The Finisher

8

Spiro swung around.

“You?”

Big surprise.

Huge relief.

He wasn’t eye to eye with the Finisher, as he feared, but another of the work party.

Murat. Tall, shambling, soulful Murat, the giant of the gang and the most often picked on for poor work even though his was no worse than anyone else’s. Being two metres high makes you stand out.

In Albanian, Spiro said, “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought you were the gangmaster.”

Murat shrugged his broad shoulders. He’d been a wrestler in the old days, but there wasn’t much muscle left on him after months of underfeeding and hard labour.

“How did you find me?” Spiro asked.

“Followed you.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“You ran, so I did.”

“He’ll kill us both. You know he killed Vasil.” Everyone knew about Vasil, the only other idiot to try to escape. They were told repeatedly that he was dead.

“Vasil wasn’t smart,” Murat said. “He got caught before he’d gone a few steps. You’re smart.”

“Smart? I’m fucking crazy to try. Did he see you go?”

“Sure.”

How could he sound so complacent?

Some quick thinking was wanted here. “We’ve got to hoof it, then, and fast. Why don’t you go that way, under the bridge, and I’ll head in the other direction?”

Murat blinked and didn’t appear to grasp the logic.

“He can’t follow us both. One of us gets away, see?”

Murat took a few seconds to ponder the plan. He seemed to have an inkling who was the more likely to get lucky. “I’m coming with you. Then we both get away.” His faith in Spiro’s competence would have been touching if it weren’t so dangerous.

“No way,” Spiro said. “I’m going alone.”

There wasn’t time to stand arguing. Spiro started running again as well as he could, southwards along the tree-lined towpath beside the river, hoping to shake off Murat. However, the big man followed close behind, breathing heavily. Neither would keep this up for long. The best hope was that the Finisher would give up before they did, but that wasn’t likely. Two escapees were seriously bad news for him. He, too, would be in deadly peril if word got back to the high-ups.

Four minutes on, they reached the cover of a railway bridge. In the shadow of the arch, Spiro leaned against the grimy stonework and tried to collect his breath.

Murat said, “I don’t see him. I think he lost us.”

“You’re a fucking optimist,” Spiro said. “Likely as not, he’ll have used a car and be waiting for us round the next bend.”

“He didn’t see which way we went.”

“He’s only got to ask. A guy your size followed by me is going to be noticed. That’s why we should split up.”

Murat was having none of it. “I’d be lost. I don’t know where we are.”

“And you think I do? Ever heard of a place called Bath? That’s where we are, and I only know because I saw it on the side of a building. I’ve no more idea how to survive in it than you have.”

“We need a map.”

“Great! Show me one.”

“Or a phone.”

“For Christ’s sake, Murat. We’re runaways.”

“Bikes.”

“Now you’re talking, but where do we find one — or two, since you insist on trailing after me?”

“Station.”

Spiro was all ears now. Maybe, after all, Murat wasn’t the dimwit he seemed. People left their bikes in stations and rode on trains, didn’t they? As if to endorse the point, a train thundered overhead.

Spiro stepped out from under the bridge for a better view. On the opposite side of the river was the long, low roof of a railway platform.

“Do you see what I see?”

“Yeah.”

A station would be a risk. People came there in numbers and would surely notice two shabby fugitives looking for bikes to steal. On the other hand, the Finisher wouldn’t want to create a violent scene in front of witnesses.

“So how do we get there?”

“Bridge.”

They were standing under a bridge, but it was the main-line bridge with no path for pedestrians to use unless they wanted an early death.

“There must be a passenger bridge for everyone who lives this side.”

They moved on and saw what they hoped for, partially masked by a huge, softly swaying willow tree: a narrow iron structure painted green that crossed the river to the back of the station. People were using it. A man was walking his bike across.

“We could take him and grab the bike,” Murat said.

“That’s a sure way to get arrested. We act like everyone else, right?”

So they walked. And when they reached the bridge, they crossed with other pedestrians as if they used it every day. The movement of people took them into a long, broad tunnel that was likely to bring them out to the station front.

