Uprising

Chapter Twenty-Six

When Joel opened his eyes again, he realised with a start that he’d been sleeping. His clothes felt clammy and his body was suddenly racked with violent shivering. It was beginning to rain. He groaned at the time on his watch. How could he have been—?

At that moment, he saw something move on Kate’s balcony.

He froze. His heart stopped, then began to pound rapidly.

The figure was barely visible in the darkness. He watched it creep to the edge of the balcony. Heard the tiny snick of the latch as it closed the French window of the girl’s room behind it. It paused for a second at the balcony rail, then in one fluid movement, almost faster than Joel’s eye could follow, it leapt effortlessly over the rail and dropped down into the garden with barely a sound.

Joel was rooted to the spot, terrified to move or even breathe. In that instant, all his childhood fears came flooding back. For seconds that seemed like hours, he was paralysed. It took a supreme effort to force himself to crawl to the edge of the shed so that he could watch the figure make its way across the dark garden.

Through the mist he could see it was a tall man, dressed in black, walking calmly, purposefully, towards the back gate and the little passageway that wound between the rear gardens of the houses.

Joel scrambled to his feet. He staggered out from behind the shed, heart thumping so loudly he was sure the man would hear it from twenty-five yards away.

The rain was steadily becoming heavier as he stepped out into the passageway in time to see the shadowy figure disappear round the corner, already fifty yards ahead, walking fast. Joel broke into a jog. Rounding the corner he spotted the man again.

His innards squirmed.

Was this even a man he was following?

He swallowed back his terror and broke into a run. Maybe it was the most insane thing he’d done in his life, but there was no stopping now.

‘Armed police officer!’ The words burst out of his lungs, and there was no masking the shrill note of fear in his voice. ‘Stop where you are. You’re surrounded.’

The figure halted in the shadows, then turned slowly around to look at him.

The rain was pouring now. Joel couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he could feel the gaze on him, penetrating him to the core, making him feel utterly naked and vulnerable.

And somehow he knew what it was thinking.

You’re all alone, human.

It stepped towards him. The face still in shadow, but Joel thought he saw a smile appear on its lips. It took another step.

Joel blinked the rain out of his eyes. Swallowed hard. His mind scrambled desperately. Searching back twenty years. What would his grandfather have done in this moment?

‘The cross,’ he shouted. ‘I have it. The cross…’ Joel felt his blood icing up as he struggled to remember. He almost bit off his own tongue as it came to him.’…of Ardaich!’

The figure stiffened. The head cocked imperceptibly to one side.

‘I have it,’ Joel said again, mustering up all the strength he could put into his voice. ‘It’s here. I have the cross, vampire.’

And the thing suddenly turned and ran, its light footsteps echoing in the passage. Joel stood there for a moment, rooted, then sprinted after it. Now he knew what he was chasing, and it was more than he could bear — but he closed his mind and ran on, harder. The passage twisted left, then right, then opened up into the street.

The figure moved like an Olympic champion. It vaulted over a wall, crossing a children’s play area in three bounding strides. Joel could see an exotic sports car parked up ahead under the dim streetlights. The futuristic gull-wing doors opened, and the figure clambered inside. The engine fired up with an aggressive rasp, and the car took off, wheels spinning on the wet road.

Joel recognised it. A McLaren F1. Just about the fastest production car ever built, a machine he’d never seen before in real life. It made a sound like a Formula One racing car as it screamed away, slaloming at high speed through the vehicles parked in the narrow street. Snatching a glimpse of the registration number, Joel committed it to memory.

The car was almost out of sight when he spotted a single motorcycle headlight coming the other way. The McLaren bore down on it, forcing the rider to swerve. The bike mounted the kerb, hit a patch of grass and skidded sideways. The rider tumbled into the gutter and the machine slid across the pavement with a grinding of metal. Joel broke into a run. The rider was struggling to his feet by the time he reached him, flipping up his rain-spotted visor.

‘You all right?’

‘The bastard ran me off the road!’

‘I saw. Listen, police emergency. I need your bike.’ Before the rider could stutter a reply, Joel had bent down and grasped the bars of the fallen bike. It was a sports model, a Yamaha R1. Fast. Not nearly as fast as a thoroughbred race car, but he still had a chance.

The Yamaha’s engine was still ticking over. Joel heaved the machine upright with a grunt of effort. Threw his leg over and hammered it into gear, opened the throttle wide and dumped the clutch. The front end lifted off the ground and he hung on tight as the bike accelerated manically away up the street after the disappearing McLaren.

With no helmet, the wind roar was deafening. The raindrops were like bullets of ice. It felt as if they could tear his face off. But the pain didn’t matter. All that mattered were the McLaren’s taillights. Joel screamed after them, head down behind the machine’s skimpy Perspex screen, nailing the throttle wide open and his speedometer reading a hundred and forty miles an hour as he blasted out of Wallingford into the dark country roads.

