Run London

By Stephen Caprice May

Every day runner Damien Davies does an early morning lap of London’s Regents Park. One such morning proves to be very different...

Davies stumbles upon a group of men carrying out a murder. They see him and it is quickly evident they are determined not to let him get away...

Davies takes off at speed and thus begins what the media dubs ‘the strangest of strange days’. The ageing runner finds himself pursued not just by the gang but a growing cast of characters, among them a lethal young woman with brilliant red hair...

Right across the city the chase unfolds: along streets, on bridges, through tunnels, on the underground... and even in the river. Can Davies survive? Will the involvement of an ‘old school’ intelligence officer save him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Caprice May
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463774083

Stephen Caprice May

Stephen Caprice MayI began my writing career as a children's books’ author and illustrator under the name Stephen May. In the last few years I have started to identify as trans and hence have added the name Caprice.‘Run London’ is a departure from anything I have previously written. I’m a real lover of London and have lived here for long periods of my life. The chance to write a story which ‘brought to life’, as it were, so many locations within the city was part of what excited me.When I was a child I used to go to Saturday morning pictures (ie films) at the local cinema. There were regular weekly features which always left you with a cliff hanger of an ending. As a kid I found that so thrilling. You’ll see in ‘Run London’ no shortage of such cliff hanging scenes as our ‘hero’ attempts to evade his pursuers.Currently I am working on a second but very different novel as well as writing poems, short stories and the occasional article. All of these apart from the novel can be found on my blogsite (https://oncaledonianroad.wordpress.com/). I also do my poems at spoken word events.

Book preview

Run London

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by

Stephen Caprice May

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Readers say:

~ Adrenaline fuelled, breathless excitement…

~ Short sharp sentences never slacken pace as the reader is taken on a run with no wasted words; it's exhilarating, full of suspense.

~ Give us more! We love it!

One

The rain spluttered against the kitchen window. No reason to stop him. One minute before six in the morning by the kitchen clock. Davies stirred sugar in the short measure of strong coffee, gulped it down in a single swallow and made his way downstairs. No such crazy schedule for Janice, his girlfriend, tucked up warmly in bed.

Five days a week he followed the same routine. Pounding the same route. Over Primrose Hill. Twice round the perimeter road of Regent’s Park, the Outer Circle. Back over the hill and home, just enough time to shower, grab some muesli and off to work.

Past the Russian Tearooms, on down by the pub and across the corner to the park, he ran; checked his stopwatch. 6:03:19. Braced himself, leaning into the cutting wind.

6:08:12. Davies, looping back down Prince Albert, hit Regent’s Park right by the zoo. The animals seemed restless. Maybe it was feeding time. Strange whooping sounds he’d never bothered to identify.

Warming to his task, he began to find his stride. The wide road opened before him. Flat and beckoning. Dawn was breaking behind him. The rain had eased but the wind still sang, gusting capriciously.

A dark figure loomed ahead. A policeman, sub-machine gun conspicuously slung. Not a big surprise. Home of the US Ambassador. Only last week they'd picked up three guys in Bradford on suspicion of terrorism. Something about a plot to do something at the American School in St John's Wood.

Past the mottled golden cupola – was that the right word for it? - of the mosque as he rounded the sweeping bend. The wind had fallen away. Davies hit his stride as he powered down the gentle incline.

It was a good time to run. Very little traffic as yet. A throbbing motorbike going way too fast. A bowed cyclist making his way home as if from the night shift. A newspaper van.

Past the turn down to Baker Street, Davies entered what always felt like the dead zone of the park circuit. In the half-light he made out a big, dark car pulled up to the kerb ahead. Its indicator light flashed an unnaturally bright orange, piercing the gloom. Head down as a reinvigorated wind threw rain in his face, Davies forged on.

A few yards further he stopped abruptly in his tracks. The rear door of the car, a big Mercedes, was flung open. As if pushed, a man got out, seemed to stagger a little. Instantaneously men spilled from the car as all the doors swung open. Big-coated men, they hurried to surround the first figure now huddled helplessly against the perimeter hedgerow. He implored his assailants in a foreign voice, Eastern European sounding. There was a flash and a crack. A half-formed cry. The man fell back. At this the group spun round as one to return to the car.

Davies stood transfixed. Now he realised the danger he was in. Had they seen him? Fully twenty yards distant he remained unmoving, stifling his breath, desperately hoping not. The group seemed so engrossed in their activity they were unaware of his presence.

Then, as the last was about to duck inside the car he glanced back. For the briefest moment their eyes locked. The briefest flicker of recognition passed between them even at that distance and then the man let out a sharp cry.

