Page 37 of Indie
We’d not been long off the causeway and on the main road before I saw the tiny flecks of a group of bikes coming up behind me. They rode two abreast, the usual bike club formation, and they were riding fast. My eyes flicked from the road to my mirrors, watching the black dots become forms on bikes, and then those bikes themselves take shape. Familiar shapes. Harleys. And then they were right behind us.
I twisted sideways, trying to move away from Emmie so that my colours were more obvious, but she was clinging too snugly behind me, so that every movement I made, she did too. The bikers sat on my tail, an attempt to pressurise and intimidate, and then broke formation, driving up my right flank.
I caught the side of their patch, of the Nordic runes, and tip of a horned helmet. I knew who they were, but they couldn’t make me out. I shifted again, trying to move my back enough that they’d catch enough of my cut that they could see who I was. The lead rider pointed two fingers at me and then the side of the road, moving his hand up and down, signalling for us to pull over.
There was a layby just coming up, wide enough to fit us all in. Me and six of the Valhalla’s Vandals. The bike slowed, the engine growling loudly, six others around and behind me, amplifying the sound. I cut my engine, but the bikes surrounding me didn’t follow suit. A sign of hostility, of power. Control.
Emmie hugged me tighter, her arms rigid with tension and her head moving from side to side over my back. Patting her hand, I wriggled from her grasp, dragging my leg carefully over the bike and turning my back to show my patch as I took off my helmet. Behind me the engines of the Harleys turned off, a quietness descending around us, a sign these riders had suddenly recognised my colours. When I turned back to them, the first two riders were removing their helmets. A mark of respect between aligned clubs.
“Indie. We didn’t see your patch, mate.”
“Ya alright, mate,” I answered, holding out an arm that was met with a firm clasp from the man standing in front of me, with the shaved head and long dark beard that was greying around the edges. “What ya doing pulling random riders over anyway, Snatch?”
“Tomahawk has had us checking out riders all month.”
“Why?”
“He’s paranoid, mate. Thinks everyone riding a Harley is the Bloody Hand or one of their new little mates, The Aces.”
“The Aces?”
“Aye. Some dodgy little street gang that is running around after the Hand.”
“Didn’t think they were bikers?”
“You heard of them, then?”
“Aye. Been testing some of our shit the last few weeks. But they aint got bikes, mate.”
“Not yet. But there’s reports of a load of bike thefts up north. And there’s definitely been a few unmarked riders up and down this way. Tomahawk reckons The Hand will be challenging us first.”
“Why you? Why not the inner-city clubs?”
“Because we’re more isolated. Won’t be able to get the backup as quick. It’s easier to take us out if they launch an all-out offensive.”
The man behind Snatch nodded in agreement.
“I don’t reckon we’re anywhere near that, mate,” I added. “Tomahawk has always been a paranoid fucker. And no one else in the coalition is reporting anything.”
“Apart from you guys.”
“Just from this street gang, though. We had a run in with them a few months back too. Checked them out but couldn’t find owt that would put them in bed with The Hand. I cannit even see why the Hand would be interested in them.”
“They’re just soldiers. Someone easy and game to send in to create some problems, get folks back up, to put the cracks in the coalition.”
And that resonated with me. Snatch was talking all kinds of sense. Of a reality that I knew was already here, that I was trying to ignore. But despite Tomahawk’s paranoia, he was probably right. What better way to infiltrate our interclub relationships than to send out such a small threat that we all took it for granted? We’d certainly done that while we were preoccupied with other things, while I was distracted by my father. And with Emmie. I hadn’t seen the Aces testing us. And what messages had I sent back? Barely nothing. A beating here, a broken nose there, and mostly because I wanted Emmie’s arsehole ex warned to stay away from her.
Not one of those messages was the show of power we had really needed. A means for them to be scared.
Fuck.
“Tell Tomahawk we’ll talk at the rally,” I said, signalling this conversation with the Vandals was over as I pulled my helmet back over my head. “Looks like we have a church meeting tonight.”
*****
“I didn’t have you down as a churchgoer,” Emmie commented, handing me back the black helmet.”
“Huh?” I was confused, the ride home and thoughts milling through my brain, not helping to grasp what she was saying.