Doyle looked down at the fuel gauge again.
'Not now,' he roared, still twisting the throttle as hard as he could.
How far to the river?
Half a mile?
Less?
The bike was running on fumes. The needle had dropped into the red by now.
The speed was dropping.
Eighty-five.
Doyle was standing, the embankment coming into view. He gripped the handlebars and lifted himself up on the footrests, as if removing his weight from the bike slightly would cause it to gain speed again.
Still the speedometer showed a slowing of speed.
Eighty.
But he was close now.
Don't look at your watch.
Time was running out.
It may even have run out.
Any second now there would be one vast, apocalyptic blast and that would be it.
Seven hundred yards to the Embankment.
Doyle saw people in front of him.
He bellowed at them to get out of his way.
Six hundred yards.
The bike juddered. The speed fell to seventy-five.
Five hundred yards.
He could see a train moving across Hungerford Bridge, could hear it rumbling away, even above the roar of the Harley's engine.
Four hundred yards.
Ahead of him he could see the Hispaniola. The old ship anchored there in the Thames for ever now. A tourist attraction.
There was a ramp leading up to it, a sloping gangplank which allowed visitors access.
Three hundred yards.
'Come on,' Doyle roared to no one in particular.
If he'd believed in God he might have said a prayer.
The Harley was screaming along at seventy now.
It was still fast enough. That fucking fuel gauge needle was still dropping but, Doyle thought, not fast enough to stop him.
Was it?
One hundred yards.
He heard more screams. Somewhere in the distance he heard more sirens.
He missed a man by inches as he wrenched the throttle one last time, rising again from the saddle of the bike like a cavalry officer leading his men into battle.
Into hell?
He hit the ramp doing sixty-five.
The bike hurtled up the slope and went flying out over the Thames.
Doyle let go, felt himself falling.
The bike was still hurtling through the air, spinning over and over on its upward arc.
Doyle was hurtling towards something.
Water? Earth?
Who cared?
The bike was at the highest point of its arc when it exploded.
Doyle struck something solid and lay still.
The explosion was deafening. An eardrum-shredding eruption of noise which was joined, simultaneously, by a blinding flash of white light. It was as if a supernova had exploded over the Thames and the entire sky seemed to turn first white, then yellow, with the intensity of the blast.
Those nearby dropped to the ground as the motorbike simply evaporated, a few tiny pieces of metal spinning off into the air, others dropping, hissing, into the water of the Thames.
The concussion blast spread out and rattled windows in their frames.
The train on the Hungerford Bridge rocked for a second.
Even the waters of the Thames were forced into small waves for about a hundred yards around the epicentre of the fearsome explosion.
Black and red smoke spread across the sky like blood across blotting paper and the air seemed to be filled with millions of tiny black cinders, which floated on the breeze and settled on the clothes of those nearby.
Doyle included.
He had no feeling at all in his left arm or shoulder now but he could feel the burning sensation in his right leg where he'd fallen heavily on it. It wasn't a break, that much he was sure of. There was a cut across his forehead just below his hairline which was weeping blood down his face.
He could hear screams, shouts.
And sirens.
There were always bloody sirens.
Sean Doyle passed out.
REDEMPTION
It was going to rain. He was certain of it.
Doyle glanced up at the threatening banks of cloud and turned the key in the door of the Datsun.
He winced slightly as he did.
He'd left hospital two days ago with his shoulder heavily strapped.
More pain.
They'd wanted him to stay longer, make sure that the fracture of his collar bone was only hair-line, but he'd discharged himself after less than thirty-six hours. He wanted to be out of the hospital; he hated the fucking places even though it seemed, sometimes, as if he'd spent half his life in one or another. They all looked the same, they all smelled the same and he hated them.
Better off at home.
Better the solitude. He didn't want to be around other people any more than he had to be.
He opened the rear door of the car and carefully laid the bunch of red carnations on the back seat, gazing down at them for a moment.
Why did it always rain when he visited Georgie's grave?
He grimaced to himself and walked around to the driver's side.
'Doyle.'
The sound of his name made him turn and he noticed that a car had pulled up across the street.
Detective Inspector Vic Calloway was walking towards him, collar turned up against the wind that had sprung up, bringing an unexpected chill with it.
'How's the arm?' asked the DI, nodding towards Doyle's injured shoulder.
'Stiff,' Doyle told him. 'But it could have been worse.'
'You were lucky,' Calloway told him.
'So people say,' said Doyle wryly.
The two men looked at each other, the ensuing silence awkward. It was broken by the DI.
'Look, Doyle,' he began, the words faltering. 'I'm glad I caught you, I wanted to say thanks.'
'No need. I was doing my job.'
'If it hadn't been for you, Christ knows how many people would have been killed. That last bomb you-'
'Forget it.'
Doyle pulled open the driver's door, slid behind the wheel and lowered the side window.
Calloway watched as he dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit up.
'Was there anything else?' Doyle asked, starting the engine.
Calloway shook his head and stepped away from the Datsun, catching sight of the carnations on the back seat.
'Who are the flowers for?' he asked.
Doyle answered without looking at him.
'A friend,' he said softly. Then he guided the car smoothly away from the kerb.
Calloway watched until the car reached the end of the road, the indicator winking, then headed back towards his own vehicle.
When he looked again, Doyle was gone.
The first spots of rain had begun to fall.
'Don't ever try to change what you don't understand.
Live your life on the sharp edge…'
– Sword