Page 39 of Jazz
He exhaled, his eyes darting to the bag I still dangled in the air and then back to me. Then he nodded.
“That home has something we need. You’re going to get it for us. In return, we’ll tell Dunnie to wipe off your debt.”
“I can’t. I can’t lose my job. I have the mortgage to pay. And the credit cards.”
“And your wife to care for. Aye? We know. Alzheimer’s?”
Baz nodded.
“And the only reason you’re still here is because of this?”
I shook the bag, and his attention darted back to it, his eyes tracking it hungrily.
“What would happen to your wife if you weren’t here, fella? You got family?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed again, and after a pause, he shook his head.
“Then work with us, not against us, or there’ll be no one left to look after her. I want gabapentin. And you can get into the pharmacy. You’ll stash it away…”
“I don’t have a key,” he interrupted.
“You’ll find one. I don’t fucking care how. You’ll falsify records. We’ll collect tomorrow night. You’ll drive out here, and you’ll meet one of us. We’ll be unmarked. No patches. We’ll ask you if ‘you’ve got the snacks’. Understand?”
Baz nodded silently.
“Good lad,” I passed him the bag. “Go home. Get sparked up. See you tomorrow night.”
He plucked the bag from my fingers, glancing at me like I might change my mind. Or bite him. In the distance, I heard a roar. Deep and grumbling. Familiar.
“Oh, and Baz?” I called out, watching him turn around stiffly. “You live at 43 Devon Terrace, Linthorpe Road, aye?”
Baz nodded, his face growing paler still, if that was even possible.
In front of me, the wiry man slid back into the driver’s seat, the headlights catching the bikes in front of it. The Honda’s deep blue fairing shimmered like liquid metal; silver streaks sliced along its curves and the emblem catching the light like a flash of chrome, polished and sharp. Beside it, the Kawasaki was black as oil, neon-green accents glowing harsh and angular, the signature Kawasaki script reflecting like knives across the fairing. Every racing stripe, every tiny decal leapt out in the sudden brightness.
The rumble in the dark grew louder. A Harley on the road almost above us. Not one: multiple. Hair prickled on my arms.
Baz pulled out carefully, eyeing the bikes as he slid free from our grasp.
“Reckon he’ll be back tomorrow night?” Skinny asked, limping closer.
“Aye, he’ll be back.”
I swirled my forefinger over my head, and we moved back to our bikes, mounting up.
A rumble again. Harley’s. I glanced at Skinny, and he looked at me, holding my stare.
“Reckon we’re about to get company,” I shouted over the engines.
Skinny nodded. “We make it to the main road together. We get challenged, we split, ride for home, not the clubhouse. There’s only one reason there’s a group of Harley’s on the road at this hour. Ride fast.”
Every bike was awake now. The collective scream vibrated the crumbling concrete beneath us. Kickstands flicked up, and I pressed the button on my handlebars, retracting the number plate. I was breaking all kinds of laws tonight. I didn’t need to leave a trail behind me.
We rode for the main road, watching our wing mirrors. It was quiet. Most people asleep. The road stretched ahead, empty and slick with the chill of early spring. For a few miles, we eased back, letting the bikes breathe, the threat of the Harleys fading into the darkness behind us. The curves of the road glimmered under the occasional streetlight, our headlights carving ribbons of white in front of us. Every gear shift, every rev of the engine felt controlled, deliberate. And tension bled out, if only for a moment.
And then the lights appeared. Tiny pinpricks at first, shimmering in my wing mirrors, growing steadily, crawling closer with every second. A deep, resonant thrum rolled through the night, low and heavy, like the earth itself was warning us. One. Two. Three Harleys, then more, their monstrous enginesgrowling, bass rolling, hungry, relentless. The hairs along my neck prickled, my grip tightening on the handlebars. They weren’t just coming for a look. They were hunting, and we were the quarry.
We weaved through the shadows, the neon accents of the Kawasaki and the metallic blue of the Honda in front of me glinting off every glimmering streetlight. The engine of the Yamaha under me vibrated like a coiled rattlesnake. Alive. Waiting. Every Rat read the road as I did. Eyes flickering into mirrors. Glances over shoulders. Hearts synced to the pulse of the machines. The Harleys gained ground, the bass in their exhausts a physical pressure against my chest. The quiet confidence of a moment ago vanished, replaced by raw instinct: survive, outrun, outsmart.