The Night Is for Hunting (15 page)

Chapter Ten

I rode straight at them. That at least gave me the element of surprise. I didn’t have a clue what to do. I just wanted to scare them with the bike I think: get them out of the way a bit. I opened the throttle and roared down the slope.

The looks on their faces were pretty comical. They couldn’t wait to get out of my way. Two of them fell over each other, into the lavender. I hoped they landed in the section where the guy just pissed.

Before I knew it, I was going full-on at the door, the grey door Fi had pointed to. It was open and I didn’t seem to have left myself with any choices. I went through.

Inside felt weird, sort of warm and intimate, even through the fumes of the motorbike. Weirdest of all though, was that I was riding a bike in a house. The Whittakers would never forgive me. The noise was scary: bouncing off the thick old walls, so I felt I was in an echo chamber. It didn’t help my headache, not that I was thinking too much about that. Instead I was trying desperately to remember what Fi said. ‘Turn left, go down the end, left again.’ Trouble was, while I was thinking about this, I was manoeuvring the bike through a tricky arrangement of little rooms that Fi hadn’t mentioned and which didn’t seem to have any function: they just opened up into each other. They were a waste of space. A few mahogany tables and chairs were scattered through them, that was all.

Then a corridor appeared on the left, and I swung into it.

The moment I did a man came out of the first room on my right, about three metres ahead. And I was accelerating. He held out a hand, not to try to stop me, just as a reflex. He looked like he’d swallowed a hand grenade. I tried to duck under his arm but failed. I slammed against it pretty hard as he fell backwards. I got another stinging blow to the head, but I think he might have broken his arm, because I heard a crack and it seemed to go limp suddenly. He let out a hell of a scream. I just kept accelerating.

The noise in this narrow corridor was enormous. The old house was too solidly built to start shaking, but any lesser house would have vibrated like a kite in a gale. It was a roar; there’s no other word for it. I hoped Homer, if he was alive and awake in his cell, would hear it and be alert, ready for me.

All too soon I was at the end of the corridor, braking hard, braking violently, swinging the rear wheel out and planting my left foot for the turn. As I made the turn I glanced up and saw the last thing I wanted. A young guy with the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen was lifting a rifle. His eyes were big because they were wide with fear and excitement and his determination to kill me. He was dropping to one knee to get off his shot. Impossible to miss at that range. I would have filled his sights; for him it’d be like looking at a whale through a magnifying glass. It became a race. Could I run him down before he got off his shot? I opened the throttle as wide as it would go. There was a hiccup, a gulp, before the carburettor got the message from the throttle. That moment seemed to last forever. I felt like I was in a vacuum, not moving, while the young guy continued to lift his rifle. I remember his shining eyes. Then I ran over him.

The motorbike was like a wild beast then. It was trying to climb over this guy, still at full throttle, kicking and bucking and falling sideways, while I struggled to stay on it and get control. I didn’t think about the young man, except to be relieved that he was unconscious. He may have been dead, I don’t know. I know his head hit the wall hard when I wiped him out.

In the end I had to walk the bike over him, and I lost valuable time. But at last that precious door, the door Fi described, was in front of me, about fifteen metres ahead. It was a solid, strong old white door, curved at the top, set into a thick stone wall. It had no handle, just a keyhole. And it had no key.

Until that moment I hadn’t thought about how to get the door open. I hadn’t thought about anything much. Just acted on impulse. I suppose I sort of assumed it’d open magically for me. Or I’d crash the bike into it. Or something.

I pulled up and stared at the door, my brain going off like a fireworks display. I looked around for a tool I could use. Nothing. I looked behind me.

Yes, there was the answer. I didn’t have time to put the bike on its stand so I leaned it against the wall and ran back to the guy on the floor. His rifle was
under him. I tried to lift him but he was too heavy. So I grabbed the butt of the rifle and worked away at it, twisting it backwards and forwards then levering it up.

The fumes from the bike were filling the corridor so quickly that it was as bad as being in the car boot. Carbon monoxide mixed with petrol and oil. Sweat stung my eyes and my hair was getting wet. I had to wipe it away, to stop myself being blinded. But I got the rifle. I was a bit horrified to see that the safety catch was off. It could easily have fired while I was prising it out. But I left it off.

I ran back to the motorbike. As I did I glanced behind me. Someone turned the corner into the corridor at that exact moment. I couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman, young or old, but I saw their rifle. I swung around and fired from the hip and they ducked back as fast as they’d appeared.

My problem now was that Homer might be crouched by the keyhole and he mightn’t be able to hear my voice through the thick door. The noise of the motorbike didn’t help. I couldn’t afford to turn the bike off in case it didn’t start again. I knew there was a risk that I was about to shoot my best mate, but I had to take the risk. I yelled through the door, ‘Homer, I’m going to shoot the lock,’ and I pressed the end of the barrel to the keyhole. I pulled the trigger. It only made a little hole but it seemed to have blown away the vital bits. I kicked the door open.

Well, I hadn’t shot Homer, but I nearly knocked him out with the swinging door. I guess I did kick it pretty hard. The first sight I had was of him spinning backwards as the door struck his shoulder. He was a pretty frightening sight anyway: dried blood all over him, his clothes torn, and a horrible messy open wound on one knee. For a second I thought the bullet had got him, but then common sense told me he would be a lot worse off if I’d shot him at that range. Anyway I could see where the bullet had hit. It mightn’t have done much damage to the door lock but it made up for that when it hit the back wall. Slabs of plaster were still falling as I stood there.

