Brigands M. C. (20 page)

Dante had done the same training as Lauren and was tempted to tell her that he could have done the same thing. But Lauren had done a textbook job, ingratiating herself with the coolest kids in Year Eight before they’d even heard the school bell.

*

James had to register for his courses at Crossroads Sixth Form Centre. To make life easy he picked maths and physics courses that he’d already passed. He sat a maths catch-up test to assess where he was in relation to his classmates and deliberately flunked several questions so that he didn’t appear overly smart.

At lunchtime he found some of the kids he’d met at Marina Heights the night before. They all sat on the grass around a big tree with salads and sandwiches brought from home and took the mickey out of James because he was the only one who ate a dodgy burger and cold fries from the canteen.

He made a point of sitting near Ashley and smiling a lot whenever her boyfriend Julian was around. James didn’t particularly fancy her, but he was a good looking guy and it amused him to piss Julian off. But for the purposes of the mission, Julian’s friend Nigel was more interesting.

Although it was warm, Nigel wore boots and a black leather jacket. The sixth-form centre was in a remote location and kids who didn’t want to wait for buses or parental pick-ups needed their own wheels. Battered Citroens and Fords ruled the car park. A few kids lived near enough to ride push bikes and there was an area given over to motorbikes and scooters.

James’ 250cc Honda might not impress outlaws like the Brigands, but in a sixth-form car park it looked full-on amidst 100cc mopeds and cheap Chinese and Indian scooters. After they’d eaten, James wandered amongst the bikes to show Nigel his Honda.

Nigel introduced James to a boy called Ben who owned a 600cc Kawasaki. He was in the upper sixth. He kept a cigarette packet tucked in the sleeve of his T-shirt, sported a triangular beard and a wafer-thin girlfriend called Daisy.

‘So how’d you get a six-hundred?’ Nigel asked. ‘That’s gotta be illegal.’

Ben was cool, but nowhere near as cool as he liked to think he was and he acted like it was a big mystery. But James bought and read motorbike magazines all the time.

‘You’ve got a restrictor kit,’ James said. ‘But the price of insurance on a six-hundred must be horrendous.’

‘Restrictor kit?’ Nigel asked.

‘It limits the power of the bike,’ James explained. ‘Our licences say we can only ride a thirty-horsepower bike until we’re twenty-one, but you can buy a more powerful bike and have a restrictor kit fitted.’

Nigel scowled at Ben’s bike. ‘So this thing is no faster than mine?’

Ben burst out laughing. ‘The new kid is
almost
right, but I’ll race you for any money you like. I’ve had this bike up to a hundred and thirty on the motorway.’

‘What, did you break the laws of physics or something?’ Nigel asked disbelievingly.

‘You buy the bike,’ Ben explained. ‘Then get the dealer to fit the restrictor kit and get your power output certificate. Then you ask the dealer’s mechanic politely and he turns a couple of screws and deactivates the kit.’

‘Sweet,’ Nigel said.

‘Not if you get pulled over and the cops nail you it won’t be,’ James warned.

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s a risk, but once you’ve ridden a proper machine like mine, those little two-fifties are like Lego bikes, or something.’

Nigel started to laugh. ‘What dealer will do the dodgy modifications?’

‘Any second-hand bike dealer,’ Ben said. ‘Even some of the franchise dealers who sell new bikes. If you go in willing to spend a few grand and make it crystal that you’re
only
buying if they issue the power output certificate and then disable the restrictor.’

‘You bought your six-hundred from Leather and Chrome, didn’t you?’ Nigel asked.

‘Sure,’ Ben answered.

‘I looked in their showroom last night,’ James said. ‘It’s all like custom paint jobs and twenty-grand bikes for fat blokes who need a bike ’cos they’re too old to get an erection.’

Nigel laughed. ‘That’s the irony with expensive bikes and sports cars: by the time you’re rich enough to afford it, you’re old and bald and you look damned stupid driving it.’

James, Ben and Daisy all laughed. Daisy’s laugh was weird and James looked at her glazed eyes and guessed that she’d had a few puffs on a joint.

‘That showroom’s for tourists and second-home wankers,’ Ben said. ‘But they’ve got a workshop over by the Brigands clubhouse and a whole room full of secondhand bikes.’

