CHAPTER ZERO

C H A P T E R Z E R O

CHAPTER ZERO
THE PREQUEL
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 flung
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.
“Weʼve got ʼem now!” cried PC Anderson excitedly. “Thatʼs 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 hourʼs chase. The two riders were trapped between a
towering brick wall and the police car, which was now crashing
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
wind 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 daughterʼs
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!”
“Weʼd have loved to stop for a chat,” said the boy in glasses,
“only we were trying —”
“Donʼt get smart - you two are in a heap of trouble!” snarled
Anderson. “Names!”
“Names?” repeated the long-haired driver. “Er — well, letʼs see.
Thereʼs Wilberforce . . . Bathsheba . . . Elvendork . . .”
“And whatʼs 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
spluttered with rage. “You shouldʼve said! This here is James Potter,
and Iʼm Sirius Black!”
“Thingsʼll be seriously black for you in a minute, you cheeky
little —”
But neither James nor Sirius was paying attention. They were suddenly
as alert as gundogs, staring past Fisher and Anderson, over the
roof of the police car, at the dark mouth of the alley. 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, arenʼt you?
Right, weʼre arresting you on a charge of —”
But Anderson never got to name 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.
Fisherʼs knees bucked; he sat down hard; Anderson tripped over
Fisherʼs legs and fell on top of him, as flump — bang — crunch —
they heard the men on brooms 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 into 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 donʼt forget:
Elvendork! Itʼs unisex!”
There was an earth-shattering 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 motorcycleʼs turn to rear.
THE PREQUEL
􀂑 5 􀂑
Before the policemenʼs disbelieving eyes, it took off into the 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!
J.K. Rowling
2008.