Dwayne Cummings stood on the curb at Milton Hatch racetrack with a long-handled paint roller in his hands. He soaked the roller’s head in the tray of green paint, pushed down to squeeze out some of the excess liquid, then lifted the roller from the tray and began to roll it out onto the curb.

   Behind him he could hear the bike approaching. He didn’t turn at first, or worry, as he knew there wasn’t a race that day - only practice and that wasn’t until after lunch.

   Dwayne glanced up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Shimmering in the heat rays of the track, the shiny, red bike motored forward slowly, following the racing line. It was Stan Bullet the reigning Power Bikes World Champion.

   Stan, wearing jeans and a leather jacket veered from the racing line and began to slow further as he neared Dwayne, who stood with the paint roller vertical, the green paint drip, dripping from the furry head, down the pole and over his bare, sun burnt arms.

   As the bike approached Stan Bullet grinned, he kicked out a leg as he passed - the paint tray span over spraying the green contents over Dwayne and more seriously causing a green rain effect on the freshly laid tarmac.

   ‘You made a mess, retard!’ Stan bellowed as he revved the bike’s engine and whizzed off around the bend, his knee grazing the tarmac as he got as low down to the track as possible.

   Dwayne grabbed for a rag, then darted onto the track and down onto his knees, muttering, cursing to himself as he dab, dabbed at the sprinkles of paint that had given the tarmac green zits. Luckily most of the paint had spilt into the grass. Green grass, green paint … no problem there.

   ‘D-d-damn that S-Stan Bullet!’ he stuttered, (an infliction he had been born with) then he sucked air through his teeth, trying to compose himself.

   It wasn’t the first time Stan had bullied Dwayne.

   It had started on Dwayne’s first day as a Curb Painter. He had been collecting his pots and rollers for the day and placing them in the back of the buggy when Stan had ridden into the maintenance hut on his bike.

   Dwayne had been stirring the paint - one stir just a little too hard and the paint leapt from the pot and onto the side of the prized bike.

   ‘You goddam retard, what the hell have you done?!’

   Stan marched over, eyes raging mad and blinkless. He bent down to the bike and stared at the white blob of paint that slowly, gently, slugged down the paintwork. His head flung round, his eyes met those of Dwayne.

   ‘I’m s-sorry, sir, Mr B-b-bullet -’

   ‘W-w-what you fucking stuttering retard?!’ Stan mocked.

   Dwayne stood motionless, his head boiling; sweat beginning to spring up over his face.

   ‘Don’t just stand there, retard.’

   Dwayne turned and as quickly as he could ran across to the shelf to grab a cleaning spray and a cloth. His body wasn’t built for speed, standing a little over six feet, weighing seventeen stone, with a slightly arched back and size twelve feet.

   Dwayne propped his thick glasses up with a chubby finger then sprayed the pink liquid onto the bike’s paintwork; he then rubbed hard to remove the paint. The dollop of white paint came away pretty easily. So did the red paint of the bike.

   ‘Jesus Christ! You’ve well and truly fucked up the paintwork, idiot.’

   Stan raised his hands and took Dwayne by the collar. For a second Stan’s face reddened, his body shook with rage - Dwayne had half shut his eyes waiting, expecting to be punched or head-butted. Stan cooled, let go of Dwayne then straightened his collar. He raised a finger and pointed it at Dwayne’s nose, touching the tip.

   ‘Come near me or my bike again and I’ll kick ten tons of shit out of you, got it?!’

   Dwayne nodded quickly, leaning back away from the threatening finger. As his head bobbed up and down agreeing to Stan’s terms the flabby flesh under his chin squashed to form tyres of fat.

   Stan took hold of his bike and wheeled it out the garage, shooting Dwayne a final threatening glance.

   Back in the present, Dwayne tossed the rag he had cleaned the paint from the track with into the back of the golf buggy and rinsed the roller in a bucket of water. He looked back across to the track. He had finished painting the green and white stripes for the race tomorrow, now he just had to go around the track pulling up any weeds that had begun to grow over the curbs. It seemed a minor thing to worry about, he couldn’t believe the riders would actually notice the odd weed, especially when they were racing at over a hundred and fifty miles per hour; but if one of the riders came off and was seriously injured, no doubt the first thing those safety officials would do would be to check the curbs to make sure they had been maintained correctly. Looking to point the finger at someone.

