Blighted Land: Book two of the Northumbrian Western Series (Northumbrian Westerns 2) (5 page)

‘Trent?’ she said.

I was on the settee with Sophie in front of me. Behind her gulls flew by the window. There were voices outside, laughter and the burble of conversation. No screams or shouts. No submarine or tanks.

‘Were you asleep?’ she said.

‘Resting my eyes.’ I sat up, stretching.
 

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine. I should go. I have work to do on the bike.’

‘You and that bike.’

I stood up. ‘It’s not running right, something with the carbs.’

‘Bikes and work. That’s all you care about.’

‘It just needs to be sorted out.’

She stood and faced me, slid her hands around me. Then down the front of my trousers. ‘I can see something else that needs sorting out.’ Keeping one hand there she kissed me, pulling me close with her other arm. We stayed like that for a while, as voices came from the quayside down the road.
 

Then she led me off to the bedroom. We made love in her room filled with teddy bears and dolls. Soft toys and kids’ books racked on shelves. As she closed her eyes and lay back she whispered my name. She said how much she loved me. But it wasn’t her I was in bed with, it was the woman I’d seen at the races.

A
FTER
LEAVING
S
OPHIE
’
S
I went straight home, sitting by the window in the living room, staring out at the houses and park opposite. The mist had cleared and sunlight lit the overgrown bushes and busted brickwork. Something moved in the undergrowth, a feral cat or a couple of rats maybe. Sophie
’
d wanted me to stay but I couldn
’
t face her, talk about houses and plans for the future. I’d said I had stuff to do and left.
 

And here I was by the window, just sitting.
 

I got up. There was a race later. They had races most evenings but I didn’t usually go two days in a row. For some reason it seemed like a good idea: a good way to build up some more cash. Get away from town. That’s what it was. No more than that.

I found myself down by the bike. For some time I stood there, staring at it. Then I rolled it out, started up and rode across town. Without aim I set off. It was as if the Scrambler took me on its own, without me controlling it. Instead of going to the race track it took me on the South Road, past the derelict retail park, onwards to the town farms. They surrounded Faeston on each side, field upon field of pigs and chickens. Animals fed by the leftovers collected in town and brought up here. It was run by The Committee, supported by Round Up, of course. I rode past the fields of stinking animals onwards to the barricade and patrol point. Two men stood at the edge of the road each with a gun. The barricade was made of barbed wire and stakes, running off in each direction around the town. A large section was roughly patched, the result of the tank coming through. I slowed and waved to the men, Tyler and Jack from Round Up. They waved back and let me through.
 

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 low 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.