Read Online PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) by JOHN YORVIK - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: JOHN YORVIK
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I had to think of a diversion and escape. We reached a T-junction just as a crowd of people fresh off the Northern line flooded the tunnel. The bag thief plunged directly into the middle of the oncoming crowd. I followed after him to angry protests and shoves from commuters. Ignoring the bag thief I fought my way to the wall of the tunnel and then dropped to my hands and knees and doubled back on myself. As I did, I was kneed and kicked and screamed at until I came to a clearing in the forest of legs. Then I got to my feet and ran as if my life depended on it. Forty yards down the tunnel I checked back and saw that I’d managed to lose one of the men in suits, but the tall one was still right behind me.
At this speed everything, everyone, was a blur. It was like being in a car with no brakes with only seconds to make decisions that would have huge implications on my future. Before I knew what was happening we were on a platform. I was racing along between the people and the edge. I smelt fast-food and coffee and the molten burning of the rails. The fast approaching end of the platform had no adjoining tunnel. I looked back and saw the tall suited man hot on my heels. I stopped and turned to face him. The man in the suit stopped ten yards away from me and smiled. People gathered behind him. The man in the suit shouted:
“It’s him! The Pentonville Strangler!”
Others began to crowd round him, looking at me.
“It is him,” said one.
“It’s the murderer,” said another.
“Better come quietly. There’s nowhere to run to,” said the man in the suit.
I didn’t find any words. I looked around for another option.
“There’s only one way out of this,” said the man in the suit in an Eastern European accent. “C’mon, I protect you. First, throw me the bag,” and he beckoned with his right hand.
Then someone else screamed “He’s jumped!”
Unaccountably, I’d jumped. Staying to the right of the rails, I ran a sprint into the darkness, hoping to reach the next station before the train did. Soon after I heard another theatrical scream and sure enough the man in the suit had jumped too, the sound of his staccato footsteps rebounded off the walls, as he got closer.
My lungs felt raw. I couldn’t keep up the pace for much longer. I would have to jump him in the dark and bash his brains out on the rails. ‘Go primitive’ as Marty had said before the fight in Old Street. But even if I got the better of him, how would I escape the crowd on the platform who were already crying murderer?
I jumped up onto the thin ramp that bordered the tunnel and clung to the wall, ready to pounce. But then like a crack of thunder, a train breached the entrance of the tunnel. I edged along the ramp feeling for any kind of recess or hook that would save my life. I heard the man cry out in Polish and jump up onto the ledge beside me as the train got closer. He made a grab for me but I managed to shrink back out of his way. As I edged further along to escape him, my right hand was suddenly left holding onto nothing. The wall had disappeared and the shock and imbalance nearly threw me onto the rails. I righted myself and with all the force one finds when faced with an oncoming train, flung myself into the newly discovered hole just in time to hear the train shoot past me.
* * *
Only tall enough and wide enough for one man, a stooping one at that, I scurried along the ancient railwayman tunnels, my way lit intermittently by the low flame of a Zippo lighter. The rest of the time I used an exploratory hand stuck out in front to warn me of sudden deviations in the route.
Ten minutes into the labyrinth, I stopped to catch my breath. As far as I could tell, the train had taken care of the man in the suit. Now I expected the police to take up the chase. But listening carefully for signs of human activity, I heard nothing, save the distant meowing of a cat, which gave me hope of finding a way out.
I needed to rest so I propped my
At this speed everything, everyone, was a blur. It was like being in a car with no brakes with only seconds to make decisions that would have huge implications on my future. Before I knew what was happening we were on a platform. I was racing along between the people and the edge. I smelt fast-food and coffee and the molten burning of the rails. The fast approaching end of the platform had no adjoining tunnel. I looked back and saw the tall suited man hot on my heels. I stopped and turned to face him. The man in the suit stopped ten yards away from me and smiled. People gathered behind him. The man in the suit shouted:
“It’s him! The Pentonville Strangler!”
Others began to crowd round him, looking at me.
“It is him,” said one.
“It’s the murderer,” said another.
“Better come quietly. There’s nowhere to run to,” said the man in the suit.
I didn’t find any words. I looked around for another option.
“There’s only one way out of this,” said the man in the suit in an Eastern European accent. “C’mon, I protect you. First, throw me the bag,” and he beckoned with his right hand.
Then someone else screamed “He’s jumped!”
Unaccountably, I’d jumped. Staying to the right of the rails, I ran a sprint into the darkness, hoping to reach the next station before the train did. Soon after I heard another theatrical scream and sure enough the man in the suit had jumped too, the sound of his staccato footsteps rebounded off the walls, as he got closer.
My lungs felt raw. I couldn’t keep up the pace for much longer. I would have to jump him in the dark and bash his brains out on the rails. ‘Go primitive’ as Marty had said before the fight in Old Street. But even if I got the better of him, how would I escape the crowd on the platform who were already crying murderer?
I jumped up onto the thin ramp that bordered the tunnel and clung to the wall, ready to pounce. But then like a crack of thunder, a train breached the entrance of the tunnel. I edged along the ramp feeling for any kind of recess or hook that would save my life. I heard the man cry out in Polish and jump up onto the ledge beside me as the train got closer. He made a grab for me but I managed to shrink back out of his way. As I edged further along to escape him, my right hand was suddenly left holding onto nothing. The wall had disappeared and the shock and imbalance nearly threw me onto the rails. I righted myself and with all the force one finds when faced with an oncoming train, flung myself into the newly discovered hole just in time to hear the train shoot past me.
* * *
Only tall enough and wide enough for one man, a stooping one at that, I scurried along the ancient railwayman tunnels, my way lit intermittently by the low flame of a Zippo lighter. The rest of the time I used an exploratory hand stuck out in front to warn me of sudden deviations in the route.
Ten minutes into the labyrinth, I stopped to catch my breath. As far as I could tell, the train had taken care of the man in the suit. Now I expected the police to take up the chase. But listening carefully for signs of human activity, I heard nothing, save the distant meowing of a cat, which gave me hope of finding a way out.
I needed to rest so I propped my
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