Evil Machines (5 page)

But then Pedro Gonzales suddenly perked up. ‘Hey!’ he said to Montague Du Cann. ‘You can change English money into US dollars at the bank, can’t you?’

‘Yeah! That’s right!’ said The Kid.

‘So what are we waiting for?’ cried Fernando Salvador, and he grabbed Montague Du Cann’s coat and tried to dig out the wad of notes.

But Montague Du Cann had been about to pay off some blackmailers who had discovered his previous life as a bandit. For this reason he was carrying more cash than he would ever normally carry – to the tune of several thousand pounds. He was not going to let his former accomplices steal that money if he could help it. So he punched Fernando Salvador on the nose, hit The Kid in the stomach and kicked Pedro Del Camino in the crotch.

Then he turned and ran back down the road, forgetting for the moment about the bar tender, who had just

reappeared outside the saloon. As soon as he saw the three non-paying customers running towards him he opened fire again.

The bullets sprayed all over the High Street, scattering the few people who were about.

But Montague Du Cann didn’t give two hoots. He wasn’t going to allow those crispy £50 notes to fall into the hands of his erstwhile colleagues. He ran straight past the saloon, and round the corner. The three former bandits didn’t stop either. They reckoned that the bankroll in Juan Gonzales’ hand was the only real chance they had of getting any money that day.

They rounded the corner in time to see something odd happen. Juan Gonzales had stopped outside a building that appeared to have an elevator that opened straight on to the street. None of them had ever seen such a thing before. What’s more the elevator doors were opening, and Juan Gonzales, the former leader of the Dos Hombres Gang – the man who had betrayed them and who now refused to help them in their hour of need, was stepping into the lift.

The three of them ran as they’d never run before, and never would again. They did the 100 yards as fast as any Olympic sprinter you could name. But they were too late!

They arrived at the strange elevator just in time to see Juan Gonzales waving to them with a smirk on his face, as the doors closed together.

‘The rat!’ they exclaimed.

‘Don’t worry!’ said The Kid. ‘We’ll take the stairs!’ And they rushed into the department store, and spent several minutes trying to find the stairs before Fernando Salvador

suddenly stopped and said, ‘Wait a minute! This building only has one storey!’

The Dos Hombres Gang looked at each other, and then ran outside again to where the elevator had been. But there was now no sign of it – just a shop window with a large poster that said:

The three ex-bandits were so perplexed, they walked into the next bar they could find, and drank three more pints of beer each, before they once again remembered they had no money.

Meanwhile, Montague Du Cann, when he had got back into the lift, pressed the button for the Sixth floor – the Executive Floor – from which he’d come earlier that morning.

The light glowed for the First Floor and then for the Second Floor, the Third Floor, the Fourth Floor, and then the Fifth Floor . . . Montague Du Cann held his breath, and then . . . to his unutterable relief, the light glowed next to the sign that read: ‘Sixth Floor (Executive Suites and Offices Only)’

The lift doors opened, and Montague Du Cann stepped out of the lift, and looked around him. But he wasn’t where he wanted to go at all! He had just stepped out into the courtroom in Albuquerque.

‘There you are at last!’ cried the judge, banging his gavel. ‘We’ve been waiting for you long enough, Juan Gonzales!’

And all the eyes in the court room turned on him . . .

***

Back in Swindon, the evil elevator seemed to have returned to normal. People pressed the button to go to the Third Floor (Ladies Clothing, Shoes, Fashion Accessories and Books) and it took them to the Third Floor. People pressed the button for the Fifth Floor (Television, Hi-fi, Computers, Electrical Goods and Accounts) and they got where they wanted to go . . . But actually . . . the evil elevator hadn’t changed at all. In fact it went on secretly taking people to places they didn’t want to go. For every time the lift took the inhabitants of Swindon back down to the ground floor, they stepped out of the department store and into the streets of Swindon, and so found themselves somewhere they didn’t want to be.

