Horse's Arse by Charlie Owen Page A

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