“Okay. Right,” said Stan, trying to be the calm voice of reason. “Dave, you do realise we’re trying to raise money to buy the farm, yeah? We do not have that amount of money to be giving away for prize money, as that would be counterproductive. You understand this, yes?”
“But you do,” replied Dave.
Stan glanced over to Frank, at a loss. “Dave,” he said. “Dave, we really don’t.”
Dave rubbed his hands together in delight. “I am very pleased, chaps, to tell you that we indeed do. You see, since one Guy Martin added his name to our little event, a lot of people have become very interested in signing up. We’ve spoken to the management at Jurby Race Track, and we’ve been given permission to have twenty-five vehicles on track at any given time. That can include sidecars, as well as vehicles of the four-wheeled variety. I’ve told them we’re going for vans. Entrants can, if they wish, race sidecars for a maximum of two hours and then for the remaining twenty-two it has to be in a van. To keep things on a fairly level playing field, the van has to be of the stock variety you could buy from your local dealer, and the only permitted alterations are suspension, tyres, and brakes. Oh, and racing seats and roll cages, of course — the usual racing safety equipment. Other than that, they’re completely standard so that it comes down to the ability of the driver. And three drivers per team, taking turns at the wheel in two-hour shifts. As for the sidecars, on the other hand, anything goes. The quicker the—”
“That’s all well and good, Dave,” Frank cut across. “But, you know, as to the certain matter of—”
“Ah. Well,” replied Dave. “Let me finish.”
“You never let him finish!” Monty interjected, chastising Frank, despite the fact that Frank was not routinely in the habit of preventing Dave from finishing anything.
“Fine,” Frank sighed. “Let’s hear it, then?”
Dave looked at Monty with a satisfied grin, and then back to Frank and Stan. He took a large breath before speaking, because this was big news he was about to deliver…
“I’ve told the people what have been in touch that there’s a ten-grand entry fee.”
“TEN GRAND!” screamed Stan, the voice of reason no longer, ejecting large chunks of doughnut from his mouth and sending them sailing through the air in the process. “Who in god’s name is going to pay TEN GRAND?? Dave, are you mental?”
“He’s mental,” Frank confirmed.
“They’ve already paid it, Stanley,” announced Monty, intent on getting some more words in.
“Who has?” scoffed Frank.
“They has,” replied Dave, pulling a bank statement from his pocket and holding it out for inspection. “We’re fully subscribed. The race sold out in less than a day. So you see? Fifty grand in prize money is not at all unreasonable when compared to the entrance fee everyone’s paid.”
“You’re taking the piss?” asked Frank.
“You’re having us on, surely?” echoed Stan.
Dave shook his head. “I’m not. And I wouldn’t. Not about this. Excluding our own entry, we’ve had twenty-four people paying ten grand a pop. We’ve currently got one hundred and ninety thousand pounds, all told, after you take out for the prize money.”
“I’m feeling faint,” declared Stan, back of the hand pressed to his forehead. “Frank, is the room spinning or is it just me?” But Frank was too busy to answer, himself holding on tightly to his desk in an effort to combat the sudden vertigo.
“Have some sugar,” suggested Monty helpfully, handing over another doughnut to Stan.
“I don’t like this kind,” said Stan, handing it back. He was overcome with emotion, yes, but not so overcome that he couldn’t recognise a doughnut preference. “I was hoping for another custard-filled?” he asked hopefully. “And if there aren’t any more of those, a jelly-filled would be lovely.”
With Stan tucking into a fresh doughnut, preoccupied and content for the moment, Dave went on. “If you think about it,” he said. “That amount of money isn’t that much. These guys are going to have their vans on the track for a full day. But, the vans’ll be plastered with advertising, don’t forget. So they’ll be getting loads of exposure.”
“Loads,” Monty added.
“Plus,” Dave continued, “if this thing really takes off, they can say that they were in at ground floor on it and have bragging rights. Hence, the enthusiastic response.”
Frank looked punch-drunk. “I’m staggered. Honestly, boys, I’m staggered. In my head I’d all but written the farm off, thinking there wasn’t a snowball in hell’s chance of getting the money. But that’s nearly half raised, and in less than four days!”
