The Getaway

Farrell’s car was a silver Ford, a nice model, sleek and fast. Archer knew very little about cars, but it seemed to handle well and his seat was comfortable. They were headed for the Queensborough Bridge, taking the kind of intricate route through Astoria that only a local who had lived here his whole life would know. The Ford had been parked on the kerb outside Jim Archer’s apartment, and the only reason Archer had got in the car with the guy was to further their contact and to try and build some kind of bond. Archer was under no illusions. Much as Gerry wanted his help, he was doing this for himself. The man in the driver’s seat could very well have murdered his father or if not knew who had, and Archer wanted to find out everything Farrell knew about it.

‘You know, I had Regan follow you again today. He said he lost you at Times Square,’ Farrell said, turning right and headed towards the Queensborough.

‘Really?’

‘Where’d you go?’

‘Shopping.’

‘Where are the bags?’

‘Why’d you have him follow me?’ Archer asked, deflecting the question. ‘You’re not doing yourself a lot of favours here.’

Pause.

Farrell didn’t respond.

‘I saw what you did last night,’ he said. ‘I was impressed. That guy’s a real a*shole, but he’s a big a*shole. I’m a boxing trainer, you see. My girl, Carmen, fights out in East Rutherford every few weeks. Mixed martial arts. I corner her. We’d fight in the city, but it’s still illegal.’

Like that would stop you, Archer thought.

‘You ever fight?’ he asked him.

‘Used to. Boxing though, not MMA. Did some time inside and couldn’t do it anymore when I got out the joint. Lost my cardio, my footwork, everything. Started holding the pads instead of hitting them. Couldn’t throw a good punch anymore.’

‘Looked like you could last night.’

Pause. They started to move over the Queensborough Bridge, Manhattan rolling into view up ahead. Archer looked out of the window at the skyline, trying to stay cool. He was sat next to the man who had quite possibly killed his father. But here they were, having a casual conversation, like two civil strangers. He swallowed, taking a deep breath.

Stay cool.

Stay in control.

Think of the big picture.

‘So England, huh?’ Farrell said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Irish, you know. That should make us enemies.’

‘You making a point?’ Archer said.

Farrell smiled. ‘Just busting your balls. You’re tense, man. Relax. I ain’t gonna bite.’

Pause.

‘So what do you do for a job?’ Farrell asked.

‘Currently unemployed.’

‘You ever serve time?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Keep it that way, trust me,’ Farrell said, as they approached the end of the Bridge. Farrell turned right on 1 and headed uptown, through the Upper East Side and towards Harlem. Archer stayed silent.

‘How well do you know the city?’ he asked.

‘Been here a few times.’

‘Can you drive?’

Gerrard’s voice flashed into Archer’s mind.

They’ll be looking for a new driver.

‘Of course.’

They moved on, through the East 60 Streets and the 70’s. The Upper East Side.

‘Manhattan streets ain’t like the U.K, you know,’ Farrell said.’ It’s a chessboard out here. There’s no alleyways, no hiding places, and you’re on an island. It’s a grid, and there are cops everywhere. You get jammed up, you’d better make sure you know what the hell you’re doing.’

‘I came here a lot growing up. I know the streets.’

A couple of minutes later, Farrell turned left on 110 and drove down to Lexington Avenue, then turned left again and pulled the car to a halt on the kerb, right next to the upper right edge of Central Park, facing south. He applied the handbrake, but kept the engine running.

They sat there in silence, the car facing the long stretch of road heading all the way downtown, the engine humming.

‘So what now?’ Archer asked.

Farrell didn’t reply, and pushed open his door instead.

‘I’ll show you. Step out.’

Archer opened his door and stepped out, as Farrell beckoned him to his side of the car. He’d left his door open.

‘Take a seat. Get a feel for it.’

Archer did so, as Farrell moved to the passenger side. They both took a seat, swapping sides and pulled the doors shut as the light behind them turned green and traffic started moving past them on the left. Archer slid his hands over the wheel and got a feel for the car. It was a good size, strong enough to carry its weight yet light enough to knock off some serious mileage.

‘What do you think?’ Farrell asked.

Archer nodded. He knew nothing about cars, but feigned interest.

‘Not bad.’

The next two things Archer did were crucially uncharacteristic. He made two mistakes, mistakes he never normally made.

He dropped his guard for a split-second.

And he looked out the window to his left.

Farrell suddenly reached behind his back. Archer turned in the next instant, but Farrell had a head-start and jammed something into his neck.

It was a 9mm pistol.

Archer froze, looking at it pushed against his neck, then at Farrell.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘We’re on 110and Lex,’Farrell said. ‘I want us in Herald Square in six minutes. If we’re a second late, I pull the trigger and you die, pal.’



Archer didn’t move, the gun still to his neck. Farrell stared straight at him, his finger tight on the trigger.

‘Are you kidding me?’

Farrell ignored him, lifting his other wrist, the weapon tight in his gun-hand, and checked his watch.

‘You’re wasting time. And I’m not joking. Five minutes and fifty five seconds, I pull this trigger. Move!’

Archer paused for one further moment.

Assessed his options.

Then he released the handbrake and pushed his foot down and the tires squealed as the car lunged forward.

They were on the north east corner of Central Park, on 110and Lexington Avenue. Herald Square was 76 blocks away. Unless they had an airplane, Archer knew this was going to be close to impossible. But he floored the pedal anyway.

He didn’t have a choice.

The quickest way to get there would be Central Park West, but that was the other side of the Park. It all depended on luck. He needed to hit a series of green lights. If they were red, he would either have to run them or accept his fate and either scrap with Farrell or take the chance that he wouldn’t pull the trigger. But judging from what he had already learned about the man, the second outcome seemed unlikely.