‘I noticed a couple of Brigands last night,’ James said. ‘Scary looking bastards.’

‘You don’t wanna start any trouble with them,’ Nigel said. ‘But they’re OK. My big brother says if you like bikes and you get on their right side they’ll buy you drinks all night long.’

‘Good mechanics too,’ Ben said. ‘I mean, they’re enthusiasts more than capitalists. If you go into Leather and Chrome, and you’re a kid and you don’t have a lot of money they’ll treat you fair. Sort you out with a good bike and not rip you off for servicing.’

‘They’re really decent,’ Nigel nodded. ‘Especially with my brother ’cos he’s one of the Monster Bunch.’

‘The what?’ James asked, though he knew of course.

‘Monster Bunch,’ Nigel explained. ‘It’s a bike gang. They ride with the Brigands, but they’re mostly younger and it’s ten times easier to join. My older brother is a member, though he’s away at uni at the moment.’

‘My cousin is in the Monster Bunch, so I knew a few people,’ Ben said. ‘Leather and Chrome set me up with the bike, the financing. They even helped me get a job so that I could make the payments.’

‘So if I went down to Marina Heights I could get my Honda looked at?’ James asked.

Ben nodded. ‘What’s up with it?’

‘I think it’s got a bit of a brake imbalance,’ James lied. ‘It was OK when I first had it, but now if I brake hard the front wheel does next to nothing, then it suddenly bites, locks up and I get tyre smoke.’

Ben laughed. ‘I’m amazed that bike ever goes fast enough to get tyre smoke.’

‘I’ve had it up to eighty-five,’ James lied again. ‘I’ve got no class this afternoon. I might ride down to Salcombe and see if a mechanic will look at it.’

Nigel looked at his watch. ‘You mind if I ride with you, James? I got nothing going on. I might even have a word about that restrictor kit thing.’

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 string of petty convictions. According to Neil Gauche he’d turned down the opportunity to become a prospect Brigand many times because he took pride in his status as a lone rider and didn’t care for the infighting and squabbles that came with club membership.

After passing two well groomed mechanics in turquoise overalls, they headed upstairs and found Rhino at a desk in jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt. Behind him was a large room, with its white tile floor streaked with tyre marks. The space was crammed with bikes ranging from battered Harleys and Ducatti racers to pink Lambrettas and quad bikes.

After James had explained about his brakes, Rhino gave him a card and told him that he’d need to phone the service department and make an appointment for later in the week. Nigel had wandered off and found half a dozen mid-sized bikes, similar to Ben’s. They were all a few years old, but most only had a few thousand miles on the clock and prices on the right side of £2,000.

‘You’ve got a two-fifty haven’t you?’ Rhino asked, as he sniffed a sale. ‘You’re Will’s brother?’

Nigel nodded. ‘Some nice bikes here, but I’m just looking.’

‘Look all you like,’ Rhino smiled.

James sat astride a £1,800 498cc Kawasaki ER5 and bounced the suspension.

‘That’s a perfect bike for a young man like you,’ Rhino said. ‘Easy to ride, fifty horsepower, it’ll cruise at a hundred miles per hour.’

‘You’d need one of those restrictor kits,’ Nigel said. ‘That’d slow it down.’

Rhino smiled. ‘Between you and me, on a fifty-horsepower bike we’ll fit you the kit, give you the certificate and make
sure
you feel no difference if you see what I mean.’

‘It’s academic,’ James smiled. ‘I haven’t got eighteen hundred quid.’

‘Maybe you don’t need it,’ Rhino explained. ‘Your old bike will count as a deposit of at least four hundred. Then you’ll have fourteen hundred outstanding. Zero per cent finance over three years, that’s less than ten pounds a week.’

‘Can you lend
us
money?’ Nigel asked incredulously.

Rhino shook his head. ‘You’d have to get a parent to sign the paperwork. But that’s a formality. All our bikes are guaranteed rock solid. You’ve seen the mechanical set-up we’ve got down there and all these bikes have been stripped and tested. Your friend is sitting astride a bike that’s done less than six thousand miles. It’s barely run in, but you’re paying a third of what some sucker paid in a showroom less than three years ago.’

James smiled, imagining himself blasting the motorway on a 500cc bike. ‘Maybe I’ll ask my mum.’