Evil Machines (6 page)

Alarm bells had, by this time, started to ring, so the motorbike tried to drown them out with its powerful roar – as it glanced anxiously across to check how the bicycle was doing.

The Raleigh Metro GLX Gents had finally located a couple of bags of cash and had them swinging from its handlebars.

‘That’s it!’ shouted the Triumph. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

‘No! Wait!’ cried the bicycle. ‘I can see one more over there!’

‘No!’ called the motorbike, still driving round and round the banking hall in circles. ‘The police’ll be here any second!’

By this time, some of the customers had recovered from their initial panic, and realized it was just a riderless motorbike that was causing the confusion. One young man had already leapt to his feet.

‘Leave this to me!’ he shouted. ‘I know about motorbikes!’

‘We gotta go!’ screamed the Triumph to the Raleigh Metro. ‘Come on!’ At this point, the young man threw himself at the motorbike as it sped past him, and managed to grab the handlebars. But the Triumph increased its speed, skidding round the banking hall with increasing desperation. Yet still the young man held on . . . trying to get his hand to one of the brakes.

The Raleigh Metro, meanwhile, had shot along the counter to where it had seen the third bag of cash, sticking out of a drawer, where the cashier had left it.

It was at that moment that the manager appeared. He

glanced around the hall at the mayhem, and started to blow a whistle.

The bicycle hooked its handlebar under the third bag and turned to escape.

‘Stop!’ shouted the manager. ‘Bicycle thief!’

But the bicycle shot back down the counter, bounded up and over it and dashed across the customer area, at the very moment that the motorbike skidded round for the fifteenth time. The young man, who was still clinging to its handlebars, found himself swung out, and he hit the bicycle full in the middle of its frame, knocking it over and over, head-over-wheels.

The force of the impact, however, loosened the young man’s grip, and he was flung across the banking hall, and banged up against the far wall, knocking himself unconscious in the process.

The motorbike didn’t wait; it shot out of the bank at full speed, down the road and off into the distance before anyone could stop it.

Meanwhile the Raleigh Metro GLX Gents had picked itself up, but in the confusion it had dropped one of the three bags of cash. The manager spotted it and vaulted over the counter to grab it, but the bike was too fast for him. It got the bag first and hooked it up on its handlebars. This, however, gave the manager the chance to grab the bike by the saddle.

‘Got you!’ he yelled.

‘Get off!’ screamed the bike, and it shook itself and twisted round and with more acceleration than you would have thought was possible it sped towards the entrance to

the bank, just as a policeman appeared in the doorway.

‘Hello!’ cried the policeman. ‘What’s all this then? Ooooomph!’

This last expression was the result of the bank manager, who was clinging to the bike, crashing into the policeman.

‘Sorry!’ yelled the bank manager. But it was too late! He had let go of the bike in the collision, and it was now speeding down the High Street with three bags of cash dangling from its handlebars.

By the time the squad cars arrived, there was no trace of either the motorbike nor the bicycle . . . and because it all sounded so absurd that a riderless bicycle and a riderless motorbike had robbed the bank, nobody said anything. The police didn’t report the crime and the bank didn’t press charges. They both preferred to pass over the whole thing in silence rather than become a laughing stock.

***

Back in the alley, the three machines counted out their haul. They had stolen more than enough to pay for a mechanic to repair the old ex-army Matchless, and to keep them in petrol for the rest of their lives.

‘Don’t forget we’re splitting fifty-fifty!’ said the Raleigh Metro GLX.

‘But there are three bags!’ exclaimed the old Matchless. ‘Why don’t we just have a bag each?’

‘Because you agreed to split fifty-fifty,’ replied the bicycle.

‘What on earth are you going to do with so much money?’ exploded the Triumph.

‘That’s my business,’ retorted the bicycle. ‘We agreed what we agreed. You can’t go back on it.’

‘I told you not to go for the third bag – you nearly got us caught,’ complained the Triumph.

