The gravel spits against the aluminium skid plate. A fox stops dead in the headlights, its eyes two green coins, then vanishes into the ditch.
There is a derelict shellfish processing plant here. Corrugated iron, broken windows, a smell of rot. The trike rolls to a stop behind a stack of pallets. Byrne cuts the engine. The silence rushes back in. Trike Patrol - Irish
His partner tonight is Garda Aoife Ní Raghallaigh. She is twenty-nine, sharp, and thinks the trike is "a tractor for people who don’t like mud." But she volunteered for the unit. She likes the comms silence. In a car, the radio chatters. On the trike, with the helmet intercom, there is only the sound of their breathing and the growl of the Rotax engine. The gravel spits against the aluminium skid plate
"Cold spots," Aoife says. "On the water. A RIB, maybe. Engine block is ambient. Hull is freezing. They killed the motor twenty minutes ago." Corrugated iron, broken windows, a smell of rot