Horsehead Man

Chapter One

An undertaker came into my shop one afternoon and nicked a bike. I may not be Einstein, but I know this: you can’t use a bike as a hearse.

I’d been chatting to a few of the local hoons who’d dropped into the shop on their way home from school. Tanya Chandor was with them, looking real pretty with her school shirt knotted at her waist. She’d just said she’d go to the pictures with me, when this undertaker barges in. The guy must be in his early thirties. He’s dressed in shiny black shoes, grey pinstriped trousers. A funny black jacket with tails, a stiff white shirt and black tie. Gold cufflinks.

I know this dude: he drives a hearse.

He bowls past the hoons, selects a twelve-speed from the rack, hauls it out into the aisle and spins it round to face the door. I start to walk round the end of the counter. This bike is worth a couple of grand. It’s the sort of thing a business executive might buy if he wanted to get fit. If I can flog it to the undertaker, the week’s takings will start to look semi respectable. I launch into my sales pitch.

‘Not a bad little unit, that one,’ I say to the undertaker. ‘You could do worse. Check the flow-through gearing.’

But the undertaker just flings his leg over the bike and pedals straight out the door. Doesn’t even look at me. The hoons have to jump clear to avoid being skittled. Tanya lands on Christo’s foot. The pair of them fall backwards into the bike racks. All tangled up with a Hypercobra on top of them.

‘Watch it, fella,’ Tanya yells.

But the undertaker takes no notice. Doesn’t even look at her. He’s out the door, over the pavement and into the traffic.

‘Crudwit!’ yells Tanya hauling herself out of the mess. ‘Get after him, Scalp. Clobber the scumbag.’

Good advice. I grab the nearest bike. It’s a Trackmaster. I swing it round, pile on board and take off after the thief.

‘Look after the shop,’ I yell.

‘Go Scalp!’ she yells after me.

And I’m off into the traffic. It’s not too thick. I mean there are cars and buses all over the place, but not so close together that a desperado on a Trackmaster can’t duck and weave and move at twice the going rate, overtaking everything in sight. On the road sometimes. On the pavement sometimes. Sometimes not on either. Flying. Gutter hopping. I’m the fastest thing on wheels. Except for the undertaker. I can see him up ahead. His bum’s in the air. His head’s almost touching the handlebars. His legs are pedaling like an egg-beater. His black coat-tails are flapping. And the crudwit’s got the faster bike.

If we were on an open road I’d have no chance. The gears alone would give him the edge. But in traffic things are different. The Trackmaster ducks and weaves. Drivers hoot and scream. A pedestrian has kittens. I’m gaining. I’m gaining. The thief is about a hundred metres in front. He’s trying to squeeze between a delivery van and a black ute, both of which must be doing sixty. The ute is a regular wagon of sin: lowered mag wheels, twin exhausts sticking up behind the cabin like anti-aircraft guns, a dead cat’s tail flapping from the antenna. The van is dirty white with rust marks and has Electric Eel Plumbing Service written on the back. I don’t think the driver knows the undertaker is there. The undertaker is racing straight down the dotted white line between the two vehicles. He’s alongside the ute driver’s window. The driver sees him and sticks his head out and yells abuse and gives him the finger. The undertaker takes no notice. The ute driver pulls his head in and eases the ute over towards the undertaker, threatening to sandwich my two-grand bike between the ute and the electric eel. Easy on, mate, easy on, I mutter under my breath, panting as I force the Trackmaster up another few kays. I want that bike back in one piece. The undertaker hits the anchors and falls back a few metres — out of harm’s way. Just in time. The ute driver waves his arm out the window in derision. The poor van driver suddenly realizes what’s happening and almost goes over the middle line into the on-coming traffic. There’s a flash of angry lights and a blare of horns. The thief loses more ground. I’m fifty metres behind him. There’s a set of traffic lights coming up. They’re green. Change, you swine, change, I mutter.

Like magic, the orange light comes on. The van driver starts to brake, his red lights glow under the Electric Eel sign. The yahoo in the lowered wagon of sin gives his engine the gun. The undertaker gives the bike the gun. The ute goes screeching over the crossing as the lights turn red. And the undertaker is tailgating him. He’s hanging on to the ute with one hand. He’s just coasting. Doing no work at all.