Motorbike Thieves

There were once two motorbikes that had fallen into bad ways. One was an ancient Matchless G3L ex-army bike, and the other was a Triumph Hurricane with three exhaust pipes splayed out in a fan at the rear. They were cheery companions, always making coarse jokes and poking fun at the world, but they were, in truth, both as bad as each other, and that was very, very, very bad indeed.

It was many years since either of them had had owners, and they had grown used to the freedom of the road and to living without moral restraints of any kind whatsoever. For many years they had got by with stealing a little petrol here and there, when they needed it, and robbing the occasional charity shop.

But one morning the Triumph Hurricane found the old Matchless G3L army bike leaning against the wall of the alley in which they had spent the night, looking very sorry for itself.

‘What’s up, Sarge?’ asked the Triumph Hurricane. ‘I thought we was going to run over a few orphans today.’

‘Ha ha,’ wheezed the old Matchless. ‘Very funny . . . But look here, lad, I don’t think I’ve got enough left in me for that sort o’ caper.’

‘What are you talking about, Sarge?’ exclaimed the Triumph. ‘You got miles left in yer tank! Let’s go and hang out by the petrol station . . . you never knows yer luck! Maybe get a chance to fill up on the old spirit!’

‘Nah! Nah! I’m done for, I tell you,’ wheezed the ancient bike. ‘You’re just a young whippersnapper – but I was built in 1942 and my brakes are worn through, my gears are starting to go and – to tell the truth, me old sport, I think me cylinder’s gone and cracked.’

There was a silence, after the Matchless had said this: a cracked cylinder head is not the sort of thing any motorbike can survive without serious mechanical attention.

The Triumph Hurricane looked at his partner in crime for a few moments. ‘You’re going to need a mechanic, Sarge,’ he said.

‘Don’t make me laugh, lad!’ wheezed the Matchless. ‘Mechanics don’t work for nothing do they? They costs money – where are the likes of you and me gonna find enough dosh to pay for a mechanic?’

The Triumph didn’t say anything for a few moments, and when he did speak, it was in a serious undertone. ‘You knows how, like, we’ve always planned to do “The Big One” . . . Well, maybe now’s the time.’

‘Gor blimey!’ The old Matchless army bike collapsed in an explosion of laughter and coughing. ‘You are a caution, you are! “The Big One”! Didn’t I tell yer I can’t move a wheel? I’m done for!’

‘I’ll give it a shot,’ said the Triumph.

‘But you need two for that sort of lark!’ said the Matchless G3L. ‘You can’t do it on yer own!’

‘Perhaps I can help?’ said a voice.

The two old motorbikes turned to find that a smart, silver bicycle had emerged from behind the rubbish skip that filled up most of the alley.

‘Shove off, push-bike!’ growled the old ex-army Matchless.

‘No wait a minute!’ said the Triumph Hurricane, and then turning to the bicycle, he asked, ‘What sort of machine are you?’

‘I’m a Raleigh Metro GLX Gents, with an Airlite aluminium sports city frame and semi-slick tyres,’ said the bicycle.

‘But you’re just a pedal-bike,’ sneered the Matchless.

‘Yes! How could
you
be any use to
us
?’ asked the Triumph.

‘Well, for a start I’m a lot younger than you two old farts,’ said the Metro GLX Gents.

‘Now look ’ere, you . . . you . . . fairy cycle . . .’ began the Matchless.

‘I am
not
a fairy cycle!’ exclaimed the bicycle. ‘I’m a top-of-the-range Metro Gents, with 24-speed Shimano gears with fingertip controls!’

‘Yes, yes . . .’ said the Triumph Hurricane, who had zero interest in push-bikes. ‘We can all see you’re a very fine bike. Maybe we
could
use you.’

‘You gone soft in the head or somefink?’ snapped the ex-army Matchless. ‘He ain’t even a mountain bike . . . and he’s still wet behind the handlebars!’

‘Excuse my friend,’ the Triumph smiled at the bicycle. ‘He’s an old army bike, but his bark’s worse than his bite.’

‘It’s all right,’ said the bicycle. ‘I expect you motorbikes to be a bit on the rough side . . . But that doesn’t matter to me. I’ve run away, you see.’

