‘You wanna take it? I gotta bring the van anyhows. No helmet needed here. You get to feel the wind in your hair.’

Tom zipped his jacket and climbed aboard. He kicked it over and the pushrod twin exploded into life. He hauled it off the stand and eased out behind Kyle’s Chevy van. The height of the gas tank raised the centre of gravity, which was only somewhat counteracted by the low seat. The riding position, feet forward, made for a distinctly laid-back driving style, which was fine since the machine was in no hurry to climb up the revs. After the BMW he was used to, it was monstrously heavy. But there were upsides to the design, which had barely changed in more than a century. This was a bike on which you could cruise all day across America.

After ten minutes the city fell away and they were in open country. Kyle veered off the freeway onto increasingly smaller and rougher back roads where the Harley came into its own, soaking up the rough surface and floating through ruts, like the dirt roads it had originally been built to conquer. It was a mean slug of a machine, which would only grow old grudgingly, like its owner.

At the end of a long wooded track stood a weathered-looking ranch-style house. There were several other vehicles pulled up in front: a pick-up with a gun rack, a dusty Chrysler 300C with a bullet-hole in the wind-screen, and a van with tinted windows that said Bob’s Pool Maintenance on the side. Tom didn’t know if there was a Bob. But he was pretty sure that pool-maintenance vans didn’t need tinted windows.

Kyle was waiting, a six-pack of Southern Star dangling from each hand as Tom pulled the Harley to a halt beside him. ‘As time passes, the more I find love in inanimate objects. Less complicated.’ Tom killed the engine. ‘They also find me more reliable.’

Tom heaved the bike onto its stand and stared into the darkness. In the yard he could see the ghostly shapes of a swing, a slide and a large wooden climbing-frame; the weeds around them suggested they hadn’t seen too much action lately.

From inside the house came the sound of an American football game, a crowd roaring and a hysterical commentator.

‘Some of the boys are home. Come and say hi.’ Kyle waved him in.

Three large men were lounging round a huge TV, surrounded by cans and Chinese take-out cartons. There was a strong smell of cannabis.

‘Y’all meet Tom Buckingham, recently liberated from Her Majesty’s very own SAS.’

The men favoured the same fashions as Kyle: big beards and shades, fatigues and sleeveless denim over wife-beaters. They each raised a hand at Tom through the fug and returned to the game.