was plenty left still standing – to hole up in, yet he’d zeroed in on me. Shit luck. Someone must’ve followed me or caught me sneaking in. With anger as much as fear I hit the starter hard, but this time the engine didn’t kick in first time. Those voices were getting louder and the men I’d already tangled with, ‘cept the one I’d poleaxed with the rifle butt, were rising to their feet and regarding me with hate in their hearts and caution in their eyes. I tried again, adding a cuss for luck, and the engine caught, the machine roared into life. Music to my ears.
Running footsteps next door; they’d heard the music too. Cagney took off without me, heading into the blue as if he were the prey. Well maybe he had a point – they’d shoot him just for the pleasure.
The motorcycle’s front wheel almost reared up as I took off; I had to lean low over the fuel tank and use my weight to hold the bike to the floor as I fled the bad guys. There was a crack of gunfire from behind and the cobwebbed face of a tall pedestal clock ahead of me imploded. Sculptured figures, all dusty gilt, clung for dear life as the old timepiece reverberated with tiny jangly explosions. The marksman was either a shit shot or he wanted to unnerve me; maybe he was only warning others I was on my way.
I hurtled through the open doors at the end of the room and had to brake hard to avoid crashing through windows dead ahead; this was where the east face met the north wing. My left foot dragged floor as I brought the bike round in a skid that sent a small table and the ornate and no doubt priceless (but nowadays worthless) vase on its top flying. The vase shattered on the floor, but no one was going to complain.
Because of the blackout precautions, everywhere inside this place was gloomy, but enough light shone through chinks and cracks for me to find my way. I’d just entered the complex of private apartments and bedrooms so knew there was a stairway close by. Unfortunately it was too steep and narrow for the bike and I had no mind to try it on foot: speed was my ally, had been for some time now, y’see, and I had to stick to the escape route I’d already worked out. Besides, I’d be an easy target for anyone waiting to ambush me in the stairwell.
Another bullet whistled through the doors and thudded into the wall next to the windows; but I had the bike under control again and shot into the long corridor that would take me through the north wing. Fortunately the place had been cleared of corpses and evacuated as soon as the main tenants – God rest their poor souls – had taken flight, so I didn’t have to worry about rotting carcasses getting in my way. I opened up, roasting rug, spewing up dust, the engine’s roar shaking the walls, filling the air. It didn’t take long to reach the west wing and that’s where the real fun started.
I’d been making for the main staircase, which I knew the Matchless could take easy enough, reducing speed along the way only to negotiate the trickier twists and turns, and I’d arrived at a long picture gallery where I could change up a gear, make better headway. I’d zipped past Rembrandts, Vermeers, Canalettos (I’d spent some time in this museum with its glazed arched ceiling and low viewing couches set around the walls, enjoying the brilliance before me but bitter, I guess, that these works of art now counted for zilch), when a figure leapt out from one of the several openings, halfway down on my left.
He only clipped my shoulder as I went by, but that was enough. I lost balance and slewed off at an angle, careering into one of the gallery’s small tables, knocking it aside before running into a couch. I recovered enough to keep going, my right leg trapped between bike frame and seat, yelling as my pants ripped and my skin burned. I pulled away, picking up speed again, the gallery no more than a dirt track without soil to me.
But again I had to brake as three men appeared in the little lobby at the end of the hall, using the handbrake a split second ahead of the footbrake pedal and