Digger nudged her with a bony elbow. “You're right, as usual. But we're here now, an' these are good people. We'll keep 'em safe until they're ready to leave.” When she didn't answer, he nudged her again. “Right?”
“Right.”
She turned and looked out into the clearing. They were good people, and they were trying. She knew that, sooner or later, the converted buses and vans would be replaced by stone cottages in the Cotswolds. But maybe they'd still care enough to involve themselves in local politics. Maybe their eyes would stay permanently open, even when they had running water, and didn't have to dig a new toilet every few months.
Nigel looked up from the fire and frowned. “You okay?”
Mouse nodded. “Yeah.” She didn't like Nigel... Didn't trust him. “Can we borrow the Land-Rover? We need to get some stuff.”
Trust was important to Mouse. She lived in a world that could only work if everybody was singing from the same hymn sheet. She also lived in a world that attracted a lot of flakes. A well run squat, where everyone took responsibility for their environment, where everyone pulled their weight, worked. It could function within the local community because it would enrich it. A squat populated by artists and artisans, poets and musicians, all with a strong sense of social justice, added colour and energy. The well read, articulate, anarchist punks who would leap to the defence of anyone weaker than them would charm local residents with their wit and intelligence. A squat could return an abandoned, unloved pile of bricks, into a functioning, well maintained community within a community.
A well run squat was a thing of beauty.
This was not a well run squat.
This was a bunch of airheaded hippies, who didn't have a fucking clue. They would preach to anyone who'd listen about how they were rejecting the norm, or the evils of capitalism, yet somehow managed find the three hundred quid they'd need to go to Glastonbury every summer, then bitch about how commercialised and contrived it all was. Mouse stomped across the clearing. Fucking hypocrites; they weren't living off grid, they were fucking camping. And because they still had no idea, they really thought that they'd be able to move off site at a minute's notice.
The only reason she was still here was because her poor old horsebox had upped and died. When she and Digger had arrived, the plan had been to stay for a couple of weeks. Meg was an old friend, and Mouse had wanted to persuade her that maybe it wasn't a great place for a baby. Meg hadn't listened to reason, so they'd hung around to help out. And now they were stuck there.
Mouse didn't really want to abandon her home, but realistically, she knew that if she couldn't get it running again, she'd have no choice. She wasn't attached to it, or anything in it. But it did keep the rain off.
She climbed into the ancient Land-Rover and waited for Digger to join her. He grinned and began rolling one of his foul-smelling cigarettes. “You do know we're gonna get our arses kicked, right?”
Mouse shrugged. “Story of our lives, Digs.”
~oOo~
Nitro glared at the paraffin heater as it gave a final pop and died. Shit. He picked up his cell and waved it in the air. Still no signal. Fuck.
He wasn't in the country illegally. He was born here, had a British passport, and his mom still lived in the town he’d grown up in, but he wasn't in a hurry to appear on anyone's radar. This meant that any money he earned tended to be via a less than legal route.
This job, however, was legit...kinda. The money wasn't great, and sitting in a freezing hut in a scrapyard on the edge of an industrial estate on the outskirts of Bristol wasn't exactly how he envisioned life to be. But he needed the cash, and the work wasn't exactly taxing. In fact the biggest challenge—apart from staving off hypothermia—was staying awake until the morning.
The club didn't own the scrapyard, but did have close ties with the owner, a greasy little slimeball called Milo Baxter, who could never look anyone in the eye, and was always accompanied by two golems. Nitro didn't trust the guy one little bit, and neither did Denny, but it helped to have people who could dispose of things that were a little... hot, at a moment's notice, and in return, the club offered their services at a knock-down price. And right now, they were providing security on this, and other sites that Baxter owned.
