Tinker saw a bike stalled at the side of the country road and pulled over. It’s what you do, hurry or no.
“You okay?’ The question was superfluous.
A gormless spottie stood irresolutely beside his neglected-looking Japanese one-lunger. “Crapped out on me, didn’t it. Now the pig won’t even start.” Spots lit another fag; there were several butts around his feet.
Tinker parked up with a sigh. No point in asking if Spots carried tools. Every fastener on the bike metric of course, and the Vee’s kit standard American.
“I’m not stupid, you know,” protested Spots, who identified himself as Fred. Tinker nodded patiently, he hadn’t been checking for petrol. He’d removed the cap to eliminate vacuum lock but doubted the problem was fuel. Fred said it quit without warning clatters or gaspings. Sounded electrical, yet the starter had plenty juice—must be spark.
“Keep yer hair on,” Tinker grunted, applying his plug wrench. Felt like the damn thing had never been out. He tutted, and reached up to shove the offending article under Fred’s pimply nose. The electrode was worn to a nub and deposits clogged the airspace, the wonder was it had maintained the vital spark this long.
“Don’t suppose you got a spare?” Tinker inquired, Oh no, that would cost a pack of coffin nails, wouldn’t it? answering himself silently. For sure Fred wasn’t getting his hands on one of his spare silver-tip plugs.
Tinker stood up, towering over the little timewaster. “Look, I can’t work, piss, or fuck with someone staring over my shoulder. Take a five minute walk-about, do you good.”
Fred shuffled off oblivious to the joys of nature and, more importantly, Tinker’s craft.
“C’mon Pluto, walkies,” coaxed Tinker, slipping a hand-sized hole in reality from out of his inner pocket. It was his gift-familiar from Anarch, Lord of Chaos. That was a whole other story.
It quivered expectantly like ripples in a puddle of used fifty-weight oil as he stroked it. Pluto was a handy little tyke, play fetch all day. You can put your hands on anything inside a black hole—if you don’t mind vacuum hemorrhages and frostbite for the harder to reach items. Fortunately, Nippon plugs aren’t much of a stretch. Tinker had the new one fitted, with Pluto snuggled down and tools away, by the time Fred mooched his sad arse back.
The bike started briskly and Fred couldn’t let go of shaking Tinker’s hand, probably stuck on tight by the cold. “Warm heart,” explained Tinker, working his fingers. For fools, he thought, coming down on his extended I-beam kicker. “Now, promise me you’ll oil that rear chain, ride for a couple of miles, then readjust it,” Tinker shouted above the Vee’s pipes catarrhic rapping. “Oil ‘n filter change wouldn’t hurt either.” He engaged first gear.
“Thanks mate, I will,” Fred promised, nodding like a wind-up toy.No chance, Tinker reckoned. Wasting my breath.
Tinker let the Andrews first gear wind, hitting second at forty. It was time to blow out the carbon and do some catching up. Blasting around the bends, he recalled his own spotty days: never checking battery or tyres, clueless on adjusting chains, baffled by the black magic of electrics. Tinker had bothered his share of older, head-shaking mentors back then.
Oh well, he consoled himself, what goes around comes around.Some things don’t come around too often, like being summoned to test by the Grand Magus himself. Ignoring the rumble in his stomach and a suddenly dry mouth, Tinker sped past a cozy-looking country inn that boasted home-made lunches and real ale. Nothing but high moors till the next town too, especially on the short cut he was taking. Making time is like making magic, it takes sacrifices.
Tinker blasted over a rise and noted a ratty van parked up ahead in a small lay-by. Suddenly one of the rear doors flew open and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a young woman before hands pulled her back in. Her blouse was torn past the bra, a flash of pubic hair, blood on her face. It was only a moment; still, nothing like sex and violence for instant attention. Instant decision too. Tinker shut off the ignition and coasted up in silence. He eased the Vee over on its stand, felt the ‘big momma’ pendant he wore suspended over his heart throb with outrage. Right!
Adrenalin well-engaged, Tinker tore open the back doors and copped the deal in a flash. One yob on the job, another up front kneeling on her arms, sloppy seconds boy by the door just taking off his pants. Tinker grabbed this one and threw him face down on the ground. As the man tried to rise, a steel-capped engineer’s boot netted a winning goal and the score was one down.
The guy in front squawked and let go the girl’s arms. Unable to reach him, Tinker caught hold of the rapist’s pants, all tangled around his ankles. One good heave and he was off the nest, hands clawing at the bumper, dick in the dirt. Tinker got a handful of hair and slammed his head into the van’s tow ball a couple of times. Two down, one to go.
Suddenly, the van engine started and the third yobbo was slamming it into gear– fortunately first. Tinker just had time to get a grip of the girl before it shot away in a shower of gravel. Lying atop two defeated villains with a half-naked heroine wrapped around you is the stuff of knight-errantry and fairy tales. The reality is invariably meaner.
This damsel-in-distress was no blushing beauty even without her snot and blood smeared in with the streaked mascara. That reek of booze wasn’t just from the bullyboys either. Tinker’s cynical guess would be that it was party-time till she’d balked at group rates and things turned nasty. Still, he was the one that chose to play the hero; she was his responsibility now and the clock was ticking.
Tinker heaved the would-be rapist’s pants off.
“That’s right, lets give ‘im some of his own medicine,” snarled the girl. God knows what she had in mind.
