Page 62 of Indie

“Your bike club,” I started, trying to choose these next words carefully. “You’re really a gang, aren’t you?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“It was something Suzy said.”

“And what was that?” Indie’s jaw had tensed. The tone of his words changed.

“About the burning cut. That someone was muscling in on your patch. Patches. Territory. You’re a gang, aren’t you?”

Indie swiped a hand through his hair, drawing in a breath. And now suddenly I felt afraid of him, like I was going to regret speaking out loud.

“We’re a bike club. Not a gang.”

“What’s the difference?” It was a whisper, words I had no business saying, but I did anyway.

Indie sighed; his face tight.

“We’re not criminals, not really. We don’t always do the right things by society’s standards. But we are a family. People who live by particular rules, who are loyal to each other, look after each other.”

He stepped forward, reaching out, wrapping his hands gently around the tops of my arms.

“We test the loyalties of people who want to join us, rigorously. We need to know we can trust them, that they won’t disgrace the club’s name, that they’ll follow club and MC rules.”

“But the patches? The talk about territory?”

“We’ve always had territory. And historically, it has been fought over. No different to neighbouring football clubs, or a spat about jurisdiction and the authorities. We just fight about it in different ways. Or we used to. My dad put a stop to that a long time ago.”

His hands moved, cupping either side of my face, pushing up into my hair.

“Spuggy, we’re a family. And we look after our family. From the boys in the club to the women they choose to spend their lives with. Once you’re someone’s ol’ lady, we look after you. There’s no death till we part. My dad’s ol’ lady, Tori, we’ll look after her too. Even though some of us don’t like her. We have to. It’s in the rules. It’s part of our code. We don’t always do the right things, babe. But the wrong things we do are done for the right reasons. And that puts us way above any gangs or any mafia. That’s what sets us apart.”

I didn’t know what answer I was looking for, but not that. The sincerity, the belief in the organisation, whatever that was.

“Come on,” Indie dropped his hands from my face. “Let me show you something.”

His fingers threaded through mine, engulfing my hand in his, and gently he tugged me back along the corridor towards that big open plan living space. But instead of going through the door in front of us at the top of the stairs, he took a right. That door opened up into another enormous room. Not as big as the room along the back of the pub, but big enough that it houseda never-ending table. The pitted mahogany stretched on and on, and I lost count at fourteen chairs nestled around it.

“This is where it happens,” his voice rumbled low and gentle from behind me.

“Where what happens?”

“Church.”

“Church? Oh… Church.”

I understood now. Sort of.

“This is where we hold the club meetings. Every member but the prospects attend. And every member gets to vote or has a say. Every member is listened to, maybe not agreed with, but their view is put forward for us to consider, fairly.”

“Why not the prospects?”

“Because they haven’t proved themselves fully. Once they have. Once we know they can be trusted to follow our rules, then they become fully patched members. And then they get their say. Until then, they only get to come in here if invited.”

“What about the women in the club?”

Indie grimaced, like he was waiting uncomfortably for that question.

“That’s probably one of the few rules you’re not gonna like, Spuggy.”