Less than a mile down the road, poor Stuart was having trouble keeping tabs on Harry O’Hara. When he’d first appeared out of the site he’d driven up and down the main road on his quad bike with his mate hanging off the back. Twice he’d nearly caused an accident, and the second time, when a driver had stopped and got out of his car, both boys had given the motorist wanker signs. When the driver got out and chased them, Harry had driven the quad bike onto a nearby field. Stuart put the binoculars to his eyes once again. Harry was pretty far away now, but if he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like both he and his mate were chasing chickens around a pen. Stuart’s phone rang and, thankfully, it was Eddie.

‘I’m still with him, Ed, but I can’t get the van any closer. He’s chasing chickens around some farm, by the looks of it. The good news is, he’s left the quad bike halfway across the field, so he’s gotta come back this way.’

‘Where exactly are ya?’ Ed asked.

‘The direction the vans were parked in, I’m straight along that road, probably about half a mile down. Shit, I think he’s running back towards the quad bike now. What do you want me to do?’

‘Get out the van, run towards the bike and pretend you’re trying to nick it, buy it or whatever. I don’t care what you do, but keep him there. If he kicks off, clump him, but try not to hurt him. I’m on me way now.’

Stuart jumped out of the van and sprinted towards the quad bike. Harry and his pal were a lot nearer to it than he was, but he knew he’d get there first. At fifteen, he’d been the 100-metre champion for his school and the district. He reached the bike and, not knowing what else to do, sat on it.

A minute later, Harry ran towards him with a dead chicken under his arm. His mate was a short distance behind. ‘Get off my bike, you cunt,’ Harry ordered.

‘I only wanna buy it off ya. How much do ya want for it?’ Stuart asked in a friendly manner.

‘It ain’t for sale, is it, Sonny?’ Harry said, as his friend caught up with him.

‘Nah, get off it you wanker,’ Sonny yelled.

Stuart glanced from boy to boy. Both looked angry, their eyes full of hatred and their skin looked extremely weather-beaten for their years. Harry was only eleven, Stuart knew that, and the other boy couldn’t be that much older. Not knowing what else to do, Stuart tried the same tactic again. ‘Go on, please let me buy it, I want it for me son. I’ve got plenty of dosh on me, look,’ he gestured, pulling a wad out of his back pocket.