In a split second Davies was gone. As if propelled by an external force he spun round and his legs drove him back the way he had come. Within seconds he had reached the gaping entrance to the park. He took it, instinctively, racing down the path, seeking shelter but finding none.

Over the ornamental bridge he ran, feeling completely exposed. Left? Right? Which way? Wildly he turned left, following the flower beds, bending up the slope. Shelter! Again, no shelter…

Strangely there was no sound from behind. No pursuit. Davies did not expect this. It took him a while to realise and only then was there any space to think… to size things up… just a little.

By now, he had reached the Inner Circle road. Where were they? Where was the car? Was it safely left behind? Ahead he saw the gate of the Inner Circle gardens just being thrown open. What about the gate on the other side? He could always climb. Better than staying on the road…

Tell the park worker? No time. Probably wouldn’t get it. Bare instinct drove him on… through the gardens… out the other side. Again the road. Davies lunged on down the straight. Where were they? Somehow he knew they were still around. He sensed it…

As he drew level with the broad walkway running left and right something made him slow. He glanced left. There, about a hundred yards off, he saw them. Inside the park, two men in their heavy coats, scouring in all directions. Had they seen him? He ducked in to the right, towards the ornamental gardens, cutting off on a smaller path to the left. He had to get away from here.

In seconds he was at the outside edge of the park. Ahead Chester Gate, taking him away from the park. Wasn’t there a police station round there?

Rounding into Albany Street he sped down towards Marylebone Road. Had the two men seen him? He dare not look behind.

Reaching the police station, the place looked as welcoming as a fortress. The doors were locked and yet the lights were on inside. Hell! What were police stations for? He turned, breathing heavily. No sign of his pursuers. Traffic whizzed by. There must be someone inside the police station. How could he attract their attention?

Then it appeared. Cruising up from Marylebone Road like an imposing limo in a funeral cortege  - the Mercedes: six-doored, sleek black, foreboding.

Without further thought Davies was off. Ducking into the council estate that sprawled behind the police station. Under the archway of a house called Swallowfield. He heard the screeching of tires, knew they'd seen him. Where to? He ran as fast as he could which was pretty fast. In his day Davies had been a sub-3 hour marathon runner, specialising in a long, fast sprint to the finish. Pushing sixty he didn’t have the same capability, but the religiously maintained training schedule kept him in trim.

Ducking and weaving he went, in and around the estate. Eventually he was on Euston Road. Wide open space. Highly dangerous. He sprinted across. Half expecting a hail of bullets to lash into him. Just like in the films. He leapt the central barrier, made for the far side. Turning right he sprinted past pedestrians –the streets now starting to fill. Self-important, exercise freak, they probably thought.

Great Portland Street tube. If they hadn’t seen him, they wouldn’t know where to go. Congested here. Pushing past, Davies went up and over the barrier. He heard a cry. It wasn’t the station attendant. Too stentorian. Too strange.

Davies heard the beep of the closing doors. Threw himself in, slammed into an elderly businessman in the process. Picking himself up he turned to see the two taut faces glaring at him, disappearing behind as the train accelerated away.

‘What’s with you?’ said the disgruntled businessman, adjusting his clothing as if he’d suddenly become dishevelled. ‘Can’t you wait?’

Davies tried to mouth an apology but nothing came out. He felt his heart pounding his chest as if it would leap free.

Two (Janice)

Janice Dresdner rolled over on her bed. With a supreme effort she opened one eye to look at the alarm.

God! she gasped to herself. 7.17. Normally Davies would wake her when he came in around 6.50. Had he forgotten? Where was he? She hadn’t heard a thing.

Janice jettisoned herself out of bed. She had to be out of the house by 7.30.

Darling! she called. Darling... where are you? No reply.

Throwing on a gown, she staggered for the shower. Hot –too hot –too cold –that was better –no time to get it just right.

Was that the phone ringing? Work? Probably not. Way too early.

Could you get the phone, darling! she shouted. Too hot. Ouch!!!

She bustled back into the bedroom, drying herself in broad strokes.

Where was he? Could something have happened? Probably got talking to a friend. Got to get to work. Fresh blouse – unironed; synthetic, okay. Same skirt as yesterday? Would have to do. Make-up? A little. Always touch it up in the loo at work. What’s the time? 7.27. A quick slice of toast? No. Grab a croissant at the station. Where’s my damn handbag? Right.

Locking the door behind her. The phone again. No time. Probably stopped before she got the door unlocked again.

