Reckoning Point, стр. 79

Though they were on the inside, not out here, in the middle of the night. Alone. And the fog is back, rolling in off the sea, draping the beach and the pier and the town beyond in a thick carpet of mist.

Swearing under her breath she looks down towards the entrance, sees the gates that have been drawn across and bolted. High, heavy, metal gates that prevent people coming onto the pier at night.

There is no way out. Not until the morning, when the employees and attendants come to work.

“Shit,” she whispers, and shivers.

Just then, she hears a grating noise, and her hands fly to her mouth as she feels the metal lid she has replaced move under her move slightly.

The doctor!

Carefully she moves backwards, watching with terror now as the lid moves up and down.

Time to fly again, she thinks as she begins to run.

But this time there is nowhere to run to.

Lev bursts through the hatch, not stopping to replace the lid as he draws his legs through the opening and looks frantically around him.

The pier, he is on the pier. And the gates are closed, and the fog is like a blanket, but that doesn’t worry Lev. The pier at night is his friend, he has been here before, and his pals have shown him the torn panel in the fence that sits adjacent to the left hand gate. Whooping now, but quietly, lest the girl already made her own escape and has the police on standby, he gets to his feet and jogs down to the entrance of the pier.

Through the fence, bending it back in place like he’d been shown, he moves down past the gates. And never before has the boardwalk felt so good under his feet.

Lev looks around, sees nobody. No flashing police cars, no sirens, no news vans that have been here of late, no sight of the girl from Chernobyl either. He stares across the road, up towards his apartment. He can’t risk going there, not if Joy’s body has been found next door, they may well have someone in authority stationed outside.

He grumbles in annoyance. His passport, his money, the nice, fat joint untouched in his kitchen.

But it could be worse, it could be so much worse, he thinks, remembering Roland and the scalpel and the mad, crazy doctor. And hadn’t he, Lev, promised to lead a good life if he managed to escape?

He sits down on a low wall, thinks about where he is.

Holland.

One of the best places he could be to escape from. He can hitch a ride to the border of Germany or Belgium, go on to France, through to Spain even. And from there, wherever he ends up, he knows he can find the right sort of people who will help him.

He digs through his pocket, comes up with a crumpled ten euro note.

He smiles. He will find someone, somewhere to help him. He always does. He has a certain charm.

And whistling a tune, he strolls along the promenade. There is no rush, he is safe for now.

He’ll get onto the N44 motorway and find a lonely, friendly, chatty truck driver.

Who knows, by the morning, he could even be in Amsterdam. And if ever there was a town to spend a night or two in, from what he has heard, Amsterdam sounds like a peachy choice.

Erik puts his head down and sprints. It is easier now he doesn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure his English pal is keeping up okay. Not that Alex is fat or anything, he’s not, he looks in fine form. But he’s not a runner, probably goes to the gym for show, a few bench presses, a couple of weights, nothing that raises his stamina, that’s for sure.

Unlike Erik. Erik runs every day, and sometimes, when he is out by the canal and the cold and damp are hanging over him, he thinks about cutting his jog short and returning home to a steaming coffee and a croissant. But he doesn’t, and now, when time matters, he is glad of all those times he has pushed himself.

He didn’t always have to push himself, there was a time when Naomi would join him on every morning run, and they would encourage each other.

Running was fun then.

He couldn’t pinpoint when it had stopped.

A thick, red haze obscures his vision as he thinks of Naomi.

He puts his head down again, and runs even faster.

There is something up there, ahead of him. Glancing up every few steps he can see a shining light. They must be nearly at the pier if the scent of sea air seeping into the tunnels is anything to go by.

Suddenly, Erik crashes into something on the darkened ground. He goes down, letting out a hiss of frustration as his gun skitters off into the darkness. Erik looks up, sees the metal grate of a storm drain missing, flicks his gaze down to see that was what he had smashed into. Hauling himself to his feet, Erik jumps, grips the lip of the hole and struggles through into the clean air. Patting his belt, too late he remembers his gun.

“Shit,” he whispers, risking a glance back into the tunnel beneath him.

Just as he is edging back towards the hole to retrieve his weapon, he hears a shriek. He stands up, looks through the dark night, cursing under his breath at the fog that is coming into shore and obscuring his visibility. Abandoning the gun and the tunnel, Erik folds his fingers into fists and moves forward into the mist.

He senses rather than sees or hears a movement, and he flattens his back against one of the booths in the centre of the pier. Hardly breathing, he peers around the