Dead Like You

96

Saturday 17 January

‘Hey!’ Yac shouted in fury. ‘Hey! Hey!’

He couldn’t believe it. She was doing a runner on him! He’d driven her all the way from Lancing, a £24 fare, and as he pulled over at the address she’d given him, she opened the rear door and legged it.

Well, he wasn’t having it!

He yanked off his seat belt, hurled open the door and stumbled out on to the pavement, shaking with anger. Without even switching off the engine or shutting the door, he began sprinting after the fast-disappearing figure.

She raced along the pavement, downhill, then turned left into the busy thoroughfare of St George’s Road, which was more brightly lit, with shops and restaurants on both sides. Dodging past several people, he was gaining on her. She glanced over her shoulder, then suddenly darted into the road, right across the path of a bus, which blared its horn at her. Yac didn’t care, he followed her, running between the rear of the bus and a car that was following, hearing the scream of brakes.

He was gaining!

He wished he had the wheel brace to hit her with, that would bring her down!

He was only yards behind her now.

At one of the schools he had attended, they’d made him play rugby, which he hated. But he was good at tackling. He had been so good at tackling they’d stopped him from playing any more rugby, because they said he hurt the other boys and frightened them.

She threw another glance at him, her face lit up in the glare of a street light. He saw fear.

They were heading down another dark, residential street, towards the bright lights of the main seafront road, Marine Parade. He never heard the footsteps closing behind him. Never saw the two men in jeans and anoraks who appeared in front of her at the end of the street. He was utterly focused on his fare.

On his £24.

She was not getting away with it.

Closing the gap!

Closing!

He reached out and clamped a hand on her shoulder. Heard her squeal in fear.

Then, suddenly, arms like steel pincers were around his waist. He smacked, face first, on to the pavement, all the air shot out of him by a crashing weight on his spine.

Then his arms were jerked harshly back. He felt cold sharp steel on his wrists. Heard a snap, then another.

He was hauled, harshly, to his feet. His face was stinging and his body hurt.

Three men in casual clothing stood around him, all panting, breathless. One of them held his arm painfully hard.

‘John Kerridge,’ he said, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault and rape. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’