Do it now.” He releases Dennis, who looks around him with dazed eyes, noting the elderly white Ford Transit van and the pasty-faced youth with the lip-piercing at the wheel.

The remaining color drains from Dennis’s face. “I’m here for a friend, squire, who needs to talk to you. “Stand still, yeah? Don’t want to hurt you.” Dennis writhes, but the grip on his arm is unyielding. With his spare hand, he removes Dennis’s cycle helmet and drops it on the fallen bike. Need your attention.” Dennis’s captor is fortyish, with the features of a well-groomed rat, and smells of stale cigarette smoke.

Dennis opens his mouth to speak, but is silenced by a vicious short-arm punch to the gut. Then, incomprehensibly, a steel-strong hand grabs his arm and wrenches him to a halt, the bike skidding to the ground beneath him. She’s naked, except for a pair of fluffy white tennis socks, and her gym-toned legs are invitingly parted. In his mind, Gabi is waiting for him on a king-size bed in the master cabin of a superyacht. As the big chords punch home, Dennis’s heart begins to pound. God, he wishes he was going home to her right now, rather than to Penny, with her diet-drained body and her incessant fault-finding.Īs if on cue, as he glides the final hundred meters, the “Eye of the Tiger” theme from Rocky III kicks in on the Bluetooth player in his cycling helmet. Which is where he needs it, given Gabi’s raging libido. Keeps his ear to the street and the blood racing through his veins. Before he knows it, he’ll be one of those paunchy old shags propping up the Thames House bar, nursing his Laphroaig and complaining about how much better things were before the fembots in HR took over.Ĭycling helps keep Dennis in touch. Tempting of course, status-wise, but a slippery slope.

Cycling keeps him lean and mean, and, incidentally, looking pretty damn sportif in his form-fitting Lycra shorts and tactical-fabric jersey, given that he’s going to be forty-eight next birthday.Īs the director of D4 Branch at MI5, responsible for counter-espionage against Russia and China, Dennis has reached a level of seniority where he can, if he wishes, get chauffeured home in one of the Service’s fleet of anonymous, mid-range vehicles. The hard cross-town ride satisfies the Spartan in him. It’s something that he would hesitate to confide to his colleagues or his family, but Dennis sees himself as the upholder of certain values. It’s a longish ride from the office to his north London home, but he’s made good time. Cruising through Muswell Hill on his carbon-framed bike, his hands resting lightly on the alloy handlebars, Dennis Cradle feels a pleasing exhaustion.

No Tomorrow by Luke Jennings