But he’s not getting away. I’m not having this. I check the intersection. There are cars about to start up, but I’ve just got time to flash through on the red. I pump the pedals like mad. The Trackmaster leaps across. Horns blast. I’m through. I’ve got a straight run to the undertaker coasting along in front. But the ute is going too fast. My only hope is that the ute driver realizes what is going on. Look into your mirror you dingbat, check the goddamn mirror, why don’t you?

The ute driver checks his goddamn mirror. He doesn’t like what he sees. He sticks his head out of the driver-side window to yell abuse. He’s hardly looking where he’s going. The bloke’s face is red with anger. The undertaker takes no notice. Just hangs on to the tailgate with one hand and takes his other hand off the handlebars to straighten his tie.

I nearly spew. I’m fifty metres behind and pedaling like a madman. Sweating like a pig. My breath is rasping in and out of my throat like a fire-eater’s. I’m fit to drop. And the thief is up there coasting along very nicely thank you and straightening his tie. I’m about to give up. The two grand’s worth of bike is about to disappear forever, towed into oblivion by the yahoo in the ute.

But the yahoo has other plans. He starts weaving all over the road. He accelerates. He slams on his brakes. The undertaker lets go and and calmly turns his bike — my bike — into a side street. I hang a quick leftie and follow him. Behind me I can hear the ute driver throwing a screaming three pointer in the street, burning rubber. There are screeching brake sounds from other cars. Horns going off like a footy final.

I reckon I’ve got about a minute of hard pedaling left in me. I give it all I’ve got. I gain, I slowly gain on the undertaker. There he is, head down again, bum up in the air, suit tails flapping and I’m closing. Behind me comes the growl of the ute. The yahoo is as keen to corner the undertaker as I am. The quiet suburban street stretches out in front of us. I wave my hand at the ute driver, urging him to overtake. If he can cut the undertaker off, if he can force him to stop, then I can tackle the guy. The ute driver does just that — overtakes me, overtakes the undertaker and broadsides the ute across the road, half blocking it. He piles out of the driver’s door and stands ready to grab the undertaker if he tries to squeeze past. He’s a tough-looking dude, the yahoo. Big boots, black levi’s, hard rock T-shirt, tats all over his arms.

The undertaker swings his bike into a little side street, just a lane really. I swing round after him. Out of the corner of my eye I see a No Through Road sign. Got him! There’s no way out this time.

There’s a furniture van parked in the side street. It’s a huge monster of a thing, painted jet black. The back doors are open and a ramp leads down to the ground. An ill-matched couple of guys are carrying a sofa across the lane. The furniture van and the sofa completely block the road. The undertaker has nowhere to go; he does the only thing possible. He hurtles up the ramp and into the back of the furniture van. A couple of seconds later I follow him up. I’ve got air. I land. I slam on my brakes and slide to a halt inches from the end wall of the van. I’m still on my bike and grabbing for the undertaker, but he’s already dumped his bike and is legging it back the way he came. He’s heading straight back down the ramp. I just sit on my bike in the back of the van. My heart is thumping like a jackhammer. I’m breathing so hard I can’t see straight. The thief has got away, but I’ve got the two grand’s worth of bike. I just look at it, lying on the floor of the furniture van. A nice bit of work, if I say so myself.

Then I hear the sound of something being thrown into the van behind me. I spin round in the saddle. I can’t believe it. The two workmen have abandoned the sofa they were carrying and have calmly picked up the ramp and thrown it into the back of the furniture van.

‘Hey, you,’ I yell at them. ‘Cut it out.’

But the two big doors swing shut with a clang. It’s suddenly very dark. There’s a sound of bolts being slammed into place. The idiots have locked me in.

‘Let me out, you bums,’ I yell. ‘Help, help,’ I bellow. I bang my fists on the sides of the van.

‘Pipe down, Bluey,’ someone says outside.

The name stuns me. Whoever is out there thinks I’m Bluey Doig. It’s true that I look like Bluey Doig. I look very much