tourists who thronged the narrow main street as we did so. Mark was pushing Sam hard, the two of them almost touching fairings. I hoped they’d be so busy with each other I might stand a chance of staying out ahead of them for the last few remaining miles.
The van appeared out of nowhere.
All I caught was a big block of white that snapped out of an uphill corner so fast it seemed to have been dropped out of nowhere into my path. I barely managed to snatch the FireBlade out of its way, disrupting my tempo completely and provoking the bike into a vicious tank-slapper of a wriggle that nearly catapulted me into the rocks.
It took me a hundred and fifty terrifying metres to get it straightened out again, by which time my heart was thundering and my skin was cold and clammy under my leathers.
I risked a backward glance in my mirrors but there was no-one behind me. No van, no bikes. Assailed by sudden fear, I jammed on the brakes, locking the rear wheel briefly, my smooth coordination shot to hell. I pulled tight in to the gravelly shoulder of the road and put my feet down, looking back over my shoulder.
Still nothing.
A car came sedately towards me and went past. Just as it disappeared over the brow behind me I saw the brake lights blaze on. I didn’t need to be told what had caused the driver’s sudden emergency stop.
I paddled the ‘Blade round in the narrow road, making a mess of it, and gunned back to where I could still see the tail end of the car, stationary now. I was already braking hard as I crested the rise.
The sight that greeted me was probably never going to be as bad as the one painted by my imagination, but it was bad enough, even so.
What was left of the black Kawasaki was on its side fifty metres further down the hill, with its back end on the grass verge and the front end stretching halfway across the road. It looked like it had rolled savagely end over end several times before it had finally come to rest there, fragmenting as it went. The motor was dead and a mixture of fuel and engine oil and coolant was seeping quietly into the gutter.
The other FireBlade was parked up on its stand and seemed undamaged. Mark was on his hands and knees next to it, retching violently and shivering like a whippet. I was glad to see he’d at least managed to get his helmet off before he’d lost his lunch.
When I looked at Sam, it wasn’t hard to understand what had made Mark throw up.
My friend was sitting propped up awkwardly against the rocks at the side of the road with his legs stretched out in front of him. The left one looked relatively normal, but the right now did an abrupt ninety-degree turn halfway along his thighbone in a manner that didn’t correspond with anyone’s idea of correct anatomy. I could see the shattered end of his femur jutting out through the flayed skin. His foot was twisted almost completely backwards.
A vivid picture of Clare’s terrible injuries sprang into my mind.
The car that had come past me was still in the middle of the road with the doors left wide open and the engine running. A middle-aged couple had emerged with creditable speed, but now they were out they seemed at a loss to know how to deal with the situation. Of the white van, there was no sign.
I yanked my FireBlade to a halt and banged the stand down almost before it had come to a complete stop. I stripped my helmet off and dumped my gloves inside, part of me totally numb.
“For God’s sake call an ambulance,” I snapped to the aimless couple from the car.
As I dropped onto my knees next to Sam he reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing hard.
“Thanks for coming back for me, Charlie,” he managed, his voice muffled under his helmet. He was trembling and breathless with the shock but I judged there wouldn’t be much pain. Not yet. That would come later, and in spades.
Considering the accident had occurred less than a minute before, Sam had already conspired to lose what seemed to be half his allocation of blood. The tattered leg of his jeans was sodden with it. I could see it pulsing from the wound.
“Don’t worry, Sam, we’ll get you sorted,” I said, giving him a grin that I hoped wasn’t as sickly as it felt.
I stood, twisting to face the couple from the car.
“Ambulance?”
The woman held up her mobile helplessly. “There’s no service on the phone,” she said, nodding to the stark hills on either side of us. “We must be in a blind spot. Should we go and find a call box or something?”
“No,” I said. “I need you to back your car up to the other side of this brow and stick it in the middle of the road with your hazards on to warn any other traffic. Otherwise, if anything comes belting down here and ploughs into us we’ll all be road kill.”
She nodded, pale but steady, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I moved back to the FireBlade and wrenched open the rear cubby where I kept a rudimentary tool kit, grabbing an adjustable spanner. “Mark – get yourself to the nearest land-line and call a meat wagon.”
“Erm, yeah, right,” he said, dazed.
“Pull yourself together and do it right now!”
He climbed back onto his FireBlade and headed off jerkily, missing his first gearchange. I didn’t stop to watch him go but stripped off my cotton scarf and hurried back to Sam.
I eased the scarf under his thigh, using the spanner to twist it tight above the wound. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth but made no other complaint. The flow of blood eased a little and I gently tipped his visor up. “Where else are you hurt?” I demanded.
