Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter

by Nick Jones

  ‘Please,’ I growl through gritted teeth.

  Shaw nods at Harry, who opens the car door and gets out.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m going to keep it,’ Frankie announces.

  Before I can protest any further, Vinny and I are dragged out of the car. It feels like my jacket has been caught in the wheels of a train. I grip the side of the car, but it’s useless. Harry pushes us both to the ground.

  ‘So long,’ Frankie says, his crystal-blue eyes shimmering. ‘I’m watching you.’

  Vinny hoists me up and we watch, helpless as the car pulls away and disappears into a sea of traffic.

  ‘Now what?’ I groan, legs shaking with adrenaline. My head throbs, my right hand drips blood onto the pavement. I feel queasy and lightheaded. The street is suddenly loud, hot and unfriendly. My hands slip to my knees and I breathe, desperately trying not to pass out. I stay like this for a while, the world pulsing in and out with my breath.

  I’ve dragged Vinny with me and lost the watch. We might never get home.

  ‘Vinny?’ I ask him.

  He doesn’t reply. I look up and realise he’s gone. What the hell?

  My tired eyes are everywhere as my mind explores the possibilities. I lost the watch… Has Vinny gone back without me? Despair gets its claws into me but is rudely interrupted by a deafening roar behind me.

  I spin, heart racing, and see a sight I know instantly will stay with me for as long as I live.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Vinny is perched on a beautiful cherry-red motorcycle. Its chrome gleams in the sunlight. ‘Ain’t she a beaut?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I murmur, mouth hanging open, ‘but, where did you find… a motorbike?’

  ‘Some bloke just left the keys in her.’ Vinny wipes sweat from his glistening brow and points across the street. ‘He was distracted so I just wheeled it away.’ I see a row of bikes, men and women chatting. My gaze connects with a man who looks like Sean Connery in his prime.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouts. ‘That’s my bike!’

  Yes, it is, Dr No.

  The man assesses the traffic, preparing to run.

  ‘Come on,’ Vinny shouts, revving the engine again, ‘hop on the back!’

  That snaps me out of my daze. I shield my eyes and stare into the mass of traffic and catch a brief glimpse of the cream Rolls-Royce.

  Hesitate and we lose.

  Crap.

  I squeeze myself onto the back of the bike, resting my feet on some pathetically small pedals. I grip hold of Vinny who twists the throttle. The engine growls and we screech from the pavement, bumping heavily down onto the road.

  We accelerate rapidly, weaving and bobbing through traffic. We pass retro cars, a green two-tone Triumph Herald, a blue Ford Anglia 105, like my grandad used to own. A car horn blares behind us. I would raise a hand to apologise, but I’m busy holding on to Vinny.

  My knuckles are white... and red.

  I glance around him, wind in my eyes, trying to see the Roller. Oxford Street just became Tottenham Court Road. Vinny speeds up. The engine purrs with power. ‘It’s okay, Cash,’ Vinny yells. ‘I know London like the back of my hand, remember?’

  Yeah, but this is 1962.

  Vinny swerves. I lean back towards the centre.

  ‘No!’ he barks. ‘Try to relax, and lean with me when I turn.’

  I’m rigid, jaw clenched and hardly breathing. ‘Okay.’ I try not to imagine what the speeding tarmac would feel like against my elbows, knees and face. Squinting against the wind, I see the car enter a tunnel up ahead. ‘There!’

  ‘I see him,’ Vinny assures me, but we are a long way behind, there are at least twenty cars between us.

  We enter the tunnel, weaving in and out of the traffic. Car horns wail, the sound of them and our engine bounce back from the tunnel walls like angry fire from the belly of a jet engine. It’s deafening. We surge but then slow down.

  I glance over Vinny’s shoulder and see the problem: traffic lights up ahead. There is a policeman waving pedestrians across the street. I get a fix on the Roller, still too far away for my liking, a patchwork of metal between us. Luckily they are caught up, too. We pull to a stop and wait. Sunlight dazzles and bounces off the cars like diamonds on a lake. Heat shimmers. In the rear window of the car, I just make out the back of Frankie Shaw’s head. He hasn’t spotted us. Yet.