Nitro sighed and opened his book; if nothing else, this job was giving him a chance to catch up on his reading. A loud snore from the corner of the room broke the silence, and he grinned as Taz, the world's least effective guard dog, whimpered and chased rabbits in his sleep. “You get a patrol dog,” Denny had said. “A Rottweiler.” Nitro rolled his eyes as the dog woke and struggled to his feet before waddling over to scrounge some of his sandwich. A fully functioning Rottweiler would have been nice.
Not spending three nights a week freezing his balls off in a fucking hut would be nice.
He sighed. Staying in California would have been nice.
~oOo~
“If I get mauled to death by rabid dogs, I'm coming back to haunt you.” Digger pulled the bolt croppers from the back of the Land-Rover and looked around. “No fuckin' way this place ain't guarded.”
“I told you, it's an old fat bloke who'll have drunk himself into a stupor by now, and an even older and fatter dog. How do you think I've been keeping the van on the road all this time? I checked the place out the other day, and there's a couple of Bedford vans that I'm betting haven't been stripped yet.” Mouse grinned. “Trust me, I know what I'm doing. And what choice do we have? We need a water pump and we don't have any money.”
Digger sighed and began cutting through the fence. “We are so going to get our arses kicked.”
Mouse rolled her eyes and, crouching down, lifted a section of the wire fencing. “See, it hasn't been fixed since the last time I was here.”
Digger nodded approvingly; Mouse had deployed an old squatter trick. Often it was important to be able to get in and out of places without anyone knowing, so you did as little damage as possible, as low down as possible. It did mean that you did a lot of crawling on your belly, of course, but no system was perfect. Then again, stealing engine parts from a scrapyard in the wee hours of the morning, in the pouring rain, was never going to be easy.
Keeping the beam of her torch as close to their feet as possible, Mouse led them to the van she'd seen a couple of days before, and opened the bonnet. “Take it away, Digs. I'll keep watch.”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to remove a water pump in the dark?”
“Nope.” Mouse glanced over at the hut by the gate on the far side of the yard, and tried to figure out what was bothering her.
“And you do know that it probably won’t work.”
“Yeah.” Something was different, but she couldn't put her finger on what. “As long as I can limp it to Bath, I'm good.”
There was a loud clatter. “Fuck. Shine the torch down there,” Digger pointed to somewhere between the front wheels. “I've dropped the monkey wrench.”
“How about you make a bit more noise. The old boy in the hut didn't hear you.”
There are probably few sounds scarier than that of a shotgun being cocked. Especially when you're stealing from a scrapyard in the middle of the night. Mouse froze as an eerily familiar voice, that was way too close to her ear, whispered. “Yes he did.”
That was what was different! The old boy's car wasn't there. Bugger.
Digger turned around slowly with his arms outstretched. “Is there really any need for the gun, squire?”
“Well, unless halitosis is lethal, my dog is useless, and I am American, so I'd say yes.” He was standing too close to her. Way too close. Mouse resisted the urge to turn around as he bent and whispered in her ear. “If you wanted to see me again, you only had to ask.”
Mouse really didn't like this guy. He had no right walking around being all tall and bearded and shit. And he certainly shouldn't be allowed to have that voice. She swallowed. “Are you going to shoot us?”
“Wasn't planning on it.” He straightened up and
pointed to his hut. “The kettle's just boiled. Thought you might like a cup of tea while Gandalf steals whatever it is he's stealing.”
“Are you serious?” Mouse turned around to face him. Oh god, even in the dark, he was gorgeous.
He shrugged. “I've spent the last four hours sitting on my own in a freezing hut. I could use some company. And you're hardly hardened criminals. I'm sure whatever it is you're taking won’t be missed.”
Digger grinned. “You gonna bring out a cup for me? Three sugars, no milk.”
Mouse eyed the shotgun that was now resting casually on Mr So You Think You're Hot's shoulder, and he laughed. “I don't make a habit of shooting snotty little punks, darlin'. Come on, leave the flashlight with Gandalf and let's get out of this rain.”
Mouse followed the tall biker back to the hut, not checking out his arse at all. “Why are you doing this? Most people would have set the dog on us or kicked our arses.”
