by Ian Chapman
As soon as I left the town’s jurisdiction the landscape changed. Tended fields were replaced by rough moorland. On the edges there were marks of tracks, where the tank had veered off. I carried on for a mile stopping at the side of the road, on higher ground. Ahead of me were the parched moors that ran north to Scotland and south towards the other counties of England. To the west was more moorland, lit orange by the setting sun.
The road was empty. No sounds part from distant ones from Faeston: a heavy engine, raised voices. A bell ringing. The moors were still and silent. Being here reminded me that it wasn’t all bad outside towns. Maybe this was where I was at home. Staying in Faeston had seemed like a good idea when I’d first rolled in. Somewhere to recuperate, stack up cash. Have an easy few months.
But I’d got stuck. Tied to Round Up, feeling committed: to work and to Sophie.
Off in the distance there was a line of smoke that rose straight up. Otherwise there was no sign of life. No sign there was anyone out in the wilds.
But there’d be farmers, foresters. Couriers working the roads. Reivers and bandits.
I started the bike and turned it round, back towards town, waving to the guards at the patrol point.
I rode to the track. There were two middleweights parked by the start line, their riders chatting. One was the Ducati, the other was one I’d seen around, beaten twice: a CBR with bust fairing. There was a chance of some winnings with these two. The riders gave me a wave and I nodded back. Several other men stood around with their beer and cash gripped tightly. For some reason it all seemed a little flat. Disappointing.
Starter Lad came over. ‘You racing?’
‘Yeah.’
He went to the other bikers and checked they were keen to compete. They each nodded and he scribbled something down.
Another bike rode up. It was the big Suzuki from last night. Not worth a race. I’d take on the middleweights, maybe make some cash then head home. There was always the option to go and see Sophie but that didn’t appeal.
The Scrambler hiccupped and coughed. I revved it up and the engine backfired. Despite all tinkering on with the carbs, the engine still wasn’t right. I’d been winding Sophie up about having to work on it but it really wasn’t happy. Maybe it was still the carbs, or worn bores. Possibly the valves — busted valves. I laughed at this, gave a dry grunt. Busted valves were always a sick joke, after all the headaches they’d given me in the past. Different vehicle, different place, same problems. With the bike revving at two-thousand revs, I blipped it up to four-thousand, dropping it down to idle.
I switched off the Triumph, letting it ping and tick. Once Starter Lad was in place, the Ducati and CBR prepared to race.
The flag dropped and they shot off, the Ducati pouring out smoke. Near the finish line there was a dull thud and it locked its back wheel with a screech and trail of rubber, leaving the other bike to finish.
It looked like it was me and the CBR next. I’d raced him a couple of times before and won. He was fast but the bike’s power was all stacked at the top end. The Scrambler was quicker off the line. If it was running all right.
Several men helped drag the Ducati off with its bust engine. Another fella walked up and down the end section of the track, presumably looking for spilt oil. The CBR turned round and put its lamp on, moving from side to side to illuminate the track where the man inspected the road surface. There was money bet on the races so people didn’t want things to go wrong: bikes crashing was bad for business. After a couple of minutes the CBR swung round and disappeared off down the lane, the one that brought bikes back to the start line.
I started the Triumph and revved it up. It sounded fine. There was movement and bright light from behind me as the CBR rode up.
He pulled up alongside me, flipping up his visor and pointed up the track. ‘Duke’s blown it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’s yours running?’
‘Is the track clear?’
‘Yep. Bone dry.’ He crept the CBR up to the start line.
I joined him and slipped the Scrambler into neutral. The sun had set and I flicked the headlamp on. For a second I put it on main beam and the white tree showed spectral in the distance, standing out from the dimming landscape. When I dipped the lamp there was just the track, empty and ready for us, lit by the two bikes’ headlamps.
The flag dropped and we set off. Despite giving the Scrambler all it had, the Honda was pulled ahead.
