CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,80
good,’ Joe grinned. ‘I’m always good.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Marlene said. She looked at Lauren. ‘You two have a nice time and I’ll see you Sunday night.’
Joe and Lauren walked away from the bikes and headed up to the diner, which had opened early for the bikers and was doing a roaring trade in bacon sandwiches and breakfast muffins.
‘Freeeeeeeedom!’ Joe grinned, as he kissed Lauren’s cheek. ‘This is gonna be the best weekend in history.’
A few metres from the Führer, James was trying to get the attention of a Brigand called Vomit. Vomit was unusually clean-cut for a Brigand, with a shaved head, designer sunglasses and boot-cut Diesel jeans instead of the standard Levis. As South Devon road captain, Vomit’s job was to organise every detail of the chapter’s road trips, from the running order of the bikes, to food, accommodation, coaches and the breakdown truck.
He held a clipboard and looked stressed as James pushed between a couple of leather jackets.
‘Raven, James,’ Vomit said, as he reached down into a canvas bag and pulled out a set of notes, which had all been laminated in case it rained. ‘You’re running dead last with a young Monster Bunch hang-around called Orange Bob.’
James nodded as Vomit handed over the paperwork.
‘On there you’ve got your route map in case you get lost, your entry ticket for the Rebel Tea Party, plus emergency phone numbers for the breakdown truck, for me and for our lawyers. Don’t call any of those numbers unless you really need them.’
‘Gotcha,’ James nodded. ‘Thanks.’
Vomit slapped James on the back. ‘Ride safely, have a great weekend.’
Orange Bob was a skinny nineteen-year-old who’d earned his name because of a taste for fake-tanning products. James found him by asking Nigel’s brother Will and they shook hands.
‘Hey partner,’ James grinned.
Vomit began shouting for the riders to start lining up. There was a rash of last-minute kisses and goodbyes before non-riders backed off to the kerb. James found his ER5 and weaved through bikes going in all directions, ending up the very last of one hundred and six bikes lined up side by side.
There was a strict hierarchy, with all the riders going in pairs. The run was led by the Führer and his road captain. Behind them were the other Brigands officers, including Teeth, then the regular full-patch members and then Brigands prospect members.
After the Brigands, there came riders from the Dogs of War and then the Monster Bunch (these two puppet gangs had equal status and a coin was flipped to see who rode first). The final group were riders who didn’t belong to a club. They ranged from long-term Brigand allies like Rhino, to kids like James and even a few wives and girlfriends who were barred from club membership but wanted to ride rather than sit on a coach.
On the stroke of nine Vomit blasted an air horn. The Führer gunned his throttle and pulled out of line. Vomit came next, pulling alongside. Teeth was the first rider in the second row and so on, as the bikes pulled off at two-second intervals.
It would have been easier for the bikes to line up in pairs, but starting a run by blasting out of line was an outlaw biker tradition that required good throttle control and timing. Done properly it was a ballet of engine noise and tyre smoke, but one rider skidding, stalling or otherwise messing up could result in mangled bikes, a broken riding formation and a probable kicking for the rider who screwed up. James’ bottom-of-the-pack status meant that he only had to worry about dropping in alongside Orange Bob. He flipped down his helmet visor and gave Chloe and Dante a quick thumbs-up as the bikes in front pulled off.
James got away fine, but was surprised to find two late-arriving Dogs of War pulling into formation behind him. He’d got used to riding his new bike in traffic, but it was a different skill to stay in formation, with Orange Bob on his left, two bikes less than four metres in front and two more the same distance behind.
After they’d left Salcombe and reached the A38 the bikes sped up until the hedges along the roadside blurred. Even through a helmet the noise was deafening. People stared out of cars coming in the other direction and James felt exhilarated, but at the same time scared by the speed and the knowledge that it would only take a rider braking too hard, or a tyre catching in a pothole to