmony. I snap a wing mirror off a driving instructor’s creeping Micra. That’s a lesson someone will never forget. Bloody learners.
I check my mirror. The blue light’s gone. Can’t hear no siren either. I slow down and work my way into the slow lane. At the first opportunity I take a left, then park up outside a school.
I drop my head, panting, small rapid breaths keeping time with my heart.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That was something.’
Without looking in his direction I take my hands off the wheel, grasp the gun in my left hand and smash him in the face with its butt. Something cracks. My fingers throb from the impact. His nose is streaming blood.
‘Bitch!’ he cries, trying to cover his face with his hands to stem the flow.
That nose looks broken to me. Good. It’s about time something went right for me today. I smile and cherish the moment.