‘But we didn’t get caught,’ replied the bicycle. ‘And so thanks to my daring we now have more money than we would have had!’

‘A bag each!’ repeated the Matchless. ‘That’s fair!’

‘You heap of scrap iron!’ said the bicycle. ‘What did you do? You just sat here on your flat tyres while we risked wheel and frame to get the loot! You don’t deserve anything!’

‘Look!’ chipped in the Triumph Hurricane. ‘I’ve said I’ll split my share of the taking with my comrade. OK? Let’s stop this bickering. We ought to be celebrating!’

‘But . . .’ began the old Matchless.

‘But . . .’ began the Raleigh Metro.

‘Look!’ said the Triumph. ‘Let’s divvy it up into two halves and then we can put a bit aside for a celebration.’

So they counted out the money they had stolen from the bank into two neat piles. At the end of it they had some loose change left over that amounted to no less than £50.

‘Now, what I propose,’ said the Triumph, ‘is that one of us takes this £50 and runs to the nearest garage for some fuel and oil. I think we deserve a little lubrication after all this hard work.’

‘Agreed!’ said the other two.

‘So I propose our friend the push-bike here goes to get the stuff, while us two motorbikes put the money back into the bags.’

‘Now! Not so fast!’ exclaimed the bicycle. ‘I may be new

to this game, but I’m not a complete fool. What’s to stop you two escaping while I’m gone, and taking my half of the loot with you?’

‘Look ’ere,’ said the Triumph. ‘We’re not going anywhere. Sarge, here, has a cracked cylinder, he can’t move a wheel until we’ve paid for a mechanic to put him right.’

‘That’s right,’ wheezed the Matchless G3L army bike, I’m crooked unless I get a mechanic to see to me.’

The Raleigh Metro looked from one to the other. Then it nodded its front light. ‘Hmm . . . All right,’ it said. ‘I’ll go and get the fuel and the oil, but if you try any funny stuff . . .’

‘Honest!’ smiled the Triumph. ‘We’re partners now: the three of us! And this is only the beginning! From here we’ll go on to bigger and better jobs! We’ll become notorious – the Riderless Gang! Our names and makes and models will go down in history as machines to be reckoned with!’

‘Very well,’ said the bicycle. ‘I won’t be long.’ And with that he looked out of the alleyway, to make sure the coast was clear, and then sped off down the road to find a petrol station.

Once he had gone, the old ex-army Matchless turned on the Triumph. ‘Have you gone soft in the ’ead or somefink?’ it exclaimed. ‘Splitting our money with that smart-arsed, two-bit, pedal machine! No way am I going into partnership with a push-bike! Over my dead body!’

‘Now calm down!’ said the Triumph. ‘Just ’cause I says things like that to him don’t mean that’s what I’m gonna do.’

‘What yer on about?’ grumbled the Matchless.

‘You don’t really think I’m a-going to let that little bit of bent tin with its prissy spokes and its tinkle-bell do us out of

our fair share of the spoils, do you?’

‘Well, that’s what you said you was going to do . . .’

‘Yeah, but like I say – what I
said
and what we actually
does
ain’t necessarily exactly the same fing – is they?’

‘What yer saying?’ asked the Matchless.

‘Look, are you willing to let me handle this, so as we don’t have to split nuffink with that there push-bike?’ asked the Triumph.

‘OK,’ said the Matchless. ‘I’m wiv yer till the end.’

‘That’s my buddy!’ said the Triumph, and they put their handlebars around each other, and gave each other a hug.

***

When the bicycle returned, it was clearly not expecting any trouble. It placed two cans of fuel on the floor and then produced a second can of top-quality lubricating oil.

‘This’ll loosen you up, mates!’ it said and splashed a little on the ancient old Matchless and a little on the chain of the Triumph, before taking a dab to rub over its own chain.

