by Ian Chapman
To my left were the wind turbines, just ticking over, and beyond them the sea. The freezing North Sea. Framing the harbour was High Town, the best part of Faeston with its tidy buildings and clean streets.
The mist closed in again. All that was visible were the ghosts of the houses opposite.
I went through into the kitchen, dumped the bowl in the sink and rinsed it. Tommy’s singing got louder.
There were plenty of home comforts here. After being on the road it was luxury. Occasionally there was even hot water: there were solar panels that had been fitted by Tommy’s parents when he was a kid. They’d been forward-thinkers his folks, also putting in wood-burning stoves and planting the garden with saplings to provide fuel.
Some people had done that back in the twenties, as the economy unravelled, as The Collapse started to fall on the so-called civilised world. There were business failures and runs on banks, power cuts. Fuel prices that shot up. Hospitals and schools run by volunteers.
When gangs started to assert themselves there was mention of martial law but the military were bogged down in the Middle East trying to hang onto a share of dwindling oil supplies. Every army in the world was camped out there until it became clear there was no point. That the game was over.
After the coalition fell apart in 2034, that was it. Neither depleted army nor the crackpot political parties with their quick fixes were up to running the country. For a while it was chaos then it settled down. Towns like Faeston went for committees, making their own rules, establishing some semblance of order. Getting thugs like Round Up to do their dirty work.
Tommy’s folks had tried to see him through all this. They’d probably thought they were setting him up all right, not guessing how far things would fall apart. That he’d lose most of the cash when his bank folded. Spend the rest on booze. That was why he needed me as a lodger, as he’d told me the day I moved in.
I finished the washing up and started work on the carbs. Bit by bit I reassembled them, setting then up according the notes I’d taken when I’d striped them. On the last few runs out the Triumph had stalled and misfired. Backfiring on the overrun. Not good. Maybe a clean was all that was needed.
At last they sat reassembled on the table.
I went to get ready for the evening. For the race.
In the bedroom I opened the wardrobe, pulling out my spare boots and trousers. At the bottom was the hatch. The hatch with all the bad stuff.
For a minute I stood there, immobile.
Maybe this time I’d let myself ignore it. Not go through the ritual.
Then I lifted the hatch, drawing out two bags. One clinked as I slid it out.
I lay them on the bed and opened the lighter one first, flattening out the paper that was inside, all those documents I’d hung onto. There were the charts and maps. The plans and cross-sections of HMS Gehenna, the last sub the UK had made. The one loaded up with weapons that still was out there now, somewhere waiting to be found.
All I had were bits of paper but they'd cost so much. A lot of people.
After staring at them for some time I opened the second bag and took out the shotgun, its sawn-off barrel rough and scratched. Without thinking I knelt on the floor, sliding it into my mouth. The end of the gun tasted of metal. The sawn-off barrels rough on my tongue, sulphurous. I closed my eyes and pulled the triggers.
The gun clicked once, then again. I held onto it, staying there for a moment.
This was something I did. Something that happened. It didn’t mean anything. It was just something.
I eased the gun out of my mouth, felt its weight, swung it around. Then slid it away. I bundled the Gehenna stuff up as well and dropped both bags into the hatch.
With the ritual over I grabbed my leather jacket and helmet. Shut the wardrobe.
That was enough messing around for tonight.
As I picked up the carbs from the living room I heard a piece of furniture fall over downstairs. Shouting.
The carbs took a while to fit, as I struggled in the fading light, lining them up, getting the cable in place, slipping on the race filters. Once I’d run fuel through them I thumbed the starter. It churned over, slow then faster, a cough from the exhaust before it chimed into life, the revs rising up as smoke billowed around me, off into the low vegetation of the garden: the stumps of trees Tommy had clear-felled. I held onto the choke until it settled into a rough idle. It picked up on the throttle, dropped down again. Rose and fell in line with the twist grip.