By the time we shot past the dead pine he was half a metre in front of me. Not much but enough. I slowed, dropped down through the gears and stopped by the verge near the fellas sorting out the bets. I handed over my stake and moved off to park further up. The CBR rode over and he offered his hand. I shook it and he grinned then rode off to collect his winnings.
Another couple of bikes lined up at the far end, sounding like two small machines. There was a whistle through the funnel nailed to the fence and a fella went over and shouted into it. He listened and came back chatting to the other men. Money changed hands.
I pulled off, going along the lane back to the start line. Lights were coming on across town, row upon row down to the quayside. I wasn’t sure why I was here. What I was going to do now. There was no point coming to the races if I was going to lose. The Scrambler wasn’t on top form but I should have beaten the CBR. I had done in the past.
At the start line there was a Kawasaki z750. I’d not seen this one for a while but he had once been a regular. Some months ago. Maybe he’d want a race. In theory it was a fast machine but the last time he came I’d hammered him. Won easily.
I parked the Scrambler, ready to go over to him, ask if he fancied a race.
As I stepped off there was the sound of a bike’s engine. Fast and smooth coming across town.
It shot up Hill Road with the revs rising and falling as it worked its way through the gears. The headlamp appeared at the far end of the track, bright then dim as the bike tracked the ruts in the road. It raced towards us then dipped its nose. It was the woman on her R6, blipping down through the gears, before she pulled a sharp stoppie that had the bike up on its front wheel. It bounced back down and she balanced it, braced it with her legs in those tight fighting leathers.
She gave me a glance then Starter Lad came over. ‘Are you here to race?’
She nodded to him. ‘Yeah. I am.’ Then she turned to me. ‘You fancy a race?’
I looked her machine over. All clean and tidy. Ticking over nicely. Then I looked her over, in those tight leathers. She faced back towards me and smiled. It was daft going up against her. The Yamaha was in great condition and it looked like she knew how to ride it. There wasn’t much chance I’d beat her. Despite this I got back on the Triumph and started it up, lined up alongside her. The Scrambler settled down into a rough idle as I moved the handlebars around, shifting in the saddle.
She held her hand out to me. ‘Good luck.’
I shook her hand, the grip firm.
Starter Lad spoke into his funnel on the fence. Unusually there was quite a discussion. He gave them details about the Yamaha. What kind of condition it was in. What its rider looked like.
Then he picked up his tattered flag, raised it. The R6 revved hard, the whistle of the engine becoming a bellow. It ticked over and there was clunk as she put it into gear. I adjusted my lid, giving the throttle a blip. She had her headlamp on main beam. In the distance was the finish line with the whitewashed tree.
Starter Lad dropped the flag. There was a growl from the Scrambler and a roar from the Yamaha as we shot off. The R6 fishtailed then straightened up so the Scrambler was ahead but the Yamaha’s engine was on the cam and it lifted the front wheel, pulling level, dipping as it changed into second then hooking up again, disappearing off. It flew past the whitewashed tree with me in its wake. As the R6 turned and parked, I hauled on the brakes, slowed the Scrambler and eased it to a stop. It stalled and had to be restarted before I rod up and joined the woman. Her bike’s engine burbled, a l
ow throb from the exhaust. I switched off the Scrambler before it stalled again.
‘Well done,’ she said. The R6’s fan cut in and she raised her visor, looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on me. As she slid her helmet off the bike’s fan stopped and she switched off the engine, a swishing noise coming from the settling coolant. Some of her red hair had pulled out of pony tail and she straightened it up. ‘Good race,’ she said. ‘Fast machine you’ve got there.’
‘Not fast enough.’
She flicked the side-stand down and stepped off the bike, swinging her leg over the back of it before leaning against the saddle. ‘Gave me a good run.’ Even though she smiled, her arms were pulled tight in front of her and her eyes were past me, focussed on the town in the distance.
