Blighted Land: Book two of the Northumbrian Western Series (Northumbrian Westerns 2) by Ian Chapman Page A

panel at the back, above thick vents and code numbers etched into the metal. It was warm to the touch, as if the vehicle had been out in the sun. There was a gentle throb through the metal, like the thing had a pulse, a heart beating somewhere inside. I took my hand off it. ‘How do I fit in?’
    ‘Well, that’s where your babysitting comes in. Unlike some of the others in Round Up, you’re a slow fuse, you know? You take your time with stuff. That’s sometimes a useful thing, you get what I’m saying?’
    ‘Not really.’ What I got was a bad feeling.
    ‘We’ve had him under lock and key ever since he came out, since he gave himself up, but we’ve not got much out of him. He’s not said more than a word. We tried various, ah, methods, but he’s resisting.’ He smiled and came up close. ‘So you’re going to take over, spend some time with him.’ He banged on the vehicle. ‘You’re going squeeze the details out of him.’

CHAPTER SEVEN
Becky

    T HAT EVENING I WENT up to the track again. I parked my bike and stood on the verge. The sun was low across the town, catching the windows in the taller buildings and the sea in the distance.
    Starter Lad came over. ‘Seen a lot of you this week.’  
    ‘I’m in the mood for racing.'
    He put me on the list and went over to the others parked opposite, an assortment from the usual suspects: the Suzuki Hayabusa, CBR and z750. Maybe I’d go against the zed. Or try my luck against the CBR again. Not the big Suki.  
    But there was another reason I’d come here. Now I’d half agreed to interrogate the stranger — not that it seemed I had much choice — I was tied up in the stuff going on. The tank arriving. Becky turning up. She was part of it and I wanted to talk to her. Pick her brains and see where she fitted in.
    That was real reason I was here. To see her.  
    Starter Lad leant against the fence drinking beer from a bottle. The riders of the three bikes chatted about oil and engines and stuff. They didn’t seem keen to race yet. There was an engine sound for Hill Road — low and staccato, not like Becky’s machine — and an old BWM appeared. It was an eleven-hundred, an infrequent visitor to the track, and he rolled up alongside the other bikes. The Suzuki’s rider slid on his lid and started his bike. He and the BMW lined up at the start line. As the they prepared I crossed over the track, standing a couple of yards down from Starter Lad. He raised his flag and the bikes shot off. They raced to the end with a trail of fumes, the Suzuki metres ahead.
    As they sorted out the winnings I looked across town. Round Up’s HQ stood out at the far side of the river, lit by its office lights. The tank was in there. And the fella I had to interview.  
    I’d asked to see him earlier, find out who I was dealing with but Nico had been coy, evasive about where he was and what was happening. He’d promised money and promotion to Round Up’s top rank. His reward.
    None of it bothered me apart from the money.
    An engine sounded behind me, powering along the lane. I turned to see a bright light charging towards me.  
    It was the R6. Her bike.
    It eased to a stop a metre short of me.
    She was wearing those leathers again, her lid on her arm and bright hair loose on her shoulders. She glanced over as Starter Lad approached her. They chatted for a moment then looked over at me. I shook my head. There was no point putting the scrambler against her machine. No contest.  
    She shifted on machine, rocking it between her legs. ‘It’s taken some time for me to get this machine of mine right.’
    ‘No kidding.’
    ‘Those forks and wheels take some looking after —’  
    ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Can we stop playing games?’
    ‘I just thought —’
    ‘We need to talk.’
    She smiled at this. ‘Okay.’
    ‘Just so you know, I don’t like being followed. Don’t like being messed about.’
    ‘Sorry.’  
    The CBR and z750 had started up and approached the start