“I ain't most people, darlin'.” He pushed open the hut door.
“I am not your darling.”
When he grinned, crinkles formed around his eyes. “Would you like to be?”
Mouse didn't do sex. It wasn't that she didn't like it—she did, a lot—but she wasn't good at relationships, and casual sex was, as a rule, unsatisfying, so after a few awkward mornings and disappointing encounters, she'd given up trying. She did have a type, though, and the man standing in front of her was most definitely it. His dark, almost black hair hung past his shoulders in thick waves and his brown eyes were ringed by lashes that most women would kill for. He was tall, and she was pretty sure that under the bulky hoodie there would be muscles. But it was his smile that caused that place low in her stomach to flutter. And the way his eyes danced. And... Oh fuck, get a grip, woman. The guy had arsehole written all over him.
She gave him what she hoped was a look of disdain. “No I would not.”
~oOo~
She was lying.
Nitro didn't consider himself vain, but he knew that women dug the way he looked. And he knew that the little punk, despite her attitude and protestations, was no different.
He shrugged and grabbed a couple of mugs from the shelf. “Suit yourself.”
She wasn't exactly his type. Actually, he doubted she was anyone's type. She was blonde, which, he guessed, was a point in her favour, but her shoulder-length hair looked as though it had been cut with a machete, and hadn't seen a comb in a long time. He had no idea what her body looked like under that oversized parka, but he guessed she was as skinny as she appeared, and para boots would never be sexy. And he'd always had a thing for tall, curvy women, not tiny little girls that barely reached his shoulder.
Pretty eyes, though.
She wandered over to the table in the corner of the hut, and picked up his book. “The Master and Margarita? Wow, didn't have you pegged as a fan of Russian literature.”
“I'm not especially. Have you read it?”
She shook her head. “I tried. I dunno what Bulgakov was on when he wrote it, or whether something gets lost in translation, but Jesus, the fucking thing is all over the place.”
He grinned. “It is kinda schizophrenic, but I like the humour.”
“There's humour? Wow, I really did miss the point.”
Something woke up inside him. Nitro squirreled the feeling away to be examined later. It had been a while since someone had really piqued his interest.
“But you do read, right?” He wasn't sure why it was important.
She grinned; okay, the dimples were cute. “I live in a horsebox with no electricity. Of course I read. Although, given my perpetual lack of cash, and the type of people I hang with, I've learned not to be fussy.” She laughed. “For the last three months I've been stuck in a wood with a bunch of hippies who think they can find spiritual awareness in a book. I've learned all there is to know about gaining enlightenment. Go on, ask me anything.”
Nitro put the mugs on the table and pulled out a chair. “So, given a choice, what would you read?”
She shrugged. “I quite like fantasy, and usually I'd rather read something light—something that makes me laugh. Luckily Digger has a load of Disc-World books, so I always have a fall back.”
“Digger?”
“The guy who is currently stealing a water pump and waiting for his cuppa.” Blue—her eyes were blue, and there was a smattering of freckles across her nose. She frowned slightly, and Nitro realised he'd been staring.
“I'm Mouse.”
“Because you're tiny and cute, right?”
“Or because I'm a disease-carrying pest. Take your pick.” There were those dimples again. Shit, what was it about this girl? “Pick wisely, darlin'.”
Oh, he liked Mouse. “I'm Nitro.”
Mouse spat her tea across the table. Coughing, she wiped the cover of his book with her sleeve. “Sorry 'bout that, Nitro.” She snorted. “That has to be the most wank name ever.”
He'd always kinda liked it. “I was just starting to like you.”
Digger poked his head around the door, making them both jump. “Don't s'pose there are any power tools around? I can't get the fucking bolts to shift.”