The car sped forward. Farrell had lowered the gun and jammed it tight in his ribs, a constant reminder of what he was up against. There was no traffic in the road and he did a U turn in the street, swinging a hard left then turning another left to face west down 110Street. He floored it, the car burning down the road, other cars honking and drivers shouting as Archer cut the car into the lanes. They were moving right to left, across the top of Central Park, and fast. Up here, it would be far easier to get across town. If he tried the same downtown, they’d get clogged up in traffic like a fly in a spider’s web and would never make it before his time ran out.

They zoomed along 110, all the greenery of the Park flashing past Archer’s window on the left. Up ahead, he saw a cathedral fast approaching on their right, The Cathedral of St John the Divine, a sign told him. Farrell checked the clock on his watch, the pistol still tight in Archer’s ribs, uncomfortably so, as the car rushed forward.

‘Five –thirty to go,’ he said.

Archer was in luck with the green light, and there was no one on the crossing. He barely slowed as he turned down to face Central Park West, a sliding turn, the wheels skidding on the concrete as the car pulled its way around to face south.

The lights ahead were green and the car scorched forward, knocking off the streets. Alongside them, the sidewalks were dotted with the odd pedestrian or food stall, but Archer kept his eyes peeled for any cops or a squad car lurking in any of the streets they passed. He considered trying to attract their attention, getting them pulled over and the gun out of his ribs but he couldn’t risk screwing this up.

Farrell knew who killed his father.

And he needed to do this to find out who that person was.

They burnt it down the streets, the sidewalks flashing past. In New York City, the traffic lights system often lit up one after the other sequentially in order to try and alleviate traffic and Archer struck gold, the car torching it down Central Park West, the Park and all its trees flashing past on the left.



They flew all the way down to the early 80’s.

So far, so good, beating the clock.

But then his luck shifted. He hit his first red on 80and was forced to slow to a halt, just as Farrell called out the time.

‘Four-minutes-thirty. Better move.’

Archer swore, willing the light to flick green, sensing each passing second tick away. When it did, the car leapt forward and turned right, speeding over the crossing and moving along 80, taking another quick turn on the crossing on the next left and headed onto Columbus Avenue, which would turn into 9 Avenue in a few blocks. He hit another series of greens, and they roared on downtown.

Past the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot.

Past the Juilliard School.

Past the Lincoln and Time Warner Centres.

‘Three-forty-five. Better hurry,’ Farrell said.

Archer pushed his foot down and the car sped on faster.

They roared down 9, boxing Columbus Circle and avoiding the traffic there. But there was a problem, Archer realised, his mind racing as fast as the four wheels on the car. Herald Square was on Sixth, so they needed to be three avenues over. Archer had to keep going down 9 though. If he tried to get across now, he’d hit all the traffic around Times Square and that would be the end of it.

He was forced to slow as a cop car passed the other way, but once it had passed Archer sped on.


Into Hell’s Kitchen, the streets suitably sunny and hot.

‘Two minutes,’ Farrell said, pushing the gun tighter into Archer’s ribs.

They hit another red on 47. Archer swore. Some school-children moved over the crossing slowly, chewing up his time, laughing and playing together, no idea that a man’s life was at stake.

The clock ticked on.

‘Ninety seconds,’ Farrell said.

The light hit green and Archer sped down.



They zoomed towards the Port Authority Bus Terminal and Archer got lucky. They should have been held up there by the buses moving in and out of the station, but they hit a gap in-between them. Eight blocks later, they hit a red at 34, Madison Square Garden straight ahead and to the left.

‘One minute,’ Farrell said.

Archer willed people across the crossings, but there seemed be an endless stream of them.

‘Fifty seconds.’

The light turned green, and Archer pulled left.

Pedestrians were starting to cross here, but he roared through a gap, inches from a woman walking over the white-lined tarmac. She started shouting obscenities and flipped them off but Archer ignored her, the car burning down 34.

They were three avenues away.

‘Thirty seconds!’ Farrell said.

Disaster struck.

They hit a red at 7.

Archer could see Herald Square one avenue away, the giant building of Macy’s running the entire block to his left.

He was so close he could see faces of people in the Square ahead.

‘Fifteen seconds,’ Farrell said, pulling back the hammer on the pistol with a click. ‘You’re not going to make it.’

Archer couldn’t move.

It was a red and people were crossing.

But suddenly, a fire engine appeared from behind them, the lights blaring.

It was a gift from heaven. Cars parted, moving out of its way, but Archer waited, ready to pounce.

He took his shot.

As the truck moved forward, he tucked in behind it, crossing over the lights. There was more honking and shouting behind him, but he didn’t hear any of it.

He was a hundred yards from his destination.

‘Seven,’ Farrell said.

Archer floored it.

‘Six!’

‘Five!’

‘Four!’

‘Three!’

‘Two!’

‘One!’

The car skidded to a halt, both men jerked forward in the seat then falling back with the momentum as the car stopped, the pistol still jammed in Archer’s side.

They paused and looked around the car.

Macy’s was behind them.

Herald Square was in front of them.

They’d made it.

Archer held the wheel tight, panting, then released it slowly. He exhaled, sweat on his brow, taking deep breaths. Farrell looked around them through the windows, then lowered the pistol slowly and tucked it back into his waistband, not saying a word. Outside them on the streets, it was noisy, but the only sound inside the car was Archer catching his breath.

They sat there in silence.

Then Farrell turned to him, and nodded.

‘Congratulations. You’re our new driver,’ he said.