by Terry Tyler
He rode away laughing, because Darnell's amphetamine stock was safe in his saddlebags.
Back in the club house he was cold, so cold, even with all the duvets on one bed; they felt damp. He kept off the gear because he needed to eat, had to build up his strength. Didn't do to get addicted, not when he didn't know if he could get any more; he'd keep it for times of desperation.
He moved on; it was winter now, though he had no idea of the date, not even the month. A trip to Whitby (just in case the old gang was there) was a waste of time and fuel. Freezing cold and empty, he roared up and down the deserted, winding, cobbled streets, checking out all their old haunts. Nothing. Back up north he moved from one house to another, taking whatever he could find. He'd sleep in the beds of the wealthy and dead, use their toiletries to keep himself clean, his head shaved; he'd drink their booze, have a shite in their toilets, and move on. He went out in search of food, fuel, warmth, cigarettes, other people to do this end-of-the-world shit with, because it sure as hell wasn't much fun on your own. As he was leaving the Aldi store in Pelaw one bright, freezing cold morning (which was actually the fifteenth of January, though Wedge didn't know that), he wondered, idly, in the muddled subconscious that was his mind, if he would ever see anyone he knew, ever again.
Which was when he ran into Boyd.
Back in the old days, Boyd had been with another club, out towards Cramlington, allies with the Hadrian against shared foes. Now, he said, he was shacked up in a farmhouse near Charlton. Wouldn't tell Wedge where.
"Got women and kids there, man," Boyd said. "Can't have a psycho like you disturbing the peace, can I?" He laughed when he said that, as if Wedge was meant to find it funny, but Wedge didn't. "Where you been, then?"
"I was inside when the shit went down." Getting the words out was hard; he was unused to conversation, these days.
Boyd stared at him long and hard, and Wedge couldn't interpret the look on his face. Wary or taking the piss?
"What?"
Boyd smiled, but only just. "What do you mean, what?"
Wedge ran his tongue up and down the inside of his cheek. The skin was raw from where he'd chewed it to bits the day before, speeding out of his brain with no one to talk to. Bette used to give him Bonjela to put on it. Or salt water. Yeah, that was it, you had to rinse salt water round in your mouth. To heal it. Now, he was coming down, but yesterday he'd had no food and was too fucking cold and tired to go out and find any; he'd needed the buzz.
"I said, what do you mean, what?"
Wedge shook himself back to his immediate surroundings. "Whatever it is you're looking so fucking cagey about."
Boyd shrugged. Skinny yellow-toothed prick. "I was just wondering if you were looking for your old lady, that's all."
Wedge felt the tendons in his neck tighten, the blood pump around his body. He didn't move. Not one flicker of an eyelid. "You know where she is?"
"Aye." Boyd stood back, gently touched the knife that Wedge could see poking out of a sheath attached to his belt, and held up his other hand. "Don't you take it out on me, I'm just telling you 'cause I reckoned you might wanna know. I mean, I don't even know if they're still alive—"
"They?" Wedge went cold, the muscles in his arms tensed, ready to fight.
"The Kaiser. She was knocking him off for a coupla months 'fore the virus, like." He pointed behind him. "I heard they cleared off up to Holy Island soon as it went down. Two of them, and Cleary, Bill, Jez, some o' your other lads. Right at the beginning, in the summer. Don't know if they're still alive or not. Cleary said did I want to gan with 'em, but I couldn't, not with me mam, but she died anyway, and—"
"Holy Island?"
"Yeah, Lindisfarne, but—"
Bottles and cans rolled out of Wedge's carrier bag as he dropped it on the tarmac.
"Y' dropped y' stuff, man." Boyd picked up the bag, carefully placing the goods back into it, and stepped back; Wedge took it, his face completely still, and shoved it into his bulging saddlebags. Without looking back at the other man, he put his key in the ignition and roared off down the road.
Bette and The Kaiser. His fucking second-in-command. Fucking white-haired shite who wore a German helmet, even had a First World War one with a spike for special occasions. Known for not being able to keep his pecker in his drawers. So he'd taken not only his woman, but his club, too.
Wedge set his mouth in a firm line as the landscape rushed past. That filthy shitehawk was going to wish his mam had chopped it off at birth, once he'd finished with him.
As for Bette, he'd decide what to do with her when he found her.
To be continued......
The second book in this series, Lindisfarne, will be available in September 2017, followed by a collection of short stories, entitled Patient Zero.
The third novel in the series will be available in 2018.
Author's Note
If you have enjoyed this book, I'd be so grateful if you'd take a moment to leave a few words on Amazon or Goodreads to say so. The independent publishing business is hugely competitive, and self-published authors are responsible for every aspect of their own promotion. Reviews can help other readers to make that to-buy-or-not-to-buy decision.
Although some places in this novel exist, such as Jarrow and Hebburn, others are fictional. Elmfield Village, the Cuthbert Centre, Shipden and Cadeby come from my imagination, though Shipden and Cadeby are based on the towns of Cromer and Sheringham.
Other books by Terry Tyler:
Full length novels
The Devil You Know
The House of York
Kings and Queens
Last Child
What It Takes
Dream On
Full Circle
The Other Side
Nobody's Fault
You Wish
Novellas
Best Seller
Round and Round
Short Stories
Nine Lives
