6.
Steph never took her eyes off the road, frozen concentration etched on her face, imagining the worst. I reached across and gave her forearm a squeeze. I’m not sure whether she felt it, or whether she was even aware that I was in the car.
“Steph,” I tried to whisper, but she didn’t respond, either not hearing me or ignoring me completely. “STEPH,” I yelled at her, this time getting a short sideways glance.
“He’s going after her, Jim. I know he is.” The fear in her voice sent fear through my own mind. I was about to say something, but just as my lips opened, a patrol car came flying over the hill before us, its lights flashing and siren blaring. As it neared, the driver, an officer I hadn’t seen before, pointed at us, his partner waving at us to pull over. Steph either didn’t see them or chose to ignore them, never slowing. I turned to watch as the patrol car slowed, swung off the road, then turned in a sharp U-turn to pursue us. Steph continued to concentrate on the road ahead, rounding the next bend, leaving the patrol car far behind us.
7.
We had virtually no chance of avoiding the cow though, the beast standing almost in the middle of the road as we rounded a bend, hitting it virtually square in the back legs, the sickening crunch of bone and metal filling the car’s cabin. Steph had just enough time let out a short “AH,” before the tyres squealed for grip and the rear end of the driver’s side clipped a small tree that skirted the road. The car spun in the opposite direction, lurching down the embankment, then skidding across the field. We finally came to a stop about 40 yards from the road, the rear of the car twisted sideways. The front driver’s side of the car was a mess of broken headlights, bits of blood and torn metal, as well as two flat tyres.
I saw a small trickle of blood above Steph’s left eyebrow, her head having connected hard with the steering wheel. I was relatively unscathed, although I couldn’t confirm the state of my underwear. Thankfully, there was no immediate smell.
“You OK?” I asked her. She groaned, then hissed as she saw the bonnet hanging from one hinge.
“Bloody cow,” was all she said, before climbing out of the wreck. Just as I was reaching for the handle, I heard the siren of the patrol car approach, then the tyres screeching to a halt beside the road. I could just make out the revolving red light on top of the patrol car’s roof.
Two officers now came into view from the road, shouting something incomprehensible. I opened my door and fell out onto the grass, landing on my knees. When I stood, I felt Steph again, helping me to my feet.
“Thanks,” I muttered to her, eyeing the cops off. We walked back towards the road, quickly trying to feel for any injuries we may have inflicted on ourselves, but I felt OK apart from the aches and pains that were present before. Steph also looked OK, the only injury seeming to be the blood on her brow, now leaving a thin trail down the side of her face.
“Boss wants to see you. Had a call from the Warden. He’s pretty pissed, Steph,” one of the officers said as we approached. He was about the same age as Steph, his partner maybe a bit younger.
“Not now, Nigel,” Steph said to him.
“But the Chief said-”
“I SAID NOT NOW!” And that was when the young officer made the mistake of trying to grab her arm.
“He told us -” was all he could get out, before a right hook connected flush with his nose. I had heard of tomato punches before, but that was the first time I had actually witnessed one in person. And, one thrown by a girl. Let me tell you, it was fucking impressive. It wasn’t the crunch of his nose that made it impressive. No. What made that punch so unbelievable was the blood that jettisoned from either side of his face. It sprayed both of his shoulders simultaneously, a warm funnel of red claret fountaining outwards. He screamed in pain, both hands coming up and holding his face as his knees buckled. Steph never slowed, stepping past him and continuing towards the car. The other cop just stood there, staring at his mate now kneeling on the ground.
8.
“Stay or come, but decide right now,” was all she said to the two officers, before climbing into the driver’s seat, the engine still idling quietly. The cop that was standing took one final look at Steph then helped his friend to his feet, supporting his weight as they tried to run to us. Steph was already gunning the engine as they both slid into the rear seat, one almost diving in and sliding across to the other side.
“You broke my fucking nose,” bleeding cop said as she spewed dirt into the trees, the tyres finding grip when they hit bitumen.
“It’ll heal. I have to get to my baby,” she said coldly.
“Your sister?” the other cop asked. Steph looked at me then turned enough to look the kid in the face.
“No, my daughter.”
9.
The drive through Cider Hill was relatively quiet. There were a few more cars parked along the roads, thanks to the extra influx of reporters to cover the release of Harry Lightman, but our drive continued almost as swiftly as it did out on the open road. We could see quite a few extra cars parked out the front of the Railway hotel, as well as the Stanford, further up the street. Each of the open cafes had their share of customers as well, breakfast at the top of most people’s agendas. We could see groups of men in suits congregating around tables,
