Beryl jumped in, and before she even shut the door, Mandy charged off with the sort of screech that stopped cats in their tracks. And as a particularly scraggly ginger tom jolted behind a bin, Mandy wrenched the car around the corner.
She sped up the hill.
“Take it into third,” said Beryl.
“Third? Not on my friggin’ watch,” said Mandy.
“It won’t make it up the hill in fifth—you need to take it down a gear.”
Mandy threw a glare at Beryl. “Just watch me!”
“It’ll stall . . .”
The car, however, didn’t. It screeched up the hill with the sort of speed that had Beryl swearing every pickle she could think of.
“Look out!” she shouted as they swerved past a cyclist . . .
A car overtook them with a prolonged honk of a horn, and the shorter of the hoodies stuck his head out of the car and gav
