Bite by Nick Louth Read Free Book Online

Erica sneak out for a midnight assignation with a conference deadline breathing down her neck?
    He put on his shoes and walked out to the hire car. The green Polo was parked way up on the right, on one of hundreds of identical oblique metered bays squeezed between the narrow cobbled street and the edge of the canal.
    When he was within seventy yards of the bay, Max saw a woman with long, wavy brown hair and a very short blue skirt. She was leaning over rummaging under the boot of a wheelclamped car. From it she picked up a grey plastic object the size of a large book, inserted it into a plastic bag and fixed it to the carrier of a bicycle. Max felt some sympathy, having himself had to feed the damn meter every few hours since he arrived. The woman mounted her bike, a rust heap painted pink, and rode past him, a balky pedal clicking each time she pressed on it. Max’s gaze lingered on her shapely figure as she went.
    The moment Max got to the parking bay he realised the clamped car was a green Polo. He checked the key fob against the licence plate. It was his car. He’d just been robbed. In broad daylight. The grey plastic object – that must be Erica’s laptop. It couldn’t be anything else.
    Max cursed soundlessly and sprinted along the deserted street after her. The thief was now a good hundred yards away, moving steadily, unaware of his pursuit. At sixteen Max had clocked a hundred yards in 11.8 seconds. That was a lot of beers and TV dinners ago. He pumped his arms, but stayed short of flat out. That was the only way to keep on the outside edges and toes of his sneakers. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him and accelerate away.
    The gap was down to forty yards before she turned, her face wide in surprise. She leaned forward and pumped hard on the pedals, tanned legs working. Click, click, click. The bike was accelerating, rattling over the cobbles. As he closed to twenty, she began hauling on the handlebars, pressing her torso forward to get every ounce out of the aged bike. Max was close enough to hear the scrape of the oilless chain, to see the foam stuffing protruding from the split saddle, to watch the warped back wheel wobble, her long legs and shapely bottom giving their all.
    A couple of hundred yards ahead a Mercedes taxi was clattering along the cobbles towards them, taking up the whole of the narrow street. A last hope. Max put on an extra spurt, but knew it wouldn’t last long. When he got within ten yards she stood and pounded the pedals. Her skirt hem flared behind her, revealing colourful panties printed with cartoon characters. He recognised Bugs Bunny and Road Runner.
    She was on a collision course with the car, but at the last moment, as its horn blared, she flicked her bike to the left, bucked it expertly up the kerb between bollards to a narrow pavement, then down again after the cab passed. Max jumped aside as the taxi ploughed past. The woman now had a choice of bridges, left or right, or could head straight on to the stop lights, a wider road where the tram route ran. She turned left.
    Max’s heart was pounding and his breath was coming in raw bursts. As he rounded the corner his spirits lifted. Three noisy British youths, Heineken handed and Malboro mouthed, were just starting onto the bridge. The woman tinged the bicycle bell as she crested the bridge and freewheeled down towards them, hair streaming.
    â€˜Stop her! She’s a thief,’ Max bellowed.
    They laughed as they scattered, whistling after her. One turned to Max. ‘Stole yer best racing bike did she, man? Best give up the tabs if you wannae catcha.’
    Fuck you, thought Max as he ground to a halt. Fuck you. But even as a non-smoker he hadn’t the breath to say it.
    The woman freewheeled left along the next canal-side street, looking over her shoulder just once before turning right into a narrow alleyway. Max jogged to the alleyway, holding his side. He rounded the corner, holding the