  Car horns begin to wail. A couple of drivers wind down their windows and start yelling. The policeman ignores them.

  ‘Are we supposed to be wearing helmets?’ I ask.

  Vinny looks over his shoulder. ‘Probably.’

  Excellent.

  The lights change, but we don’t move. The bike wobbles, weaves and stalls. Instinctively my feet hit the road and the bike suddenly feels way too heavy to keep upright.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Vinny cries, frantically kick-starting the bike. There’s a pop, followed by a large black plume of smoke. The engine catches and explodes back into life. Vinny twists the throttle and we pull away.

  The policeman has stopped the traffic again and is waving a fresh crowd of people across the street. I watch, helpless, as the Roller gets smaller and smaller.

  ‘We have to go!’ I shout at Vinny.

  ‘I know,’ he replies. ‘You’d better hold on!’

  The bike’s horn wails like a demented banshee. Vinny accelerates. The policeman’s eyes widen as he realises we’re coming through. He blows his whistle, the people who had begun to cross scatter, diving backwards as we hurtle towards them.

  The only one who doesn’t move is an old lady with a shopping trolley.

  Vinny swerves, pushing our centre of gravity horribly close to slewing sideways. Luckily, our forward momentum is sufficient to snap us back upright and we miss her but can’t avoid her trolley. It’s one of those canvas pull-along things. We clip it, sending groceries exploding everywhere. Angry pedestrians yell as we tear past them.

  We fly across an intersection. Traffic from our right nearly blindsides us, one car so close I can’t believe it misses. The car’s gleaming metal grille lurches and then stops inches from my leg.

  My stomach fills with a rush of acid.

  The windows of the Rolls-Royce flash gold in the sun as they take a right. I point, Vinny nods. There is still an ocean of steel between us but at least we haven’t lost them. The road narrows.

  ‘Where did they go?’ Vinny yells, slowing a little. I lean out, eyes streaming but don’t see them either, just tree-lined streets that all look the same. A double-decker bus cuts us up as we approach a roundabout, forcing Vinny to jam on the brakes. The bike kicks sideways a little, but he manages to keep us upright. The bus completely blocks our view.

  ‘Damn it,’ Vinny sighs.

  Four roads. Every one the same. I glance at them, frustration coursing through me, but then it dissipates. I know I should be panicking, but instead I feel the warm rush of calm and certainty. I get the weirdest sensation as though my spider senses are tingling. My heart rate settles, my hearing sharpens and one road glows with extra colour, as though someone has turned up the saturation. It shimmers with... well, with rightness.

  I point. ‘That way.’

  ‘Can you see them?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  He nods, revs the bike and doughnuts us around. The acrid smell of burning rubber fills my nostrils. We grip the road and fly down the street. I hug Vinny tightly as we pick up the pace again. I have no idea what just happened, what strange intervention gave me such certainty, but I’m not surprised when we catch up to them.

  ‘There!’ Vinny cries, voice muffled by the sound of the throbbing engine.

  The narrow street flashes by. People stare at us. I see a couple point back towards the roundabout.

  I risk a glance behind. Oh dear.

  A police car is in pursuit, blue lights flashing.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  ‘We’ve got company,’ I cry, because that’s what they say in the movies and this feels just li
ke one.

  ‘I see them!’ Vinny calls back. ‘I’m going to try to lose them.’ He jams the brakes and we take a hard left. I manage to lean in… just, but when I look back we still have blue lights chasing us.

  Vinny accelerates and before I realise what’s happening, we flash between a lorry and a row of parked cars. Metal squeals and sparks fly as we scrape a thin line of paint down the side of the lorry. I glance back and see the police car skidding to a stop.

  Slowly it fades from view.

  ‘How about that?’ Vinny hollers, jubilant.

  ‘Amazing.’ I pat him on the back. I’m going to have a heart attack soon.

  We re-join the main road, speeding past the Royal Opera House, and catch up with the Rolls-Royce.

  They are cruising, unaware of our insane attempts to tail them. There are about a dozen cars between us now, all cramped together in the late afternoon sun. Vinny weaves across the traffic and turns left down a side street.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shout.