‘Oo-er . . . That feels better!’ said the Matchless. ‘I’m beginning to feel more frisky already.’

‘Ahh!’ sighed the Triumph. ‘That stuff has never felt so good!’

‘It’s the best-quality oil they had!’ said the Raleigh Metro. ‘From now on – only the best for us!’

‘You’re right!’ exclaimed the Triumph. ‘Only the best for us for the rest of our lives!’ and with that it unscrewed the cap to the can of fuel but, instead of tipping it into its own fuel tank, it suddenly threw the can at the bicycle. Petrol poured out of the can as it flew through the air and all over

the bicycle and the pavement where it was standing. Before you could say ‘Reg Harris!’ the old Matchless had produced a box of Swan Vestas, struck a match and thrown it on to the bicycle, and in seconds the bicycle was consumed in flames. After a few minutes, the bicycle’s tyres had popped from the heat, the paint had cracked and peeled and the rubber pedals and the saddle had all ignited. Before the flames had finished the very frame of the bicycle had begun to twist and melt until it was scarcely possible to even recognize it as a bike.

As I said at the beginning, the two motorbikes, for all their joking ways, were as evil as evil can be.

But the thing is, they were really no worse than the Raleigh Metro GLX. For this is what
that
Evil Machine had done. When it went to the garage to buy fuel for its confederates, it did not buy two cans of petrol as it was supposed to, but two cans of diesel fuel. Now diesel is not at all the same fuel that is used in petrol engines. For a start it has 15 per cent more density, and it burns in a different way, so that if you put diesel into a petrol engine, the engine will seize up and cease to function.

And that is precisely what happened to the two motorbikes. The bicycle had intended to fill its companions up with diesel and then make its getaway, knowing full well that they would not be able to chase it. In the event, the Triumph filled up the old Matchless, and then filled up itself. The moment it did, however, it realized something was wrong. It started up, and because it had some petrol left in its tank it was able to sputter and start . . . But it didn’t get further than the end of the alley, before it started to seize up. It staggered into the middle of the main road, but there

it juddered to a halt and crashed over on to its side, in front of an oncoming bus. In the ensuing crash it was smashed to piece and bent out of all recognition.

It was later scooped up off the road and sold for scrap.

As for the Matchless G3L army bike – it still couldn’t move, and so it simply lay there in the deserted alleyway, for month after month, in all weathers, and it grew rusty and corroded, until not a single part of it could ever work again.

They were – all three of them – thoroughly Evil Machines.

The Kidnap Car

The Rev. McPherson had a very nasty car. It was full of malice and guile. And it was no good being kind to it . . . No, sir! It remained mean and devious.

Once he bought it some brand-new brass headlights. He bolted them on and polished them until the car could see its own reflection in them. But was it grateful? Does your breakfast go on holiday to Scotland with you every morning?

No.

The Rev. McPherson’s car waited until his back was turned, and then rolled down the slope and smashed itself into the garage doors so that he had to replace both the new headlamps and the radiator.

Another time, the Reverend fitted the car out with Brand New, Luxury, Genuine Lamb’s Wool Fleece Seat Covers. What did the car do? It suddenly swerved off the road and drove straight into the river. That’s what the car did. Needless to say, the seat covers were ruined.

The Rev. McPherson tried to reason with the car, but

it simply wouldn’t listen. Oh! it might pretend that it had turned over a new leaf, but then – when he was least expecting it – it would strike a single deadly blow . . . something that it knew would cut the Reverend to the quick.

Like the time it kidnapped the Atkins children.

They lived next door to The Rev. McPherson, and he often took his dinner with Mr and Mrs Atkins, especially when they had shepherd’s pie. There were three children: Emily, Margaret and Frank, and they were the pleasantest family you could imagine – apart from Frank, who smelt of biscuits.

Well, one day, the Reverend gave the Atkins children a lift in his car. They were going for a picnic in the Forgotten Forest that lay on the other side of town.