Tinker held the pants out to her, she was a tall girl and the punk was three-penn’worth of chips. “Here, put these on, I’m not packing a Lady Godiva back to the pub.”
First thing she did was check for a wallet in the hip pocket. Restitution was clearly in order given her handbag, jeans and knickers were off in the van, all the same you’d think modesty would come first. Tinker shrugged and divested the other bloke of his pants, tossing the wallet to her like a bone. A healthy walkies in their Y-fronts would clear headaches and learn these jokers better manners.
Tinker left Margot, as she called herself, back at the bar happily counting her profits. He declined her tempting offer of a pint and the less tempting, yet more traditional, offer of her person.
Tinker was starting to feel like Alice’s white rabbit. Why do idiots invariably get under your feet when you’re in a rush? Even the Vee’s hundred inches were useless for catch-up on these back roads, and what the fuck for? A dim-bulb reaping the rewards of his neglect? A wheel-heels getting out of her depth with a clutch of yobs? It would be lame dogs wagging their tails beside stiles next. Well, they could cock their own legs for him. He was double late for a very important date and not stopping for nuffin.
This was all Magic John’s doing, as usual. The rotten bastard had put Tinker’s name forward for the big test, and the rules were most particular. All for John’s reputation of course, if his protégé was approved by the Grand Magus it would be a feather in his cap. On the other hand, if Tinker made a balls of it, it would be a feather up John’s arse and guess who would suffer?
Punctuality, John had emphasized that, the Magus’s time was very valuable—and here was Tinker dragging his butt, if you could call screaming down country twisties a drag.The Magus’s tower was coming into sight above the trees; it looked like some Victorian folly, yet Tinker knew it was far older and the only folly his tardiness. Just around the next bend and…
“Bloody hell!”
A car came barreling around the corner on Tinker’s side of the narrow road. Adrenalin went mainline and reality went slo-mo. He saw the Volvo driver dropping his cellular phone, wrenching the wheel over, just leaving enough of a gap. Tinker came off the binders, nearly high-siding, and powered through with a desperate fending-off kick against the car.
“Stitch that, ya bas!”
He made it, and slewed to a screeching halt just in time to catch a loud crash of metal and glass. The Volvo had center-punched a most unyielding tree. Tinker sure hoped that yuppie was wearing his seat belt—maybe not, now the foot was hurting.
He checked the wristwatch on his handlebars. Christ almighty! Fifteen minutes late already, any more and he might as well not bother.
Tinker was tempted to split. Killer dickhead had a cell phone, didn’t he? He could afford to pay for his own mistakes. But why doesn’t he get out of the fucking car? Tinker could smell the petrol from where he stood. Shitfire, there it goes!
Flames started beneath the Volvo; cars don’t blow up like in the movies, but they’ll roast you pretty good. Tinker threw off his helmet with a curse, kicked out the stand and limped over to the car. He was pleased to note it carried his boot mark on the door panel.
Mr. Volvo was slumped against the wheel, no belt so probably broken ribs and possible concussion. Smoke started to fill the compartment as Tinker wrenched at the door… locked from the inside. He made a tight fist in his gauntlet, and punched out the glass, wincing as the bones in his hand gave. Reaching in, he pulled the latch… Dammit!
C’mon, girlie-boy. Tinker’s frantic efforts nearly tore off the jammed door handle, but no luck. No time for magic either. Reaching in, he grabbed the unconscious man under the armpits and heaved him out through the smashed window.
Tripping, Tinker cracked his head, landing on his back with the man’s dead weight on top and petrol spreading everywhere. He jumped up cursing, and hurriedly dragged the yup away to safety. It seemed like there was a ringing in his ears, then Tinker realized it was the cell phone back in the car. He’d need that to call for help. Bugger it, here we go again.
Tinker limped back with the cell, slapping out smoulderings in his beard. He hit the button. “Hey arsehole, clear the line, this is important.”
“Oh, of course it is, Tinker,” said a peculiar voice. Like one you’d known forever, yet somehow couldn’t put a face to. “It’s only proper for you be the first to learn that you’ve passed.”
“How do you know my…?” Then the penny dropped, and so nearly did the phone. “I did what…?”
The yuppie at his feet stirred, his lips moved. “You passed the test, dummy,” issued the same voice—then the driver vanished.
Tinker gaped, staring around him. No body, no fire, no car. Come to think of it there hadn’t been a spottie broken down at the side of the road, no unlucky slag in the back of the wrong van. Nothing, there was only this cell phone in his hand.
“Don’t I even get to meet you, Grand Magus?” asked Tinker, noticing he couldn’t see the tower anymore.
The voice at his ear chuckled. “Oh no, young Tinker, it’s far too early for you. This was but a test of the man. Magic will test your skill soon enough.”
Tinker felt proper cheated, the past fortnight he’d been practicing spells like crazy and putting up with John acting the stage-mother. Now it had all just been a waste of time.
“There is, of course, a trophy,” continued the voice. “You may keep the mobile. With it you can call anyone, anywhere, anytime. They don’t even have to have a telephone–and they can’t hang up either, you could say it works at a cellular level.” There was another chuckle. “Oh, and we will meet eventually.” Then the line went dead.
Tinker stood in the road, staring at the phone. There was the stink of scorched beard in his nostrils. His hand ached, foot swelling inside his boot, heart going like a jingle bell.
Can’t hang up, eh? He hit the call button.“John,” he began. “Number one, I passed. Number two, I think it’s time I talked and you listened…”
