When Crombie pulled in and saw the parking lot on the clubhouse driveway, he realised the shit may be spraying the fan harder than he expected. He’d been up half the night turning his predicament over in his brain, searching for a tunnel out of the hole he’d dug himself - but now he was going to have to explain himself in front of almost the entire club.

He wedged his bike into the last remaining sliver of space on the concrete, although the lack of space helped to keep the dents in his muffler and rear wheelguard out of view.

He’d decided the trick was to pretend it was business as usual, then figure out a way to get the fuck out of Dodge. He pulled his helmet off and donned a fake smile.

Everyone was in the shed out the back. With Crombie’s arrival, almost the entire membership of the club was present, all crammed in around the central table, now free of the usual mounds of powder, plastic bottles of chemicals, glass tubing and burners. With the lab’s bright lights and 14 bodies squeezed inside its walls, the can was starting to cook. A wall of sweaty heat greeted Crombie as he swung open the door.

Dimmick looked up. “Brother Crumbles. Now here’s a soldier who’s willing to put in for the team. All you supposed hard men take fuckin’ note.” He dropped a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, and it strayed to the back of his neck. He shook him for emphasis. Crombie could feel his face wobble.

“This man has created one market from fuckin’ scratch, and was instrumental in getting our major one off the ground.”

He turned to Crombie. “You got our gear, soldier?”

A deer in the headlights with its hoofs nailed to the road. Crombie wanted to lie, but he knew his face had betrayed him.

“Fuck! Not you too! What?”

“The papers are no problem; they’re just copies I can do again… But they took them, and the peth. I can get more.”

“Who? If you tell me it was that cricket clown and the fat man…”

Crombie nodded and concentrated on keeping his bottom lip from quivering.

“So these guys are about to cost us the twenty-k from the Eurotrash army - who are losing patience rapidly by the way,” he looked around the room, “and they’re holding how many grand’s worth of juice, for a DVD player and a pile of fucking CDs we don’t even have? Are they the death wish twins?!”

Crombie found his voice. “They didn’t mention an exchange or anything.”

Dimmick smoothed a hand over his mullet but left one on Crombie’s neck. “Gaz, Bull, Nick, D.J. we’re going to finish these two motherfucking worms. We’re going to get our juice back, then we’re going to carve holes in them until we find out where that Honen cunt is, and then we’re going to do a Milat on them up some fire trail in Belangelo Forest.” He squeezed. “You’re coming to help too, Crumb-bum. Be good for you to see that, maybe dig a grave.”