28

In the course of tackling another Hampstead hill, Clive became aware of footfalls behind.

The thought of being followed caused instant GBH against his coronary muscles. He was trying to keep a regular heartbeat, to measure his paces, to regulate breathing, as if taking on a challenge. He prided himself on dangerous sports, risky adventure, walking and running challenges. But that wouldn’t hold; he was not doing this for self-satisfaction or leisure, or bonding with friends. He was not even battling with competitors in cyber space. These guys mean business, he told himself, almost as a joke.

Probably he was being naïve by looking back over his shoulder. But he wanted to get some idea who was tracking him. In fact there seemed to be more than one guy following; perhaps there were as many as three.

Absurdly the burly trio were wearing bowler hats. Blokes didn’t wear bowler hats any more, he argued, other than a few club door men trying to impress. They were intent on their prey (the time of watching and waiting had expired). Possibly his enemies judged that a corner of Hampstead was an ideal hunting environment.

Despite a quaint dress sense, his pursuers looked like standard thick necks. Pitt wasn’t used to playing the quarry, but he felt that these attack dogs were closing in. When Clive looked behind and began to jog, they made no attempt to disguise their intentions. Unlike Mr Ahmed at the florists, they were not in a mood to chat about the affairs of the world. Rather, with the brutality of a Victorian publican along the Mile End, they were determined to call time.

Pitt had nearly killed one of them already, after the vicious attack near to his former home. Or maybe he’d really snuffed that guy out by accident. The memory of the man’s destroyed bloody features haunted him still. They wouldn’t be pleased by the shock result of that violent episode. That would have frustrated his enemies - whoever they were - but it would have strengthened their resolve. Equally their urgency made him wonder if he could potentially nullify them.

Pitt took flight through the red hot afternoon, bolting for his life from one turning to the next, in the way they expected.

Yet he wasn’t exactly sure who ‘they’ were. Who really ran the world? If you made enemies in the City as a high ranking figure, then the outcomes were serious. There were a number of candidates, including his former boss. Who was responsible for setting these wild dogs on him? Right then it was not so urgent to hear the name of their employer.

How could he shake their fangs from his trouser seat? The thugs would catch him eventually, unless he found more cunning. Pitt knew instinctively that his flight was too direct and visible to his chasers; as they strode out and held him in their sight. Therefore he began to be more erratic, unpredictable, as he’d seen in war movies. Soon he dashed suddenly to one side, when an opportunity arose; running at full tilt down a pathway. The tactic worked to a degree, as there was a delay before they picked him up again; the trio of bowler hats bobbed along in his direction across the top of a hedge.

Perspiration flooded his new shirt, which still retained showroom creases. Nobody had the time to iron his shirts at the moment, least of all himself. He was glad to be in physical shape, even though he was pushing the limits. But he didn’t consider himself to be any kind of secret agent or hero, just a mathematician turned City banker, who had upset a few powerful guys by saying the truth.

As a youth he was an idealist using technology to make a name and possibly his first billions. His father was dismayed at that time. He considered Clive a bedroom fantasist and tried to persuade him to start at the building society.

Clive remembered his first introduction to Sir Septimus. The banker had been impressed, warmly welcoming, fizzing with enthusiasm. It always helped your negotiating position Sep argued, if you could produce a particularly beefy, confident guy, with a brilliant mind into the bargain. That had been a successful strategy. Not only on the trading floor, to strut along peacock walk; but in meetings with clients and rivals; to gain business, to consolidate agreements, as well as, of course, to intimidate any competitors or naysayers.

Nobody knew what made Pitt tick back then - including himself. Clive wasn’t aware of any particular business ethics. At first he didn’t know where the moral line could be. But at a late stage of the ZNT deal Pitt got a feel for that moral line. Like a ballerina who refuses to sweat off extra pounds, he refused to cross that border.

How could he have suspected - either as an intern or as an associate - that his exciting career at Winchurch Brothers would, one day, push him out and force him to run for his life?

Clive became aware that one of the guys split off. The suit separated from his cohorts, no doubt thinking to double back and cut Clive off. They probably had a navigation device to orientate them. They found their way with ease around the complex plot of Hampstead paths and lanes. Pitt had broken his sophisticated wristwatch days ago, so couldn’t take that aid. The watch had been a gift from the director of a Bavarian forestry company. It was thanks for helping him secure the timber from Hungarian woodland.