“Don’t forget the money from ITV Channel 3 for covering the event,” added Dave, finger aloft.
Frank sidled over to Dave and Monty, scooping them up into his arms — which was no easy task, as both fellows were rather large. “ITV are covering this?” he exclaimed. “I say again, you are taking the piss?”
“Okay, look,” said Dave. “How about the two of you just agree to take whatever we say as gospel truth for the next ten minutes, all right? Then we can get through a bit quicker?”
There were no objections.
“Right. That reporter, Jenny, who interviewed us before, she got in touch. Once Guy Martin and Peter Hickman were on board, she had no problem convincing her bosses, it would seem, of covering the event. It’s a high-profile event with them lads involved, so likely to get a good viewing audience, which is why they’re willing to pay for the honour of covering the event. So that’s fifty grand we’ll be getting from them.”
“Go to the foot of the st–! Sorry, nevermind,” Frank replied, immediately correcting himself.
“Hang on. Who’s Peter Hickman?” asked Stan.
“Who’s Peter…? Is that a deplorable question, Stan?” Monty asked, confused.
“You mean rhetorical?” said Stan.
“No, deplorable,” Monty answered him.
“He’s not wrong,” offered up Dave, agreeing with Monty.
“He’s in the TT, Stan,” explained Monty, unsure if this was some kind of test.
“Ah,” said Stan, giving a knowing sort of nod, though he remained entirely clueless. “Is he, em… any good, then? This Peter Hickman?”
Dave’s eyes narrowed. “You do watch the solo machines in the TT, Stan, don’t you? Peter Hickman, as you should be well aware, is pretty damned quick. You could say he knows his way around a racetrack, to put it mildly.”
“Ah! Yes! That Peter Hickman!” replied Stan, with unconvincing assurance. “Why didn’t you say so at the start?” he said, quickly performing a somewhat-less-than-discrete internet search on his phone. “Just, ah… checking for messages here,” he told them. “Don’t mind me. Carry on.”
“How many people are going to enter sidecars?” enquired Frank, leaving Stan to his devices.
“Four,” replied Dave succinctly, with an impressive, professional finger on the pulse, not often witnessed previously. “The teams entering sidecars are the ones with a special eye on first prize. Including our own Team Frank & Stan. Sidecars are only permitted for a maximum of two hours, remember. So tactics will come into play for when they’re used.”
Monty jumped in at this point. He was feeling like he hadn’t spoken for a bit. “Henk’s also on board,” he told the others. “He thinks it’s an amazing idea, this whole thing, so he’s got the McMullan brothers together again on his team, since Harry knows by now that Dave and me are reunited.” Monty sniffed. “Dave and Monty reunited,” he repeated, savouring the sound of it.
Dave laughed. Not at Monty’s sentimentality, but at the final point he’d made. “He really took it well, being dumped in favour of a fat bastard as replacement His ego must’ve loved that,” he remarked. “No offence, mate,” he said to Monty.
“None taken,” replied Monty, patting his belly contentedly.
“You told him, Dave?” asked Frank. “Harry?”
“No, not at all. He must hav
e seen that interview we did. Or Henk told him. Either way. You want to hear something interesting, though? That gobshite, Rodney Franks, had the nerve to try and enter a team into the race! The cheek of that… that…” he said, searching for the right expression. “What was it that Henk called him?” he asked.
“Among other things? Very low-hanging scrotum,” Stan offered up with a chuckle.
“Cheek, indeed,” Monty said, underscoring Dave’s words.
“You told him to piss off?” asked Frank.
“Sure. He tried to get someone to enter on his behalf,” Dave told him. “Because of course he knew we’d do precisely that. Tell him to fuck right off, that is. But I knew the guy was a stooge for Franks the moment I saw him, so told them in no uncertain terms just where to go.”
“Just there,” Monty added, pointing down, to the bowels of the earth, lest any doubt remain.