It seemed to run all right so I picked up the helmet stashed with the bike, unlocked the gate and rode round to the front of the house. I parked it with the engine running, as it wobbled on its side-stand. I pulled on the lid then locked the gate. One of the few rules of the race was that we had to wear helmets.
The fog had drifted away and been replaced by a cold breeze. I rode off across down, over West Bridge, the one untouched by the tank, but rather than go into town I went up Hill Road at the other side of the river, to the track. The lane where we raced. The bike’s engine ran all right. There was a flat spot at low revs. Some hesitance picking up. But it revved through clean enough, pulling strongly at the top end as I made my way up the hill. Hopefully enough for tonight.
I went to the start line at the western end of the track. It shrank off into the distance, to a pine tree whitewashed to mark the finish line. Beyond it, in the distance, were the wind turbines, stilled now. Beneath them lights lit houses, row up row that led down to the quayside with the motionless ships and their forest of masts.
There were several bikes waiting: two big Japanese machines and an Italian. The thirteen-hundred Suzuki was a regular. At its prime this bike would have been unbeatable, but thirty years of poor servicing had taken its toll. It rattled and hunted, giving off a stream of smoke as it misfired. Next to it was a Kawasaki. Similar capacity, similar condition. And there was the Ducati, tidy but only an eight-hundred. There were rules on capacity but they were quite vague. The Scrambler was a shade over eight-fifty so that meant it could go in the middleweight class. If I was daft enough I could go against the bigger bikes. That was my choice. The two big machines that were here tonight were ropy but still would knock out a lot of power. I’d always avoided them in the past. There were easier ones to beat.
I waved to Starter Lad, dressed in his usual trainers and T-shirt from a long-gone football team. Against the fence was a rough blackboard. He chalked my name on the list, recognising me as a regular. I was down for race two against the Ducati.
As the two big Japs lined up I parked at the side. Several others bikes rode up, seedy lightweights too small for me to race: Honda and Daelim singles. There were a few people hanging around, spectators. There’d be more at the other end, where the bets were made.
Starter Lad went over to a funnel attached to a fencepost. It was connected to a piece of metal tubing that ran along the top of the fence to the far end. A whistle on a piece of string hung down beside it. He blew the whistle into the funnel and twisted his head round to listen. There was a muffled voice as the fella at the finish line acknowledged him.
‘Hayabusa 1300 and ZZR 1400.’
There was another reply.
He straightened up and grabbed his tattered union flag and raised it.
The bikes revved, their riders’ heads twisted towards Starter Lad.
He dropped the flag.
They roared off, one popping and cracking as it went. They disappeared up the track leaving the smell of cooked tyres and part-combusted fuel. Soon enough brake lights glowed at the end as they passed the tree.
I started the Triumph and rode it over. Now it was my turn. The light had faded so that the track disappeared off before me, invisible beyond the Triumph’s headlight beam, past Starter Lad and the spectators. The Ducati appeared beside me and I did up my leather jacket, adjusting my open-face. My opponent hunched forward and adjusted his lid. He revved his bike as Starter Lad jumped around, his torn flag in the air. I tapped the fuel tank
, like I did every race.
Starter Lad dropped the flag. Race time.
I wound the throttle and released the clutch, the Triumph lurching forward as the air-cooled twin moaned. The handlebars shimmied, clocks shaking as the needles moved round to the right. I held on as the bike rattled and roared, the road flying under its wheels. I shifted up to second, the Ducati’s front wheel parallel as I held the throttle wide open and let the revs touch the red before shifting up again, a gulp coming from the two into two. The road was swallowed up by the headlight, the engine bellowing as it drew through its race filters.
Then I snicked up into third. I left the Ducati and shot past the ghostly pine. Figures appeared in the headlight. I grabbed the brake with my right hand, easing my foot down on the pedal. The bike rose up at the back, its weight shifted forward, forcing the front tyre onto the tarmac. I dropped it down through the gears, blipping the throttle and braking as it slowed and swung round, driving it back to pull up at the kerbside. The two fellas at the finish line came over. The Ducati stopped by the verge further up.
