Page 9 of Demon
“Come on, girl. Wee, then bed.”
For both of us.
But as Kinobi snored her head off right beside me, I couldn’t switch off. Every time I closed my eyes, she was there. Stubborn and defiant, and the mysterious scar on her face forcing questions through my tired but over stimulated brain. And soon I was up again, perched over the table in my kitchen, the charcoal pencil moving over the paper in front of me like an automaton. Her face taking shape under the orange glow from the lamp poised over the paper and the clock on the wall behind me ticked past 5am.
Chapter Five
Ciara
Sunlight seeped through the curtains that didn’t quite meet across the windows. It wasn’t that the windows were giants, just that the curtains weren’t wide enough to cover both of them, and I usually didn’t stay in places long enough to justify spending money on new fucking curtains. The one on the right had pulled away from the rail, drooping sadly at the corner and letting more daylight flood in and sting my eyes.
I blocked out the light with the pillow I held snuggly over my head, knowing that any minute the alarm on my phone was going to go off and any last few minutes of sleep would be stolen. My shift at the coffee shop started in exactly forty-five minutes and I’d achieved little over five hours sleep. I’d not bothered to shower when I got in last night. The threat of cold water doing nothing to entice cleanliness. The water storage tank would have been drained at that time in the small hours, not quite hot enough yet to even offer the usual lukewarm sprinkle from the rusty shower head.
There were eight of us crammed into this Victorian terrace on the neglected Gateshead street, fighting over the hot water every morning. The property needed a bigger tank to accommodate everyone who lived here, but sleazy Stu was as stingy as he was sleazy. And this morning I was too tired to battle for the water at a reasonable time. To make matters worse, I didn’t even have my own bathroom. I slipped down the corridor clutching my wash gear, clothed head to foot in my pyjamas, with the added layer of a dressing gown for extra protection.
I didn’t know many of the other residents. I would recognise them on the stairs or in passing, mostly. But most moved on as quickly as they came, some with accents and limited English, others with limited funds and drug habits. As long as they left me alone, I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that everyone had used up the water this morning. I was in and out of that shower in minutes. The sting from the cold spray had pelted my skin, turning it a blushed, battered pink.
The coffee shop was buzzing. Saturday morning shoppers fuelling and recharging, stuffing their faces with breakfast sandwiches and guzzling hot coffee, ready to tackle the packed shops in Newcastle city centre. A combination of payday weekend and the sun had brought out the crowds, and taken away any chance that I could sneak five minutes with my nose in a textbook, or make notes for an assignment.
And so, like this, the next couple of weeks continued. Get in late, do a shift in the coffee shop, Uni and then head toTrouble. I had money for food and to cover the increase in rent. Happy days.
*****
Troublewas as busy as ever when I turned in that night in the ridiculous cut-off shorts, but instead of the only covering on my top half being a scrap of cloth, I now could wear whatever, as long as it was white, and tight. The white t-shirt went well, clinging over my boobs but covering my stomach. I’d take this over the tied-up shirt any day.
The place was packed out with men and tonight I noticed more and more bikers. It was a biker takeover, and there were at least three different cuts. The one Demon wore, with the three crowned skulls, another with an angel and demon in an embrace which looked much more like they were fucking the good and bad out of each other. And then another. This one had a patch on the front, the back merely a black space. Terry was wearing the same leather waistcoat, the Tyne Bridge with a thunderbolt in the foreground embroidered on the left-hand side.
And from the booth to my right Demon sat watching, His eyes barely leaving me, following me around like some creepy, possessed painting. There wasn’t an ounce of warmth on his face, but no real malice either. He was just stoic; and observing. The men beside him I recognised. They came in intermittently, would stay for a few hours and then go again, wedging a thick envelope of cash inside their padded leather jackets.
Tonight, though, it seemed they were here in their droves. Everywhere I looked there was leather.
“What’s going on?” I asked Stacey as she whizzed back to join me behind the bar, her black tray empty.
“Bike meeting.” She stacked the tray up again. Whiskies and pints. A common theme of the night.
“Really? Don’t they have a clubhouse or something?”
She shrugged, her eyes fixed on the pump in front of her, golden frothy liquid filling the long, tall glass.
“Probably too many of them to fit into one. Plus, this’ll be neutral ground.”
“Thought Terry was a member of Tyneside Thunder?”
“He is. But it’s not an MC. Just an MCC.”
“There’s a difference?”
She nodded, stacking the tray and pulling it onto the flat of her palm.
“MCC just play at being a bike club. Family run clubs, just people out for a good time and a love of riding bikes. MCs are a whole different ball game.”
She wandered off, quickly consumed by the sea of denim and leather. And still Demon’s eyes fixed on me.
So, I wasn’t employed by a bike gang leader. Just a friend of the bike gangs, it would seem. Terry was moving between groups of bikers, shaking hands, smiling carefully, his hand never once resting on the leather cuts they wore. It was noticeable and odd, all at the same time.
A couple of young lads had mustered the courage to push through the throng of bikers, climbing up onto the seats opposite me.
“Hey, sexy,” one of them started, his mouth pulling into a wonky grin.