The Messiah Secret

He checked the mirror on the passenger side. The priest’s car was now perhaps ten feet behind him, and dropping back slightly. Fifty yards ahead was a lumbering grey van, the rear doors wedged open to reveal a motley collection of carpets and other unidentifiable materials inside it. To the left, an almost unbroken stream of cars was heading towards them.

Angela looked behind them, then tensed, pushing back in her seat, her arms pressing against the dashboard, as Bronson changed up and mashed the accelerator pedal again.

The priest was still close behind, maybe fifteen feet back, clearly visible in Bronson’s mirror and now matching speed with him.

Ahead, the back of the van loomed ever closer. At the last second, Bronson swung the wheel to the left, heading straight towards the oncoming traffic, gambling that the drivers on the other side of the road would give way.

But they showed no signs of moving over, and at the last second before a collision was inevitable, he slammed on the brakes and swung back on to the right-hand side of the road.

There was a bang and a scream of tortured metal as the front of the priest’s car crashed into the boot of his. The priest had braked as well, but too late.

‘There goes my no-claims bonus,’ Bronson muttered.

Angela spun round to look behind them.

‘He’s still coming after us,’ she said, her voice choked with fear.

Bronson had been hoping that the air bags in the priest’s car might have deployed as a result of the collision, but there was no sign of that having happened. Behind the wheel he could see the man’s black eyes staring right at him as he wrestled with the steering wheel.

Bronson swung his car to the right, back on to the correct side of the road, then moved even further over. He took a quick glance down the right-hand side of the slow-moving van, trying to see what was in front of it, then hit the accelerator again.

‘Hang on,’ he muttered, as the right-hand wheels of his car mounted the pavement. He sounded a long blast on the horn. With the left wheels of the car on the road and the right ones bouncing over the uneven paving slabs, Bronson powered past the van, scattering pedestrians, chickens and dogs as he did so.

Just as he reached the front of the van, a pile of boxes stacked four high on the pavement loomed in front of the car.

‘Brace yourself,’ he said, and hit them squarely, his eyes closing at the moment of impact. Cardboard and debris flew in every direction but, as he drove over their remains, he could see that the boxes had contained nothing more solid than a few dozen packets of crisps.

Bronson steered his car back on to the road. It bounced hard as it left the pavement, the suspension banging in protest. Behind them rose a clamour of angry shouts as crowds of people surged on to the streets. The van driver gave a long blast on his horn and gesticulated angrily. But Bronson had got past him, and that was all that mattered.

Then, as he straightened up, he saw the Renault drive around the outside of the grey van behind them – the priest had found a way through the opposite-direction traffic.

Angela saw the vehicle at the same moment and shouted a warning.

‘I know,’ Bronson said, desperately looking for a way out.

He slammed on the brakes and slewed his car over to the right-hand side of the road, on to a small open area. Behind him, the driver of the grey van also braked, but Bronson was gambling that he’d take longer to stop.

He swung the wheel hard round, spinning the car until it faced back the way it had come, then accelerated across to the other side of the road behind the grey van. The priest’s car was now the wrong side of the van, and Bronson hoped it would take him at least a minute or two to get back in pursuit.

The traffic was still heavy, but he forced his way into the line of vehicles, keeping on the outside and overtaking every time a gap appeared.

‘Where is he?’ Angela demanded, turning in her seat to stare back down the road. Her face was white, her eyes panicked.

‘Hopefully he’s still trying to turn round,’ Bronson said.

He checked his mirrors again, but there was still no sign of the other car. The traffic started slowing for some unseen obstacle ahead, and Bronson began to relax. Now his car was just another in a line of white cars, effectively invisible.

And then, just seconds later, the priest reappeared from a side street over to their right, and forced his way back into the traffic stream perhaps half a dozen vehicles behind them.

‘Shit,’ Bronson said. He dropped down a gear and accelerated past a couple of cars.

‘How on earth—’

‘He must have used a parallel street,’ Bronson snapped. ‘Either he knows the area well or he just got lucky. We’ve got to lose him.’

He pulled out, tyres screaming, and dived in front of a Mercedes saloon and down a street to the right, praying that it wasn’t a dead end.