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He gripped his puncturing dagger tightly. If they climbed onto his unit, he was confident he could fight them, but he’d instantly make himself a target for a clear shot.
“Can’t see owt.”
“Get your arse up there and have a proper skeck.”
“Ah! Wha’?”
His unit shook as it was kicked. Or had someone tried to climb up it, then fallen back down?
Ears pricked, he listened out for the sound of boots scraping on metal. His hands on the box roof feeling out for any vibration, however small.
Nothing.
Then, a noise over to his left. The container next to his. The metal made a heavy drumming sound as one of the men attempted to clumsily climb up the side again.
Sion bristled. If they made it to the roof, they’d be sure to see him.
Another staccato of boots on metal. Then a couple of heavy thuds. And a loud skid in the gravel.
“Fuck!”
“You alright?”
The slapping noise of hands hitting leather clothes.
“Even soddin’ Spider-Man would struggle to climb up that.”
Sion breathed a little easier. But he still kept pancake-flat until he was certain they were moving away.
Then, edging himself up on his elbows he wriggled soundlessly across towards the edge to gain a good viewing point.
All three had met back up at the portacabin and were standing around uneasily, waving their guns about. Deciding what to do next.
Two disappeared back inside. Leaving one outside.
He put his gun away and lit up. After a few long drags, he got his mobile out.
It was easy for Sion to guess what was going on. This one had been given the honour of telling Irish.
The call took longer than Sion expected. How were they explaining it away? Would they try to bullshit their way out of it? That the guys were on it, hunting him down at that very moment? That they’d get him soon.
And what was Irish, the Scouser General’s reply? Threats? Orders?
Even from the top of the container, he could hear them all shouting at each other when the man eventually went back inside the portacabin to debrief his co-workers.
Irish had, no doubt, kicked his arse.
Because, they were soon out there again, repeating exactly what they’d spent the last half hour doing. Chasing shadows, getting cold.
Sion had the darkness on his side, for now. He’d wait it out, but he needed to move from there before dawn broke.
A couple of other cars turned up. A range rover and an Audi.
There was more shouting and more sweeps around the storage units. This time with torches. There was more kicking of the boxes and a thorough check of the fence. One of them went off in the BMW for a time, presumably to scour the surrounding area.
Then, in the wee small hours, they finally gave up their search.
The other two vehicles were long gone.
Stiff from the wet, cold and bruising from the punches he’d taken, Sion watched the men getting sheepishly into the BMW. The rear lights faded finally from view as it disappeared up the road.
He’d wait for a few, long minutes more before rising. It could still be a trap.
Twenty minutes passed until he was confident that it wasn’t. Brushing the water off his leather jacket, he shook himself. His upper body had stayed dry, protected by his leather coat, but his legs had stiffened up and his jeans were sodden.
He shook them, stretched and rubbed one of his shins, trying to avoid a cramp he could feel building. He didn’t have time to worry about that. Or about his face swelling up. Or his sore head where the bottle had smacked him.
He needed to get out of there.
Sliding himself off the corner of the container, he lowered himself down, then jumped clear.
Back on the ground, he scanned the compound. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck rising. It was very late, and he was certain they’d gone, but he was still wary.
The main gates had been locked together with a thick chain and a sturdy padlock. Like the perimeter fence, it consisted of diamond-shaped metal wiring, ten-foot-high and topped with a razor-wire roll.
There was no other way for it. His only way out of there was over the top.
Despite the cold, he took off his leather coat and fixed it, by the sleeves, around his neck. Placing his hands high on the diamond mesh, he started to climb. The mesh holes were small, and his toes kept slipping in the spaces. But he kept on, powering his way to the top, clinging on with his hands, using all his upper body strength and climbing skills.
As his face neared the wire roll, with one hand he pulled the leather jacket from his neck and covered over the spikes.
Ignoring the fatigue, the muscle pull in his calf, the burning in his biceps, he summoned all his strength and hauled himself over. The leather protecting his skin from the razor-sharp barbs.
Lowering himself to the ground on the other side, he did another careful check up and down the road. In front of him and behind. Listening out for the ticking over of an engine. Checking for any concealed cars.
