This Man Confessed(87)
I do as I’m told. “It’s only one car behind.”
He hums a little. “I want you to drive as slowly as possible, without looking suspicious. Just below the limit, you got it?”
I instantly ease off the accelerator a little. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Now, tell me exactly where you are.”
I glance to my left. “I’m approaching Millennium Bridge.”
“That’s good,” he muses. “Concentrate on the road now.”
“Okay. Why are you so calm?” An air of serenity is traveling down the line and calming me, which is crazy, considering the source of it—a giant, mean-looking, wraparound-wearing black man, who oozes terror.
“One crazy motherfucker is enough, don’t you think?”
I manage a small smile through my growing fear. “Yes.”
“Now, tell me how you’ve been today.” He asks it like we’re having a perfectly normal conversation.
“Fine. I’ve been fine.” What sort of question is that when I’m being chased down in a car?
“He’ll be an extraordinary daddy, Ava.” John’s softly spoken words seep from the phone and seem to linger in the closed air around me, briefly pulling me away from this awful situation and putting a smile on my face.
“I know.” I can’t see John, but if I could, I know I would see that gold tooth.
“So you two are going to stop fucking about and sort this shit out?” He sounds like a father, and my fondness grows for the burly beast of a man.
“Yes,” I agree. “Oh!” I’m suddenly thrust forward in my seat and my seatbelt locks, pulling straight across my collarbone and burning the skin beneath my dress.
“Ava?” John’s voice is distant and muffled, and I can’t work out why. “Ava, girl!”
“John?” I feel around on my lap, but there’s nothing. “John!”
Bang!
I’m jolted forward again, my arms instinctively locking on the wheel and sending a sharp flash of pain straight up to my shoulders. “Shit!” I look in the rearview mirror and freeze when I see the DBS now directly behind me, but it’s quite a way back. “John?” I yell. “John, can you hear me?” My eyes are moving constantly from the road ahead to the mirror, back and forth, and each time they’re back on the mirror, Jesse’s car is closer. I attempt to step on the accelerator, but all body functions are failing me, except my eyes, which are watching in horror as the DBS gains on me.
Bang!
“No!” I cry, as I swerve and struggle to regain control of my Mini. I don’t stand a chance. My brain is being inundated by a million different orders, but I can’t gather any cognitive thought to establish my best move. I straighten up my car to be immediately hit again. Now I’m crying. My emotions are taking hold, telling me that I should be crying, that I should be frightened. And I am. I’m terrified.
Crash!
This time I lose complete control. I scream as the wheel starts spinning of its own accord, and I’m suddenly traveling sideways down the carriageway. Then I’m hit again and facing forward once more. I frantically grapple with the steering wheel, but it’s got a mind of its own and in a total panic, I yank at the handbrake. I’m not sure what happens next, but I’m thrown forward and back again, and dizzy, blurred images whirl past the windows—buildings, people, and cars all spinning around me until eventually a loud crash rings through my ears, my body jolts violently, and my eyes close. I don’t know where I am. But I’m still. I’m not moving anymore.
I flex my neck on a groan and open my eyes to look out of the window. The traffic has stopped. All of it. And people are getting out of their cars and wandering over to me. I shuffle my legs and move my arms, quickly noting that I have feeling in all of them, before I unclip my belt and let myself out of my car. People are walking toward me, but I’m walking away. I’m walking toward the DBS, which is sitting a few yards away, the engine still purring. I should be running in the other direction, but I’m not. I’m running toward it. The desperate need to know who would do this has suddenly flattened my fear. Drugged, threatened, and now this? I’m only a few yards away when the engine starts revving, like some sort of eerie fucked-up threat. It doesn’t stop me. What does, though, is the sound of a high-powered machine getting louder and louder. I halt and stand rooted to the spot as I watch the DBS screech off, and then John’s Range Rover go sailing past in pursuit. This isn’t happening to me. I want to pinch myself, slap myself across the face, or, at the very least, wake up. I slowly turn when that high-powered machine sounds like it’s speeding around in my head. He skids to a stop and throws his bike down before sprinting toward me, no leathers, no helmet, just some faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt protecting his body. I can’t move. All I can do is wait for him to reach me, and he soon does, his hands starting to work fast strokes all over my stunned face as I stare blankly into his green eyes, which are drowned in pure terror.