Lucy rode around in an ever-slower semicircle until she too came to a halt, her engine purring, her mother a near-deadweight on her back, whimpering softly.

The scene of disaster lay only twenty yards away.

She stared unblinking at the trail of debris leading from the broken barrier, and the two devastated forms at the end of it. The sweat slowly cooled on her and she was numb all over, but that was down to exhaustion, she was sure.

She felt no guilt, no shame, and certainly no hint of nausea; all these things reported by firearms lads who’d slotted targets in the field apparently eluded her.

All she actually felt now, if she was honest, was a growing concern that the F-Type was still out and about somewhere. As Tattoo had likely been in contact with him until the end, he might be on his way here right now.

‘Hang on, mum,’ Lucy said. They throttled out of the car park the same way they’d come in. ‘This isn’t over.’

Chapter 40

The Shed pretty well lived up to its name.

It stood alone, several miles outside Crowley on the northeast side, amid a huge sweep of farmland, which at present was hacked down to an unsightly autumn stubble. It was accessible only by a dirt road running across these undulating fields for about four miles, the other end of which was connected by a farm gate to Hallgate Lane, the main road to Radcliffe. The Low Riders had acquired ownership of both the road and the Shed from a local farmer. Once an old barn with several storage units and stable blocks attached, it had been in a dilapidated state, built mostly from breeze blocks with its roofs made from corrugated tin. However, it was still attached to the National Grid and so had full power, and as the stables had once contained livestock, it also boasted running water. The Low Riders themselves, who had some skilled personnel among their number, had cleaned it up inside, damp-proofing it, lagging and lining the roofs, and installing toilet and kitchen facilities, and a stroboscopic light show to accompany their quadrophonic sound system. Lastly, they had laid a wooden floor and brought in second-hand furniture, along with a pool table and a pinball machine.

Even now, the interior of the Shed wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste. With no windows and only dimly lit (when the light show wasn’t at full dazzle), everything in there, from the couches to the armchairs to the kitchenware, looked ratty and used, and given its location, there were always mice scampering about. The combined smells of patchouli oil, spliff, engine grease and sweaty leather pervaded it. Even when there wasn’t a party in progress, rock music, invariably of the heavier variety, thudded in the background.