A serialised novel concerning love, hate, and revenge.

     ‘What do you mean, a few ti…’

     She never completed the question, for the sudden acceleration left her breathless. I’d spotted a strategic gap in the mass of traffic, and a second later we were part of the continuous, unofficial Grand Prix that is the norm at Hanger Lane. I slowed the Kawasaki as we approached the first set of lights. As I’d hoped, they changed from green to amber; I pulled up virtuously, to an angry blast from a Porsche Carrerra behind us.

     ‘Aren’t some folk impatient!’ I commented. ‘Now if he had a motorbike, he could have pulled out and overtaken us. What a pity he’s in a car.’

     ‘I like the way you assume it’s a man,’ responded Ellie. ‘It is, as it happens – I just looked – but it didn’t have to be.’

     ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I said. ‘Assuming all drivers are male until proved otherwise is a habit that will take years to change. It isn’t just me, you know. What do you think of H.L.G. so far?’

     ‘There’s enough lanes to the thing,’ Ellie said. ‘Five, for goodness’ sake!’

     ‘That’s just to soften you up,’ I replied. ‘It gets better further round.’

     The lights changed. Having found someone obnoxious to annoy, I moved off gently, at a rate typical for a moped. The Porsche driver followed hard on my tail, his engine revving noisily, but the tightly-packed vehicles prevented him from passing us. We soon reached the next lights, which were also just changing. I slowed and stopped as before. The painstakingly-built wonder of German motor technology was subjected to another dose of high revs, but this time the driver refrained from sounding his horn.

     ‘Good grief,’ breathed Ellie at the sight of eight lanes stretching ahead of us, ‘it’s like the start of the chariot race in Ben-Hur.’

     ‘Dammit,’ I expostulated, ‘I knew I’d forgotten something – the knives on the wheels.’

     ‘On a motorbike? That would be quite a feat of engineering,’ she said dryly. ‘And I hope you’re not thinking of making this nine times round the arena – we don’t want to end up like Messala.’

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