3
There were distinct differences between the British Freaks and their American counterparts. First off, there were the bikes. Back home, without exception, his brothers rode American bikes—usually Harleys, but some would also own an Indian or a Victory as well. Here, the Freaks had a more pragmatic approach. Most rode Triumphs or Harleys, but it wasn't unusual to see a Japanese or Italian bike outside the clubhouse, and Nitro had to admit that sport bikes were better suited to a lot of the roads around these parts.
He'd quickly learned that the concept of open roads was a myth in the UK. There were roads that were quiet, of course, but they weren't the long stretches of highway he was used to. Here, if you wanted to escape the traffic, you had to head for the countryside, and the roads there were winding, narrow and undulating. Nitro had always considered himself a good rider, but as he watched his brothers throwing their bikes around bends at speeds that were, frankly, terrifying, he knew he was going to have to up his game.
Then there was the attitude toward the Freaks from the general population. In the States, there was a romanticism attached to outlaws—he guessed it stemmed from the wild west—when he and his brothers rolled into town, people would stop and stare. When they walked into a bar or diner, the atmosphere would shift. Freaks were feared and admired. They were something. Here, no one seemed to pay them any attention at all.
Here, snotty little punk chicks called them wankers.
Nitro leaned on the bar and stared into his beer. Fucking godforsaken country.
“S'up, yank?” Biff slung an arm over his shoulder. “Homesick?”
Was he? He didn't miss his crazy ex, and, if he was honest with himself, he'd had itchy feet for a while. When he'd moved to Bay View from Vegas, he'd expected to fit in easily. Vince, the President, had seemed like an upfront guy when he'd first met him, and his ex had been the one pushing for a move to California, so he'd allowed himself to be persuaded. After six months, though, he knew he'd made a mistake. His marriage hit the skids, and he'd been unable to shake the growing feeling that the chapter was being pushed in the wrong direction. There was something about Vince that made him uneasy, and he'd found himself at odds with his President in church more than once. Even if things hadn't gone to shit with his ex, he'd probably have moved on.
He shrugged and pushed himself away from the bar. “Nah, jus' not feeling it, bro. I'm gonna head home.”
Nitro's apartment on the edge of the St Paul's district of Bristol was, like the rest of the country, too fucking small. It did, however, come with a garage, something that was as scarce as hen's teeth in this densely populated city. His brothers had laughed when he'd told them where he was living, and pointed out that he'd managed to find one of the few places in Britain where he could get himself shot, so he should feel at home. He was still pretty sure they
were exaggerating; sure, the area was poor and it'd had more than its fair share of troubles in the past, but Nitro hadn't ever felt threatened, and he enjoyed the vibe of the place.
His neighbour and landlord was an old guy who'd come from Jamaica in the Fifties. He and his wife had been warm and welcoming, and their Afro Caribbean store, downstairs, that sold shit he couldn't begin to recognise, was more like a drop-in centre for all the ol' timers in the area than an actual store. Nitro had taken to sitting with the old guys whenever he got the chance; he got a real kick out of listening to their stories, and sharing a few of his own.
Today, though, he'd ignored the enticing smells and great music, and headed straight upstairs. He needed to catch up on his sleep, and he needed to be on his own.
She'd called him a wanker.
He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. He wasn't even attracted to her. His world was full of women who wanted nothing more than to please their men. Women from all walks of life who were turned on by a bad boy on a Harley. All he'd ever needed to do was smile, and they were ready to drop their panties. Mouse had been attracted to him—he just knew it—but she'd been attracted despite the fact he was a Freak, not because of it. But, despite her attraction, she'd never open her legs for him. Because she thought he was a wanker.
~oOo~
How many times did she have to tell them? Mouse scowled as she picked up the cans and bottles that had been left strewn around the fire. Jesus. Did they think that pixies came to the encampment in the night and cleaned up after them? The resentment that had been building over the last few months stepped up a notch. The problem with people who came from a privileged background was that they'd had a lifetime of people picking up after them, and this little band of travellers were no different. If it wasn't for her and Digger, they would have drowned in their own crap months ago.
Itinerant Child Page 2