   Dwayne drove the buggy around the track, keeping his eyes open for any weeds or stray bits of rubbish. He had worked in maintenance at Milton Hatch for eight years. After dropping out at school at age sixteen with no qualifications to his name, he spent the next six years working in a factory.

   ‘I’m n-not a r-retard,’ he would say to the guys who joked about how slow he was. ‘I-I-I’ve just g-got a learning disability and a s-stutter.’

   A friend had got him the job at Milton Hatch. He had started just picking up litter mainly, and then moved onto stacking hay bags as crash barriers and then onto curb painting. That was his primary job, though weed killing was another high on the list of priorities.

   Noticing some weeds over by a gravel corner (gravel to slow the bikes down if they should veer off the track) Dwayne drove over and parked up on the curb. He leaned back, found his bottle of water then took a sip and then another. It was a humid day but dark rain clouds were looming above. It was sure to be a hot day tomorrow for the race; he didn’t envy those in the race, out in the boiling heat and wearing leathers head to toe.

   Dwayne jumped out of the golf buggy and took the rake from the back, lifting it to pull some dried weeds from the teeth. He stepped into the gravel pit, walked along to just beyond and began to rake back the grass that had begun to grow over the curb. A general rule was to make sure at least a foot of the green and white striped curb was visible. Any weeds or grass impairing that foot of curb had to be raked away.

   As Dwayne set to work on the curb his mind flashed back to another occasion Stan Bullet had done his best to get him fired. He had been weeding at the time, when Stan had driven round in his Ferrari. Parking up alongside the curb, so close Dwayne thought Stan actually wanted him to accidentally scratch the paintwork - just so he had an excuse to beat the crap out of him.

   ‘How’s work going today, Dwayne?’ Stan had asked with a beaming white smile across his face. Dwayne noticed that another man sat next to Stan and in the back of the car two half naked women - Supermodels by the look of them. Dwayne had pushed his glasses up his sunburned nose and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes.

   ‘Th-things are g-going w-w-well,’ Dwayne said.

   ‘Oh good!’ Stan said. He turned to look at the girls in the back of his car, and then faced Dwayne again. ‘Actually, I noticed there are some spare tyres, pots of paint, that sort of thing over there in the woods,’ he said pointing.

   Dwayne stood on tiptoes to see over the fence Stan was pointing towards. Had he left paint over there? He couldn’t remember doing so, but he would have to check, otherwise anyone could get the hands on it. Could cause all sorts of damage to the track. Kids were often sneaking in, stealing stuff from the pit lanes, and pinching anything they could lay their grubby hands on. It would only take one kid to find the paint and who knows what sort of graffiti he might paint on fences, bikes, or even the track.

   ‘I just thought I should warn you - I don’t want you getting in trouble, Dwayne,’ Stan said through the window. ‘Are you going to check, Dwayne?’

   ‘Y-yes right a-away.’

   Stan saluted, wheel span and pulled away leaving the excited girls’ shrieks of joy in the air. Dwayne had put the rake down, crossed the track and entered the woodland. He couldn’t see any tyres or paint pots. He searched thoroughly, before deciding it had just been another prank. Stan getting his kicks.

   Dwayne walked back towards his rake. He had to make sure trackside was weeded before the race. When he reached the curb, he felt the first drops of rain. Within a few seconds a shower had started, the rain pounding down onto the track. Dwayne hoped his painted curbs had dried okay. He thought they would have done; the paint was only spread thin and usually dried within minutes.

   It was now that he noticed the brown liquid on the track. Bemused, he walked out onto the track, listening to the exploding raindrops on the tarmac, his hair wet. He noticed the pile of shit on the track. Three large lumps, sitting, steaming in the rain. Dwayne’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing - had Stan really dropped his pants in front of those people, those girls, and taken a crap in the middle of the track?! Or had he brought it with him?

   Dwayne swallowed, shaking his head gently, trying to banish the images from his head.

   He took the shovel from the golf buggy and scooped up the excrement then walked over, holding the shovel at arms length, to the bushes, and tossed it into the undergrowth. He wiped the shovelhead on the long grass then walked back across the gravel.