‘Good run,’ said one of them. ‘He was close.’
I turned the engine off. He had been close. Too close. I collected the winnings, minus my stake. That was how it worked; we all betted on ourselves.
The two big Japanese bikes were at the opposite side of the road and I parked near them. They were talking about The Incident. What they’d heard about the tank going through town. I didn’t join in the conversation.
I wanted to see who else came along. Whether there was someone worth racing. Someone I could beat.
Back at the start line a couple of bikes lined up, the two lightweights that had been hanging around. They set themselves up, their engines rising and falling. Headlamps swinging around.
Then they were off. They raced up to the finish line and the Honda shot past trailing a plume of smoke. The Daelim cruised through, the rider seeming unaware that racing meant going fast.
The Ducati had moved off and turned down the road to the left, the lane that we used to get us back to the far end. I fired up the Triumph and followed him. Maybe he’d be daft enough to race me again. Lose again.
He parked near the start line and got off his bike.
I pulled up beside him, ready to ask him if he wanted a second run.
Then another bike rode up. Roared in. This was one I didn’t know. It was a Yamaha, late middleweight: R6 in blue and white. Its fairing was intact and alloy polished, every bolt shining. It stopped hard in the middle of the road and then settle back onto its suspension. The rider was slim, in race leathers, leathers that were close fitting. Tight enough to suggest this wasn’t one of the usual bikers. In one move the helmet came off and long hair spilled out, bright red.
The woman looked me over with her dark eyes. She killed the engine and flicked the side-stand down, walking over to me and the Ducati rider. Each step was carefully placed, one foot in front of the other.
‘I want to race,’ she said, giving me a look. A good eyeballing. Then a smile, a smile women had given me before. A smile that made me uneasy.
The Ducati fella seemed keen so I left him to it.
I started the Scrambler’s engine, manoeuvred it round. With a last look at her I rode off.
Life was complicated enough as it was.
CHAPTER THREE
Round Up
THE NEXT DAY A sea-fret rolled across the town, over the buildings along the roads and into the alley. The sun was a pale circle in the sky as I did my patrol for Round Up. Wednesday was my half-day. Half an hour then I’d be finished. So far the shift had been quiet, as if sometimes was in the morning. There’d been a handful of drunks sleeping out and a couple rowing. Nothing big. Nothing until now.
I heard the voices as I joined Gladstone Street. There was a group of lads up ahead, messing around, swearing and shouting. People rode past on bicycles, on their way to the docks, or pubs. Some going the other way. No one reacted or did anything. That’s how it was in Faeston. Leave it to Round Up.
I moved backwards, into an alley, away from the noise. Leaning against the damp wall I curled and uncurled my fingers, forming fists them opening them out again. If I waited there was a chance they’d go away. Or I could change my route and pretend I’d never seen them.
They’d be easy enough to sort out but I didn’t have the inclination. The headspace. There seemed to be too much going on in the town. This was supposed to be one of those places where nothing much happened. Nothing changed. That had been the case for the last year and a half.
Now there’d been two new arrivals in the last day: the tank and that woman. An armoured vehicle crashing in was an oddity, really out of the ordinary. But she had unsettled me as well. People like her didn't just appear. Not in Faeston.
Maybe I was just getting jumpy.
There was more noise from the street. A crash and laughter. The troublemakers were jumpy as well. I’d have to do something. I stepped out of the alley and moved along the pavement so they could see me.
If they’d spotted me, they didn’t pay much heed. There were three of them: a tall one with teeth missing, one with a shaven head and a third whose face was covered by a tattooed swastika. The tattoo shifted as he laughed and shouted, reminding me of someone else, someplace else. They all wore blue overalls, the drab attire of dockworkers. One of the them snatched a wooden chair from outside a café, swinging it up into the air. It smashed into pieces on the road. The others laughed then each grabbed a chair themselves, ready to swing it onto the road.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I said.
