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.
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
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.
