FLASH FICTION:WE'RE UNDER THE bridge, drinking the last of the cans, when Connors says, "So, will we rob Doyler's bike then?" Reilly bites. "Sure . . sure, what diya want his bike for anyway?"
“Ta ride off into the sunset,” says I, trying to sound like John Wayne. “Ta sell,” says Connors. “Ta sell, ya eejit.”
Reilly thinks about it, takes a sup, and it’s like his head is about to fall off with all the wobbling. “Ta who?” he says. “I dunno,” says Connors, shaking his can, and there’s only a sup left. “How about yer sister?”
“I reckon she’s good for a ride already,” I jumps in. “F**k . . . f**k off, you,”stutters Reilly.
“How about the bike shop then?” says Connors, laughing. “What about it?” says Reilly. “They take trade-ins, don’t they?” “Trade-ins?” “Yea.” Reilly thinks about it, watching the river.
“Would they take his sister?” says I. “Now f**k . . . f**k-head, I’m warning you,” says Reilly, pointing the finger.
Connors waits till Reilly’s settled. “We might get more for her than Doyler’s bike all the same,” he says then. “Now f**k . . . f**king f**k-face,” says Reilly, pointing the finger again. Connors laughs, sups and throws his can in the river. With the tide on the way out it’s gone in the flash. He stands, straightens up the trousers.
“I’m going to look for Doyler,” he says. “Are ye coming?” I look to Reilly, but he’s still watching the river, his head still wobbling, as if it’s bobbing up and down. I stand, slap the muck off me arse and fasten me coat. “Are ya coming?” Connors says again. But Reilly doesn’t stir.
Uptown meself and Connors spot Doyler’s bike outside the baker’s on Church Street.
“I tauld ya,” says Connors, “he’s fond of the eclairs, so he is.”
“A right gob on him for eclairs,” says I.
Connors runs down the path. I keep watch on the corner. Connors takes a look inside the shop, hops on the bike and pushes off. He tears down Church Street and I lose sight of him when he turns down Castle Hill. I run a few steps, but me heart starts pumping so fast I can hear it, and it feels like the top of me head’ll burst.
There’s a crowd gathering on the little roundabout at the bottom of the hill. The traffic’s stopped. The bike’s lying this side of a Ford Focus, and it’s like Connors thought he was Evel Knievel but forgot to put up the ramp. Someone says they should call an ambulance. Someone else says they should call the guards.
Reilly waddles out of the crowd, heads straight for the bike. He lifts it, looks it up and down. A trucker blows his horn, but Reilly ignores it, like he can’t even hear it.
“Reilly,” I shouts, running down the rest of hill, “hauld on there.” But Reilly throws the leg over and pushes off, himself and the handlebars navigating down towards the quay, wobbling away from me.