I virtually ignored Homer, just grabbed the bike, pulled it up, and got on. I didn’t need to tell Homer what to do. I felt the bike sag as he threw himself on behind, then felt his big arms grab me round the waist. Even after all he’d been through the strength was still there. ‘Get the rifle,’ I yelled back at him, and I felt one arm release my waist, so I assumed he had it. I straightened the bike and took off. Instead of going the way I’d come I went the only other possible way, down a new corridor to my right.

It was a short corridor and a moment later we came burning into a huge area that seemed to be a breakfast room or something. I didn’t exactly get time to study it in detail, but there was a big dining table and a bunch of old stuffed armchairs, and a wall full of books. Two or three people scattered as we charged in. To avoid one of them I did a quick turn around one of the armchairs. Homer wasn’t expecting it so the turn ended up being pretty slow, with his weight working against me. As we did it though, he fired a shot. I accelerated, knocking over a small table. A collection of jugs and vases went flying. Even above the engine noise I heard the crash as they hit the floor and shattered. We burned out of that room with the rear of the bike fishtailing, threw a right, and charged through the proper dining room. The table was set for a meal and I realised, glancing sideways, that Homer was holding the rifle out and running it along the whole length of the table. Dishes and cups were spinning in all directions, but they all ended up in the same place: fragmenting on the polished wooden floor.

It was the same story in the lounge room. I had a strong feeling that behind me, Homer was enjoying getting his revenge. There was so much furniture scattered around the lounge room that I had to use my feet a lot to balance, to turn, to get around armchairs and coffee tables. It was like a slalom course, with Homer amusing himself by smashing everything within reach. I gripped the handles so tightly that I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to get my hands open again. The exhaust fumes, and the continuous roaring of the loud engine in the enclosed spaces had my head throbbing and my ears going deaf. But even through my blocked ears I heard Homer’s next shot. Mainly because he fired past my right ear. It happened so quickly that I nearly fell off the bike in shock. There was a flash and a blast and a burning blur of flame that scorched my neck.

Bloody Homer. I should have left him in his cell. That wasn’t the kind of thing we’d been taught to do with guns.

I think he was just clearing the way. And a moment later we were in the kitchen. That took me by surprise, a bit, because I didn’t think we were even near it. I’d gotten confused by all the different rooms, the twists and turns. But there we were, back on familiar territory. In fact our packs were still there, on the bench next to the sink. From my quick glance I thought they’d unpacked one of them but left the others still stuffed. Guess our visit had been a bit late for them to bother with tidying up. I braked sharply beside them.

‘What?’ Homer shouted.

‘Grab them!’ I said.

He hesitated, but I guess one advantage of being so stubborn and pig-headed is that people sometimes find it easier to go along with what I want than have a stand-off. Homer grabbed one pack then another and shoved them in between us. With his wide arms he could hold them OK but two was all he could manage.

The stop for the packs was a bad idea though. There hadn’t been time for it. At the other end of the kitchen was the door to the outside. That was our target. I revved the bike, planning to ride the length of the kitchen, then have Homer open the door. Suddenly though, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Suddenly we were in big trouble. A guy came from the sitting room and another guy came from somewhere down the end, to the left. I don’t know how he got in; I hadn’t noticed a door there last night, but maybe it was an exit to the coolroom or the laundry.

The trouble was they were both armed and both shooting as they came. They weren’t stupid, these two. It was like they were using the bullets as their shield.

It’s hard to shoot someone when you’re being shot at. We both ducked as low as we’ve ever been, and I accelerated along the side of the kitchen, hoping the big solid benches would give us protection. It all happened in a flicker. I wondered what we’d do at the end of the benches. It was lucky the Whittakers had such a big kitchen, but that luck was about to give out.

The shooting was wild. These guys had their guns on automatic and they seemed to have unlimited ammunition. Windows shattered to my right, in a continuous noisy waterfall of glass, and the containers and appliances on the shelves exploded. We were in as much danger from flying fragments of glass and porcelain as from bullets. It was like hundreds of mosquitoes screaming around the room. The noise was unbelievable, beyond pain. I’ve never been caught inside a computer game and never likely to be, but that’s how it felt. I got stung on the cheek, thought for a horrible moment that it was a bullet but realised straightaway that it couldn’t be, started to brake as we got to the end of the kitchen, still didn’t have a clue what to do, then, almost like a dream saw the door open in front of me, gunned the bike, put my head down again, and went for it, not sure who or what had opened the door, not sure who or what would be on the other side, just knew it was our last and only chance. I felt a bullet whiz above my head as we went through, and suddenly, there we were out in beautiful daylight and open air.

And then found to my horror that I had to stop.

Just at the moment when I thought we had a chance. Just at the moment when I could see the soft blue hills in the distance.

Gavin again.That little bugger. We owed him our lives but it was a confusing moment. It was like he’d given us a glimpse of freedom, then snatched it away. It seemed cruel. I slammed on the brakes as Gavin slammed the kitchen door shut behind us. He was no fool, that kid. He knew what an extra second was worth. Then, like a regular little stuntman, he took a racing dive onto the bike, on top of the packs, between Homer and me. I realised I hadn’t even needed to stop completely. We were still slowing down and there he was, wriggling around behind me. I didn’t wait to see if he was OK, just turned the throttle up again. Maybe we still had a chance after all.

We must have looked a bizarre sight. Three people and two packs on one bike. I discovered how overloaded the whole thing was when I tried to make a fast turn to the left, and nearly lost it. Nearly put it down. The front wheel wobbled wildly and the back one slid away. I planted a leg and with sheer strength pulled it back up. But I knew we couldn’t go far like this. It would have been OK in peacetime, just going out to a paddock. I’d often taken unbalanced loads on a bike. I usually had a couple of dogs, for a start and I sometimes came back with a sheep on my knees over the petrol tank. But here, even if we pulled off a miracle and got clear of the house, we wouldn’t get far before the inevitable pursuers caught us.