  ‘If we get snarled up on the Strand we’ll lose them, but I know where they’re heading.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yep. Waterloo Bridge.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Trust me, I was a cabbie for ten years. “Waterloo Sunset” here we come, baby!’ He guffaws with glee. I’m not sure all this adrenaline is good for him. He twists the throttle.

  We round a corner and enter a wide street filled with people, stalls and canopies.

  A market.

  ‘Weird, I don’t remember this.’ Vinny shakes his head. ‘This wasn’t here, I swear.’

  He accelerates anyway, beeping his horn.

  Oh. Goodness. Me.

  Crash, bang, wallop we go, clipping tables, smashing things and attaching ourselves to a long stream of garments. I can’t see a thing and I’m pretty sure Vinny can’t either.

  I pull a silk blouse from my head and look behind us. It’s like a scene from a Carry On movie. Total carnage. Stereotypes shaking their fists. In the distance, a fresh police car weaves its way through the gathered crowd and the strewn items scattered across the street.

  We zoom into a narrow side street, tall buildings either side. Vinny jams the brakes and we slide to a juddering halt.

  A building site, complete with skip, work vans and builders.

  Roadblock.

  Vinny laughs.

  ‘What?’

  In the corner, piled up against a wooden hoarding, I see a heap of mud and sand. Planks lie on top of it for the workmen to roll their wheelbarrows. The whole mound is about six feet high, same as the fence, and a scale replica of the kind of thing I used to shoot toy cars over.

  Oh, how they used to roll and flip…

  I’ve known Vinny quite a few years now. His taste in music, ability to choose awesome T-shirts and sense of humour are excellent. One of his major strengths is eternal optimism. He believes anything is possible and I usually love him for that.

  Today, not so much.

  ‘No, Vinny!’ I say, voice cracking. ‘If you’re planning to –’

  ‘I used to do this all the time,’ he assures me.

  I stare at the makeshift ramp. ‘No…’ I sound like I’m telling a dog to leave a dropped piece of steak.

  ‘Hold on, Cash.’ He tenses up, hugging the fuel tank.

  The engine roars. The tyres howl in protest and the bike lurches forward, accelerating like a rocket. The street blurs. Workmen scatter in all directions. As the front wheel lifts off the ground I momentarily have visions of us flipping back and splatting against the hoarding. Somehow Vinny keeps us straight and true.

  I glance down at the tachometer. The needle shakes into the red as we hit the ramp. The wheels compress beneath our considerable combined weight. My gut drops. We travel the length of it, rise and launch into the air, weightless, engine whining like a swooping aircraft.

  Time slows down as it always does in moments like these, giving my life ample chance to flash before me, which is kind of ironic when you think about it.

  I haven’t even been born yet.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  You know what they say. It isn’t the jump that will kill you, it’s the landing. My entire body clenches. I cling on to Vinny like he’s a life raft and we’re surrounded by sharks. All I can see is the sky, the handlebars and the front wheel.

  I can’t understand why we haven’t landed yet; we seem to be falling forever. I finally risk a glance below. Compared to the road we left, we are descending a considerable slope, travelling downhill, which means we are covering way more ground than I suspect Vinny imagined we would. I’m reminded of one of those long ski jumps and how elegant and poised the athletes look in the air.

  We, on the other hand, are screaming.

  Vinny said he had waited his whole life for an adventure like this. It’s a shame the wait was so long and the adventure so short. Our rear wheel finally touches down. The front wheel bangs down like a hammer, crushing me against Vinny, who takes the brunt of the impact. All the wind rushes out of me as I’m compressed against him.

  Imagine running into an upturned mattress. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Now imagine you are travelling at sixty miles an hour and the mattress is made of sand.

  The bike bucks and twists like a crazed bull at a rodeo, swerving with increasing ferocity. The engine whines. Vinny wrestles but loses control, twisting the throttle and braking at the same time.

  It’s all too fast… just way too fast.

  We crash through something – a hedgerow maybe – which thankfully slows us down. Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Something solid finishes the job. There’s a sickening crunch of metal. Glass shatters and the almightiest smack sends me flipping over Vinny’s back and torpedoing through the air like a rag doll.

