Macbeth

The last remnant of rubber had been stripped from the lorry’s rear wheel rims and a fountain of sparks stood out against the night sky. The ZIS-5 went into a skid, the driver tried desperately to counter it, but this time he had no chance. The lorry veered across the road and skidded along the tarmac. It was practically at the boundary when the wheels gained purchase again and steered the lorry off the road. Twelve tons of Soviet military engineering hit Chief Commissioner Kenneth right under the belt, tore him off the plinth and dragged the statue plus ten metres or so of steel fencing along before tipping over the edge. Angus had managed to stop the Transit, and in the sudden silence Banquo observed Kenneth falling through the moonlight and slowly rotating around his own chin. Behind him came the ZIS-5, bonnet first, with a tail of white powder like some damned amphetamine comet.

‘My God...’ the policeman whispered.

It felt like an eternity before everything hit the water and coloured it white for an instant, and the sound reached Banquo with a slight time delay.

Then the silence returned.

Sean stamped his feet on the ground outside the club house, staring out through the gate. Scratched the NORSE RIDERS TILL I DIE tattoo on his forehead. He hadn’t been so nervous since he was in the hospital delivery room. Wasn’t it just typical that he and Colin had drawn the short straw and had to stand guard on the night when excitement was at fever pitch? They hadn’t been allowed to string along and collect the dope or go to the party either.

‘Missus wants to call the kid after me,’ said Sean, mostly to himself.

‘Congrats,’ said Colin in a monotone, pulling at his walrus moustache. The rain ran down his shiny pate.

‘Ta,’ said Sean. Actually he hadn’t wanted either. A tattoo that would stamp him for life or a kid he knew would do the same. Freedom. That was the idea of a motorbike, wasn’t it? But the club and then Betty had changed his notion of freedom. You can only truly be free when you belong, when you feel real solidarity.

‘There they are,’ Sean said. ‘Looks like everything’s gone well, eh?’

‘Two guys missing,’ Colin said, spitting out his cigarette and opening the high gate with barbed wire on top.

The first bike stopped by them. The bass rumbled from behind the horn helmet. ‘We were ambushed by the cops, so the twins will come a bit later.’

‘Right, boss,’ Colin said.

The bikes roared through the gate one after the other. One of the guys gave a thumbs up. Good, the dope was safe, the club saved. Sean breathed out with relief. The bikes rolled across the yard past the shed-like single-storey timber house with the Norse Rider logo painted on the wall and disappeared into the big garage. The table was laid in the shed; Sweno had decided that the deal should be celebrated with a piss-up. And after a few minutes Sean heard the music turned up inside and the first shouts of celebration.

‘We’re rich.’ Sean laughed. ‘Do you know where they’re taking the dope?’

Colin said nothing, just rolled his eyes.

He didn’t know. Nobody did. Only Sweno. And those in the lorry, of course. It was best like that.

‘Here come the twins,’ Sean said, opening the gate again.

The motorbikes came slowly, almost hesitantly, up the hill towards them.

‘Hi, João, what happ—?’ Sean began, but the bikes continued through the gate.

He watched them as they stopped in the middle of the yard as though considering leaving their bikes there. Then they nudged one another, nodded to the open garage door and drove in.

‘Did you see João’s visor?’ Sean said. ‘It had a hole in it.’

Colin sighed heavily.

‘I’m not kidding!’ Sean said. ‘Right in the middle. I’ll go and see what really happened down on the quay.’

‘Hey, Sean...’

But Sean was off, ran across the yard and entered the garage. The twins had dismounted. Both stood with their backs to him, still wearing their helmets. One twin by the door leading straight from the garage into the club’s function room held the door ajar, as though not wanting to show himself but seeing what the party was like first. João, Sean’s best mate, stood by his bike. He had removed the magazine from his ugly-looking AK-47 and seemed to be counting how many bullets he had left. Sean patted him on the back. That must have been quite a shock because he spun round with a vengeance.

‘What happened to your visor, João? Stone chip, was it?’

João didn’t answer, just appeared to be busy inserting the magazine back into his AK-47. He was strangely clumsy. The other strange thing was that he seemed... taller. As though it wasn’t João standing there, but...