Boom!

9 Vroom

I took a deep breath. They were late, that was all. Mum was still at work. Becky was still at school. Dad would be…

Where would Dad be? I’d done a runner. He’d ring the school. He’d ring Charlie’s parents. He might be round there right now. He might be talking to Inspector Hepplewhite. He might be locked up in a cellar somewhere.

I rang his mobile. Nothing. I crossed the lounge, opened the glass door, stepped outside and looked over the balcony. Maybe he was on his way back here right now. But the car park was empty.

The glass door slid open behind me. I spun round. “Dad?”

It was the man from Captain Chicken. The same suit. The same cropped grey hair. The same wristband under the same white cuffs.

“I’m sorry, James,” he said smoothly. “You know too much.”

“Where are Becky and Dad?” I said, backing up against the railings, my voice suddenly hoarse. “What have you done with them?”

“Your father is at the police station. You ran away from Inspector Hepplewhite, remember? But I’m afraid the police won’t have any idea where you are.” He shook his head sadly. “Your sister is with that poorly-washed boyfriend of hers.”

“You…you…you…” I felt very small and very alone and very frightened.

“Goodbye, James. Unfortunately this is the bit where you die.”

I shoved him hard in the chest so that he staggered backwards, then I turned and grabbed the railing. Maybe I could climb over and swing down onto Mrs Rudman’s balcony. I threw my leg over.

“James, James, James…” he sighed, clutching my arm and dragging me back onto the balcony. “Don’t waste your energy. You see the red Volvo?”

I looked down. A red Volvo was parked by the entrance to the flats. A man in a very expensive light-grey suit was leaning against the bonnet. A second man in a very expensive light-grey suit was standing nearby, idly kicking bits of gravel.

“Even if you got away,” he said, “you wouldn’t make it to the bottom of the stairs.”

My body went limp. There didn’t seem to be any point in struggling.

Then I heard a familiar noise. It was still several streets away, but I would have recognized it anywhere. Craterface had taken the silencer off. It sounded like a Chieftain tank being driven at sixty miles an hour. The Moto Guzzi.

“I think we should do this inside,” the man said, tightening his grip and pulling me back towards the door. “Where no one can see.”

I reached out and grabbed the railing again. If I could hold on for a few minutes until Becky and Craterface got up the stairs. If I could just –

“You’re starting to really annoy me now,” he said, prising my fingers off the railing and shoving me through the sliding door into the lounge. The blue light had reappeared in his eyes and it was flickering like crazy.

I grabbed the curtains. They came off the rail. I grabbed an armchair, which turned over. I grabbed the sideboard and we were momentarily covered in a shower of biros and radio-controlled aircraft parts and Mum’s decorative plates from Crete and Majorca. As I was manhandled through the hall, I swiped the paper knife from the phone table, twisted round and stuck it into the man’s leg.

He said nothing. He didn’t shout. He didn’t wince. He merely removed the paper knife, stopped in his tracks, held me against the wall with one hand and twisted the other into a crab-shape several inches from my face. Five hot neon-blue lights appeared on the ends of his fingers and thumb.

And that was when the front door opened. Becky stepped inside, saw me pinned to the wall and screamed like a cat having its tail screwed into a vice.

“What’s up?” asked Craterface, coming in behind her.

The four of us stood looking at one another for several seconds, no one knowing quite what was meant to happen next.

Then the man raised his glowing hand towards Craterface. “You. Back off.”

“Do something!” Becky shouted.

It was all the encouragement Craterface needed. He swept the greasy hair out of his eyes, inflated his chest and said, “No one tells me to back off, mate.” He flattened his hands, kung-fu style, then leaped forward, roaring, like someone preparing to cut an aeroplane into slices.

The man in the suit let go of me so that he had two hands free to defend himself. Craterface was really very good at the kung-fu thing. He chopped the man in the side of the neck and he tumbled backwards through the kitchen door, fell over and got himself tangled in the ironing board. It was, I think, the first time I had ever seen Craterface looking genuinely happy.

Becky grabbed me by the collar and shouted, “What the hell is going on, Jimbo?”