  I remember launching my Action Man like this once. The toy was attached to a makeshift rocket. I cannot tell you how exciting it was to watch him soar and then drift peacefully back to earth.

  There was one key difference.

  Action Man had a parachute.

  My brief flight ends abruptly. A white flash of pain is followed by a blissful darkness.

  Nothing for a while…

  My moment of peace is broken by a loud ticking and a distant voice calling my name. I’m winded and disorientated. Drawing a breath is a struggle but at least I’m not dead. I swallow, trying to clear the wool from my ears. A high-pitched sound fills my mind, like a grenade detonated nearby, accompanied by a distant siren. Memory colours in my sketchy reality.

  Bike. Jump. Police…

  Gradually my senses return. I cough, and that brings the smell of petrol, earth and vegetation as well as the coppery tang of blood. I’m trapped, arms pinned to my sides. I wriggle and wrestle myself free, shoulder screaming, ribs burning, and my situation becomes clear. I was thrown from the bike and embedded like a javelin straight through a box hedge, which probably saved my life.

  I focus on the most important thing and check my undercarriage (yeah, boys do that).

  ‘I’m okay,’ I mumble, voice thin and scratchy, ‘all present and correct.’

  I roll onto my back and eventually sit up. My brain feels too big for my skull. Wincing, I assess the scene.

  We’ve landed in a previously peaceful tree-lined street. Vinny is up, gasping and grimacing, walking off the pain. The bike is nearby, lying on its side surrounded by broken glass and clouds of smoke. Dark liquid pools from beneath. The ticking sound is the front wheel spinning, like a bomb about to blow. I stare at the carnage with an odd sense of detachment, wondering if the bike is about to explode.

  My mind, although foggy, slowly pieces together what we were doing before this happened. Chasing the last escape pod out of here… We failed. My eyes sting. I wipe them and my fingers come away covered in fresh blood. Vinny makes his way over to me, limping. I’m vaguely aware of other people, too, gathering around us. Of distant voices, shapes casting shadows.

  �
�You okay, Cash?’ Vinny asks, guilt clear in his voice.

  I look up at him, hot pain flares over my shoulder. ‘Oowuhhhh,’ is all I can manage. I’m starting to wonder if it might be dislocated.

  Like us.

  ‘Soz,’ Vinny mutters. ‘That wasn’t my best landing ever.’

  My mouth is suddenly very dry. My body clenches. Waves of heat and ice dance over me.

  Good old shock.

  It’s designed to protect us, but right now it wants to power down the Bridgeman mainframe. ‘I can’t breathe,’ I gasp, the edges of my vision darkening. My mouth floods with saliva and I puke.

  Excellent.

  That’s when my body decides to call time at the bar.

  I hear a distant version of Vinny. ‘Stay with me,’ he cries, like in a war movie.

  Sorry, Vinny, my old mate. I don’t get a say in this one, I’m afraid. Joseph Bridgeman needs a reboot.

  I descend into a world of swirling black ink.

  From experience, there is nothing like shock or injury to trigger a viewing, and I just know this one is going to hurt even more than the stunt Vinny just pulled.

  Viewings win… they always do.

  Chapter Fifty

  I’m seated on a stool in the corner of a boxing ring. The canvas is worn, the ropes frayed, everything suggests an amateur contest but the crowd. They are raising the roof of the building, vocal and involved. A man is crouched next to me, barking advice. I stare down at my red boxing gloves, there’s nothing to me; my arms look weedy, legs too.

  I’m just a kid.

  The referee, a portly bald man in a striped shirt, calls, ‘Seconds out.’ The man beside me slips under the rope and I’m on my feet, skipping to the centre of the ring. The bell clangs, the referee cuts the air and steps back.

  The crowd roars and I face my opponent for the first time.

  He’s around the same age as me; fifteen, I would guess, but that’s where the similarities stop. This brawny lump of fat and muscle has clearly taken the fast track to adulthood. He looks genetically modified, as though someone has combined a pit bull terrier with a truckload of lard. He clicks his neck left and right, smacks his gloves together and fixes me with an intense stare. He looks pumped full of steroids. He also looks angry.