The next morning, I wake to see Isobel sitting on one of the old striped chairs. Sun is streaming through the windows and the wooden floor shines like gold.
‘Time to get up, George,’ she says. ‘I think we should go to the barge. We’ve put Vivienne through enough. Why don’t you head down the hall to the bathroom, then we’ll get going.’
And there I am, wallowing in the bath like a happy dugong off Hayman Island, when three shadows pass by the frosted-glass skylight. Suddenly I am a happy dugong no more. I hop out of the bath, grab my towel and race back towards our room. Then I give the secret door-knock code, which I now feel is perhaps a little drawn-out for such an emergency.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, BANG!
Chase opens the door and I dive inside.
‘Guys! And Amy! We gotta go right now!’ I don’t even worry about running the words got and to together. ‘Roland’s on the roof. Just grab everything and let’s fly. We gotta go NOW!’
In two minutes, I am dressed in my own old clothes, we’re out the door, and standing in the hotel’s reception.
‘I’ve already paid the bill,’ Isobel says. ‘Where will we go?’
‘If Roland’s on the roof,’ Chase says, ‘we’ll head down to the river. One, two, three! Run!’
Then we’re outside, running down the sunny street. From the roof, I hear shouting.
‘Zere iz zat dirty razkal, Gheorge! And zhoze other Oztralian criminalz who zteal money and pozzibly zheep, as I zaid yezterday! Queeck! Exztend ze laddair, ladeez!’
I turn to see Roland, Olga, and Katerina, all dressed in black, lowering a ladder from the roof.
‘Grab a bike, George!’ Chase points to a rack of grey rental bikes. ‘Come on!’
‘Sorry to be a party pooper, Chase,’ I say, not moving. ‘No can do. For us to ride legally, they have to be paid for. But even more importantly, we have no helmets.’
Isobel pokes money into the slots. ‘All clear!’ She takes a bike from the rack. ‘It’s okay, George. Today is National No-Bike-Helmet Day. So get a move on!’
Well, that’s a stroke of luck! So with a clear conscience, I grab a bike, and we wobble away downhill towards the river. I can hear Roland shouting.
‘Queek, liddle flower Olga and ’appy piglet Katerina! Ze razcalz ’ave bicyclez!’
I glance behind us and see Olga and Katerina are sprinting like relay runners who couldn’t care less about the baton change.
‘Pedals to the metal!’ I yell. ‘Accelerate, in other words!’
I realise that although I thought I couldn’t ride a bike, it seems that I can. I also make a mental note to write to the French government regarding the dangers of National No-Bike-Helmet Day, but that can wait. Instead, I follow Chase and Isobel.
‘This way!’ Chase turns onto the river path. ‘Down the ramp, George!’
‘Okay,’ I say, but what I hoped was a ramp turns out to be steps – and down I go in a teeth-chattering, bone-battering, bottom-bouncing, death-defying descent that somehow nevertheless ends with me remaining upright, and then we’re off again, Roland’s Russian relay team a hundred metres behind us.
‘There!’ Chase skids to a halt and points. ‘That ferry! It’s going. Let’s catch it!’
Ahead of us is a large white tourist boat. So we ride like mad, hide our bikes behind a tree, and run up the gangplank as the last ropes are being thrown off. Yes! We’re safe, because the gap between our ferry and the shore is now at least ten metres. I take a deep breath and look around.
‘Oh, good show,’ I say. ‘They sell coffee!’