Gleet walked over to me and I forced myself not to back away from him.
“Well, Charlie, I gotta hand it to you,” he rumbled. “You certainly know how to make a fucking entrance.”
Nine
I sat on a paint-splattered chair in the middle of Gleet’s workshop, shaky hands wrapped round a mug of tea so sweet I could feel my teeth loosening with every mouthful.
“Get that down yer neck,” Gleet’s sister said with gruff approval. “Do you the world of good.” Close to she was a hulking woman, so near a match in build to her brother that if I hadn’t seen them both together at the same time I’d suspect it was one person in drag. She’d put on a dirty green waterproof jacket in deference to the rain. It was ripped in places and tied round the middle with bailer twine.
I smiled at her, though it had no obvious effect. “Thank you,” I said, heartfelt, and meant not just for the tea.
I didn’t need to say anything else. I got the impression words embarrassed her and, just in case I was planning on coming out with any more, she nodded sharply and stamped out of the workshop, rolling her gait to compensate for her knackered knees.
She’d hustled me inside the moment the Transit had gone, with an angry instruction to her brother and the others to stop gawping and do something useful. I’d spotted Sam hovering anxiously on the outskirts of the crowd and fractionally shaken my head. He’d hesitated, torn, then nodded his agreement and withdrawn. No point in him revealing his allegiances and getting chucked out, too. Particularly not when that van was still on the loose.
For a moment I sat alone in silence, waiting for my system to reboot. The realisation of what had so nearly happened, coupled with the memory of what had actually happened to Clare and Slick, was stark in my mind. The adrenaline was dissipating, leaving me trembly and lightheaded.
I’d got away with it. But only just.
I concentrated on my surroundings. The workshop was in half of the big barn, partitioned off with slatted planks at one side. There was probably a hayloft above and someone had lined the ceiling with pegboard that was sagging in places and had come down altogether in others. Above it were layers of black plastic and what looked like sheep fleeces. Insulation, I guessed. Even allowing for the stone barn’s natural thermal qualities, it must be bitter working out here in the winter.
The place was full of bikes and bits of bikes. It smelt of oil and paint and thinners and, very faintly, of sweet meadow hay. A partially completed bike frame stood on a low bench in the centre, surrounded by off-cuts of tubing. A TIG welder was nearby. In the corner a small area had been closed off with sheets of heavy clear plastic to make a paint spray booth. It might all look a bit scruffy but the tools on show were good quality and Gleet clearly knew what he was doing with them.
I got to my feet and did a quick circuit while I finished my tea, walking the wobbles out of my legs. At the back, behind a huge Snap-On tool chest, were piles of dead bikes and engines, stacked one on top of another. Either discarded parts of Gleet’s old projects, or future ones he hadn’t got around to starting yet.
It was darker back there, the light from the bank of fluoro tubes strung across the ceiling hardly penetrating. I stuck my head round the tool box and peered into the gloom, reluctant to venture much further in case of rats. I shuddered. Why did I have to go thinking about rats?
Then something caught my eye. A little flash of colour among the oil stains and the grime. I glanced behind me but the door to the workshop was still closed, so I dumped my empty mug on top of the tool box and stepped over a cracked crankcase, bending to pick up what I’d seen.
It was a small piece of broken fairing, not quite the size of my hand and jagged at the edges. It was dull white on one side but sprayed partly metallic blue, partly gold on the other. Distinctive colours that were instantly recognisable.
Slick’s bike.
I was so caught up in my discovery that I didn’t immediately hear the growling.
It started low and quiet over to my right, building until it sounded like a diesel engine running. A big diesel engine at that. I slipped the piece of broken fairing inside my jacket but kept the rest of my body very still, turning my head slowly to find a pair of wide-spaced eyes glowing at me from the dark, less than a couple of metres away.
The dog was massive. I didn’t realise just how big until it stood up. Up until that point I’d thought it was already on its feet. I began to back away, moving carefully, not straightening up in case the animal took me as more of a threat than it did already.
I kept moving backwards until I was just about in the centre of the workshop. The dog followed me out, head low, hackles up, still growling. As it came out into the light I could see it was a Rottweiler bitch wearing a chain collar around its enormous neck. She moved with amazing delicacy for her bulk, hinting at speed and agility as well as sheer muscle. The eyes gleamed with a shifty intelligence.
I backed past the partly constructed frame and snatched up a section of tubing, just in case. The dog shook its head just once, jangling the collar, as if to tell me that such a puny weapon wasn’t going to do me much good.
Behind me, the main door opened suddenly. I half turned so I could still keep my eye on the Rottweiler as Gleet stepped through. He stopped, saw me poised to take on his guard dog and almost smiled. Just for a moment it crossed my mind that he wasn’t going to call her off, then he clicked his fingers.
It was like he’d flicked a switch. The dog forgot all about me and trotted over to his side, butting against his thigh with her mammoth flat skull.
“I see you’ve met my Queenie,” he said, leaning down to ruffle her ears. The dog squeezed her eyes shut and yawned in pleasure, leaning against him. Even Gleet had to brace himself to take her weight.
I slowly put down the tubing and allowed myself to uncoil.
“We were just getting acquainted.”
“There’s no harm in her,” Gleet said, “if you don’t cause no trouble, like.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said dryly.
Gleet gave a grunt in reply and pushed the door all the way open. The dog sat down where she was and watched me carefully, just in case, barely turning her head as William and the tall Aprilia rider in the race-replica leathers half-pushed, half-dragged the remains of my bike into the workshop.
The gallant little Suzuki was looking pretty sorry for itself. Ignoring Queenie I hurried across for a closer look. The left-hand side of the fairing was wrecked, half of the clutch lever was broken off and one mirror was dangling. The whole of the plastic bodywork around the rear lights was smashed away, too. But that hadn’t happened out in the yard.
“It’s stuck in gear,” William said, waving a hand towards the locked-up rear wheel. “The gear-lever must have snapped off when you hit the wall.”
“Shit,” I muttered. Until then I’d fostered the vain hope that the Suzuki might still be rideable.