   The rain began to slow then stopped as the red Ferrari appeared again. Stopping next to the golf buggy. Dwayne looked up, raindrops and mist blurring the vision through his glasses.

   ‘You’ve shovelled up the shit then?’ Stan asked, trying not to laugh. ‘You really shouldn’t be crapping on the track, there’s bushes just over there!’ he added, to the amusement of his friends.

   ‘Y-you got sh-sh-shit for brains!’ Dwayne spat.

   Stan’s head fell back as he laughed hysterically. ‘See ya later retard!’ he called as they sped off once again.

   That incident had happened a couple of weeks back.

   Dwayne lent on the rake, smiling to himself. After tomorrow Stan wouldn’t be playing any more tricks on him.

   It was twelve-fifteen pm, and the race was due to start at two. Milton Hatch was crowded with spectators: some walking around, others buying signed T-shirts and caps from the gift shops; the most popular of all being the Ferrari red T-shirt with Stan Bullet’s face on. Underneath his signature.

   Other spectators had already made their way to their seats, waiting excitedly for the race to begin, others still sat in the cafes, or cued outside the burger joints waiting to buy their lunches.

   Dwayne drove slowly through the crowds trying not to hit anyone, that was the last thing he needed right now, and it would be so easy with so many people walking about not looking where they were going. He would lose his job - for other people’s stupidity.

   Dwayne drove down to the pit lane where he was due to do a final litter pick before the race began. He jumped out the golf buggy with a litter picking stick and roll of bin bags and entered each pit area, collecting the foam coffee cups and soda cans that littered the floor.

   He reached the Ferrari garage. He wasn’t supposed to go into the actual garage where the bikes were parked. But with nobody about … Looking over each shoulder to make sure nobody watched, he entered, shutting the door behind him. In the corner of the garage sat two bikes - one of which was Stan Bullet’s "Red Torpedo" as his fans lovingly knew it. Stan collected a few pieces of rubbish on his way towards the bike. It stood glistening. Dwayne bent down beside the bike and examined it …

   …A few minutes later, as Dwayne was leaving the garage, Stan walked across the pit lane.

   ‘What the hell are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be clearing shit off the track or something?’ Stan asked, smirking.

   ‘L-litter p-picking,’ Dwayne said then quickly walked away, hoping that Stan wouldn’t come after him. He didn’t. Dwayne climbed back into the golf buggy and drove to the maintenance hut. His pre-race work was complete

   The bikes lined up on the grid. Stan Bullet had only qualified second but was still the hot favourite for this race, the final race of the 2003 season. If he won he would be crowned World Power Bikes Champion for the third successive year.

   ‘Are you ready? Are you ready?! - Lets go!!’ screamed the commentator as the bikes fired from the grid, shooting off along the track to the first corner.

   ‘Stan Bullet the reigning champion is straight to the front of the pack, turning right and down hill…’

   Dwayne was watching the race from the bushes. He drank from a bottle of water, wiping the sweat from his brow. The bikes rushed passed him as they took the corner - he crouched so not to be seen.

   ‘…And Mike Russell goes inside and takes the lead!’ The commentator yelled, almost dropping the microphone. The co-commenter, Davie Collins, sat bemused, next to him, leaning away so not to get struck by a flailing arm

   ‘… Russell still has the lead but Bullet, Stan Bullet, is right in his slipstream and will try and sling shot around the bend and take the lead in the straight … and he does! - Stan Bullet is leading once again! So, 1st Stan Bullet, Ferrari; 2nd Mike Russell, Suzuki and 3rd Wilson Makongo, also Suzuki! Such an exciting race!’

   Dwayne sat down, looking around the surrounding trees, listening to the distant cheers of the crowd and the low hum and buzz of the bikes on the far side of the racetrack. The race continued whilst Dwayne waited … waited … it seemed the race had been going for hours. In hearing the buzz of the engines getting louder as they got closer, Dwayne yawned, checked his watch, then watched the bikes lap him once again. A steward was walking along the curb on the track opposite, so Dwayne crouched down further, peering through the undergrowth as he passed in his bright orange suit. He was talking into his walkie-talkie. Dwayne lifted his head after the steward had passed; taking his binoculars from his bag and gazed over to the finish line. A few stewards waited on the sides of the track.

