Horse's Arse (12 page)

    He
looked at his watch as he heard the front door open and slam shut. Nine
o'clock. Best get ready; want to be there when they open up. Stubbing his
cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray by the bed, he hurried into the
bathroom, splashed some cold water on to his face and pulled on the smoky
clothes he'd worn the night before and had thrown on to the floor when he
undressed. He smelt dreadful, but that wasn't something that had ever bothered
Frankie.

    Hurrying
downstairs, he eased on his trainers and went into the kitchen in search of his
car keys. They were nowhere to be seen. He was sure he'd left them on top of
the fridge, but they weren't there now.

    'That
fucking woman,' he shouted, opening and slamming drawers and cupboards in an
increasingly frantic search for them. Slamming a drawer shut, he stood with his
hands on his hips looking round.

    'Fuck
it, fuck it,' he shouted. The town centre was only two miles away, but there
was no way he was going to walk it, certainly not in this weather. The bus
service was shit, and still involved a walk. He was going to have to make other
arrangements.

    A few
hundred yards away, the cause of his anguish gurgled contentedly as he sucked
on the nice leather key fob his mum had given him, and stared at the nice shiny
keys. Had his mum been aware of the chain of events she had unwittingly put
into motion, she couldn't have been happier.

    The
Brothers were both now sitting upright waiting for Frankie, wide awake and
eager for what they hoped would happen. If they were really lucky, he'd play up
after they'd let him run and then they'd get to beat the crap out of him.
Fingers crossed. They were watching every vehicle passing from their right
intently, even though they knew which car Frankie had been using. They were
taking nothing for granted and hadn't ruled out the possibility that he had
another car stashed somewhere. What they hadn't bargained on, though, was what
he had under a tarpaulin at the bottom of his overgrown back garden.

    Frankie
had found the single, worn key in a drawer in the bedroom, and ran to the
bottom of the garden. He pulled the tarpaulin away and briefly admired the
motorcycle he'd had tucked away for an emergency. Rolling it off its centre
stand, he straddled it, put the key in and began to jump on the kick-start.

    'Start,
you fucker, fucking start,' he shouted as the engine coughed and spluttered. He
began to leap in the air as he kicked harder and harder, and at last the engine
fired. He revved it hard until the whole frame shook and the garden filled with
acrid blue and white smoke. He kept the engine screaming for several minutes
before he was sure it had warmed sufficiently to be allowed to idle. He put it
into gear and rode slowly through the long grass and up to the side of the
house, slipping the clutch and keeping the revs high. He didn't have a crash
helmet and he paused briefly as he considered the likelihood of a pull from the
Old Bill. It was only a short ride; the odds were good. The Old Bill would be
keeping out of the rain, he reasoned. He'd be fine. He stamped the bike back
into first gear, accelerated down the path and across the pavement, and turned
left towards the town centre.

    The
drizzle had soaked him completely and his hair was now plastered to his head.
He kept his eyes screwed tight against the rain and rode past the used car
forecourt, completely missing Bravo Two Yankee One in amongst the cars for
sale. H saw the helmetless motorcycle rider first, bent forward over the
handlebars trying to coax more speed from the ancient machine.

    'Look
at this prick,' he said. 'Can you fucking believe it? Any day but today.'

    As
the bike passed them in a cloud of smoke, the Brothers leant forward to better
see the rider and the numberplate.

    'Fuck
me, it's Frankie,' shouted H, selecting first gear and moving quickly off the
forecourt.

    'Are
you sure?' asked Jim. 'It didn't look anything like him to me.'

    'It's
Frankie, Jim. Do a check on the number, will you?'

    Unconvinced,
Jim picked up the main channel handset and spoke quickly. 'Delta Hotel, this is
Bravo Two Yankee One, moving vehicle check please, Bolton Road, Hotel Alpha,'
and reeled off the registration number which was just visible through the
choking smoke. There was a brief pause before the operator spoke.

    'Yankee
One, that comes back to a lost or stolen from Hotel Alpha since May last year.
Your location now please?'