“Look at this,” Spiro said. He couldn’t believe his luck. “Beautiful.”

Along the right side of the tunnel was a row of at least fifty cycles shackled to iron stands embedded in concrete. As easily as this, they’d found where the bikes were parked.

“Keep walking,” he muttered to Murat. “Pretend you’re not interested. Right through to the end.”

When they reached daylight and the station forecourt and looked around, they were in the city, with several streets ahead of them and traffic moving in all directions.

“Don’t stop,” Spiro said.

“Aren’t we going back for a bike?”

“They’re locked to the stands, all the ones I saw.”

“What do we do — take a taxi?”

This may have been meant in jest. Spiro couldn’t tell. “Are you carrying cash, then?”

He knew the answer. Their so-called earnings amounted to peanuts.

Spiro said, “What we need to do is get hold of a pen, a simple ballpoint pen.”

“What for?”

“I’ll show you when we’ve found one.”

They crossed and started up the busiest road. A sign said it was Manvers Street.

Spiro had lived off his wits before ever coming to this country. He knew a few wrinkles and the ballpoint trick was one.

They didn’t have to go far before noticing a place called the One Stop Shop. From the front it appeared to be some sort of citizens’ advice bureau with counter spaces, meeting areas and enquiry points. Fertile ground for discarded ballpoints.

They marched in like house owners coming to enquire about the council tax.

“The police are here,” Murat said from the side of his mouth.

“Where?”

“Left.”

Spiro glanced at two bored-looking uniformed officers seated behind a steel-framed space in the wall looking as if they’d serve you a burger and fries if asked.

“So what? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We don’t have any papers.”

“Relax. We’re safer here than we were outside.” Murat’s anxieties were working wonders for Spiro’s nerves. He moved about as if he had plans to redesign the entire premises, while in reality looking for a pen. At last, he found a wastepaper bin containing two common Bics, presumably no longer functioning. He picked up both.

“Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

They returned to the station and the bikes in the tunnel and Spiro walked its length again with Murat at his side. “This works with U-locks, preferably old ones.”

About five of the locks looked easy picks in every sense. “Anyone coming?”

“Nobody behind us.”

Spiro had his sights on a drop-handlebar city bicycle secured to the rack with two sturdy but basic U-locks. He took one of the Bics from his pocket, removed the cap stop at the end with his teeth and spat it out. The open end fitted snugly into the keyhole. He pushed it home and twisted hard until the bar of the lock snapped open.

“Easy as that?” Murat said in admiration.

Spiro freed the second lock, securing the back of the frame to the stand, and the bike was ready to move.

“Shall I pull it out?”

“Not before we’re ready. You want one, too. The next lock I can open is near the other end.”

They had to wait for a couple of students to pass through the tunnel. The main rush seemed to be over.

“Can you get me one for long legs?” Murat said.

“You’re lucky to get anything.”

The second lock was harder to jemmy, even when using the second pen. Spiro cursed a few times. “It would work better with some cuts in the pen but not having a knife...” He shook the lock and tried again. “No joy.”

“Shall I have a go?” Murat offered.

“Be my guest.”

Murat twisted hard and the pen’s casing splintered and snapped. “Fuck.”

“Great. You’ve busted it.”

“Cheap goods.”

“They’re the ones that work. Can you chew the other end off with your teeth?”

“I’ll get a mouthful of ink.”

“It’s up to you. My bike is ready to go.”

Murat jammed the ballpoint end of the pen between his teeth and bit hard. The cone at the end separated from the rest and dropped on the ground with the ink tube, but the casing held steady, leaving a serviceable tool.

“Try it,” Spiro said.

This time the trick worked. Murat removed both locks and liberated the bike, a Dutch roadster with high handlebars and a basket.

“It’s a girl’s bike.”

“Quit complaining.”

“The ink tastes horrible.”

He had a tongue like a chow, but Spiro didn’t tell him.

Obeying the sign, they wheeled their stolen bikes across Halfpenny Bridge, mounted and pedalled shakily along the towpath.

“Where to?” Murat asked.

“God knows,” Spiro said.