   Dwayne lowered himself again as bikes powered past in excess of a hundred and fifty miles per hour. Dwayne stared through the binoculars, focusing in on Stan’s bike as he crossed the line with only a lap to go … only one more lap.

   Dwayne waited, sweat dripping down his arms and face; he sipped some more water, trying to keep calm - not long now, just don’t panic. He deserves all he gets.

   ‘Stan Bullet still leads in this last lap!’ Enthused the commentator, ‘he just needs to hang on now to become champion again!’

   A puff of smoke shot from the exhaust of Stan’s bike.

   ‘Incredible! Ladies and gentleman, something quite dramatic might be about to happen - as Stan Bullet passes the commentary box along the straight, smoke gushes from the back of his bike!’ he said quickly, double-checking this was the last lap, gazing at the monitor to see if Mike Russell, in second, had shaved any hundredths of a second off the lead.

   ‘The problem seems to have passed,’ co-commentator Davie Collins added whilst his colleague was lost for words. ‘And as it’s the last lap, it may not matter.’

   ‘No it looks like the problem - whatever it was, has corrected itself. The smoke has stopped leaking as Stan Bullet increases his lead to four seconds with only a few bends to go!’

   The crowd by now were standing eagerly, waving banners wildly, desperate, excited - many watching through binoculars, sucking in air, waiting for the bikes to appear around the final bend. Then they did…

   ‘Bullet still leads! - But Russell comes right back as they approach the line, will he hold on? Will he?! Will he?! - YES!!! Stan Bullet has done it again, the third year in succession he will be crowned World Power Bikes Champion!’ the commentator screamed, then sitting down, trying to regain his breath.

   Stan’s family and supporters leapt to their feet to acknowledge his victory. Yelling: "We love you!" and "You’re the greatest!"

   His mum wiped tears from her eyes; his dad clenched his fist; auntie and uncle hugged in delight; brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews were all there for Stan’s big day.

   Stan waved his arms aloft, soaking in the atmosphere; the feel of being the greatest, the best … he was on top of the world.

   Then the explosion.

   The huge bang fired and echoed around Milton Hatch, smoke spiralled into the sky; debris shooting into the heavens; agonized screams filled the air, blood sprayed across the racetrack.

   Stan slowed his bike and stopped. He gazed over, stunned, at the site of the explosion. His body shook violently. He knew his family and friends had been up there, sitting watching the greatest day of his life. He had gone to see them himself, just before the race.

   Stan climbed from his bike and began to run along the track toward the demolished stadium.

   By now emergency services surrounded the explosion sight, sirens blaring and lights flashing, trying to find the living amongst the dead. Many of the spectators stood and sat on the track, surrounded by blood and debris, just watching in disbelief. Others helped the emergency services find and carry out those who were still breathing. One woman had blood gushing from where her arm had been blown from its socket, her face twisted in pain - then she passed out. Stewards ran over to her aid, picked her up, trying to carry her out for treatment.

   Bloody, burnt and blistered bodies were scattered all over the ground; the stench of smoke, blood and burning flesh hung ominously in the sky.

   Dwayne watched. He lifted his sweating, trembling hands from the detonator and breathed out a lungful of air.

   The previous night, after everyone had gone home, Dwayne had set up the explosives and detonator. He had checked the tickets and knew that Stan Bullet’s family and friends would occupy row X. That morning he had gone to check the explosives, just to make sure everything was going to plan. But with so many people about and security so tight, he had to get under the seating the only way he could without being seen. Through the pits. Behind where Stan’s bike stood, a door lead out to the car park, which was empty. A few stewards stood on the wall, but with their backs to Dwayne. He jogged across then ducked down under the seating, climbed within its structure, getting underneath.

   It was all okay - ready to go, ready to blow.

   Then all he had to do was wait for the race to finish - he would give Stan the pleasure of becoming World Champion again first.

   Dwayne got to his feet, wiping the dirt from his knees and arms, then turned and pushed his way back through the undergrowth. Then without the stutter that had plagued his life: ‘This time he can shovel up his own shit,’ he said, grinning.