by Zoe Sharp
The music was mainly rock ballads, played at volume through a pair of Marshall stacks that had been dragged just inside the gateway on extension leads from the barn. Lots of raw-throated songs about crashing and burning and dying young.
Gleet, so Sam informed us when he swung by to collect me, was big on the custom bike scene. His family had been farmers but Gleet left the running of the farm to his sister, a sour big-boned woman who trudged silently round the place like a resentful ghost. Gleet turned his back on the day-to-day drudgery and instead, in the barn behind the house, he devoted his time to building show-winning creations that were masterpieces of steel and paint.
It was probably as much out of respect for Gleet as for Slick that the attendance for the wake was so high. There must have been over a hundred bikers turned up. Their machines clogged the yard outside the barn and ended up slotted in rows across the end of the field. Everything from the latest MV Agustas to tatty old rat bikes. My Suzuki and Sam’s Norton were safely swallowed up in the crowd. We grabbed bottles of beer from one of the overflowing barrels next to the hedge and did our best to mingle with the others.
The hot sultry weather had taken on a sudden glowering edge, like it was spoiling for a fight. The shock of the early evening sunlight on the brilliant greens of the far tree-line was startling against a gunmetal gathering sky. It was heavy enough for thunder and I began to wish I’d remembered to pick up my waterproofs when I was at the cottage.
They lit the bonfire just after eight. Gleet himself walked up the hill from the barn carrying a flaming torch, with Tess by his side. She had forsaken the scrunchie and had her thin flat hair down around her face. Over a shapeless black dress she was wearing a scuffed leather bike jacket that was much too big for her. I recognised it as Slick’s.
Trotting by her side, stumbling over the stubbly ground, was an extraordinarily beautiful blonde-haired toddler of about four. She clutched tight to Tess’s hand and stared at the apparitions around her with her eyes big and wide and her thumb in her mouth.
“Slick’s daughter,” Sam muttered to me.
I remembered Jamie saying Tess had a kid. My only brief recollections of Slick were of a cocky womaniser, not a family man. I wondered how Tess felt, sitting at home with the baby while he was out on the prowl. And suddenly I could understand her bitter anger towards Clare. Whether there’d been anything actually going on between her and Slick was beside the point. It was enough that Clare had been the one who was with him at the time of the accident.
The bonfire grabbed instantly at the flames when Gleet dipped the torch against the dry timbers. He walked right round the stack so it caught evenly from all sides and went up with artificially accelerated momentum.
Within a few minutes the flames were dancing round the helmet on the top of the pile. I moved in a little closer and watched the visor twist and buckle and blacken in the heat. Someone turned off the music mid-chord and then all you could hear was the crackle of the fire.
“You all know why we’re here,” Gleet said then, his deep voice loud enough to boom and carry across the field. “We all knew Slick. Some of us are probably going to his funeral next week.” He nodded to Tess and took a swig from the bottle of beer he was holding. “But some bloody vicar who never knew him, mouthing a few meaningless phrases don’t mean jack shit to us, his mates. So we’re here to give him a proper send off and to tell it like it is!”
He glared at the people who’d bunched up close around the fire. They stared back in silence. The little girl was now clinging to Tess’s leg, hiding her face from the heat of the flames. Tess reached down and hoisted the child onto her hip, never taking her eyes off Gleet.
“Me, I knew Slick for ten years. Since he built his first bike and came begging a welding rig he’d no idea how to use,” Gleet said. He shook his head sadly and smiled. “The daft bastard. Blew so many holes in the frame he was trying to repair, it was fit for scrap by the time he was done.”
The crowd let out its collective breath, almost a sigh, the surface tension broken.
Gleet raised his beer bottle and took another gulp. “He was loud and flash and he was mouthy, but if you needed a lift with something, Slick was the first to volunteer. He was a good mate to me.” He glanced at Tess for the first time, meeting and holding her gaze. “And I know he thought the world of you, Tess, and little Ashley,” he went on, gruff. “And if there’s anything I can ever do to help you, you know you’ve only got to shout.”
There was a general murmur at this sentiment. Gleet necked the rest of his drink in one long swallow and turned away before she had time to react to that one. Telling. Either he didn’t really mean it, or he meant it too much for his own comfort.
“To Slick!” he shouted. “Wherever he is now, I hope he’s giving ‘em hell!”
And amid the murmuring of assent he turned and threw the empty bottle into the fire hard enough to smash the glass against the burning timber.
While he’d been speaking, I noticed Jamie had moved up to talk to Tess. I hadn’t spotted his bike when we arrived, but one little Irish-registered four hundred would have been easily swallowed up in the crowd.
He and Tess were too far away for me to hear anything that passed between them but I could follow the body language without needing much of a phrase book.
At first she shook him off but he persisted, speaking urgently. Gradually I saw Tess’s hostility turn to disbelief, then a saddened anger. By the time Gleet had finished his eulogy, she looked close to tears. What the hell had Jamie said to her?
