***
When I’d ridden the lane up to Gleet’s place with Sam earlier in the evening, I’d done so slowly and with great care, skirting round the larger craters rather than risk buckling a wheel by riding into them. Now the puny beam from the Suzuki’s headlight meant I couldn’t see them in time, in any case.
I stood up on the footpegs to lessen the jarring on my back and kept the throttle hard on, gripping tight with my knees. Even in very low light the Suzuki couldn’t be mistaken for a trail bike but it scrambled gamely over the rough ground. The only protest was the intermittent squealing of the engine as the back wheel bounced, slithered and bit on the loose surface.
As I reached the pair of stone gateposts leading into the farmyard the Transit was around sixty metres behind me. It suddenly occurred to me that I could have made a fatally stupid error of judgement. If Gleet and the rest of the Devil’s Bridge Club decided not to step in, the yard would turn into a dead-end rat trap. My attackers must have thought they couldn’t have planned for a better place to finish what they’d started.
I flicked my eyes away from the mirrors and realised that I was aiming for the side of a barn at a speed not best suited to good health and long life. I hauled on the brake lever and prayed the Suzuki would stay upright on the gravelly surface. The bike skidded slightly, wriggling its body in disgust, but it didn’t let go on me.
There were two sodium lights on, their orange beams crossing in the centre of the yard, misting the rain. It looked different in the dark and I realised I’d missed the gateway to the field where Slick’s wake was being held. I started to swear inside my helmet.
The yard was too small and too overcrowded to play dodgems and hope to get away with it for long. There were half a dozen partly dismantled bikes of various descriptions parked up along the front wall of the barn, next to a rusting Bedford van and a collection of other vehicles that looked as if they might or might not still crank.
But, more importantly, there were no signs of any people.
I knew from experience that the horn on the RGV was a pathetic toot that didn’t even make errant cyclists look round. The only thing I could think of doing was yanking the clutch in and whacking the throttle wide open.
The Suzuki’s two-stroke motor surged round to the redline and sat there, screaming. It was the mechanical equivalent of Faye Wray stuck fast in King Kong’s fist, and just as good at attracting male attention. I winced at the sound and prayed the rev limiter would hold the engine intact.
Faces appeared in the gateway and I shut off instantly. The door to the workshop swung open, spilling light out across the yard, and I saw Gleet’s head appear round it. He made fleeting eye contact, turning to inspect the Transit, which had scraped to a halt just through the gateway. My adversaries sat it there, blocking my escape route. The only sound was our combined engines ticking over and the slap of the van’s wipers across the glass.
Gleet glanced back at me calmly, then disappeared back inside the workshop, letting the door bang shut behind him.
“You bastard!” I muttered under my breath, a bitter taste in my mouth. I would have expanded further on this theme, but at that moment the Transit leapt forwards.
As he came at me I tried to duck round him and head back for the gateway, but the Suzuki’s steering lock at low speed was awful. Unless I got lucky, I knew I wasn’t going to make it back out onto the open road again. And then where did I go?
Instead, I ran the bike down the narrow gap between the old Bedford and the stone wall that bordered the yard, and jumped off onto the top of the wall. Without the stand down, the bike toppled sideways and scraped against the stone, gouging the end of the handlebar and mirror as it did so, and then stalled. On top of the abuse I’d already heaped on the poor thing, I didn’t think a bit more would make much difference one way or the other but it grieved me to let it happen, all the same.
The Transit driver obviously thought seriously about ramming the bulky Bedford to get to me, but even he must have realised that he’d be on to a loser if he tried it.
Instead, he lurched the front corner of his vehicle into part of the dry stone wall further down. The ripple effect caused the whole thing to buckle. A section about five metres long, including the part I was standing on, collapsed as neatly as if the Royal Engineers had laid the charges.
I felt it start to cave under me and half-fell, half-jumped, clear. If I’d been given a free choice, I would have gone for the other side of the wall, into the comparative safety of the field beyond, but luck and the laws of physics weren’t on my side.
Instead, I cannoned off the front of the Bedford’s bodywork and landed sprawled on my hands and knees in the yard, only a couple of metres away from the van. Even as I started scrambling to my feet, he was backing out of the debris and swinging the vehicle towards me. God, that front grille looked like a truck from down there.
Then, just when I thought it was all over, we went into unexpected injury time.
The door to the workshop swung open again, and people started pouring out. Not just any people, but big, pissed-off looking bikers, wearing greased down denim and leather. They were brandishing a collection of improvised armaments and they advanced as one body, ominous.
It was enough to take the Transit driver’s mind off grinding me into the dirt under his wheels. He paused, uncertain. But that wasn’t what made my assailants decide to cut and run.
Gleet himself reappeared, stepping neatly to one side like a showman introducing his star turn. Behind him stumped a bulky woman in a grubby dress and Wellington boots who could only have been his sullen sister.
In her hands she was holding a wicked-looking crossbow with the string drawn taut, an arrow already in the groove.
When she brought the weapon up to her shoulder it was with a practised grace, like the steps of a formal dance. She was leaning in to it, with her feet planted wide to steady her aim.
By this time the Transit had gone into full retreat. It shot backwards, transmission howling, then swung into a wild reverse flip and made a dash for the gateway. He was nearly out of the yard when Gleet’s sister delicately squeezed the trigger and let fly. The string snapped forwards with a crack, and the stubby arrow whirred through the air on a surprisingly level flight.
The woman must have put in a few hours of practice with that thing, because her first shot ran true. The arrow punched a hole the size of a closed fist in the glass of one of the van’s rear doors, instantly shattering it into fragments. The vehicle flinched wildly, colliding with one of the gateposts as it was caned away down the drive.
The lump of stone he’d hit suddenly grew a diagonal split about two-thirds of the way up. Very slowly, the top half of it canted over and then fell off, bringing up a splash of mud as it landed with a dull wet thud.
Gleet had been watching the van retreat with a certain amount of satisfaction. Now he scowled as he eyed his ruined stonework. He turned to me. His entourage did the same. By the darkly glowering looks on their faces I wasn’t sure if I’d just found a refuge, or a new fire to jump into.
I got unsteadily to my feet, undoing the strap on my helmet and pulling it off slowly with hands that I couldn’t stop from shaking. My hair was plastered wet to my head but it was a relief to be out in the rain.