“Henk was particularly pleased when we relayed this to him,” Dave went on. “Speaking of Henk, the only downside, to be sure, of Harry and me parting ways is that glorious sidecar the two of us won the TT with. It will of course be following him back into Henk’s team. And that means Monty and I will be back on our own trusty little machine. We’ll crack on, though, eh, Monty?”
“Sure will, Dave. We’ll be cracking on like… like a thing that cracks quite a lot,” Monty replied.
“Well said,” Dave answered him.
“Don’t forget, Dave,” Monty advised him. “You need to ask them about the… the thing.”
Dave stared back blankly.
“You know,” Monty prodded. “The thing.”
Dave was still staring blankly.
“The thingy,” Monty told him. “The THINGY.”
“Oh the thingy!” Dave came back, realisation finally striking. “Ah. Yes. Good point. The thingy. You see…” Dave said, now turning to Stan and Frank… “The thing is, chaps, we find ourselves at somewhat of a loss here,” he went on.
“A loss,” Monty added.
“As we’ve got a sidecar to race with but haven’t got a van,” Dave explained.
“It was only your idea for the race to be in vans!” Frank scolded him, though not angrily. “What do you think, Stan?”
“It’s the least we can do, boys,” Stan said, entering in. “I’ve had my eye on a VW Transporter, actually, for the farm. And so if you don’t end up trashing it, we can use the van for the farm when you’re done with it,” he pronounced sagely.
Dave grinned. “Us, trash a van in a mere twenty-four-hour race? Perish the thought.”
“Whatever happens, boys, Stan and I are very impressed with what you’ve done with all this. Seriously impressed. Proper impressed. And you’re involved in something great here. I don’t mean the racing, so much, but rather the farm. You and Monty are part of a legacy, and one I’m sure you’ll both continue to be a part of long after me and this one are long gone. At the risk of sounding maudlin, well done, lads. And I mean that sincerely. Unbelievable work. And to think, when I first suggested that you lot come and work with us on the farm, Stan told me it was a bad idea, and that you pair were a couple of bumbling idiots.”
“Hold on!” Stan protested. “I’m pretty sure it was you who said as much!”
“Minor details,” Frank replied, shrugging off Stan’s desperate remonstrations. “That’s always been your problem, Stan,” Frank chided him playfully. “You’re forever focussed on the minor details but ignoring of the larger, grander picture.”
“Yes, that’s always my problem, all right,” replied Stan, rolling his eyes.
“It’s okay,” Dave told them, finally. “We are idiots,” he said thoughtfully. “But we’re your idiots. And you, ours.”
The phone had continued to ring for the next few days, and having to declare that the entry list was full ripped Dave’s insides out, for he knew how much more money could be gotten for the farm had the race been on a larger scale.
The problem here was that there was but one purpose-built racetrack on the Isle of Man, and that was Jurby, where the event was due to take place. The other blue-ribband racing events on the Isle, such as the TT and the Southern 100, took place on public roads that were closed for the purposes of those particular events. The Isle of Man government were particularly eager to promote motorsport on the Island, and the Billown Circuit — home of the Southern 100 — would have been ideal at a little over 4.25 miles in length, accommodating an increased entry list perfectly. Unfortunately, when Dave pitched the idea to close the roads for twenty-four hours, a twenty-four hours not in July and for purposes strictly related to the Southern 100, the only response he got was for those on the other side of the desk to laugh and to continue to do so even as Dave left the building in defeat. Still, the Jurby circuit was perfect for their present needs, and as Monty said at the time, if the event grew in stature, then the Billown Circuit might still be a possibility for a future running.
It was evening, and Dave turned the pink Nissan Micra he was driving into the farmhouse drive. Dave slowed sufficiently as he made his way up the drive, allowing he and Monty a moment to admire their handiwork, the fence they’d erected the previous day. They really were embracing this working outdoor life of theirs. “Frank and Stan must be here,” Dave declared. “The lights are on.”
Monty hopped out as Dave parked. It was dark, aside from the farmhouse’s interior illumination spilling out, casting a gentle orange glow over the courtyard. “But their car isn’t here, and the builders look like they’ve long since gone,” Monty said, stepping back and letting Dave take the lead while he maintained safe cover behind. “What if it’s a burglar?”
