CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,88

smile. ‘Well I won’t hold it against you, just this once.’

31. CONTESTANT

James had sweat-soaked clothes stuck to his skin and an aching arse from six hours in the saddle as they closed in on the Rebel Tea Party. An AC/DC tribute band belted out from a stage several hundred metres away as bikes snaked down a country lane, with the surrounding fields enclosed by an aluminium fence.

Fluorescent-jacketed cops filmed with video cameras at the roadside. Vomit had warned everyone to expect a stop-and-search on arrival, but it takes a lot of officers to confront a hundred-strong motorbike gang and the Cambridgeshire police were more interested in having the Rebel Tea Party go off smoothly than in questioning a volatile group about an incident in another force’s jurisdiction.

The Tea Party was an annual event organised by four London-based motorcycle gangs. What had started twenty years earlier with a few hundred bikers in a London dance hall was now Europe’s largest motorcycle festival, held on a disused RAF airfield. It was spread over two days and attended by more than twenty-five thousand riders and enthusiasts.

Like everything else in the world of outlaw motorbike gangs, entering the Tea Party was a hierarchical affair. While the public parked cars and bikes outside, threw away all food and drink and then queued obediently for a security search, the Führer led his party through a specially opened side gate on their bikes.

The area nearest the entrance was a broad strip of tarmac lined with food stands and fairground rides. The Brigands pulled off their helmets and put on a show, gunning throttles and blasting horns as the crowds parted to let them through.

A greasy Rotterdam Brigand came out of the crowd and handed the Führer a Nazi flag, which he took with great enthusiasm. Cameras popped and camcorders swung towards them as an announcement boomed over the PA system:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm Tea Party welcome to Brigands M.C., South Devon, Bristol, Cardiff, Monster Bunch M.C., Dogs of War M.C. and the Branding Irons!’

Eighty per cent of the crowd comprised ordinary motorcycle fans and their families, but among them were outlaws from all the major national and international gangs. Friendly outlaws waved fists and clapped, members of weaker gangs crossed arms and nodded respectfully, while enemies gave the finger, thrust crotches and screamed abuse.

After parading the three-hundred-metre strip, the Brigands and their associates peeled off and gathered speed as they followed the signs to Outlaw Hill. This huge expanse of baked grass was divided into campgrounds for all the different gangs. The higher your status the higher the ground you camped on. The Brigands deferred only to one mighty international gang, who marked the top of the hill with a line of two hundred Harleys and an air-conditioned mobile clubhouse.

The Brigands’ spot was already well populated, with members from London, the north and various foreign chapters, plus several hundred guests from their respective puppet gangs. A prospect handed James a necklace with a laminated badge reading Brigands M.C. – Guest and he rolled his Kawasaki into a row of bikes belonging to friends and hangers-on.

The Brigands’ Harleys lined up to form a perimeter wall as well as an exhibition for any civilians brave enough to venture up Outlaw Hill.

The three coaches following the Brigands’ convoy had skipped the parade and arrived first. James hurried across to grab his tent and overnight bag from a luggage hold. He scouted about trying to find a space for his tent that was far enough away from the action to be reasonably quiet, but not right up the back near the stinking portable toilets.

‘James, baby!’ Nigel’s brother Will shouted. ‘I hear you a bad-ass now!’

James fought off a smile as he wandered over to Will and three other Monster Bunch members.

‘Pitch your tent with us,’ Will said. ‘These are my boys, Minted, Rhoda and Shampoo Jr.’

They were all stocky lads, aged between eighteen and twenty, and in various stages of removing their riding gear. James shook all their hands and spent the next quarter hour pitching his tent, changing into cargo shorts and a Ramones T-shirt and drinking a beer that had spent six hours getting warm in a coach.

Once everyone was settled Will led James and his three friends downhill past the various outlaw camps, moving extra fast when they passed a small patch filled with Vengeful Bastards.

‘You gonna put James’ name up for the Monster Bunch?’ Minted asked.

‘When I do Nigel,’ Will nodded. ‘That’s if you

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