‘Some little kiddy must be crying his eyes out over you,’ sneered the ex-army Matchless.

‘Excuse me!’ replied the bicycle indignantly. ‘I am a full adult Gents model!’

‘Pardon me, I’m sure,’ scoffed the Matchless.

‘Now break it up, you two!’ said the Triumph. Then it turned to the Raleigh GLX and asked, ‘Now, you’re sure you’re not stolen? We don’t want to go into business with some bike what the police are looking for!’

‘Oh no,’ said the bicycle. ‘I fell off the back of a lorry. You can see the dent in my mudguard.’ And he turned round and showed his rear mudguard, which did indeed have a dent in it. ‘So tell me about the “Big One”.’

‘ ’Ere! ’E’s bin listening in to our conversation!’ exclaimed the Matchless. ‘I’ll soon sort out his saddle-bag for ’im!’ And he made a lunge at the bicycle, but the Triumph Hurricane stopped him.

‘Hang on, Sarge!’ he said. ‘This ’ere bike is going to join our gang!’

‘You must be joking!’ cried the Matchless.

‘No. From now on we’re going to be buddies!’ And the Triumph put his handlebars around the bicycle to show he meant it.

Then the Triumph Hurricane told the bicycle what he and the army Matchless had been planning. ‘You see?’ it

concluded. ‘And if you do your bit OK we’ll even give you a small share in the loot.’

‘What are you talking about?’ retorted the Raleigh GLX. ‘We split it fifty-fifty or I’m not interested.’

‘Fifty-fifty!’ exclaimed the two motorbikes together. ‘There are three of us!’

‘Yes, but one of “us” isn’t coming on the job!’ said the bicycle glaring at the Matchless. ‘One of “us” is so useless and clapped out that it isn’t capable of doing an honest day’s work!’

‘Now listen ’ere, you jumped-up pedal-pusher!’ exploded the ex-army motorbike.

‘One of “us” is just a free-loading heap of rusty metal that’s no good even for the scrap heap!’

‘I’ll teach you . . . you . . . snotty-faced, unisex bell-ringer!’

‘Oh, give it a rest, you two!’ said the Triumph.

‘I’m going to be doing half the work so it’s only fair that I get half the profit,’ went on the bicycle.

‘But you’re just a push-bike!’ exclaimed the Matchless.

‘That doesn’t give me less rights than you!’ yelled the bicycle.

‘Put a sock in it!’ shouted the Triumph. Then, turning to its motorbike colleague, it said, ‘The bike has a point. It may be just a boneshaker, but it’ll be doing half the work, so it deserves fifty-fifty of the profits.’

‘But . . .’

‘You and I can split the other 50 per cent. It’ll still be enough to get a mechanic to see to your cylinder.’

Eventually they agreed to split the proceeds fifty-fifty,

and the Triumph motorbike and the bicycle set off together for the centre of town, leaving the Matchless leaning up against the crumbling wall of the alley, helplessly fuming with resentment and hatred towards the push-bike.

***

When they reached the High Street, the motorbike and the push-bike hid themselves behind a dustcart and looked across the road from the bank.

‘There! Don’t it look lovely!’ muttered the Triumph Hurricane.

‘Yes! I imagine there’s plenty of cash in there!’ sighed the Raleigh GLX Gents.

‘Right!’ whispered the motorbike. ‘Now remember the plan, and don’t be too greedy. A couple of bags will do nicely. It ain’t worth going for more and risking our saddles for it!’

‘Wilco!’ said the bicycle.

‘Hmph!’ grunted the motorbike, and with that the two of them charged across the High Street and the Triumph Hurricane burst into the bank, while the bicycle skidded across and blocked the entrance.

Once inside the motorbike started to drive round and round the banking hall in circles, opening up its throttle and making a terrible noise that echoed around the hall. Terrified customers dived under tables and chairs, while the staff panicked and fled into the back of the building.

The bicycle, meanwhile, had been counting up to six, as instructed by the Triumph. It now shot inside the bank, across the hall, where the motorbike was causing such

mayhem, and then it hopped over the counter and started opening up the draws and cupboards with its handlebars.