    'Bingo!
The wanker's on a nicked bike,' yelled Jim, before speaking calmly into the
handset again. 'Yankee One, we're still Bolton Road, towards Liverpool Road
crossroads, speed forty m.p.h.'

    'Thank
you, Yankee One. All units Hotel Alpha, be advised Yankee One has a lost or
stolen red Honda five hundred cc motorcycle, on the move in Bolton Road towards
the Liverpool Road crossroads. No assistance required at this time.'

    The
radio traffic increased tenfold as other vehicles responded, giving their
locations and intended intercept points.

    'Fuck
off, you bastards, he's ours,' roared H. 'We don't want anyone else getting in
the way.'

    'Yankee
One, commence commentary please,' said the operator calmly.

    'Yankee
One, we're now left, left at the crossroads into Stockport Road. Passing
Chamberlain Grove, speed still forty m.p.h. Solo rider not wearing a crash
helmet, white male, early thirties, wearing blue jeans and a green jacket.
Don't think he's clocked us yet. Now passing Abbots Grove towards Hotel Alpha
town centre.'

    The
bike didn't have wing mirrors, but something made Frankie glance over his
shoulder, where to his horror he saw Yankee One about fifty yards behind him. H
flashed the front lights at him and waved. Jim picked up the handset and
flicked the public address button. His voice boomed out.

    'Yoo
hoo, Frankie. You're fucked.'

    Frankie
faced forward again, cursing his luck. How the fuck did they know who he was?
Jesus Christ, how had they got to him so quickly? He didn't recognise the two
coppers. If he had, he'd probably have pulled over and got into the back of
their car unassisted, but he decided to make a run for it. He opened the
throttle up and powered the bike away.

    'He's
off,' yelled H. 'Fuck me, that's a fiver I owe you, Jim.'

    'Easiest
money I ever earned,' said Jim, resuming his commentary. 'Yankee One, he's off
and running. Speed now sixty-five m.p.h, still Stockport Road towards the town
centre. Traffic's light both directions. Now passing the Gables, speed is
seventy m.p.h.' He released the transmit button. 'Fuck me, H, he's giving it
loads.'

    'We're
with him, Jim. He'll make a mistake soon.'

    Jim
continued his commentary as H kept Yankee One purring in third gear, waiting
for Frankie to get it all wrong. They normally did. Then Frankie decided to use
the only advantage he had and mounted the pavement, barely reducing his speed,
and rode up on to the grass verge and into a play area.

    'Bollocks,'
swore H. He quickly spotted a gap between two parked cars, and powered Yankee
One after the bike. Jim punched the blue light and airhorn buttons and the
surrounding area began to resound to the thrill of the chase.

    As he
crossed the grassed play area, Frankie began to feel the back end of the bike
go as the power through the rear wheel proved too much for the virtually
non-existent tread on the muddy ground. Barely managing to remain upright, he
reduced his speed, allowing Yankee One to close.

    'Yankee
One, he's left, left across the pavement on to a play area, speed fifty m.p.h.
plus and accelerating towards . . .' Jim released the transmit button. 'Where
the fuck are we going?'

    'Grosvenor
Park.'

    '. .
. into Grosvenor Park, still accelerating, no pedestrians, speed sixty-five
m.p.h.'

    Around
the town, the crews of other cars swore and made hurried recalculations,
executed swift three-point or handbrake turns, and headed towards new projected
intercept points.

    Frankie
glanced over his shoulder again and briefly saw the two emotionless faces in
the police car, which was getting closer and closer. The passenger was making
cutting motions across his throat. H floored the accelerator and moved Yankee
One to within inches of the spinning rear wheel of the bike, which was slipping
from side to side as Frankie kept the power on.

    'Just
to let him know we're here,' said H quietly and nudged the bumper against the
tyre. Frankie felt the contact, which bounced him two feet clear, and his
stomach leapt.

    Jesus
Christ, these bastards are going to take me out, he thought. He continued
across the grass and saw a tarmac path running across the park ahead of him. He
steered to the right, hit the tarmac and felt the bike become more stable. He
opened the throttle right out, sending the rev counter into the red.