At some point the bowler hats would intercept him. Then it would be check-mate in their favour. From Clive’s point of view the business couldn’t be allowed to end there. The details of this hidden scandal would stay secret and be buried with him. But he’d be damned if he allowed them to win out. How could he keep ahead of three of them? He could try to keep them separated, baffled between each other, like a careless group in a hall of mirrors.

Soon he would be sandwiched between them, a bowler hat at each end of the lane. Pitt clambered over a brick wall, rolling over pieces of glass at the top. With an effort he got over the top and fell over to the other side. He crashed down with an inelegant thump into someone’s back garden. He’d fallen awkwardly, as pain shot through his right knee and thigh. But he got to his feet, and judged the demands of the terrain ahead as it swam about his vision.

Fortunately the pain was instantaneous. He strode out across a spongy green lawn, which was basking under sprinklers. He enjoyed a few moments to cool down. But he couldn’t waste another second. This was the complex territory of a classic English garden. Not every day did you flee for your life in someone’s back garden, he thought.

Seconds later, he watched the two suited thick-necks follow in the same direction. They tumbled awkwardly over the wall, like poor nags taking a lunge at Beecher’s Brook. They suffered an equally rough landing, with the extra point of a trellis. All the air was smacked out of one of the guys. The character emitted indignant grunts of complaint, face shoved into the dirt. They were soon on their feet however. They didn’t even brush down before picking up the chase. Obviously they enjoyed the rough British sporting culture. Pitt had never enjoyed it exactly but he’d learnt to survive from an early age.

Pitt found himself under tree cover, darting between intense light and shade. He took a swift course among shrubberies, crumbling walls and hidden nooks. At the top of the garden he noted a glowering gothic mansion. Some fantasy castle for a Victorian banker or lawyer. Yet the thugs were rapidly following, even closing on him, running not far behind. Pitt could only sprint as hard as he knew, praying that he was the strongest and fastest of four men. How likely was this? Perhaps people somewhere in the world were gambling on-line for and against him. It was down to physical competition for survival. It wasn’t about cleverness, or challenging unseen opponents with your gaming knowledge.

He confronted the limits of the garden, with no place left to turn. He was forced to scramble over the next dividing wall into the adjoining garden. In the struggle he dragged down honeysuckle and pulled out lumps of old brickwork. His lungs reached a burning limit, and lactic acid took bites out of his muscles. He dragged himself up on his deeply scratched leather soles, as if he was being whipped through an alternative London marathon.

There were indignities to endure as he jumped at the next wall. His new chalk-stripe pants were rent on a thorny trellis, his shirt patterned by chlorophyll. Yet he still had the will to escape.

His pursuers vaulted down again, missing only their bowler hats (left to confound someone’s deductive thinking). Indeed they were suffering, judging by the anguished snarls; which didn’t sound in English, although that was hard to tell. One of the thugs proved fitter, as he was pulling away from his comrade, Clive realised, dashing a concerned look around.

Pitt began to sense that he was not the fittest and strongest. One of these thick-necks had apparently given up the ghost, but his mate kept running hard and, within minutes, he caught up with Pitt. Luckily there didn’t seem to be firearms or any lethal weapons involved, at this stage. Why didn’t they try to kill him immediately and be done? They wanted something from him first. He was surprised that they didn’t try to take aim.

Losing stamina Pitt decided to stop, to set out his stall and fight the guy. He’d run out of strategies and had nowhere to turn. This one was huge; by then drenched in sour sweat, with a reek of spirit and spices. Bowler hat missing, he presented an entirely shaven head, top skin peeling and slick with sweat. His eyes popped with effort, showing little sense, beneath a burnt bullish neck, snorting like a bull too, as the fellow summoned remaining strength; lifting his head he put up fists as massive as limestone lumps on the moor.

The guy took a wild swing around the block, nearly lost his footing, and a struggle commenced. They each landed blows to the body, then fell on each other wearily, straining for a dominant grip. Pitt felt like one of those daring athletes that used to ride bulls in ancient Crete. He was oddly filled with strength and resolve, as his blood surged powerfully.

“Give it up Mr Pitt,” the guy urged.

“Never,” Clive returned.

“Hand back all what you stole.”

“After you!” Pitt urged.

“You’re finished.”

“Who wants me?”

“You’re done,” the guy grunted.