At 7.36 precisely, Janice Dresdner slipped into the lift going down into the bowels of Chalk Farm tube. Nibbling at the edge of her croissant, she caught the gaze of a young man opposite. Intense pale eyes. She looked away, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

*************************************************

Inside the underground carriage Davies bent over, gasping for breath. 6:37:12 said his watch. Occupants of the carriage acted as if he wasn’t there. Except the businessman who continued to huff and puff red-facedly.

Where to go? Who to tell? These people? What about the Mercedes? Would it track him down Euston Road? And the two men? Could they make it to Euston Square? As quick as the train?

Davies looked wildly around, feeling like a rat in a trap, his fellow travellers resolutely avoiding eye contact. An unseen pariah. A madman. His mind raced. What wouldn’t they expect – his pursuers? Get off, go back - the other way?

Euston Square. He was afraid to get out. Too soon. Davies sat stiffly, trying to look calm, expecting, at any moment, the two grim faces to come bursting in, assault him, shoot him down. Just like the poor Brazilian guy at Stockwell tube. What would that feel like? Maybe these guys were police, too. The imponderability of this notion stopped his train of thought and, mercifully, the doors began to close.

King’s Cross was coming up. Too easy for the car to get to. One more stop, Farringdon. More out of the way. They were foreign; maybe they wouldn’t know it.

Near Janice’s work, too. 6:43:15. Still in bed, expecting a wake up call. How could he reach her? No money. Reverse the charges? Was that still a service?

The platform at Farringdon was surprisingly quiet. Traffic in the distance. A police car, maybe an ambulance, woo-wooing.

Warily, he stepped out. He jumped at the beep of the closing doors. No-one in sight. A phone near the exit. Looking all around, trying to appear normal, his heart thumping inside his chest insanely, he picked up the receiver, dialled. ‘Brrrng-brrrng… brrrng-brrrng…’

A woman had appeared… at the far end of the platform… wasn’t sure how she’d got there.

‘Brrrng-brrrng…’

Three (Old Bailey)

"Emergency Services: Fire, Police or Ambulance, which service do you require?.... Hello, caller, this is- "

Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked her, saw her steadily advancing. Then a mere ten yards away, she sprang forward and was in the air.

Before she landed, though, Davies was off, up the stairs heading for the exit.

In full-stride he went over the barrier, his trailing foot catching, sending him shoulder first into a clutch of startled commuters. The first, his cup of Starbuck’s flying, cried out, What the-

But Davies was gone, jigging left, left again, then right, up narrow Benjamin Street. Veering left into the small gardens, Davies was powered by a supra-human force that was not his own – the raw survival instinct unleashed.

On a bench, despite the early hour, a Muslim schoolboy sat with his hijabed girlfriend, their eyes lost in entrancement. Their interest was elsewhere and they never noticed the desperate runner, nor the athletic young woman who came bounding behind less than twenty seconds later.

Davies knew the area. Sometimes he’d meet up with Janice here after her work. He had a good sense of the streets and squares, paths and alleys they had at times scoured in search of the perfect bar.

Past the Jerusalem Tavern –the oldest and one of the best –and into the little alleyway. Hitting the cobbled square, he risked a glance backwards. No sign. No time to deliberate.

Turning under the ancient archway, he chanced a glance sideways down Briset Street. Had he lost her? He went the opposite way, into the narrowness of Passing Alley. Paving slabs and old brick walls that had witnessed the comings and goings of centuries. The mundane and the profane and doubtlessly the odd murder or two.

Emerging into the width of St. John Street –which way to go? Smithfield, the meat market, that could be good. Probably still busy. Where was she? Unnaturally there was no sign. No sound of pursuit.

Holding fast to the line of shops and businesses, Davies jogged down the curving street. Approaching St. John’s Lane… gently… gently… A bicycle courier. A delivery van. A smattering of people, hurrying along with intense faces as if they feared being late… Nowhere, thankfully, the Ninja woman.

Crossing the street Davies entered the busyness of the market's Grand Avenue. Reversing freezer vans, security guards, men dressed all in white. He remembered now, on the far side, there was a police station. If he could make that-

He swung right into the central trading aisle, slowed to a walk. Hunks of meat: sirloins, rumps, topside, cadavers of whole piglets... neatly laid out in display cases. All strangely sanitised. White-coated men with white hard hats… Davies, a vegetarian, felt a strange pang of warmth… beefy humanity, everyday life, something about it gave him momentarily an unlikely glow inside. Leaving the aisle, all too short, he broke into a jog again and, dodging a forklift, he turned right onto Smithfield Street.

Down the curving slope, down to Snow Hill. Rounding the corner Davies gazed gratefully up at the ornate facade of the City of London police station. Everything here so steeped in history. He began to walk towards it.