The place was deserted.
The car park was in an industrial zone. And he could smell the sea.
Beside the road there were brick warehouses with units for small businesses. There was a sign for a backstreet garage advertising car battery deals. And there behind him, another sign he’d not noticed until now, ‘Meat Fresh’. The abattoir.
Trying to remember which way the men had left the compound, he moved off the road towards the buildings.
What he would give for a map app, right now.
Then he heard it. A rumbling; getting louder.
Beyond the abattoir there was a raised hump in the ground running parallel to the road. A railway line. And if he was correct, what he’d heard was the sound of an early morning train.
Running towards it, he rapidly cleared the low fencing onto the raised track. It was away from the road, and a perfect escape route out of there.
Following the side of the metal tracks, he began to jog. In the distance he could see the glow of streetlights. There, hopefully, he’d find a station and a train back to Wrexham.
???
This morning, I’m full of beans. We both flaked out early and slept through the night with only one feed stop, that we did together. And I'm feeling human again instead of half-zombie.
It helps too that the sun is shining.
“What d’you think about us converting some of these buildings?”
I pass it by Jac as we carry our buckets of empty bottles across the yard.
“We could do with a more modern shed. But that won’t be cheap. Why?”
“How about we turn some of the old stone sheds into holiday cottages?”
He stops, then examines the buildings as if he’s seeing them for the first time.
“And we could put some yurts and teepees up in the summer too.”
His face cracks into a broad grin.
“You ever lived in a yurt?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yeah. I have. In a protest camp near Brecon. And it was bloody freezing.”
“When was that, then?”
“Before we came here. Cal spent a year campaigning against the gas pipelines, d’ya remember?”
I pull a face.
“Yeah, well I do. And it was the muddiest, wettest and most miserable year of my life.”
“You make it sound like a trench in the first world war. People like it. They call it glamping.”
He humphed.
“Bet they only do it once.”
“Okay, so the yurt idea’s a bit out there, but holiday cottages? Might be good? There are places nearer the coast, but nothing up this way.”
Jac scuffs his toe on the concrete and studies the sheds some more.
“The Cross Keys is nearby, and there are some great biking trails and walks ‘round here.”
“Not up to the ledge though. That’s our pla
ce.”
His face cracks into a grin.
“If you wanna do this, you’re gonna have to share. Visitors’ll be on the yard and in the fields every day.”
“That’s alright. It’ll be fun to meet new folk. And we could offer it as a retreat. How many places these days are so off-grid?”
He rubs his stubbly cheek.
“Turn a negative into a positive.”
“Cal visited a place like that in Spain.”
“Aha! I thought she’d be involved in this scheme of yours, somewhere along the line.”
“Well? What d’ya think?”
“We should definitely do some more research. Might be grants available.”
I agree. It’s a big investment and we need to be sure people will come. But, I can tell he likes the idea.
CHAPTER 22
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Irish stared at the grainy CCTV photograph he had of Si, the hitman, and felt the cold chill of hate running through his veins.
Their outfit was compromised, irreparably damaged because of him. He’d lost some of his best boys, and his brother. It’d take months to get the county lines operation back up and running in the south again. Precious time that meant loss of trade and valuable London turf.
And worst of all, the hitman had made a mug out of him. Giving his men the slip that easily. He’d have them on feckin’ car park duty for the rest of their days. No way was that bunch of amateurs ever getting near his ops again.
Britney’s baby had been born last night and Tony should’ve been there. Instead of being a proud dad, carrying his little boy home from the hospital, he was banged up in a cell awaiting sentence.
Irish added some details to the post he was putting up. The pub camera had picked up his full face. You could see his features, but it was black and white and blurry. But, the best he had.
From the height of the door and the men by him, he’d say Si was six foot. He was white. Athletic build. Ex-Services, obviously. His hair was light; sandy brown possibly ginger, hard to say. Around thirty, give or take? That was about it.
He pressed send.
He didn’t care about the security on this one. He’d sent it straight out on the wider chat group.
Now, every Scally, ex-con and chancer looking to make a few quid would see it and take an interest. Especially when they saw the reward he’d set.