Within a minute, Joel was riding faster than he’d ever done in his life. It was all he could do to keep the Yamaha between the hedges — and still the McLaren was losing him.

Voices resonated in Joel’s head.

This is madness. You’re going to kill yourself.

And if you catch him. Then what? This is no ordinary criminal. This is a…

Vampire. Joel couldn’t bring himself to say it, not even in his thoughts.

The McLaren hurtled onwards, steadily increasing the distance between itself and the speeding motorbike. A series of bends came swooping up, almost faster than Joel could react. He threw his weight across the saddle, dragging the machine down into a crazy leaning angle as he sliced into the first left-hander; then, just as he’d made it through that one, he had to hurl the bike over to the right, the road flashing by just inches from his body. Out of the bends and straight on with the gas. Wheelspin at over a hundred miles an hour into the blinding rain.

Joel knew he couldn’t keep this level of concentration up much longer. He was going to crash.

Village signs flashed by faster than he could read them. At a hundred and sixty miles an hour the narrow little street was an amber-lit tunnel. The McLaren was moving even faster. Suddenly, a van pulled out of a sidestreet and started turning in the narrow road. The sports car braked hard, swerved to avoid it and spun wildly. It smashed through a garden fence, sending up a shower of torn planking and jagged splinters, then went careening across a lawn before it rejoined the road.

Joel saw he’d gained precious seconds on his quarry — but in the same instant he was almost on the van as it kept turning out across his path. There was no time to brake. He aimed the bike at the rapidly narrowing gap between the van’s front wing and the wall of the house opposite. For a terrifying fraction of a second he thought he was going to hit it, go smashing right through the brickwork like a missile and end up as a pile of dead meat in someone’s living room. He tucked in his knees and elbows, ducked in low behind the dials, and then somehow he was safely through the gap and roaring onwards up the street after the frenziedly accelerating McLaren.

They were heading towards the outer limits of the village now. A roadsign whipped by, almost too fast for Joel to register that there was a level crossing coming up ahead. Warning beacons were flashing, a bell was ringing. The barriers were down, blocking the road. Beyond the barriers was the clattering rumble of a train streaking by.

The McLaren’s brake lights blazed red as it screeched to a halt. The vampire was trapped. The only sidestreet was blocked by a sprawl of building works that stretched from the roadside to the edge of the tracks: Portacabins, tall heaped piles of sand and gravel, cement mixers.

Joel suddenly found himself gaining fast on the car. His heart began to flutter.

The chase might be over but the danger was only just beginning. As he shut the throttle and let the bike decelerate, he was imagining the car door opening. The driver getting out. Immortal. Unstoppable.

And no fool. It would know just from the look on his face that he’d been bluffing, he didn’t have some mythical cross on him. Then what? He didn’t want to imagine what would happen next.

But the car door didn’t open. The McLaren seemed to hesitate for just an instant, then its engine rasped and it slewed round in a tight circle and came right for him.

Joel hit the front brake — too hard. The wheel lost traction on the wet road, and with a sickening lurch he felt the front end go out from underneath him. The crash seemed to happen in slow motion. He felt himself sailing through the air. A grunt exploded from his lungs as he hit the ground. The bike slid on its side, sparks showering up from the tarmac. The blinding car headlights sped towards him.

Joel put out his hand just as the car seemed about to run him over.

It didn’t happen. Fifteen yards from where he lay sprawled on the wet road, the McLaren skidded into a handbrake turn. Fire crackled in its exhaust muzzles and smoke poured from the wheel arches as it accelerated frenetically back in the direction of the moving train.

Joel held his breath in anticipation of the devastating impact. But just a few yards short of the level crossing barrier the McLaren veered off course. It aimed at the building works near the tracks and hit the tall sand pile at more than eighty miles an hour. Its engine revs screamed as it took off like an aircraft, and with a huge cloud of sand in its wake it sailed straight over the top of the barriers and cleared the roof of the train by inches. He heard the crump and the squeal and bounce of tyres as it hit the road on the other side. Then it was gone.

Seconds later, the train had passed by and Joel could see the car’s taillights disappearing up the dark country road into the distance.

He struggled to his feet, wiping the grit from his grazed, bloodied hands.

The level crossing barriers were beginning to rise. With all his remaining strength, Joel wrenched the fallen Yamaha upright — then saw the left handlebar hanging uselessly from its shattered yoke, the broken clutch lever, the hydraulic fluid leaking all over the road. He yelled in rage and let the damaged bike topple over with a crash.

It was three minutes to midnight. He started limping back up the road the way he’d come.