Page 61 of Hang on St. Christopher

“No.”

“How many of them are there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see. I just dove for the bloody ground. What about you?”

“Same thing. Hit the deck. Big gun, though. Like that time in the flats in Rathcoole. Something of that order,” he said phlegmatically.

That time was nearly number up for all of us. This could be too if we squibbed it.

“What do you think we should do?” Crabbie asked.

“You wait here. If anyone comes ’round that corner, shoot them.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I might be able to go into the woods and flank them.”

“Maybe we should get to the car and order in backup.”

“If we go back that way, they’ll nail us, won’t they? Nah, mate, this is our only chance to?—”

A scream of tires and a slew of mud coming at us as a large green Range Rover drove past.

I got to my feet. The caravan in lot 15’s door was open, and there was no sign of the man, or possibly men, inside.

“Back to the car!” I yelled to Crabbie.

We ran through the mud and rain to the BMW and jumped inside. I gave Crabbie the radio mic, and he called in a roadblock alert.

“This is Sergeant McCrabban, Carrick RUC. This is a general alert. Stop all green Range Rovers in eastern County Antrim. Suspected terrorists. Suspects armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles.”

While he talked to dispatch, I turned the key in the ignition. A rare time I didn’t look underneath the Beemer for mercury tilt switch bombs, but this was a moot piece of carelessness as the BMW wasn’t going anywhere.

The wheels spun, and the car dug itself deeper into the groove.

“Shite!”

“Try rocking it back and forth,” Crabbie suggested, and I knew what he was thinking—his trusty old Land Rover Defender wouldn’t have gotten stuck.

We rocked the car back and forward, but there was nothing doing.

“You try it gently in first and I’ll push,” I yelled at Crabbie.

He scootched over, and I ran around the back of the Beemer. I shoved the arse end of the car, but the wheels just spun and dug us deeper into the muck. This thing was going nowhere.

“No chance!” I yelled at Crabbie, and ran over to one of the scrambler motorbikes—in this case, a Kawasaki 125. I kicked the starter, and the bike sputtered. I kicked again and it roared to life.

“They went that way!” Crabbie yelled, pointing north into the countryside.

I sat down on the bike and selected first gear. The motorbike had no problem at all with the mud. Bloody loved the mud. It slewed through it in a gorgeous S curve, and I drove out of the caravan park and headed north along Woodburn Forest Road.

Left hand clutch, second gear, clutch again and third gear, clutch again and fourth gear. The little Kawasaki was doing sixty mph now and gripping the slick road like a trooper. The rain was battering my face, but I found the light switch and turned the headlights on and that improved visibility a little.

Deeper into the hills through the downpour.

I was soaked to my skin now. Water drenching my jeans and pouring through the gap at the top of my leather jacket.

At least there was no traffic, and nothing on either side of the road but hedges and stone walls, sheep pasture and cattle runs.

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