“What do you think I am?”

“You are Lucifer,” the guy insisted.

Clive noticed - peripherally - that somebody else was approaching, across that stretch of lawn. Neither the hoodlum nor he was in a position to identify this other individual. The thug assumed his colleague had caught up and he gained a definite surge of confidence. Clive lost spirit because he also expected the other thick-neck to come and finish him off. Pitt experienced some despair, he felt weak and doomed, unable to resist any further.

“We got Lucifer,” the guy declared. He had Clive in a strangle hold and was grinding his short teeth in appreciation.

But at this the villain was given a hefty blow to the head. An instant later he folded. He was a pile of unsavoury sausage meat on the turf; all mince and gristle. Pitt staggered, in and out of the dark, astonished by the sudden release. Then there were stars, even in a deep blue afternoon sky, and he suffered a blackout.

The next thing he knew:

“Are you all right, my dear chap,” he heard. “Do you require any medical attention? Should I telephone for an ambulance?”

A quite elderly gentleman, in Bermuda shorts and a flowery shirt, came into his vision. The chap was still brandishing a croquet mallet. This was the instrument which had been brought down on the thug’s skull. Further up the lawn was a young lady, in lime green spandex shorts, who was also holding a croquet mallet. She was gazing down at them with anxious curiosity, as if her father had pulled off an unconventional shot, which involved a criminal’s cranium.

“No, I should be good,” Pitt assured him.

“Why don’t you have a nip of gin? To make you feel better?” he volunteered.

“You haven’t killed him, I hope?” Clive asked ironically. He examined the lumpy suit spread over the grass, as if training to be a door mat.

“He’ll pull through.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Pitt said, looking the guy over.

“We were having our little game... when we noticed you running across the garden...and this brute of a chap bounding after you... what did he want you for, huh?”

“A loan shark,” Clive declared. “Yes, that’s what he is. I already made a full payment, but it wasn’t enough. No, they intended to make me pay up. There are two other guys around this area. So best be careful, mate.”

“We’ll notify the police before he comes around.”

“That’s up to you,” Pitt informed them, recomposing himself.

“You advise not to involve them?”

“Let him dream about his motherland,” Pitt replied.

As an accused rapist he was in no hurry to be interviewed by the police force. There was a heap of circumstantial evidence ready to be accessed.

“If that’s what you advise. Don’t want to be nosey!” the chap said, jauntily.

“Be careful to lock your windows this evening...as a precaution.”

“Rather over-dressed for a day like today,” observed the gentleman.

“Yes they can be bloody formal. Although I definitely tried to loosen his collar,” he said bitterly.

“Shark is the right name for these chaps,” the gentleman judged. “They’re all in bed with the tax man, you know.”

“There’s something to be said for the tax man,” Clive replied. “Can I leave by the side gate?”

He began to stagger up the slope of their extensive garden, trying to shake off thick mental cobwebs after that involuntary cat nap.

“What happens if this brute begins to revive?” asked the young woman, as he went by on wobbly legs.

“Take another free shot,” Clive suggested.

He escaped back into a gravelly private road outside. He gave an exhausted laugh at his luck, while trying to navigate back to his parking spot.

To find her Carrera Pitt had to fathom a maze of streets, wary of the other two suits in circulation and tracking him like drones. In the brightness he buckled at the knees, mentally faltered, as if he required a power source. He finally got back to the car - at least it stood out - trying to beat down his rampaging heart. Pitt let himself back in, relieved that it hadn’t been vandalised. He composed himself and began to re-familiarise the dials. After all, like many aspects of his life, it didn’t belong to him.

While doing this he took note of a black Humber down the road, like a massive safe box, parked ominously half over the pavement. This was their style in edgy capital cities the world over, as if the rules didn’t apply to them because they were special. They would park where they pleased, even to get a quick bite to eat. Such a casual style was a calling card to the masses and a reminder of their contempt for any official rule or retribution. Anyway paying a parking fine around their London playground was a mere nuisance.

As he hit the ignition and pulled away smoothly, Pitt had an opportunity to get ahead of them, assuming they hadn’t already guessed his next move. Clive had done well but he still felt traces of sticky fibres against his skin.

He continued through these north London suburbs until forking off to the motorway. After a ninety degree circulation he emerged at the southern end, venturing towards Winchurch’s country retreat.

He was keeping ahead of his enemies. But for how long?