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Drumsticks!
The speeding motorcycle took the sharp corner so fast in the
darkness that both policemen in the pursuing car shouted 'Whoa!' Sergeant Fisher
slammed his large foot on the brake, thinking that the boy who was riding
pillion was sure to be flump under his wheels; however, the motorbike made the
turn without unseating either of its riders, and with a wink of its red tail
light, vanished up the narrow side street.
'We've got 'em now!' cried PC
Anderson excitedly. 'That's a dead end!'
Leaning hard on the steering
wheel and crashing his gears, Fisher scraped half the paint off the flank of the
car as he forced it up the alleyway in pursuit.
There in the headlights
sat their quarry, stationary at last after a quarter of an hour's chase. The two
riders were trapped between a towering brick wall and the police car, which was
now crawling towards them like some growling, luminous-eyed
predator.
There was so little space between the car doors and the walls
of the alley that Fisher and Anderson had difficulty extricating themselves from
the vehicle. It injured their dignity to have to inch, crab-like, towards the
miscreants. Fisher dragged his generous belly along the wall, tearing buttons
off his shirt as he went, and finally snapping off the wing mirror with his
backside.
'Get off the bike!' he bellowed at the smirking youths, who sat
basking in the flashing blue light as though enjoying it.
They did as
they were told. Finally pulling free from the broken wing mirror, Fisher glared
at them. They seemed to be in their late teens. The one who had been driving had
long black hair; his insolent good looks reminded Fisher unpleasantly of his
daughter's guitar playing, layabout boyfriend. The second boy also had black
hair, though his was short and stuck up in all directions; he wore glasses and a
broad grin. Both were dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with a large golden bird;
the emblem, no doubt, of some deafening, tuneless rock band.
'No
helmets!' Fisher yelled, pointing from one uncovered head to the other.
'Exceeding the speed limit by -- by a considerable amount!' (In fact, the speed
registered had been greater than Fisher was prepared to accept that any
motorcycle could travel.) 'Failing to stop for the police!'
'We'd have
loved to stop for a chat,' said the boy in glasses, 'only we were
trying--'
'Don't get smart -- you two are in a heap of trouble!' snarled
Anderson. 'Names!'
'Names?' repeated the long-haired driver. 'Er -- well,
let's see. There's Wilberforce... Bathsheba... Elvendork...'
'And what's
nice about that one is, you can use it for a boy or a girl,' said the boy in
glasses.
'Oh, our names, did you mean?' asked the first, as Anderson
splutered with rage. 'You should've said! This is James Potter, and I'm Sirius
Black!'
'Things'll be seriously black for you in a minute, you cheeky
The speeding motorcycle took the sharp corner so fast in the
darkness that both policemen in the pursuing car shouted 'Whoa!' Sergeant Fisher
slammed his large foot on the brake, thinking that the boy who was riding
pillion was sure to be flump under his wheels; however, the motorbike made the
turn without unseating either of its riders, and with a wink of its red tail
light, vanished up the narrow side street.
'We've got 'em now!' cried PC
Anderson excitedly. 'That's a dead end!'
Leaning hard on the steering
wheel and crashing his gears, Fisher scraped half the paint off the flank of the
car as he forced it up the alleyway in pursuit.
There in the headlights
sat their quarry, stationary at last after a quarter of an hour's chase. The two
riders were trapped between a towering brick wall and the police car, which was
now crawling towards them like some growling, luminous-eyed
predator.
There was so little space between the car doors and the walls
of the alley that Fisher and Anderson had difficulty extricating themselves from
the vehicle. It injured their dignity to have to inch, crab-like, towards the
miscreants. Fisher dragged his generous belly along the wall, tearing buttons
off his shirt as he went, and finally snapping off the wing mirror with his
backside.
'Get off the bike!' he bellowed at the smirking youths, who sat
basking in the flashing blue light as though enjoying it.
They did as
they were told. Finally pulling free from the broken wing mirror, Fisher glared
at them. They seemed to be in their late teens. The one who had been driving had
long black hair; his insolent good looks reminded Fisher unpleasantly of his
daughter's guitar playing, layabout boyfriend. The second boy also had black
hair, though his was short and stuck up in all directions; he wore glasses and a
broad grin. Both were dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with a large golden bird;
the emblem, no doubt, of some deafening, tuneless rock band.
'No
helmets!' Fisher yelled, pointing from one uncovered head to the other.
