Page 58 of Demon

The bikes roared onwards, turning the heads of pedestrians and then scattering a flock of sheep as the procession wound up and out of the medieval village. Then the view was back, the sea on our right, a deep dark blue with a sprinkling of white as waves crashed against each other in the distance. The air was damp, creeping in under my helmet, the fresh scent of salt and seaweed carried on the lightest of breezes. And there, for a moment, despite the heavy vibrations of the bike powering on underneath me, and being surrounded by members of a motorcycle gang, and hanging onto a man who had a penchant for danger and violence, I found a strange sort of calm. Tranquillity. Freedom. Whatever it was, it soaked into my skin. An infusion, infiltrating my blood, filling my arteries with a peace I’d never known.

And suddenly I realised I could sit here forever, calmed by the deep tremors, and enthralled by the endless scenery of seas and hills, of colours, of fresh smells and the raw feeling of freedom. Maybe that was the crux of it? True freedom. Is that what the men in front and behind me felt every time they climbed onto these huge shiny machines?

There were many villages cut off by these roads. Alnmouth. Lesbury. Little out crops of houses nestled in beauty. My head whipped right and left at the rolling fields and the line of tranquil blue. At cosy cottages coated in ivy, the dark leaves crawling over the brickwork, leaving only the windows bare, which peeked out from underneath like a girl peering through a fringe that was long overdue a trim. The houses became grander as we moved further inland again, but just as old and picturesque. Only this time they were three and four times the size, with shiny new motors parked on expansive drives. Alnwick.

The road was busier, and the bikes slowed, the engines grumbling loudly in complaint, cars blocking their ability to move freely. Either side of me were walls and trees, and then more rows of terraced houses. Not like mine, but with huge bay windows, and window boxes crammed with colourful flowers, and plant pots, and immaculately trimmed tiny privet hedges. And when the sun shined, it coated it in liquid gold, gathering in the weathered dents of the old brickwork, gleaming against the peaks of white above the windows.

The road narrowed at the far end, a line of traffic forming, and the bikes slowed, engines purring, riders sitting, waiting patiently. I couldn’t see why at first. But then as each pair rolled forwards the huge stone archway came into view. Higher than the old Victorian properties on either side, it almost blocked the road. The only way through was by squeezing through the middle of a stone arch that was only wide enough to let one car through at a time. Higher up, tiny rectangular slits stared down upon us, only a few inches wide, enough to fit a bow and arrow into the gap and shoot someone straight through the chest. The gatehouse scrutinised everyone attempting to gain access, and for a split second I felt its eyes on me, judging me, deciding whether I was friend or foe. And what was I? Was I a friend to Demon? Was I more? Or would I run off and leave him at the first sign of danger?

I sighed, pushing the pent-up tension out into my helmet and fogging up the visor so that the big judgemental archway in front of me became a big beige blur. A big, intimidating beige blur. We passed under the ancient stone structure and instinctively I bowed my head. Not because I was going to strike it off anything, but because riding under the medieval structure felt oppressive.

But on the other side, through that arch, was a town centre rich with quaint shops and cosy eateries. Idyllic. Nearly every building was joined. Row upon row of stone properties, of varying ages. Each shop front was a different colour, but the old Victorian theme ran through nearly everyone. It was like a set from a Jane Austen adaptation. Only prettier. And real.

We followed the procession of bikes, every shopper on the street, every occupant of every car turning to look at us. At the orchestra of engines, growling menacingly through the picture postcard streets of Alnwick. We pulled around the back of an officious building with a clock sticking out the top of it, into a market square of covered trading stalls that were being disassembled, bit by bit. At the far side in front of a statue, another group of bikes were parked, leather covered riders milling about, some clutching half-drunk pint glasses.

Our group fanned out around them, infiltrating their numbers, the low rumble of stationary Harley Davidsons echoing off every wall in the quadrangle. Demon killed the engine, and around us others did the same, the little square stilling suddenly in silence. Patting my leg, he let the bike lurch sideways, and for those few seconds my stomach lurched with it, a little jolt of fear as the big machine moved underneath me.

The entire ride dismounted, pillions standing dutifully beside their bikes, while the fully patched members moved forwards, grasping arms, making pleasantries. Demon didn’t move, watching silently.

“Aren’t you supposed to go do your bike club thing?” I nudged him as he pulled the black helmet from his head.

“Yeah. Guess so?” Demon stared on, not moving.

“You don’t like these guys?” I asked, watching him stand there doing nothing.

Demon sighed, still not moving. “This, here,” he waved his arm in front of him at the leather clad bikers moving towards the other club, mingling and chatting. “It’s not a democracy. We might pretend it is. But it’s not. Whatever the President says goes. And we all charge in, regardless.”

“Your Dad, huh?”

“Yep. He likes to be the one calling the shots.”

“And you let him?” It was a bold question. I knew it and he knew it.

Demon nodded. “Everyone does what he says. What we’re told. We get a vote, but we know well in advance what the expected outcome of that vote needs to be.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.” There was a sadness in his voice. Some sort of resignation to facts that I had no idea of. And probably had no business knowing about.

No matter what they packaged themselves up to be, the Northern Kings were a gang. Led by one man. And no matter how outrageous, Demon would answer to that one man for the rest of his life. Didn’t seem so free to me after all.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Demon

“Who are these?” Ciara asked, standing beside me as I watched Kings members shaking hands and patting shoulders, careful not to touch the back patches of the other MC.

“Valhalla’s Vandals.”

“Wh…who?”

“It’s their MC name.”

“Really? What are they trying to be?”

“Shhh Ciara. These are a tough crowd. Nearly as bad as The Notorious. But more aligned with us. Think Ste would like to keep it that way.”

“Why do you call him Ste?” she changed the subject.