I shifted my own bike. I could have got off, stayed and chatted, enjoyed the company of an attractive woman, but things were starting to get complicated. I should never have come. One of the bookies came over and I handed him my stake. He added the money to the rest in his pocket and gave it to her.
She counted the cash, pulling out a few notes and holding them towards me. ‘Share the winnings?’
‘No, you’re okay.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah.’ I couldn’t take the money. It wasn’t worth setting such a precedent. And there was something else, something that didn’t feel right.
She slid the money into her jacket, unzipping one of the pockets on the front, slowly zipping it up. ‘How about we celebrate my win?’ she said. ‘There must be some decent bars in town.’
I started the engine. This was too keen, too fast. I clunked the Scrambler into gear. ‘See you round,’ I said before pulling off.
When I glanced in my mirror the woman was getting onto her bike, watching me go. As I left the track she set off, following me.
I rode fast across town, sticking in an extra loop round the South Road. There was no sign of her in my mirrors.
Once back at my place I took the Scrambler up the back lane, gunning it through into the yard. I flicked the engine off, furling the tarpaulin over the saddle and tank, leaving the engine clear to cool off as it ticked and pinged to itself. There was no sign of old Tommy in the flat downstairs, no sounds from the road. Maybe I’d lost her. Or she hadn’t really been following me.
I gave the bike once last look. This was the worst night I’d had in two months. Only the second time the Scrambler hadn’t won anything.
As I bounded up the stairs to the flat I heard an engine race up the road. When I went to the living room window I saw the blue and white R6 outside, the engine pulsing away, a whirr from the cooling fan. Her on the saddle.
I waited there for a minute, to see what she did. When she did nothing I went down to her.
She switched off when she saw me, slipping her lid onto her arm and leaning back on the saddle. ‘Nice part of town.’ She held her hand out again, like she had at the race. ‘I’m Becky.’
I ignored the hand, looking at the bike rather than her, keeping my eyes off the jacket that was open a little at the front, enough to show some cleavage; those bike leathers, tight on her body. ‘What you after?’
Becky smiled. ‘Just fancied a chat.’ She grinned at me, all friendly.
‘I don’t like being followed.’
She rocked the bike from side to side as the fuel sloshed around in the tank, her eyes off, across town away from me. ‘You’re quite a racer.’
‘Not tonight I wasn’t —’
‘I’ve heard you’re the star of the race scene.’
‘Really?’ I laughed at this.
‘I thought you might show me the town. As a newcomer…’
‘Not at the moment.’
We stood there without talking. A gurgle came from the R6’s radiator. Becky put her hands on her hips holding the bike upright with her legs, those slim legs. ‘Listen, Trent, I want to be straight with you. It’s about the tank, I know that you’re part of the Round Up scene —’
‘I think you should go.’
‘I only want to talk to you about what happened.’
I tapped the fairing on the bike, this rare plastic. ‘These parts must be hard to get hold of.’ I pulled at the fairing and twisted, letting go with a ping. Maybe I wouldn’t really break it, maybe I would. ‘Be a shame if anything happened to it.’
Becky frowned. ‘I’m not after trouble —’
‘Then keep out of my way.’ I turned and walked off. She’d slipped up mentioning Round Up. I'd have gone along with all kinds of stories from a woman with her looks but not now. Not after her admitting she was interested in my day job, especially after The Incident. She was messing me around.
Back in the room I stood at the window as she manoeuvred the bike outside. She accelerated hard up the road, the whistle of the engine drowned out by the roar from the exhaust.
I made a joint, lit it but didn’t smoke it. It was only when it had burned down to the roach that I moved, throwing it out of the window and going down into the yard. The Scrambler’s engine had cooled to a dull warmth. I knelt and put his hands on its tarnished alloy fins. Even without the race wins I could pull enough cash together to leave town. Things were starting to unravel. Maybe I it was best to leave before everything fell apart.
