112

I didn’t have time to tell Zar how lucky he was. If he’d been in the sidecar he’d have been coming with me.

I kick-started the Ural and bounced back onto the track, screaming over ruts and potholes towards the open tarmac. The chainsaw, helmets, wheelie-case, all the shit in the sidecar jumped and jolted as I rode out onto the pan.

I had to screw up my eyes. The sun glared off the wet tarmac. I squinted to see the bodies the other side.

The people-carrier was still stationary. The four men beside the gazebo spun towards the overworked motorbike. They didn’t know what it was, but they’d have guessed it wasn’t bringing dessert.

They started hesitantly towards the people-carrier. Before they could get there the lad who’d test-fired the missiles jumped into the wagon and it lurched towards me.

The four players melted into the trees.

Full revs, I aimed at the point where they’d disappeared, trying to outrun the wagon.

I knew immediately it wasn’t going to happen.

The Ural splashed into a puddle the size of a small lake and aquaplaned. I kept the revs up, kept looking the way I wanted to go.

The wagon was gaining on me. Within seconds it was all I could see in my mirrors.

I jinked the handlebars and swung left. The wheel of the sidecar lifted. I had to throttle back before we flipped.

The wagon closed tight up behind me.

Less than a hundred and I’d be in among the foliage.

The sidecar jerked and was suddenly in front of me. The bike was spinning. The fucker had kicked me up the arse.

I had to jump. If I didn’t get off, it was going to take me off. My right leg was hemmed in by the sidecar bars and air intake. If I didn’t go now, I might have to leave it behind.

Hands over my head, chin tucked in, I launched myself sideways. All I could do was curl up, fly, and accept the landing.

I hit the tarmac hard. The air was punched from my lungs. I skidded across the ground. All that lay between me and a severe cheese-grating was the set of 1980s waxies. My elbows and hands took the pain as I rolled and tumbled.

I flipped over onto my back and my head met the cheese-grater. The asphalt ground through hair and skin down to the bone. I was slowing down. I spread my arms and legs to create more friction.

When I finally came to a stop I couldn’t seem to function. I tried to get to my feet. I couldn’t. My vision was blurred. The back of my head felt like a blowtorch was trained on it.

I could see the blurry shape of the van. I saw the door open. The body behind the wheel began to get out.

All I could do was stagger towards it.