'Exceeding the speed limit by -- by a considerable amount!' (In fact, the speed
registered had been greater than Fisher was prepared to accept that any
motorcycle could travel.) 'Failing to stop for the police!'
'We'd have
loved to stop for a chat,' said the boy in glasses, 'only we were
trying--'
'Don't get smart -- you two are in a heap of trouble!' snarled
Anderson. 'Names!'
'Names?' repeated the long-haired driver. 'Er -- well,
let's see. There's Wilberforce... Bathsheba... Elvendork...'
'And what's
nice about that one is, you can use it for a boy or a girl,' said the boy in
glasses.
'Oh, our names, did you mean?' asked the first, as Anderson
splutered with rage. 'You should've said! This is James Potter, and I'm Sirius
Black!'
'Things'll be seriously black for you in a minute, you cheeky
little--'
But neither James nor Sirius was paying attention. They were
suddenly alert as guardogs, staring past Fisher and Anderson, over the roof of
the police car, at the dark mouth of the alleyway. Then, with identical fluid
movements, they reached into their back pockets.
For the space of a
heartbeat both policemen imagined guns gleaming at them, but a second later they
saw that the motorcyclists had drawn nothing more than--
'Drumsticks?'
jeered Anderson. 'Right pair of jokers, aren't you? Right, we're arresting you
on a charge of--'
But Anderson never got to the name of the charge. James
and Sirius had shouted something incomprehensible, and the beams from the
headlights had moved.
The policemen wheeled around, then staggered
backwards. Three men were flying -- actually flying -- up the alley on
broomsticks - and at the same moment, the police car was rearing up on its back
wheels.
Fisher's knees buckled, he sat down hard; Anderson tripped over
Fisher's legs and fell on top of him, flump -- bump -- crunch -- they heard the
men on broomsticks slam into the upended car and fall, apparently insensible, to
the ground, while broken bits of broomstick clattered down around
them.
The motorbike had roared to life again. His mouth hanging open,
Fisher mustered the strength to look back at the two teenagers.
'Thanks
very much!' called Sirius over the throb of the engine. 'We owe you
one!'
'Yeah, nice meeting you!' said James. 'And don't forget: Elvendork!
It's unisex!'
There was an earth-shaking crash, and Fisher and Anderson
threw their arms around each other in fright; their car had just fallen back to
the ground. Now it was the motorcycle's turn to rear. Before the policemen's
disbelieving eyes, it took off into thin air; James and Sirius zoomed away into
the night sky, their tail light twinkling behind them like a vanishing
ruby.
From the prequel I am not working on -- but that was fun!
JK
Rowling, 2008
But neither James nor Sirius was paying attention. They were
suddenly alert as guardogs, staring past Fisher and Anderson, over the roof of
the police car, at the dark mouth of the alleyway. Then, with identical fluid
movements, they reached into their back pockets.
For the space of a
heartbeat both policemen imagined guns gleaming at them, but a second later they
saw that the motorcyclists had drawn nothing more than--
'Drumsticks?'
jeered Anderson. 'Right pair of jokers, aren't you? Right, we're arresting you
on a charge of--'
But Anderson never got to the name of the charge. James
and Sirius had shouted something incomprehensible, and the beams from the
headlights had moved.
The policemen wheeled around, then staggered
backwards. Three men were flying -- actually flying -- up the alley on
broomsticks - and at the same moment, the police car was rearing up on its back
wheels.
Fisher's knees buckled, he sat down hard; Anderson tripped over
Fisher's legs and fell on top of him, flump -- bump -- crunch -- they heard the
men on broomsticks slam into the upended car and fall, apparently insensible, to
the ground, while broken bits of broomstick clattered down around
them.
The motorbike had roared to life again. His mouth hanging open,
Fisher mustered the strength to look back at the two teenagers.
'Thanks
very much!' called Sirius over the throb of the engine. 'We owe you
one!'
'Yeah, nice meeting you!' said James. 'And don't forget: Elvendork!
It's unisex!'
There was an earth-shaking crash, and Fisher and Anderson
threw their arms around each other in fright; their car had just fallen back to
the ground. Now it was the motorcycle's turn to rear. Before the policemen's
disbelieving eyes, it took off into thin air; James and Sirius zoomed away into
the night sky, their tail light twinkling behind them like a vanishing
ruby.
From the prequel I am not working on -- but that was fun!
JK
Rowling, 2008
