SS Glasgow Castle 39 Chapter Thirty Nine

"Sit low and hang on!" And he immediately swung the wheel to the right and floored the gas pedal, catapulting us into the bush. I heard a shout, there was a jarring crunch - all I could do was hold onto my seat.
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Staying seated took all my strength. My head banged into the dashboard and I literally saw a couple of green stars. The car banged and sc.r.a.ped against scattered rocks, engine screaming as we raced through the bush. Then I heard this: pop-pop pop-pop-pop. I looked up from the swaying floor just in time to see the side mirror explode. There was a loud crack and it simply disappeared.

I was thrown against the door as Kross wrenched the Land Rover to the left. Then we were back on the dirt road and he was slamming through the gears and I was almost tearfully grateful for the cloud of dust that rose behind us. I felt my face sting, put a hand up and found there was a piece of gla.s.s embedded right by the corner of my right eye. Then I had to grab the seat again as the Land Rover slewed crazily - Kross really had to fight hard to bring it back under control. I heard a thumping noise coming from the back of the car, a noise that I'd heard before, in my other life.

"They got the tires!" I screamed at Kross. He nodded grimly. I glanced at the dashboard clocks: the speedometer showed sixty, and its needle was dropping.

"Hang on!" shouted Kross. He shifted down and swerved into the bush again.

He picked a good spot, there was a barely noticeable jolt as we left the road. I didn't ask what was happening. I knew what was happening. It didn't exactly require an Einstein. We were going to leave the car and proceed on foot. Running through the f.u.c.king bush with a bunch of mad soldiers after us.

The Land Rover lasted about a minute even though Kross handled it with great care. I kept looking back behind us, but all I saw was the dust settling. The gra.s.s we drove through wasn't very high - occasionally, a stalk would brush the bottom of my window - so we were in full sight of the road. Had someone wanted to shoot at us, they could. Fortunately the land wasn't completely flat, and I noticed Kross was heading for a gentle rise just short of being a hill. It was big enough to hide us from the road.

We were just about to crest the rise and disappear behind it when a loud grinding noise began: I could feel the seat frame vibrate under my palm. Kross slowed down till we were crawling along at just above walking speed. Within a few moments the car started to squeal like a stuck pig. Kross stopped and switched off.

"Right," he said. "Let's get the f.u.c.k out of here." He jumped out, opened the back door, and began f.u.c.king around in there. I was. .h.i.t by a sudden certainty it was all over, for us. This was the twentieth century, for f.u.c.k's sake. Everyone had radio. Everyone had planes and helicopters.

I walked round the car to the undamaged driver's side mirror and examined my face. I'd been hit by the gla.s.s in three different spots. I extracted the piece next to my eye last. I should have dealt with it first, because it let me find the right technique: instead of trying to grasp the sliver of gla.s.s and pushing it in even further, I squeezed the skin around it and it just popped out.

I wiped the blood off my face and looked around. I was standing near the top of the slope we had started to climb when the engine died. The gra.s.s was waist-high in some spots, knee-high in others: it grew in clumps with the cracked reddish brown soil in between dying for a drink. I could see we were maybe half a mile from the road. The dust had settled: I couldn't see anyone coming to get us.

I opened the back doors of the Land Rover and stared the guns lying on the floor. Kross was busy putting his knapsack, containing the loot, into his bag.

"Get going," he said without looking up. "Those guys aren't that eager to come after us, but eventually they will. We don't want to be here when they arrive."

"They aren't eager?"

"They aren't heroes."

"But we are, right. At least you are."

"Shut up and pack. Take half the water and some food."

I didn't think it made any sense. But what did? Was waiting to get arrested any better? I obediently went through the plastic bags and counted four bottles of Volvic. I took two, examining the tops for leaks before packing them. I heard clinking metal and looked up to see Kross examining the submachine gun. As I watched, he unclipped the magazine and thumbed out a couple of rounds.

"f.u.c.king piece of s.h.i.t," he said, and tossed the magazine into the gra.s.s behind him. He threw the gun down on the ground, then he bent down and picked up a rifle.

"Take the other one," he said.

I didn't move and he straightened up and looked at me. He said:

"And pack some food and toilet paper too. You'll need it."

"You think I'm about to s.h.i.t myself?"

He didn't answer. He was already busy f.u.c.king around with the rifle magazine. He was getting ready for the big gunfight in the bush. I really hoped he didn't count on me joining in.

My brain was refusing to work, and it took a huge effort to focus my attention on my luggage. I had a problem there, two problems. I had a problem with the rifle and I had a problem with my bag. My bag was a cube-shaped photographer's bag with a wide leather strap meant for carrying it on the hip in the insouciant manner becoming a photographer. It was a very nice bag and it was very comfortable to carry when changing vehicles. It also wasn't bad on a short stroll. But carrying it for thirty kilometers in the bush was another story.

And then, there was the rifle. I didn't want to get caught carrying a firearm. Getting caught while carrying a firearm meant a longer time in jail. It was a while before I picked it up. I recognized it as the one I'd been handling earlier, as my rifle: it had 'A.H.' scratched in tiny, wobbly letters in the corner of the b.u.t.t. Andrew? Adrian? Adam?

What the f.u.c.k was I doing with a gun? What the f.u.c.k was I doing with a stolen police gun? What the f.u.c.k was I doing? I was a white city boy. There would be no gunfight in the bush. It was over, over, over. My imagination showed me myself getting machine-gunned from a helicopter.

"Come on," said Kross. "Those guys have called in a report, and likely asked for reinforcements. They know me, and they have a lot of respect for me, which is nice. But that won't stop them from shooting me and you as well, and they'll be along sooner or later. Let's get going."

I looked at him. His face was red in the setting sun. I said:

"There's something we need to talk about first."

He slowly raised his rifle-free hand and removed his gla.s.ses. The skin around his eyes was pale. I said:

"I was shown a Wanted poster featuring your mug. I was told about the diamonds, the diamonds that were stolen from a f.u.c.king office safe. Not hidden away a couple of centuries earlier by a dishonest officer, a f.u.c.king pirate, whoever. Stolen quite recently. At gunpoint. Two people got killed. Tell me why I shouldn't believe it. Tell me why it's not true. Right now."

He squinted at me and said:

"You f.u.c.king wally. Well you can stay here if you like."

And he turned away and started walking.