head from left to right. I was grappling to keep hold of his leg. It was dancing away like Michael Flatley on speed.
I got a firmer grip on the spindly bit at the bottom of the dog's leg and, with my right arm, pulled it up as hard as I could toward my chest, at the same time starting to turn. The dog yelped with surprise, and I started to pirouette, as if I were spinning a child in a game. I did three, four, five turns, and the dog started to rise with the centrifugal force, anchored by its teeth in my arm and my hand on his leg. He had to make a decision, and he did: he let go of my arm. I didn't reciprocate by letting go of the leg; I kept hold now with both hands and swung him around and around as violently as I could. Still spinning, I managed to take two steps toward one of the concrete pillars supporting the forecourt canopy. On the third step, the dog's head connected with the pillar. There was a thud and a weak yelp and I let go. My own momentum carried me on around for another one and a half turns. My head was spinning as I tried to get my bearings.
I found the van. Sarah was sitting in the cab, firing out of the window. I screamed at her, 'The door! The door!' She leaned across and opened it up. I looked down; my pistol was by the pump line. Bending down to pick it up, and keeping bent to avoid getting hit, I half jumped, half collapsed, into the driver's seat and slammed the door closed. As I did, the black thing in the back tried to scramble over the driver's seat.
Sarah shouted, 'Let's go. Come on, let's go!'
1 was still in a semi stoop over the steering wheel, trying to present a smaller target, when the police started firing back at us.
All the windows were steamed up, probably from the dog's panting, which was good for us, because at least it hid us from the video. Just as well, as the T-shirt ploy had gone to rat shit the moment the dogs arrived on the scene.
I hit the ignition and the engine turned over, but it failed to engage. It sparked up on the second go. Sarah fired a few more rounds toward the tree line. The mutt behind me wasn't biting, but it was making more noise than the weapon reports.
The shots that hit the van reminded me of being in a helicopter under fire; because it's so loud inside the aircraft, you don't know you're being attacked until you see holes suddenly appearing in the airframe, accompanied by a dull ping as the rounds penetrate.
The driver was screaming his head off inside the shop, jumping up and down, but no way was he coming out until the shooting stopped. The woman was on the phone, shouting into the useless receiver, and as we rolled off the forecourt the driver started running along inside the shop, keeping up with us, his arms waving in the air as he screamed at the top of his voice. It was wasted on us. He was inside the shop and his fucking dog was making enough noise to drown the roar of a helicopter.
Ping. Sarah was still screaming, 'Come on, come on, come on!' And the dog was adding his tuppence worth. He wanted out. Didn't we all.
I turned left onto the road. There was a coffee-holder on the dash, with a half-full poly cup of coffee in it, a cigarette butt floating on the top. As the van lurched, the whole lot went over my jeans. Then, surreally, the radio suddenly came on of its own accord. Sarah fired a few more rounds into the tree line. There was a return.
I looked in the wing mirror. The police were on the road, assuming proper firing positions. I put my foot down.
I jerked my thumb at the dog and shouted at Sarah, 'Sort that nicking thing out!'
I turned left again and started to drive up the hill. I looked behind me and saw this big black mangy thing. Fuck knows what it was, just a wet, dank dog in the back, jumping up at the newspaper Sarah was trying to hit and distract it with, barking and yelping away at us both.
We started to take the right-hand bend in the road. The moment we were out of sight of the junction and shop I hit the brakes. I yelled, 'Get that fucking thing out!'
'How?'
'Just get it out!'
She opened the door and tried to grab hold of the dog, but it was already scrabbling its way out, its claws tearing against her seat. It clambered over and fucked off. It probably hadn't been trying to have a go at us at all, it had just been frantic to get back to its owner.
She closed the door and I hit the gas pedal. I'd noticed some bags and stuff in the back.
'Why don't you check that out?'
She didn't need telling again. She was straight in there.
'Is there a map?' My arm was killing me as I gripped the steering wheel.
The wagon's heating system wasn't up to it, so I used my sleeve to wipe the condensation from the windshield. Even the wipers only worked on half speed. At least now I could sort of see where I was going, even if I wasn't too sure where that was.
The bend eventually straightened out and trees loomed up on either side. Above them, all I could see was thick gray cloud. Great; the worse the weather, the less the chance of the heli still operating.
'Nothing, just crap.' Sarah was back in her seat. She wound down the window and started to adjust the wing mirror to keep a check behind us. I kept my foot down, but the vehicle was making only about 60 mph with the wind behind it, the threadbare tires not exactly gripping the road big time. All the shit in the back was rattling, and bits of paper were flying around in the draft rushing through the open windows. I just hoped the brake pads were in better shape than the bits of the wagon I could see.
She tried to pull open the glove compartment on her side, which probably hadn't been done for years. It gave way, and out spilled bits of fishing wire, lighters, greasy old garage receipts, all sorts. But no map. She shouted, 'Shit, shit, shit!' I kept quiet, letting her frustration play itself out.
I drove on for about three miles, during which we didn't say a word to each other. We got to a T-junction with the same sort of road. There were no signposts. I turned right.
I was feeling exposed. I didn't know if the police back at the gas station had com ms which would depend on whether they had relay boards in the
area to bounce radio signals off. I couldn't help a smile: Metal Mickey's head would have come in handy.
I shouted at her so I could be heard above the noise of the wind.
'Did you drop any of the police?'
She was wiping the wing mirror. She seemed to have calmed down a bit.
'I don't know, I don't think so. Maybe.'
I started to feel even more depressed. Whatever had happened, if we didn't get out of the area very soon and hide up, we'd be in a world of shit.
Less than two minutes later the chance came when I saw dipped headlights in front of us.
'I'm going to take it, Sarah. Make sure you don't say a word, OK?'
She nodded.
'What do I do?'
'Just point the gun at whoever's in there. Do not shoot anyone. Just keep your finger off the trigger .. . please.'
I slowed down to about 20 mph and swung the van left, blocking the road. The car kept coming toward us. I couldn't see how many were in it, but it was a blue four-door sedan.
Sarah was waiting for instructions.
'Come out this side and follow me.
We have broken down, OK?'
I jumped out, trying to watch the car as well as listen for a heli. The car slowed. It was a Mazda, one up, and going by the big hair blocking half the windshield she was the twin sister of the woman at the gas station.
She wasn't too happy about what was going on. I had to be quick, in case she reached for a weapon; for all I knew, she might be one of Jim's best customers.
The car stopped. I ran over to the driver's side with a very thankful face on. She hit her window button and let it down only a couple of inches, but at least she wasn't going for her handbag or the glove compartment.
I got to the window and drew down on her, screaming, 'Look down!
Look down!' My accent was getting worse.
She was maybe in her thirties. Her hair must have taken all day to tease into that beehive. Her makeup was about two millimeters thick and looked like wet cement now she'd started to cry.