The shaven-headed lad frowned, lowering the chair. Then he raised it again, flinging it to join the other. It clattered across the tarmac. They all laughed, coarse grunts of pleasure.
‘Tut-tut,’ I said, walking over to them. Seemed they weren’t going to be reasonable.
The swastika-ed lad picked up a chair, laughing. ‘Hey, make it three, eh?’
I snatched it, yanking the lad off balance, slipping the chair out of his grip and placing it on the ground. I was getting really pissed off with them now.
‘Hey, what the fuck?’
I shook my head. ‘Time to go home, boys.’
Swastika-face and tall one stared at me, hard eyes as they stepped closer. The shaven headed one stayed back.
I reached into my jacket, took out a joint of confiscated home-grown and slid it into my mouth, a casual move to distract them, not escalate things. ‘Just leave it.’ When they came towards me some more I stepped back. Though it was tempting to knock their heads together that would take effort. And time. ‘You don’t want to be rounded up.’
The shaven headed one grabbed the others’ jackets, stopped them. ‘Hey, wait, you know —’
‘He’s on his own,’ said the tallest.
‘He’s Round Up, you know…’
I lit the joint and blew out smoke that joined the fog, now thinning in the midday sun. Maybe they were going to see sense. ‘Fetch the chairs and I’ll forget all about it.’
The shaven headed lad let go of the others and stepped out into the road towards the chairs. He put his hand on one but moved no further. The other two faced me, motionless. Gulls cried out up ahead and there was a rattle from a chain down at the docks, the cry of distant voices. I smoked. There was a chance the lads would just walk away, leave and not force it.
‘What you gonna do?’ Swastika-face squared up to me.
He was the troublemaker. With him taken down the other two wouldn’t cause any bother.
‘Howay!’ He came right up to me, shoving me with an open hand, laughing.
It looked like he wasn’t going to make it easy. I stepped back, exhaling smoke, balancing and positioning myself. I balled my hand into a fist and right-hooked him on the jaw. He staggered back eyes all over the place and hands flapping.
Tall lad glanced at his companion, his expression hardening, body straightening up. Before he had a chance to join in I punched him between th
e eyes. Not hard but enough to unsettle him.
Swastika face lay curled up and the tall lad rubbed his forehead, holding onto one of the chairs. The joint had fallen from my mouth so I bent and picked it up, smoking some more. There was no need to do anymore. They were just kids, not serious trouble makers but annoying.
I stared at the third lad. ‘About those chairs…’
He dragged the undamaged chair and placed it with the others outside the café. Then he picked up the bits of the bust one, held them in his arms and stood by his friends.
I prodded Swastika-face with my foot. ‘Next time, I round you up.’ Then I walked off. I’d done my job, finished my shift, sorted out some trouble.
At the end of the road I stubbed my joint out and glanced back. The two lads standing helped the third one up. Then they stared at me, looks of fear, possibly hate.
I turned my back on them and walked into town. Past the houses and workshops open for the day’s trade. As I joined High Row the sun cleared through the last of the haze and shone down on the quayside, a soft light on the ships moored there, their sails furled. Some cargo was still being loaded by men who carried barrels and bundles up the ramps, now at a steep angle due to the high tide. But most of it had already stowed with hatches battened and crews making-ready for sail. Voices drifted up from the ships, instructions and orders; I passed the shops, all busy with last minute trade where red faced men queued up with bits of bust tackle from their ships, keen to get out with the tide.
The stalls were all set up further along, stacked with chunks of meat and scabby vegetables, the staple diet of the town. No one asked where the meat came from, what animal it was. Drunks slumped outside the Globe Inn and I slid past them, up Blind Lane with its cracked paving, taking the stairs down to the office below the pub.
