It’s about ten minutes later that I realise I’m lost. The constant bends in the road have confused me as to which direction I’m pointing in. I was fairly sure I knew where I was, but if that was the case I should’ve met the main road a few minutes back. Right now, though, I’m on the side of a hill, and I can’t even see the main road.
I try to figure out which way is north. Without sight of the river or any recognisable landmarks, that’s nigh on impossible. The sun’s starting to peer around the edge of a cloud to my right. If I knew what time of day it was, I could work out which way I was heading by the position of the sun. It’s at times like this when I wish I had a watch. Mine, a Christmas present from Lisa, is still back at the hotel in Herne Bay, if not already bagged up and stored in an evidence cupboard somewhere. Since then, I’ve not really needed a watch. I’ve either been in a car with a clock, on a train with a clock, or floating around Europe without needing to give a damn what time it was. The thought tickles me somewhat.
I have a rough guess that it’s somewhere around ten in the morning. If this was England, at this time of year, the sun should be somewhere towards the south-east. That means I’m currently heading north-west, rather than north-east. The only problem is, this isn’t England and I’m not entirely sure the sun’s position would be the same. I’m quite a long way east. It’s all I’ve got to work with, though, so I head off again, trying to keep the sun on my right-hand side.
It’s over half an hour before I finally manage to get my bearings and start heading down the main road. What I’m most amazed at is that this little moped still doesn’t seem to need any fuel. You’d think that it’d be thirsty after struggling up those hills, but the needle’s only dropped slightly below the full mark. One of the benefits of having such a small engine and no weight to carry.
Once I’m back on the main road, I’m happier. I’m a lot further up than I need to be, but that’s fine – at least I have an idea of where I am. The traffic has started to build a little, but I’m making good progress – even if I am horrendously late.
When I finally get near the corner shop, I start to slow a little, looking at the numbers on the front of the buildings. I see the shop in the distance and I head for it. As I get closer, I can see a man standing outside the front of the shop, smoking a cigarette. He’s looking right at me.
I pull over to the side of the road, my eyes still fixed on him and his on me as I try to read his expression. I can imagine these are the sorts of people who don’t like being fucked about, and me being late with the delivery clearly hasn’t made him happy.
As I’m about to turn off the ignition and put on my best apologising face, I hear sirens. I stop for a moment, breaking eye contact with the man and cocking my head to try and gauge the direction they’re coming from. I can’t be certain, but what I can tell is that they’re getting closer. And quickly.
I take a look back at the man. He’s heard them, too.
54
My heart’s thudding in my chest as I will the little moped to go faster. I speed off down the main road in the direction I was already facing, then swing right into a side road. The moped’s never felt slower than it does now.
I can’t hear the sirens any more, but that’s only because of the noise of the moped at full throttle and the pulsing of the blood in my ears. When I get to the end of the side road, I meet another main road. I don’t even stop to look, just bolt straight out across two lanes of traffic whilst veering to my left, car horns honking at me as I narrowly miss the front bonnet of a taxi.
I’ve got no time to stop and apologise, and I keep the throttle on maximum power as I lean forward, trying to will the machine to eke just an extra mile an hour out of its little engine. I make up another three hundred yards or so before I turn right again, onto another side street. At the end of this street I turn left again, onto another road.
As I round the corner, my tyres screeching as I try to get onto the right side of the road without letting go of the throttle, I see the face of a small boy looking at me as he and his mother step out to use the zebra crossing. I do all I can think to do, which is to shout ‘MOVE!’ just at the same moment the mother yanks her son back with one hand, her existing momentum leaving her other arm – laden with shopping bags – flying forward. I clip the bags and my scooter gives a worrying wobble, but my own momentum keeps me going in a more or less straight line. I glance into my wing mirror and see the debris strewn around the road, the woman’s groceries bouncing and scattering across the tarmac.
The traffic is starting to thin a little, so I nip left across the light oncoming traffic and into an alleyway beside a hairdresser’s salon. I slow, swerving around a couple of huge bins, before getting to the loading bay behind a few shops. I stop the moped, turn off the ignition, take off my helmet and sit for a moment. The sound of the sirens is gone.
I breathe a small sigh of relief, but I know I can’t go anywhere just yet. I’ve attracted enough attention with my dreadful escape attempt just now, and I don’t particularly want to be driving the moped around for a little bit. Not until I’ve had a walkabout to make sure the coast is clear. I know the police probably weren’t after me, and that their presence probably had nothing to do with the corner shop, but I really didn’t want to be anywhere near a police car. And, let’s face it, I panicked.
I put my helmet down beside the moped and glance back at it. It seems stupid leaving the parcel here, in the compartment under the seat, but I definitely can’t risk walking around the streets of Bratislava with it under my arm. I follow another alleyway to walk back in the direction of the corner shop, trying to look as casual as I can. Surprisingly, it’s almost as if nothing ever happened. I’m now one street across from the woman who’s no doubt picking up her groceries off the asphalt, and I’ve certainly got no intention of heading back in that particular direction again.
I cross the road, being careful to look this time, as I reckon I’ve probably exhausted my supply of good luck in that respect, and turn left, passing people going about their everyday business, walking in and out of shops, talking on their mobile phones, laughing and joking. As I pass a coffee shop, I decide to pop in. Everything seems normal, but it probably wouldn’t hurt me to lie low for a bit, let the fuss die down – if there is any fuss.
The woman serving behind the counter in the coffee shop gives me what I can only describe as a weird look. I’m starting to think that this is just how people in Slovakia look at everyone, and that I’m probably being paranoid. ‘Americano,’ I say, pointing to the list of coffees above her head, as if she’s not going to know what I mean. She says nothing, and simply turns towards the huge silver coffee machine to start preparing my drink.