I slid the tarpaulin off the bike and sat on the saddle drumming my fingers on the fuel tank. I’d thought this was odd timing, someone new turning up. Now I knew it was dodgy. Someone fast, asking the wrong questions, following me. Not only that, but giving me those looks, like I was a piece of meat on a slab. I got a bad feeling from her.
After covering the bike I went back into the house, standing at the window until the lights went off in other houses and there was only moonlight. When the road was a black strip devoid of features. I pulled the curtains and went to my bedroom, lying on the bed. Eyes open in the darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
Rounded Up
THE NEXT DAY WAS a team day, like we always had once a fortnight. This was when several of us worked together to make a show of force, supposedly to showcase Round Up's tough-but-fair approach. It was always tough, that was for sure. I was with my usual team, Nico, Gregg and Will.
We’d gone to the far end of the South Estate, where there'd been quite a few burglaries. Fights and one rape. Story was that they were all done by one gang. All working together. For some reason the theft of a crate of whisky seemed to be the worst thing they’d done. We found several lads hanging about in a derelict shop and they became the prime suspects. After taking them outside, trying to reason with them, find out what they knew, it all started to get out of hand.
Nico held a lad against the alley wall, Gregg and Will flanking him, arms crossed on their overalls as Nico shoved his pin-striped elbow further into the lad’s neck.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ said Nico. ‘Where are the bottles?’
The lad shook his head, a tiny movement, his eyes bloodshot as they bulged.
Nico pushed harder, his red face up close. ‘Where?’
The lad made a gurgling sound and Gregg laughed, his beard shaking and his belly bouncing up and down.
I was behind the three of them, a cosh in his hand, the one they given to me as we’d approached the alley. I rotated it, felt the hard rubber. This was just some street-kid, a lost nobody. Not worth anything, not this.
Nico waved his free hand at Will who joined him.
Will pulled a knife out of his overalls, wiping the blade on his filthy trouser leg. ‘Time for a little whittling.’ He lifted the blade up. ‘Whittle, whittle.’
Gregg laughed and the lad made some sound from the back of his throat.
Will sliced his jacket open and ripped his shirt. He ran the blade over his bare chest and up to his neck.
The lad shook his head as Will cut into his skin, a tiny nick that gave out a spurt of blood. Gregg and Will laughed, Nico smiling.
That was enough. He was just a kid and they weren’t after information. This was sport for these three. I�
��d put up with all this to begin with, believed the stories about a network of troublemakers and how they needed to interrogate all the kids they picked up, build up a picture of what was going on. But it was a pile of crap. There was no network and no picture to build up. Just a load of dysfunctional kids, fallout from the lack of schools. So many having fathers away at sea, mothers with no money.
I stepped forward. ‘Looks like he doesn’t know anything.’
‘Ha,’ said Gregg.
Will ran the blade across the lad’s skin. Then he sliced into the him again making him cry and close his eyes.
‘There’s no point in this,’ I said. ‘We’re wasting time on him.’
Will glanced back at me, his pale blue eyes shaded by his lank hair. ‘There’s plenty of point.’
‘All right,’ said Nico. ‘Let’s take him in. Trent, knock him out.’
I didn’t move, the cosh limp in my hand. I knew the routine, the way Round Up worked — cosh the victim, drag him off and tie him. Torture him. Send him out onto the street cut and scarred. This wasn’t about fixing stuff, making the town a better place, it was about Nico, Will and Gregg getting their kicks.
‘Knock him out!’ Nico turned to me. ‘Hit him!’
I remained still, turning the cosh round and round, a loose grip between thumb and forefinger.
‘Look,’ said Nico. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ He kept his hand on the lad’s throat but turned to me. He smelled of whisky and sweat.
‘He’s just young,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know anything.’
‘Ah, just a little bairn, lost his mammy and daddy?’
‘Come on, there are more serious —’
‘Oh yeah?’ Nico snatched the cosh off me, passing it to Gregg who laughed, swinging it around.