I closed the door on the stifling heat and smelly plastic of the interior and started the engine, checking the fuel gauge as I did so. It was just over three-quarters full. Good skills — he’d filled up at every opportunity.
I tried to turn my head to find the closest gap to the path, but the searing pain in my chest made me think again. I couldn’t get a lungful of air. It seemed to be going into my mouth all right, in short sharp gasps, but nothing would go down. I was starting to hyperventilate.
I reached into the back of my jeans, pulled out the McDo bag, and got it over my nose and mouth. With both hands cupping it in position, I concentrated on breathing slowly in and out a few times, puckering my lips. It was a bit shuddery, but I managed to get at least half-lungfuls before holding my breath for just a second, then exhaling slowly.
Leaning forward over the steering wheel with the bag over my face, I repeated the cycle. My eyes flashed up as a red pompiers ambulance passed me on the main road. This just wasn’t happening quickly enough. I was fighting to draw oxygen, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. And then, painfully slowly, I started to succeed. The bag collapsed halfway, then filled out again. It was a big effort and took me several attempts, but at last I got things under some kind of control. That was all I could do for now; I really needed more time if I were to get my breathing back to anything like normal.
I reversed the Focus out of its space, scraping it along the Peugeot next to me, and continued backing into the gap nearest to where I’d left Goatee. The heels of my hands stung as the raw skin ran over the hot plastic of the steering wheel, smearing it with blood.
Leaving the engine idling, I got out once more, opened the tailgate, and scrambled down the bank. He’d shifted onto his side, and was curled up in pain. I got him onto my shoulders once more, and began to work my way up the bank. His weight pressed against my lungs as I moved up the hill, and I couldn’t stop coughing.
Still more sirens — in the distance, but closing in.
When I finally got on to level ground, I felt like cheering. I reached the car and tipped Goatee into the trunk just as the helicopter closed in. There was next to no resistance from him as I pushed and bent his legs to fit him in. I checked that the back tray came down flat and closed the tailgate, pushing down on whatever part of him was in the way until he moved it. Back in the driver’s seat, I got the bag over my mouth once more, trying to regulate my breathing before I made my move. My eyes were still watering, my head banged, everything was blurred.
The quickest way out of the city was north into the mountains. I turned the ignition and rolled out of the parking lot. The sun was still fairly high and to my left.
To help relieve the pain, I had to lean my body left or right rather than turn the wheel with my hands. I caught sight of my face in the rearview mirror: I was really messed up. I screwed it up further to try to keep the sweat out of my eyes as I moved into the traffic.
I continued out of the city, concentrating on the road ahead as best I could. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve didn’t seem to make much difference. Goatee found another little burst of energy, kicking out at the back and screaming, then went quiet again.
The road narrowed and we were soon climbing steeply. The pain in my chest was too bad for me to change gear, and I had to stop in a turnout to let a small convoy of cars pass before they got terminally annoyed at my snail’s pace. I used the opportunity to take controlled breaths into the bag, the paper inflating and deflating like my lungs weren’t.
I didn’t know where I was, but the sun was still to the left of me. I was definitely moving north. There was no way I was going to take the risk of driving back into the city, just to get onto the main drag that I knew led directly to Villefranche. I was going to do it cross-country.
I stayed in the turnout for maybe ten minutes, breathing into the bag. Now that I had time to do it properly, I was able to breathe back in the carbon dioxide that I needed in my blood to relieve the symptoms. Willpower alone wouldn’t have done the job: I needed the bag to break the cycle of hyperventilation. I knew I must be in shit state for this to be happening.
Breathing a lot better but still in small gulps, I thought about how I was going to get to the DOP. From here, I knew that as long as I kept the sun on my left, to the west, the coast would be behind me. I’d take a right at the first opportunity, and head east, with the sun behind me, paralleling the coast. That way I’d be able to bypass the city. When I took another right, heading south, I’d eventually hit the sea. With luck, I’d be able to figure myself out from there.
I rejoined the road, keeping in first gear, only shifting up into second when the engine was screaming. There was another outburst from Goatee in the trunk and I turned on the radio to drown the noise. It was monotonous, rapid dance music, but at least it was louder than he was.
Even if I got Goatee successfully to the DOP, I didn’t know what I was going to do next. There was no way I could go to a hospital. No identification, no money, no nothing — I’d be picked up in minutes. What had happened down in the industrial complex would be a massive deal, even for such a rough banlieue. The police heli was up: they’d be looking for runners. TV and radio would carry saturation coverage any minute.
I had no chance of getting out of this. The police would find my docs in the pit soon enough, and then I’d really be in the shit. I couldn’t run to the American consulate. They’d fuck me off at the door. The only chance I’d have would be to jump over the wall, giving myself up to someone inside the compound. Even then they’d probably chuck me out. I could try making a run for Italy, but I’d still be in the same boat.
I worked my way up onto the high ground, leaning on the wheel to take some of the weight off my chest. The coughing persisted, and the knifelike pain came back each time my body tensed as I tried to stop it.
The only chance I had was to get on board that warship. It didn’t matter how I did it, even if it meant posing as one of the hawallada. Only the warship guaranteed medical attention, and offered the possibility of escape.
I drove with the sun to my left for what felt like hours. I still didn’t know where I was because I’d been concentrating too much on other things. I eventually took a right turn, which led into a narrow lane with steep, rocky sides, dotted with clumps of grass and the odd stubby tree. I was heading east now; the sun half-blinded me in the rearview mirror. The dance music banged out, and the trunk tray gave a jump now and again, not quite in time with the beat. I didn’t have a clue how far inland I was, but I knew I was paralleling the sea and was some way above Nice.
I was feeling more and more exhausted. I’d gone on maybe another hour. Any road south would do me now. I found one and, with the sun to my right and getting lower, began my descent toward the coast.
The rapid breathing returned, and I had to pull in at the roadside and get the paper bag onto my face. The radio boomed, and Goatee gave the back tray another couple of kicks as I puckered my lips and kissed air.
Chapter 55
I spit out some more blood and covered my mouth and nose once more with the McDonald’s bag, but it was getting wet from me dripping into it every five minutes, and wouldn’t be good for much longer.
After about fifteen minutes, the hyperventilation had eased and I threw the bag back onto the passenger seat. The road ahead swam in and out of focus. All I knew was that as long as I kept heading south, toward the sea, I could sort myself out and get to the DOP.
As darkness began to fall, I found myself on an avenue of large houses set well back from the road, at the end of which was a sign that told me Villefranche was to the left, and Nice to the right.
The volume of traffic increased, and I had to concentrate even harder as the headlights came on and the wipers failed to shift the smear of insects on my windshield. In just a few more miles I was approaching the picnic area. I stopped by the bottle banks, and levered myself slowly out of the car, letting my arms take my weight. The parking lot was empty, but I left the music on to cover any noise Goatee might make. Opening the rear passenger door, I bent down to retrieve a full can of Coke Light from a six-pack in the footwell, and shoved it under the right- hand corner of the nearest bottle bank. My chest felt like a knife thrower had used it for target practice as I pushed myself back up.
Back behind the wheel, I felt under the dash for the brake and backup lights cutoff, pressing down on the brake so the rear of the wagon was now a blaze of red. It was in the same position as on the other two cars so that everyone knew where to find it, just like the keys. My fingers found the switch, and the gentle glow from the taillights returned in the rearview mirror.
