‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s yet another thing you’re keeping from me.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that when it comes down to it, I don’t know the first thing about you, do I? Your family, your background, who you were before you arrived in Aldeburgh? Who are you, Flick? What don’t you want me to know?’
It was as Flick turned away that she caught sight of it. A digital screen covering the length of a bus displayed her photograph with the words ‘Wanted’ and ‘Terrorist’. She froze, desperately trying to make sense of it. Whoever had killed the others had found a way to expose her.
She turned quickly to Elijah in the hope that he hadn’t spotted it. But as the bus pulled away, there were two more behind it with exactly the same display, and they grabbed his attention. As a puzzled expression took over his face, Flick became consumed by the need to tell him everything, have him hold her in his arms and hear that she was safe with him. Just as quickly, she reminded herself she was not that person any more. She was a self-contained unit trained to look after herself.
‘Jesus,’ he gasped, but before he could say anything else, Flick took a deep breath, dropped to her knees and turned to face a group of men crossing the road. Her sudden scream was piercing.
‘Help me, please, help me!’ she yelled and pretended to be crawling away. She shouted for help again, partially obscuring her face with her hand in case they too might recognise her. Instead, the concerned strangers sprang into action and rushed in her direction, one helping her to her feet as she counted five others rounding up and circling a perplexed Elijah. ‘He was trying to abduct me,’ she sobbed. ‘Get him away from me.’
Willing to take her word over his without question, they hurled abuse and punches at Elijah while the woman he loved ran away from him and towards another new beginning.
Chapter 79
CHARLIE, MANCHESTER
Charlie had some fast decisions to make.
The giant digital billboards containing his image that were illuminating so many city-centre buildings had forced him to abandon his plans to hide in plain sight. Instead, he would concentrate on making his way to a locker inside the People’s History Museum. There, he could pick up a backpack he’d left on a previous trip that contained basic weapons, body armour, a camouflage tent, another burner mobile phone and maps. Repurchasing such essential items would involve visits to different shops and leave him remaining exposed for longer.
From the museum, he would sprint to Alexandra Park. The former Victorian landscaped greenery was now hidden under a patchwork quilt of canvas tents housing immigrants who’d flocked to the UK before it shut its borders a year earlier. Even slum dwellers in sections of India’s poverty-stricken Calcutta had a better quality of life than those consigned to this quarter. But Charlie reckoned that once under the cover of his own tent, he might remain safe until nightfall at least.
He pulled up the collar of the discarded coat he’d grabbed from the warehouse so it covered his chin andmouth, but gagged at the odour of stale sweat and urine which had seeped into its threads. As he half walked, half jogged, it wasn’t just his own safety that preoccupied him. He agonised over poor Rosemary. The one saving grace of this whole sorry mess was that he hadn’t emailed her his photograph so she wouldn’t know who her Match really was. She would think she’d been stood up but not by Britain’s most wanted man. It might have been the lesser of two evils but it didn’t stop him from feeling as if someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart.
Charlie kept his head down until he reached Shudehill, a road behind the Arndale. From here and at his current pace, he estimated he could be at the museum within five minutes. Without thinking, he made the mistake of looking directly at a passing mum with a child in a pushchair. Only a few footsteps later, he heard her shriek: ‘That’s the terrorist! That’s him!’
Without turning, Charlie began to sprint, weaving his way in and out of people and streets, crossing roads and forcing cars into emergency stops. But the more he ran, the more attention he was drawing to himself and he heard footsteps and loud voices chasing him. If he could maintain his pace through another handful of streets, he could hide in a less redeveloped area somewhere by the river Irwell until the pack lost his scent.
But without warning, a side tackle lifted him off his feet and into the air. As he landed Charlie heard and felt the crack that shattered his collarbone and wrist. The side of his head made a dull thud as he hit the concrete. He felt no physical pain, but it disorientated him. He looked up as the first of many punches began to rain down upon his face and body. And soon, the grey sky above him blackened as the growing crowd blocked out the clouds.
‘Don’t kill him, there’s a reward of half a million,’ someone argued.
‘Don’t fucking care,’ yelled another voice. ‘Terrorist scum don’t deserve to live.’
The breaking of his nose was swiftly followed by short, sharp kicks to his head before his dental implants dislodged and hit the back of his throat. And once fists collided with his eyes, it became almost impossible to see. He struggled to breathe with each kick to the stomach and ribs yet despite all this, Charlie was able to think with clarity. He was sure that he was about to die.
This is karma for what I did to my friends and to Milo, he thought.It’s everything I deserve for wanting something more. I’m sorry, Rosemary. I’m going to die like I’ve lived: hurting everyone I care for.
Charlie’s left arm felt as if it was about to be wrenched from its socket and his ankle dislocated as those who wanted a share of the reward battled against those who wanted him dead. Some grabbed at him, pulling him back and forth until he felt he might split in two.
The sudden loud blast of a car horn was followed by the screeching of tyres and the yelling of panicked voices. Charlie just about caught the darkness lifting until only one shadow remained.
‘Get away from him,’ a voice ordered, then Charlie flinched at the unmistakable sound of gunfire and panicked footsteps running away. ‘Get up!’ it continued but he didn’t register that the command was directed at him until he felt his arm being yanked. ‘We don’t have much time.’ Before he knew it, another bullet was fired, followed by more yelling. Suddenly he was being dragged along the street, then propped up and pushed face first upon the seat of a vehicle. He used the little strength he had left in his legs until he was completely inside and heard the doors shut.
‘I told you I didn’t want your help,’ he gasped but his protests were ignored.
‘Drive us to the M62,’ his rescuer continued. ‘Override speed limits.’
As the autonomous vehicle pulled away from the murderous mob, Charlie heard the banging and clattering of hurled objects bouncing off the bodywork.
‘I said I didn’t need your help!’ Charlie repeated. His missing front teeth gave him a lisp. He tried to sit upright. ‘What happened? Why was I exposed? You could have got me killed.’
‘Open your eyes.’
