About Henry Fellows
Post 113:
On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows
Episode 25:
Chapter Eight Concludes
“Go now?” I ask, clamping hard down on the walkie. My hands are stony, turning stiff in the unrelenting London rain.
“Do it,” I hear Floyd say. Everyone’s in position. Billy’s playing spotter. Floyd’s running the play. I’m the bait. Marie V. will be the chaser. My starting point is a curb on the right side of the road, just in front of the big office building on Broadway. I plug the headphones into the walkie and fire up the bike with a sharp kick start. Here we go.
On a good day, driving the roads in London makes me want to kill myself. The coordination is difficult for anyone. That’s why I chose the bike. Can’t be driving with the wheel on the wrong side. Anyone who tells you the adjustment is easy is a liar. And we’ve got a possible high-speed chase in the offing. The bike will help. That, and the fact that I’m going to drive down the right side of the road. Today I will be the obstinate contrarian jerkoff every Brit pictures when they think of Americans.
Sure, it’s idiotic. But we want to make a splash, to be noticed, to bring the wolves to the sheep. Might as well be conspicuous.
The bike almost flies out from under as I yank the gas. Switching gears, I see a line of cars coming right for me. No free hands. All I can do is listen and wait for news of a follower—whilst trying not to die. Cars are beeping and careening every which way. The rain is coming down hard, moving down Victoria against a tide of onrushing metal.
“Floyd, Marie. Gray Audi, A6. They’re going with him.” It’s Billy.
I hear them confirm over the radio but can’t answer, can’t look back.
“Okay, you know the way, right?” Billy asks, as if I can respond. “Never mind, I’m coming down off the roof. En route. See you there in ten if you’re still alive.”
Lovely.
Up ahead it’s going to get a bit tricky. The going is getting slow and I’m having to drive between lanes and on curbs. Profanity is in the air all around me. It almost helps. The limeys really know how to hurl the imprecations. I’m finding it strangely motivating.
Here it comes. The roundabout around Parliament Square, only the wrong way. Give a quick nod to Churchill’s statue and skid out into the back of a red sightseer bus, downshifting the gears to get the bike going again.
“Okay Hank, we’re on the Audi. I’m three cars back and Floyd is two cars behind me. You can get back on the right—the left side of the road anytime you want.”
Something like spit and sarcasm is blowing through my squeezed lips as I avoid another series of life-threatening situations. Up ahead I jump over to the regular flow of traffic and cross the Thames on the Westminster Bridge. Tourists. Politicians. Regular folks. They have no idea who the maniac on the motorcycle is, and I have no intention of getting caught. Not today. There’s a slight fading din of that whiny noise European police sirens make. The sound only gets softer. No way they’re catching up.
Slowing down, I’m able to free a hand and hit the radio. “You guys still got the tail car?”
Marie chimes in. “Henry. You’re a crazy son of a bitch. You caused ten accidents back there, minimum.”
Good to know. “They still with me?”
“Yep. They’re on the bridge now. We’re not far behind.”
“Good. See you there in a few.”
There’s a place we’ve picked out on the south side that’s perfect. Apparently Marie used it in the past for a safe house and whatever else the job required. A little dodgy, the kind of area where people look the other way. No statues of Churchill. I can see the Audi peeking out every now and then in my little side mirror. The one that didn’t break off.
I’m starting to put my mind to the next task now. The logic of acting like a maniac back there was to convince my pursuers that I believed I had lost them. That, and to give them no time to suspect that they themselves were the prey.
Yeah. Well, it’s some kind of logic.