I saw her throw him a brief smile, then she stepped forward and raised her own bottle. The silver and glass rings on her fingers flashed in the light.
“I know Slick could be a bit of an arsehole when he was pissed. And I know he wasn’t always faithful to me,” she said, her voice thin and reedy, “but he was always trying to get the best for me and Ashley, and he always came back in the end. He would have done this time, too,” she added. “And I’d’ve kicked him down the bloody stairs before I’d have let him explain, but I’d have taken him back . . .”
Her voice tailed off and she gave the little girl she was holding a fierce hug. She, too, threw her empty bottle at the feet of the flames and turned away.
Interesting choice of words. I went over them in my head while I took another minute sip of the beer I’d been nursing all evening. Had whatever Jamie had told her only moments before made any difference to what she’d just said?
Other people came forwards and over the next half an hour or so I discovered that Slick was both generous and mean, short-tempered and immensely humorous. He also seemed to owe money all over the place. Enough that someone might have gone after his bike to cover his debts?
Then Jamie stepped up to the fire to have his say. “Slick gave me a chance to prove myself when others wouldn’t,” he said, that handsome face sober. “He trusted me. I won’t forget that.”
As he spoke he glanced across to where I could just see William standing near the front of the crowd, with Paxo to the left of him.
I realised, too, that there was a third figure involved. He was too close to be just a bystander, his head tilted with too much obvious interest in the proceedings. As I watched, he leaned a casual arm on William’s broad shoulder, swinging a beer bottle by the neck between his forefinger and thumb. A tall, almost slender guy, not far into his twenties if I was any judge, with short-cropped dark hair and wearing race-replica leathers that made him look like a walking cigarette packet.
Cigarette packet.
I knew there was something familiar about that colour scheme and then it clicked. I remembered the bikers who’d buzzed past me on the way to the hospital. Two of them had clearly been William on his Kawasaki and Paxo on his Ducati. It was too much of a coincidence that those same matching leathers of the Aprilia rider who’d been with him didn’t belong to the man now regarding Jamie with a mixture of irritation and amusement on his face.
Jamie started to move to
wards the group and I was keen to see what happened but at that moment I felt a tug on my own sleeve. I turned to find Sam beckoning me over to one side.
“Did you know Slick was supposed to be organising a trip to Ireland at the end of this week?” he said when we’d moved far enough away not to be overheard ourselves.
“Yes,” I said, frowning, even a little annoyed that Sam had dragged me away from witnessing a much more interesting exchange. “It’s a Devil’s Bridge Club thing, isn’t it? Why?”
Sam looked slightly crestfallen at my reaction. “Oh,” he said. “Well, there were rumours that it would all be off, what with Slick kicking the bucket an’ all.”
“You’re all heart, Sam,” I said, glancing round to check none of the dead man’s mates were standing close enough to take offence.
“Yeah, but that’s not all,” Sam went on, grinning at me through his beard. “When someone said the trip was probably going to be cancelled, someone else said they thought there was too much at stake for the rest of them not to go.”
“‘Too much at stake’?” I queried. “What the hell does that mean?”
He shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “Hey, I’m just the oily rag, not the engine driver,” he said. “I just thought you ought to know.”
“Yeah,” I said, distracted. “Thanks, Sam. Keep your ears open.”
Why did I get the feeling this Irish trip was more than just a bikers’ outing? Jamie was from Ireland. So was Isobel – and Eamonn. Jacob was there now. Coincidence, or design? I couldn’t help wondering what Jamie had just told Tess that seemed to have put her mind at rest. And what was this chance that Slick had given him? Was it as simple as proving he could ride fast, or was there more to it than that?
I turned away, so caught up in my tumbling thoughts that when someone moved deliberately in front of me I came to an abrupt halt and only just avoided bumping into them. I looked up and found William’s stony face staring down at me. Such was the intensity in his expression that I took a half-step back away from him.
My focus expanded rapidly and I realised that Paxo was just behind William’s left shoulder, Gleet behind his right. None of them looked what you might call friendly, except with each other, which – after their run-in outside the hospital – did surprise me. I glanced casually over my own shoulder in case the Aprilia rider was closing in on me from behind but he was nowhere to be seen. Sam had melted away into the background.
“This is a private party for Slick’s mates,” Paxo said meaningfully. “What the fuck made you think you were invited?”
“I didn’t hear anybody tell me I wasn’t,” I said, keeping my voice calm and level. I mentally traced my escape route. Too far to get to the Suzuki in a hurry. Better hope I didn’t need to.
“Well, Charlie, you’re hearing it now,” William said evenly.
“Oh really?” I shifted my gaze briefly between the three of them. “I’ve had to put up with the cops raiding Jacob’s place this afternoon looking for the carcass of Slick’s bike,” I said, wondering if MacMillan’s polite search quite qualified as a raid. “I told them jack shit – to borrow a phrase – about what he might have been up to and where else they might care to look. And you tell me that’s not the action of a mate?”