“Get me out of here!” I panted. “Just get me out of here!”

“Wait!” she snapped. “I need an explanation.”

She didn’t get one. What she got were two neon-blue hands on her shoulders. One of the Volvo men had come upstairs to find out what the delay was. There were little blue fireworks in his eyes.

“Oi!” yelled Becky, spinning round.

There were two smoking hand-prints on her jacket and a smell of burned leather in the air.

“My jacket!” she shrieked. “Look what you’ve done to my jacket!”

The motorcycle helmet, which had been dangling in her hand, executed a neat curve up over her shoulder and onto the head of the new arrival, who went cross-eyed, tottered a bit, then fell into a heap.

Becky turned to me. “OK, Jimbo, you win,” she said quickly. “You can explain later. Let’s get out of this place.”

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the second sleeping bag from the hall cupboard.

Becky looked at the bag. “Where are we going? Outer Mongolia?”

“Maybe,” I said.

I looked round and saw the fridge topple over onto the floor with an almighty crash.

“Terry!” shouted Becky. “Are you all right?”

His ugly face appeared round the door. “‘Course I am!” And he dived back into the fray.

Becky picked up Craterface’s helmet, threw it to me and said, “Take this.”

I grabbed his jacket too, for good measure.

All the way down the stairs Becky kept saying, “This is totally insane. This is totally insane.”

“I know,” I said. “I know. Please. Just keep moving.”

We ran across the car park and I began stuffing my supplies into the panniers of the Moto Guzzi. Only when I was locking them did I remember the second man in the very expensive light-grey suit, who was now running towards us.

“Becky!” I shouted. “Watch out!”

She spun round. “God, Jimbo, you have some really charming friends.”

She hopped onto the bike. I hopped onto the bike. Our pursuer realized he was going to need transport too, and he turned and ran back to the red Volvo. We buckled our helmets on.

“Have you ever driven this bike before?” I shouted.

“Of course not. Terry wouldn’t let anyone else near it.”

“Oh my God.”

“There’s always a first time!” she shouted.

The Volvo started up, screeched into reverse, then came at us like a fighter jet, with smoke pouring off its back wheels.

“Hang on!” shouted Becky.

I looked up at the flat and saw a kitchen chair fly out of a window. Then my head was yanked backwards, my bum was yanked forwards and we were off.

Considering she was a learner driver, Becky did very well. Considering she was a learner driver being chased by an angry man in a large red Volvo, she was brilliant.

We lurched and roared and skidded. We mounted a pavement and came very close to hitting an ice-cream van. I turned and saw the Volvo lurching, roaring and skidding on our tail. We ski-jumped over a grassy mound and were airborne for a worryingly long time. We hit the ground, banked round a bus shelter and found ourselves on the main road.

So did the Volvo. As we accelerated down the dual carriageway, past the waterworks and the milk depot, I glanced round once more and saw the car only metres from our number plate.

“Faster, Becky!” I shouted. “He’s catching up.”

I don’t know whether she heard me. I don’t even know whether she meant to do something quite so dangerous. Either way, without warning, I felt the bike swerve to the right, cut across the path of a large articulated lorry coming up behind us, leave the road and plunge through the shrubbery on the central reservation.

I closed my eyes. Branches clattered across the front of my visor and the bike bucked beneath us like a wild horse. I concentrated on keeping my lunch firmly down. I did not want to be sick inside a motorcycle helmet.

Then, suddenly, there was tarmac under the bike again. I opened my eyes and saw that we were travelling down the dual carriageway in the other direction. Twisting in my seat, I caught one brief and final glimpse of the red Volvo in the middle of the central reservation, its bonnet folded neatly round a tree trunk. Sticking out of the smashed windscreen was a sign reading: NO U-TURNS.

I told Becky she could slow down.

Ten minutes later we pulled up outside Tesco. Becky got off the bike, handed me the keys and said, “Wait here. I’ll be five minutes.”

“But, Becky…” I complained.

“Listen, mate,” she said, wagging her finger at me. “If I’m going to Outer Mongolia, I need a toothbrush, I need eyeliner and I need some clean knickers.”