The tyres, already scrabbling for grip on the slick surface, hit the ridges and let go altogether. The bike leapt and twisted like a terrified horse. All I could do was sit tight and try to control it when we came down again.
Any moment I expected the front end to wash out completely and send me barrelling into the far kerb. Not good at the best of times. Particularly not good when I had a Transit van on my tail who had no chance of stopping before he ran me down.
Even if he’d wanted to.
I had a horrifying flash vision of the pins holding Clare’s bones together. If whatever vehicle that hit them had run over her torso instead of her legs, the young doctor had told me, she’d be dead right now.
I was still completely out of shape when the left-hander snapped into a right-hander. Praying, I flung my bodyweight across the bike to flick it into the next corner and hit the gas, feeling the back end start to shimmy as the rear wheel spun up. In the dry the Suzuki didn’t have enough brute horsepower to rip the fat back tyre loose, but in these greasy conditions it let go in a heartbeat.
And all at once, everything slowed around me. Peripherally, I could see the continuous splatter of the rain hitting my visor, the water beading up and being instantly shed by the Rain-X dispersant I always used.
But most of all I could feel the tenuous contact between the two palm-sized areas of rubber and the glassy tarmac under them. The front end was still clinging on, teetering on the limit of adhesion so that every trembling vibration was transmitted up through the forks and into my hands.
The back end had let go like it was slowly tearing, the revs ripping up as the engine gouted power through the broken grip like blood. The bike was starting to skate and I had fractions of a second to do something about it or become another one of Superintendent MacMillan’s much-vaunted statistics.
I rolled the throttle off just a fraction, an infinitesimal amount. Enough to control the slide and use the rear-wheel-steer effect to get me through the bend.
I catapulted out the other side, amazed to find myself still attached to the bike, and the bike still attached to the road. Reality righted itself and resumed its pace. I snapped upright and sent the Suzuki hurtling into the village main street, the exhaust howling its triumph and rage in equal measure.
Behind me, the Transit’s lights suddenly began to thrash wildly from side to side. It took me a moment to work out that the erratic movement was caused by a monumental slide of its own. The driver had pushed too far in his efforts to pursue me and the van responded violently to the abuse.
The fact that the driver was prepared to try so hard scared me badly. Not that I wasn’t fairly well scared already. The rain was falling more strongly now and I knew I hadn’t a hope in hell of outrunning him in this.
A side turning opened up seemingly almost alongside me. I grabbed for the brakes, locking up the rear wheel, and just made the turn in. The side street was lined with semi-detached houses, mostly with cars in the driveway. I picked the first one that looked empty and threw the bike up onto the pavement, diving down the side of the house right up to the gate into the back garden. I’d flicked the lights off and killed the engine before I’d even come to a stop.
I struggled to turn the bike round so it was facing outwards again, just in case they spotted the damaged back end, and jumped off, crouching down in its shadow. My breath was a harsh rasp in my throat. I was hard up against the fence, my feet in a flower border. All I could smell was creosote and honeysuckle and hot rubber and rain.
The Suzuki nearly rolled on top of me and I realised belatedly that I hadn’t put the side-stand down. I shoved it down and wedged it in place with my fist, aware of the blood pounding in my ears and beating against the inside of my ribs until I thought they’d crack.
The van wasn’t far behind me. It fishtailed into the end of the road, engine wailing, and slowed to a crawl. I peered round the Suzuki’s fairing and saw it creep past the end of the driveway, the slanting rain coming and going in the headlights.
There were at least two people inside. I caught outlines but no detail as they passed in front of the light from the house opposite. They were both leaning forwards, hunting, and despite the cloudburst they had the windows wound down to catch the slightest trace of me. Professionals.
The van seemed to pause for a long time in front of the driveway where I was hiding but it could only have been a second or two, then they were moving on to the next one. I shut my eyes briefly, sagging against the bike.
I should have known it wouldn’t last.
A bright light flared in my eyes, making me jerk back, blinded. The light over the back door to the house had come on. There was the rattle of a key turning in a lock and the door opened. An elderly woman ventured out onto the step. She was in her slippers, with a fire iron gripped in her bony fist.
“Oi,” she yelled. “What d’you think you’re doing in my bloody garden?”
My eyes skated to the van. All I could see of it over the front hedge was the roof but that was enough. It jerked to a stop fiercely enough to make the nose dip.
I glanced back. Persuading the old lady to let me in to her house was going to take too long. Besides, the men who were after me seemed determined enough that they might choose to follow regardless. I couldn’t take the risk.
Ignoring the irate householder, I vaulted back onto the bike, hitting the run switch and the kick start at the same time. The Suzuki, bless it, fired up first time. Out on the street came the graunch of gears and the harsh whine of the van’s differential spinning up in reverse.
I rammed the bike into gear and launched along the drive, feet trailing. The van reached the mouth of the driveway at almost the same moment I did and I had to swerve across the pavement to evade him. I thumped down off the kerb, taking the wing mirror off a parked car with my elbow as I went. Its alarm started shrieking.
The back of the Transit bore down like a wall as it came storming after me, still locked in reverse. There were cars approaching on the main road and I dived fleetingly on the brakes at the junction. My choice of direction was made entirely on the first gap in traffic that presented itself. Unfortunately, it meant I turned back the way I’d come, away from the safety of home.
As it was, I just made it out in front of a car that had to veer violently to avoid me, braking hard enough to skid. Shit! I ducked my head and risked a quick look in my mirrors as I caned the bike away, thinking at least that should slow the van down a bit.
It didn’t.
The Transit driver never even hesitated. He punched straight out across the main street, T-boning the car that had nearly collided with me and sending it spinning across the road. It bounced up the kerb and into a low garden wall, scattering debris.
By the time I hit that nasty S-bend again on the way out of the village, the van was less than a hundred and fifty metres behind and closing faster than was healthy for me. The road was still slick and the rain had become a steady downpour.
I knew then that I needed a particular kind of help and I needed it fast. And there was only one immediate place I stood a chance of getting it.