Gleet raised his eyebrows. “She’s got a point,” he allowed. “If she’s come to pay her respects, why not let her stay?”
“No!” Paxo said, vehement. “She’s just come to snoop.”
Gleet regarded me solemnly for a moment although there might have been more than that going on under the surface. “Well at least she’s not brought that tame thug of hers with her,” he said. “Who is he, by the way?”
“His name’s Sean Meyer and he’s a real nasty piece of work,” said a new voice from my left. Jamie stepped into view and faced me with barely concealed glee at this unexpected opportunity to put the boot in.
“Sean Meyer?” William repeated slowly. “I remember that name now – from years back. Racist bastard, wasn’t he? Went down for it.”
“No,” I said flatly. “He wasn’t. And he didn’t.”
“I know Mum was down at Dad’s place this morning and Sean beat the shit out of her boyfriend,” Jamie said. “Splatted his nose all over his face.”
“Considering Eamonn was attempting to break both my ankles at the time,” I snapped, “I’d say he had it coming, wouldn’t you?”
I glanced back at the others. Gleet’s heavy features might even have been looking amused. William and Paxo exchanged silent glances I didn’t catch the meaning of.
“I think you should leave now,” William said then, his voice almost indifferent. “Either of your own accord or not. Makes no odds to us.”
I shrugged, tossed my three-quarter empty bottle of beer into the fire and turned away, starting to walk down the hill towards where the bikes were parked. Gleet and the others walked with me in silence. I could feel them behind me all the way and it was tempting to break into a run but I kept my pace steady. By the time I reached the Suzuki my shoulder blades were twitching with the effort.
They watched me retrieve my helmet from the bar end, kick the RGV into life and wheel it out of the line. All the while I was expecting one of them to reinforce the threat with something more physical. I knew I didn’t stand a chance if they decided to make their displeasure more actively felt and I concentrated on keeping my face blank, my stance passive. But they said nothing. Did nothing. Just standing there glaring was more than enough.
As I rode away carefully along the potholed farm track leading to the main road I could feel the nervous sweat sticking my shirt to my back under my leathers. I hadn’t learned much, that was true, but at least I’d escaped unscathed from the encounter.
I only hoped that Sam would be able to do the same.
Eight
The first spots of rain began to fall just as I hit the main road and turned the Suzuki’s head back towards Lancaster.
I cursed under my breath as I felt the rain splash onto my visor. It wouldn’t be long before the water was down the back of my neck. I reached up and pulled the collar of my jacket tighter, like that was really going to make a difference.
We hadn’t had any significant rain for weeks and the Wray road was out in farm country, bordered by tall hedges and dry stone walls. Constant agricultural traffic meant the tarmac was coated with dust and muck and diesel. Just add water and it quickly turned to a lethally slippery film on the surface. Until the rainfall was heavy enough to wash the road clean, it was like riding on black ice.
The light was dropping, too. That halfway stage between day and evening when you need your headlights on but they don’t actually seem to do much. I slowed right down.
Which was how they managed to catch me quite so easily.
I don’t know precisely where they came from. One moment my mirrors were empty, and the next there was the sudden flare of main beam headlights behind me.
My first thought was that some stupid car driver had only just cottoned on to the fact that the approaching gloom meant it might be a good idea to put his lights on.
As soon as I’d finished that thought, the suspicious part of my mind took over. When I first took to two wheels I learned very quickly how vulnerable you are to other road users. I was knocked off the first time before I’d even passed my test.
Looks like someone was aiming for a rematch.
The lights had closed up fast on my rear end, blazing. I edged slightly over to the left, hoping the driver would take the hint and just go past me.
The lights moved up closer still. I couldn’t see anything of the vehicle or the driver because of the glare of them. I held my position and speed. As I approached a left-hander the driver following me put on a burst of speed and swung out to the right. As he drew level with my knee I realised that the lights were too big and too widely spaced to belong to a car. More like a van.
Transit van, Clare had said when I’d asked what had hit her. Determined sod.
> Instinctively, I whacked the throttle wide open just as the van lurched sideways into my airspace.
The bike’s engine screamed as the tacho needle bounced into the red line at 12,000rpm. I backed off before the rev limiter cut in, just long enough to kick a fast clutchless change, and threw my weight over the forks to try to keep the front wheel on the ground.
I wasn’t fast enough. The van hit the back end of the Suzuki, jolting it sideways and nearly bucking me head first into the dry stone wall by the edge of the road. That was probably the idea. I swear I heard the crack of splintering plastic as my back mudguard and numberplate shattered.
The van’s headlights shrank abruptly as I pulled away from him. The needle on the bike’s speedo rushed upwards as the outskirts of the little village of Wray leapt towards me. Just before the speed restriction signs the road curved sharp left. To remind you to slow down the planners had helpfully placed a series of vicious ridges in the tarmac which were right across the apex to the bend. Maybe the van driver was just hanging back waiting for me to crash. I tried hard to disappoint him.