“I don’t think burglars put the lights on, Monty,” Dave offered.
“They do if they want to get a proper look at what to steal,” Monty countered, remaining unconvinced.
“Come on,” Dave told him. “We’ve work to do on the sidecar. She needs to be purring like a kitten come race day. It’s quite handy being able to store it up here, don’t you think?”
“I’ve just seen someone,” declared Monty, pointing up to the second floor of the farmhouse. “Seriously, Dave. Walking past the window,” he said, breathing a little heavier now.
“Monty, you’re hurting my arm,” Dave told him. “Can you let go of it, please?” Dave looked up, briefly, but his attention was drawn to the barn, instead, where a thin strip of light shone out from around the frame of the closed door. “Someone’s in our sidecar shed,” he said gravely.
Dave picked up a garden gnome, holding it like a cudgel.
“Come on, Monty. Here’s the plan, ay? You open the door, head in, and I’ll have your back. Right? Right.”
Monty gave a stifled cry. “Not the gnome!”
“Sorry, I forgot,” Dave had to assure him. “Look, I’ll just brandish it about, right? I won’t hurt it, I promise.”
“Well if you promise,” Monty reluctantly acquiesced. “But I’m not going in first. You should. You’re bigger, plus you’re armed.”
“It’s a gnome, Monty, it’s not exactly an M16. But, whatever. You open the door, yeah? And then I’ll pounce in, okay? Right. Are you ready? After four.”
“After four?” replied Monty, suddenly sceptical. “I thought it was three? It should always be on the count of three! That’s how these things are done!” Monty held onto the door handle, not moving, his confidence — such as it was — now thrown off, and uncertain if he wished to continue. Especially what with Dave throwing a spanner into the works with his oddly improper counting and all. “Should we phone someone?” he proposed tentatively. “Might that be the best course of action?”
“Like who?” asked Dave. “Phone the police? And tell them what, exactly? That someone’s left the lights on?”
“If wasting electricity isn’t a crime, well then it should be!” Monty answered. “Hang on. What was that noise?”
“What noise, Monty?”
The sounds of passing cars could be heard off in the distance, further up
the lane. But, now, with both their ears pressed up against the wooden door, something entirely more nefarious was revealed — a hideous rasping noise, like the dead risen from their graves, bones scraping together as they moved impossibly about.
“It sounds like it could maybe be a horse farting?” suggested Monty, searching desperately for some sort of rational explanation.
“If that’s a horse passing gas then the only person you should be phoning is a vet, Monty,” Dave countered.
They listened on, and there it was again, a high-pitched rasping — only this time it was followed by what sounded very much like laughter. It was an eerie, haunting kind of laughter, clearly not of this ordinary corporeal world.
Dave stared at Monty, and Monty stared at Dave, as they tried to interpret what they were hearing in any type of way that could conceivably make sense.
“There’s someone, or something, in there,” whispered a terrified Monty. But then, mustering a small degree of sense, and seeking a more worldly explanation for their perception, he asked, “What if it’s the McMullan brothers broken in, and they’re trying to sabotage our sidecar ahead of the race?”
“I like your enthusiasm, Monty,” Dave answered him. “But I don’t think the McMullans see us as that much of a threat, mate, to be honest.” But the clang of something that was obviously metal dropping onto the floor interrupted him. “Right. That’s no ghost, then. Open the door, Monty. I’m going in.”
Dave readied himself with a series of deep breaths. His hands took hold of the gnome’s crotch, pressing firmly, and stroking it like a worry stone, in a manner that was both comforting and perhaps a bit inappropriate. Monty nodded his approval. “I’m going in, Monty,” Dave said again, his mind made up. “After four,” he told Monty. And, then, with no preamble… “Four!”
Monty did his part, as instructed, present counting debacle notwithstanding.
“Rraaaaahgggg!” screamed Dave, opting for the shock-and-awe tactics he hoped might subdue any intruder. But he progressed no further than six or seven feet before his right leg caught a toolbox, sending him arse-over-tit in a sprawling heap. “Man down!” he yelled. “Man down! Send in the reinforcements!”
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 17