got nothing going on. I might even have a word about that restrictor kit thing.’
20. ER5
It was a thirty-minute ride from the sixth-form centre to Marina Heights. Nigel led the way, showing James a couple of neat shortcuts down farm tracks and walking paths. At two on a Monday afternoon Marina Heights was dead and they parked two bikes into a single space near the back of the shops.
The two teenagers strode towards the bike shop with their helmets in hand. Giant steel bins overflowed after the weekend and the heat amplified the smell of waste food as they walked past the dead neon sign on the Brigands clubhouse. James noticed video cameras pointing in all directions, bars over all the windows and heavy steel bollards that would prevent anyone from trying to smash their way inside with a vehicle.
‘What do you reckon about the Brigands?’ James asked.
‘They’re intense,’ Nigel explained. ‘I mean, I’ve lived around here my whole life and I still shit myself a little bit when I see one of them.’
‘Ever seen any trouble?’ James asked.
‘Nah,’ Nigel said. ‘But you read stuff in the local paper. Some guy got his head bashed in on the pavement out here a few weeks back. There’s one blind spot where the video cameras can’t see, and that just happens to be where you’ll get stomped if the Brigands take a dislike to you.’
‘So, best avoided?’ James smiled.
‘They’re friendly with the locals,’ Nigel said. ‘They even do charity open days and stuff in the clubhouse. Just don’t piss them off. To be honest, I prefer them to image bikers like Ben.’
James was confused. ‘Ben seemed nice enough.’
Nigel shrugged. ‘He’s a nice guy, sure. But for Ben it’s all about the image. You can tell he spends half an hour every morning spiking his hair and trimming that beard. And he’s always got that cigarette packet tucked in his sleeve like he thinks he’s James Dean or something.’
‘Tries too hard,’ James guessed.
‘Exactly,’ Nigel nodded. ‘Real bikers don’t give a shit. They smoke, do drugs, shag skanky women, drive awesome bikes and pulp anyone who disses them. Once I’m eighteen my brother says he’ll sort me out getting into the Monster Bunch. I might even be going on my first run this summer if I can arrange transport.’
‘Nice,’ James smiled. ‘But what’s wrong with your bike?’
Nigel shook his head. ‘The gangs cruise in formation at eighty or even a hundred miles an hour. You can’t do a run on a two-fifty. Even if you could keep the pace the older guys would all take the piss so bad you’d end up miserable. I’d have to get a seat on a coach, or in the run truck.’
‘I’ve read about runs in magazines,’ James nodded. ‘They sound awesome. What about your mate Julian, would he go?’
‘Nah,’ Nigel laughed. ‘We’ve grown up together, but he’s only a school mate nowadays. His dad is a judge, he’s pretty spoiled but he’s also on a tight leash. Like, he pranged his car not long after he got it and they went spare. And when they found spliff in his room he was grounded for a whole month.’
By this time James and Nigel had passed the clubhouse and reached the bike workshop. The space was immaculate, with tools in wheeled cabinets and hydraulic lifts that raised the bikes up high so that the mechanics could work without having to crawl around on the floor. Lynyrd Skynyrd came out of a boom box resting against the wall.
Up back there was a custom shop with expensive parts lining the walls. Along one side three Harley Davidsons were suspended in mid air in various stages of being stripped and rebuilt. One was an extraordinarily shabby rat bike with a Brigands M.C. badge painted on the fuel tank.
James moved in for a closer look and found himself confronted by a shirtless man with bushels of hair growing from every orifice.
‘Never touch a Brigands bike unless you don’t like the way your face looks,’ the man barked.
‘I wasn’t touching,’ James said warily. He saw that the man’s Levis were stiffened black with oil and filth. James knew he was a Brigand called Heartbreaker. He looked like he’d last bathed several decades earlier and his cologne was eau-de-petrol.
‘If you boys are here about a bike you need to go up them metal steps and speak to Rhino.’
James knew Rhino’s name from a police file. He was thirty-eight, a long-term biker and Brigands associate with a