Mike Dixon

They reached the creek and crashed into it. Mud sprayed
over the windscreen and Barry drove blind until the wipers
cleared it off. The creek was dry but littered with debris from
the recent rains. The van bounced over the smaller bits and
rode up the bank to avoid the larger. David was thrown
around like a lump of meat on a chain. The handcuff bit into
his wrist and blood ran down his arm.
„You‟re breaking my arm!‟
He screamed and the van slowed. At first, he thought it
was out of concern for his safety. Then he realized they
wanted to gloat over his misfortune.
Clive turned and sneered at him. „You enjoyed that didn‟t
you, kid?‟ He dug Barry in the ribs. „Do it again. Give him
some more fun.‟
They took off, throwing up mud and stones.
David clasped the handcuff with his free hand and held it
in a vice-like grip, determined to avoid further injury. His
torment ended when they rounded a bend and hit a rock.
„You‟ve broken my wrist!‟
He screamed and held up a bloodied arm.
„Shut up! Or I‟ll break the other one.‟
Clive got out of the van and went round to the front with
Barry. David watched them coldly, assessing every move.
They knew something about off-road driving and their gun
handling skills were good. But it didn‟t go far beyond that. In
the final analysis, they were a pair of yobbos. Sooner or lat-
er they‟d make a mistake.
Clive took a sledgehammer from the tool compartment
and used it against the bodywork of the van. David guessed
the mudguard was crushed against the tire and needed to be
forced clear. More blows were used than necessary and the
aim was none too good.
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