Free The Purple Contract by Robin Flett

enterprise was about as likely as snow in Alice Springs but now it had become very real. Terribly real. His initial feeling was one of quite natural apprehension, and his belly crawled with nerves. But under the blind response of the organism reacting to the ancient stress reflex was a quiet exultation.
    The black bra landed across his shoulder and he felt the warmth of the 36D fabric against his face. He turned to look at the red-haired girl in her early twenties sprawled across his double bed. What would Australia be like when her generation were in charge? Wouldn't that depend on what his generation did now?
    Don’t let those English bastards get away with it.
    No, indeed.
    Al Hendry lowered the bonnet of the fifteen-year-old light blue Vauxhall Astra gently and snicked it closed. The car park behind the flats was deserted, and so it should be at two o’clock in the morning, but there was nothing to be gained by causing unnecessary noise. ‘No alarm,’ he grunted.
    His brother Paul sniggered. ‘Who the fuck is going to put an alarm on this piece of shite? We’re doing him a favour taking it off his hands.’ He was flicking a screwdriver from one hand to the other.
    Al shook his head slowly. His brother was about as subtle as a toilet seat, would have just jumped in and started the thing up without a thought. Yes, all right, few people would install a theft alarm in a vehicle as old as this one, but if a bloody siren went off then it was on top, and they would have to do it all over again somewhere else.
    ‘This ancient piece of crap will fall to bits before we even get to Largs,’ Paul groused.
    ‘Not worth fighting with a new car, the anti-theft devices are getting to damned good. It’d take us forever just to get into one of them,’ Al said. ‘These old cars are a breeze, and this one’s in pretty good shape for its age. It’ll do fine’
    The screwdriver made short work on the ignition lock and the engine fired up with only minor reluctance.
    ‘Good as gold,’ Paul Hendry commented with some satisfaction. ‘Always liked this model. I used to have a red one, remember?’ They pulled out onto the road, heading for the M8 motorway.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Paul. ‘It was shite as well.’
    The following afternoon, the blue Astra was once again on the M8, this time heading west. The owner would have presumably reported it stolen by now, so the number-plates has been changed for those of a similar vehicle just an hour before. They would be changed again for the return trip later this evening. Damned police computers, all it took was for a traffic car to paint you on the ANPR system. The Automatic Number Plate Recognition computer would identify a stolen car instantly, and they would pull you for sure.
    Al Hendry was driving, with his brother in the side seat and Con Moloney and Les Stewart in the rear. He was obeying the speed limits and driving with care and attention. He did not want to draw attention to them, not now. He had even checked the tyres for legal wear and insisted they all wore seatbelts. Nothing to cause official interest. Just four pals out for a drive on a nice afternoon.
    Largs lies about 30 miles southwest from Glasgow, on the Ayrshire coast. A small town with viking heritage. The Battle of Largs took place on a stormy night in 1263, the vikings came off worst in this one, but by then their day was mostly past.
    The town began as a small village, little more than a church and a few houses. In the 19th century the town expanded, helped by the arrival of the railway in 1895. Eventually, it became fashionable to live in Largs, attracting wealthy merchants and others who sought to leave the grime and noise of Glasgow for the quieter pastures of north Ayrshire.
    The four found a chip shop, always a favourite, and ate their greasy meals from newspaper and cardboard cartons while sitting on cold steel benches near the harbour.
    ‘Bloody good chip shop, that!’ muttered Paul Hendry round another