MALCOLM looked and looked again, screwing his eyes up at the bike-shaped hole before him. It was still missing. He looked all around the workshop, behind scaffolding poles and sheets of plywood, outside the workshop. He even did that stupid thing of wondering if he’d somehow left his only form of transport at another random location. There could be no denying it. Whatever scenario he envisaged, it all came down to the inescapable conclusion that his bike had been nicked.Malcolm warred against the reality presented to him.“It should be here! Here! In the workshop!" He ranted, as if that would somehow magically call it forth.
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