by Peter Ackers
"…HERE‘S THE ACHILLES HEEL…"
Surfer-dude showed me his laptop. The city map displayed had a red line leading from the city centre townhouse in a meander around the streets and finally to a point where it ended abruptly at a star-shaped red blob, as if the line were a dribble of blood whose run had been stopped by someone squashing it with a thumb. The area where it had ended was a bridge. Next to it was the international symbol for a train station. I wondered what was going on.
Surfer-dude played with the keys. A photograph, pedestrian’s eye-view, replaced the map. It showed the wall of the bridge and the frontage of a small train station. He cycled through about fifteen photographs of that road, bridge and train station, photos taken from many angles. The station was small, and exterior didn't belie this: it was nought but a small building with a single low archway for an entrance/exit and a solitary automated ticket box beside it.
“This is a city about thirty miles south of here. Politically of no significance. A small city, really. More like a town. Becomes a bit boisterous every second Saturday, when football fans flock here to watch their team play. The station here, it has a small exit to funnel everyone out in a thick mass. Makes everyone easier to watch. On those Saturdays, police line the streets outside. They bring horses. Sometimes, the gay rights activists come out to march to this audience.”
“And this is where we hit them," Teeth-bloke said. “Right here in this big crowd.”
Football fans? Cops? Hardcore bikers gangs were known to cause trouble in places, but stories of their exploits were rare in England - I certainly couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard one. In fact, I probably thought the gangs had died out over the years.
“And here’s the Achilles heel," Surfer-dude said, rapping the screen with his knuckle. The laptop nearly rocked over. I looked. A saw a pair of photos taken from, it appeared, down inside the small train station. It had just two small platforms not quite far enough apart to vex an Olympic long jumper if he couldn’t be bothered to use the bridge. The station terminated just before the bridge; it was this stone edifice that the photographer had concentrated on with his second shot.
Surfer-dude’s finger ran around the arch of the bridge, which spanned two tracks. The quality of the photo wasn’t hot, so I could barely see the crisscross of lines that the tattooed barman pointed at. I took him at his word that I was looking at a scaffolding setup designed to help strengthen the bridge in preparation for work to be carried out on it.
“And this is where we hit them," Teeth-bloke said.
“Who’s the target?” I asked, a lump in my throat. I knew I was looking at plans for a hit here. But I wasn’t sure if they were after fellow bikers arriving via the station, football fans (another gang - often football gangs go to battle, so was this some turf war or something?), or even the cops.
“Who isn’t?" Teeth-bloke said, giggling. That man scared me, and it wasn’t just his teeth.
At that point Axe-wielder got up, took his pipe and headed for a door in the wall. He vanished without a word. Teeth-bloke stood up, looking ready to follow.
“Don’t bother," Nymph-girl said. She came around behind Teeth-bloke and massaged his shoulders, pushing him softly back into his chair. “You know where he’s gone. Just leave him be. He has to set his mind right, you know that.”
“I know that,” the old guy confirmed. Then they both became aware that I was staring at them. I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned left. Surfer-dude.
“Sign our guestbook.”
He’d pulled up a website, their website. It was very colourful and overrun with photos and artwork (all the artwork was signed XL, which I thought might have been Axe-wielder’s signature - I thought about Axe-wielder’s size and figured he might call himself XL. Then I remembered that axe and I didn’t care about his correct name), but there wasn’t much in the way of menus. I saw three links: HISTORY OF BIKER GANGS, EXTERNAL LINKS, and GUESTBOOK/MESSAGEBOARD.
Surfer-dude clicked on the guestbook/messageboard link. I saw a counter at the bottom, which read 54. Fifty-four visitors to the site, including Surfer-dude right now - and Surfer-dude and the others how many other times? Had they in fact ever had a true hit on this website from an unknown surfer?
Yes, it turned out. There were nine messages posted, and three were from names I didn’t know.
Our new site is up and running. - obviously, since you’re reading this! Ideas and plans welcome. The SHEPHERDS will be active in the summer, we can promise you that. So spread our word.
That was signed by Surfer-dude.
Hi, I am the latest member of The SHEPHERDS. I am the new treasurer. Any donations, they come right to me with your ideas for what we can do to improve our site and our cause. THE SULTRESS.
Nymph-girl’s addition.
here. Keep a-riding, Angels.
This from Axe-wielder.
O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do!
Teeth-bloke’s tuppence-worth.
Nailbuster says hi to the site. Keep me interested, guys. I ride a Pitbull. Psiren, your photo is sexy. I wanna be your Pitbull. NAILBUSTER X.
hey, guys. Site’s looking good. Your e-mail doesn’t accept attachments. I tried. Can you tell me why? Not why I tried, I mean. Why it doesn't, I mean.
you wanna meet me, Sultressy one. The outdoors’re me home. I do railway walks and acid, and that’s a trip I wanna take you on. NAILBUSTER X.
Sultress, don’t bother with that guy’s Pitbull. I have a beast that’ll whine between your legs. TURQUIOSE441.
Have Cornflakes when you wake from that dream, Turq. The Sultress. X
I moved close to the keyboard and typed: “I met these guys late one night. Intriguing.” I didn’t want to put anything else in case I said the wrong thing; my simple sentence had enough ambiguity to be safe. And no way was I going to leave a name, even a stupid handle like Nailbuster’s
“Can I use your toilet?” I asked. I wanted away. Surfer-dude pointed at the door Axe-wielder had left through, then tilted back his hand so his finger was pointed upwards. Then he bent it left. All without taking his eyes off the laptop. Up and left, I figured he meant. "No peeing in the bath," he added. I got up.