    'Yankee
One, he's turned right, right along a path, speed is eighty m.p.h plus, headed
towards the swimming pool, still no sign of stopping.'

    H put
Yankee One into fourth gear and kept the front of the vehicle just a few feet
behind the bike. 'The mad bastards going to kill someone like this,' he
remarked casually, ignoring the fact that he was right up Frankie's arse,
giving him no quarter or margin for error. Jim smiled as he paused his
commentary.

    'How
long are you going to let him take the piss out of you, H? He's going to lose
us at this rate.'

    'Fuck
off,' exploded H, 'he's going nowhere. He can't ride it except in straight
lines. Look at him.'

    Frankie
had clipped the verge and again nearly lost it. His lack of control took him
back on to the grass and he began to reverse his route.

    'Yankee
One, he's left, left off the path back on to the grass and heading back towards
Stockport Road. Speed sixty m.p.h. plus, he's all over the place but still
refusing to stop.' The operator had left the channel open to allow everyone
else to listen to the chase and only spoke briefly.

    'Thank
you, Yankee One. Lost or stolen motorcycle is still in Grosvenor Park back
towards Stockport Road.' A cacophony of voices followed as other units
responded again to the change of direction.

    'Fucking
hell, H, some other bastard's going to have him away soon. Take him out, for
fuck's sake,' said Jim urgently.

    'Not
yet. He'll make a mistake soon. Stop worrying.'

    Jim
wasn't convinced, but said no more and resumed his commentary. Frankie
continued along the grass and back on to the path and was now very seriously
worried. He knew he was in Grosvenor Park, but had no idea which way he was
going or how he could get out of the park. The last time he'd been there was as
a child when an aunt had taken him to the small boating lake where he'd spent
the time stoning the ducks. He saw the lake up ahead and decided to head
towards it, simply because he recognised it. Swerving back on to the grass, he
continued at the same speed.

    'Yankee
One, he's right, right off the path towards the boating lake, speed still sixty
m.p.h. plus,' said Jim in a calm, businesslike manner.

    The
boating lake was a desolate concrete circle of black, rubbish-strewn water,
surrounded by a rusting iron fence intended to keep the local dogs from fouling
the area. Neglected since it was erected, the fence had lost numerous rods over
the years, and like the rest of the park the boating lake area was awash with
dog shit. Locals remarked that the changes in the seasons could be gauged by
the smell of freshly mown dog shit from Grosvenor Park. Frankie spotted a small
gap in the fence, and, beyond that, the narrow path that bisected the lake and
gave pedestrian (and motorbike) access to the main road. He could just get
through the gap; the bastards behind him could either wreck their motor or go
round. Either way, he was home free.

    H had
spotted the gap slightly before Frankie. 'He's going for that gap, Jim. Hold
tight - time to finish things.'

    Jim
understood, nodded, and sat further back in his seat as he continued his
commentary. H dropped Yankee One into third gear, again floored the accelerator
and moved closer and closer to the bike's back wheel. He knew Frankie s mistake
was imminent.

    Almost
subconsciously, Frankie had been aiming the bike either side of the piles of
dog shit on the grass, and about thirty feet from the gap he did so for the
last time. Having avoided the deposit of what appeared to be an elephant, he
suddenly realised he was off line for the gap, panicked, came off the throttle
and hit the footbrake. The bike slowed dramatically and skidded and H floored
Yankee One. From where he sat, the decrease in the bike's speed and the
increase in Yankee One's had the effect of making the bike seem to go into
reverse. Yankee One's bumper touched the rear wheel, catapulting the bike
forward and throwing Frankie back, his hands coming off the handlebars. He
remained on board until the bike disintegrated against the iron fence and he
was thrown high into the air. H brought Yankee One slithering sideways and
undamaged to a halt, and the Brothers watched dispassionately as Frankie flew
in slow motion, end over end, across the fence, landing with a sickening thud
on the concrete surround.