The Reachers Collection

Chapter 7

The night before a bullet tore through her father"s back he had sat Rachel down with her sister Isobel.

She was six years old, it was snowing and they were never going to see home again. He told them both about the running game. It was a game of strategy – to stay alive you needed to know when to run and where. Every room, every house, every city had its exits, each taking time, each with their own set of obstacles. To win you needed to pick the best escape route. The prize – you got to stay alive.

Rachel had got complacent, she"d allowed herself to settle, to let her guard down, used her powers in front of others, but she had never stopped playing the game. She was scared – it was a game of luck as much as skill – but she kept a cool head. As casually as she could manage she walked through the hospital, her pace no different from the rest of the staff hurrying to keep people out of the morgue. She slipped by them unnoticed, made her way to her locker, grabbed her bag and headed for the fire exit.

The bitter air slapped her face, reminding her of the winter threatening the city. She could run now, head out of the city on foot, make it to the country in a couple of hours, but with no food, no money, how long would she last? Charlie had given her time and if she wanted to live she had to use it wisely. That was how to play the game properly – never panic, always think one step ahead.

The side exit backed on to an alleyway cutting a path towards the open market. She hurried, her feet smashing puddles of trash and slurry into her trouser legs. The buildings around her, concrete coffins from another century, started to fall away and the first open market shacks came into view. Dubious meat hung from poles around her, circled by flies and hungrier children. The crowd was heavy and lazy, scrutinising and succumbing to the array of oddities the tradespeople procured. This was S"aven as it had been at the start – a shanty town bazaar, built up of tin shacks and cobbled together houses. Over the years the city had grown, but the market had never changed – some things just don"t.

Rachel put her head down and slipped through the masses unseen. There were cops up ahead, they circled the market like carrion birds, picking up what they could with a flick of their badge. There were always more men in blue at the start of the week when the produce was fresh, but supplies were starting to dwindle, leaving the runts of the force picking up the scraps. She passed by the two of them, they didn"t give her a second glance.

The market abruptly finished at the edge of the canal. Children swarmed the waterway, poking at the slurry ditch, looking for bodies. The autumn sun seemed to focus all its efforts here, sweating the layers of s**t and putrefying the air around. Rachel held her breath and quickened her pace.

The city was getting dirtier, it was growing in size but not in space. Another square of columns was being mashed together from the offcuts of another of London"s architectural wonders. Towers of houses littered the skyline, obliterating the horizon and the world beyond.

S"aven wasn"t London, it wasn"t anything more than a consolation prize for the poverty stricken, but for four years it had been Rachel"s home. She marvelled at it now as though she were arriving for the first time. It had delivered its promise to her, it had been her safe haven since the moment she had arrived. She found a job, a flat, it was more than most. When she left it would be gone. She had no papers, no credentials she could rely on. Once her feet crossed the border she would never be able to return. The thought weighed heavily.

Rachel turned the corner, reaching Nelson Square. She stared up at her tower block. They could be waiting for her, watching for her. She had to move quickly, her thoughts racing with the rest of her.

TheyThe north of the country was barren and impenetrable in the winter. If the snow hadn"t arrived it would be on its way. Even if she could find somewhere safe to stay in time, there were still guerrilla gangs moving into the towns up there, commandeering their own little piece of England.

The door to her building was clear. She took the stairs two at a time, then ran through her corridor until she reached the front door.

The south was where the money was. Sandy beaches in summer, turbine powered heating in the winter. The only thing between her and a retirement in the sun was a couple grand and some authentic identity papers. She dismissed the idea altogether. The law enforcement was sharper down there and on the lookout for her kind.

She opened the door and stopped in her tracks. Mark was asleep on the bed. He started to stir. She reached out and touched his head, letting her fingers massage his skull.

“Sleep,” she commanded and waited for him to settle back down. He started to snore.

It left the west. If she kept to the countryside she might make it as far as Wales, head southbound and find a small hospital willing to take her on. She could lie low there, let the winter pass and move on in the spring. It wasn"t great, but it was the winning play.

She stripped off her scrubs, pulled on her best trousers, a thermal vest and sweater. She had to travel light – if she couldn"t wear it she would leave it behind. Under the sink, in an old bleach bottle, was three hundred pounds in used notes. She stuffed the money into her bra and grabbed her empty rucksack. She filled the rucksack with as many protein bars as she could carry, clean underwear and a bar of soap, then headed out of the door.

As it closed she paused. This would be the last time she would see Mark. They"d been together a long time and, although they weren"t the best years of her life, he was still a good man. He"d be so lost without her too. Would he try to find her? Probably, but he wouldn"t succeed. And then what? Would he find someone else or would the heartache be too much? He loved her deeply and, even though she didn"t feel the same, she didn"t want to hurt him. But what choice did she have? If they found her she was as good as dead anyway. At least this way he had a chance to move on. She pressed her hand against the door apologetically and then continued down the corridor.

There was no point leaving him a note, there was nothing she could say that he would ever understand.