Brigands M. C. (25 page)

There was free food and drink, while the outdoor compound behind the clubhouse was opened up for local kids and teenagers to have a separate party. The events were capped off with midnight fireworks, after which the public was kicked out and the clubhouse went back to being a private club.

By 9:30 the sky was dark and Marina Heights throbbed gently with rock music coming out the back of the Brigands compound. Lauren walked across the promenade with Joe, Dante, Anna and a few other mates. She had sand in her trainers after paddling on the beach and a chocolate, banana and nut crêpe burning her fingertips.

‘This is good,’ Lauren grinned. ‘I can make better pancakes than this, but when you consider that my brother cooked it …’

‘Your brother
definitely
didn’t like it when you kept calling him
boy
and clicking your fingers,’ Joe smiled.

They’d only get soft drinks in the Brigands clubhouse, so the thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds had all boozed on the beach before heading uphill to Marina Heights.

For Lauren it was a can of beer and a couple of slugs from Joe’s vodka bottle. Joe and Dante were more adventurous. They were sucking breath mints and behaving themselves because they wouldn’t get into the clubhouse if they were obviously drunk.

But they needn’t have worried. As soon as Joe approached the clubhouse he got a hug and a pat on the back from a thuggish looking Brigands prospect named Fluffy.

‘Your dad told me to send you over if you came in,’ Fluffy said. ‘He’s in his usual spot.’

Joe looked worried and wondered if it was to do with a letter home from school about a teacher he’d sworn at earlier in the week.

All the kids except Lauren and Dante had been in the clubhouse before. The main hall was as bland as the brick exterior. A polished wooden floor, fold-out tables piled with food, seats around the edge and a small stage with a DJ and little kids bopping in front of the disco lights. All it needed was a couple of basketball hoops and it could have passed for a secondary school gym.

The free bar was decorated with giant signs telling people to support their local Brigands by buying raffle tickets, and even with the Brigands on their best behaviour it still took a brave soul to take drinks without contributing.

Lauren’s biggest surprise was a group of frail oldies by the door, tapping feet and drumming walking sticks as they sat in plastic seats or wheelchairs. They were being looked after by some of the youngest members of the Monster Bunch and Dogs of War. No biker wanted to spend his Saturday night this way, but the Führer ordered them to keep smiling because the man from the local paper was due and bikers hugging grannies made perfect publicity.

Joe had disappeared to find his dad, but came running back before his gang crossed the room to join the other youngsters outside.

Joe looked at Lauren. ‘My dad wants to meet you,’ he said awkwardly.

Lauren raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t know, but he’s the big cheese around here, so it’s best to do what he says.’

Joe took Lauren’s hand. As they cut between people standing at tables eating and a few groups of dancing women Lauren spotted Chloe on one of the leather benches around the edge of the room having an intense conversation with Rhino.

‘This is her,’ Joe said.

Lauren looked uncomfortable as she stood in front of circular tables and leather armchairs. The Führer was a small man, with his Hitler moustache and his long leather coat draped over the back of the chair. But you could tell he was the boss by the way the other bikers had their chairs facing towards him.

She recognised full-patch Brigands from the London and South Devon chapters, along with senior Dogs of War and more exotic guests wearing Brigands patches from Australia and South Africa.

‘My son’s got his first girlfriend,’ the Führer roared proudly. ‘And about time too.’

Teeth laughed noisily. ‘Your boy Martin hasn’t had one for
some
reason, has he?’

‘That poof’s not my son,’ the Führer grumbled. ‘My theory is that Marlene was being humped by the milkman just before that one was born.’

Lauren and Joe both burned red with embarrassment. The Führer pointed at the fat man sat next to him. ‘You remember this man, don’t you Joe? Sealclubber, President of the London chapter?’

‘Course,’ Joe nodded. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘We’re just debating who has the best clubhouse,’ Sealclubber said. ‘Our thirty-five years of history versus your sterile brick box.’

‘You gotta hand it to South Devon,’ one of the other London Brigands said. ‘We’ve got Fords while these boys are riding Mercs that they park up in garages bigger than my flat.’

‘Look at my boy,’ the Führer roared, making all the other bikers laugh. ‘I’ve never seen Joe so quiet. Why so shy, son? Tell your girl to come here and give her future father-in-law a kiss.’

Lauren stepped up nervously and pecked the Führer on the cheek. He smelled of some weird aftershave, but Sealclubber’s rank odour was competing. The Führer made a big gesture of pulling out his wallet and giving Joe two twenties.

‘Show her a good time,’ the Führer grinned. ‘You’re beautiful, Lauren, it was good to meet you.’

Joe took the money, then turned anxiously to Lauren as they walked away. ‘I’m
so
sorry,’ he grovelled. ‘I had no idea that my dad was gonna make me do that.’

‘I’ve survived worse,’ Lauren shrugged.

As if to prove this, the Führer stood up, punched the air and shouted so that half the room could hear. ‘Go on my son, give her one from me!’

The Brigands all roared with laughter as a blushing Lauren and Joe dashed across the floor to meet their friends outside.

Twelve nights after first working the crêpe stand, James had mastered the circular hotplates, knew how to make cappuccinos and lattes without burning his fingertips on the steam nozzle and how to look busy when Teeth or one of the other managers came by wanting an extra hand to wipe tables or empty bins.

James had become friendly with his new boss Martin. Getting a job alongside the Führer’s sixteen-year-old son had been an unexpected bonus, but Martin kept distant from his old man and despite hours of conversation inside the kiosk James hadn’t picked up any useful information.

Martin had been badly bullied at school because he was gay. He’d dropped out before taking GCSEs and worked on the crêpe stand seven days a week saving up to travel the world with a friend.

The Führer wasn’t proud of having a homosexual son, but Martin’s mum Marlene protected him and the family name counted for something: as a kiosk manager Martin earned decent money, and compared to the much busier diner or the fish and chip stand the crêperie was a doddle.

‘So how’s it going with Ashley?’ Martin asked. It was just after eight and the sky was orange. He stood on the pavement outside the kiosk, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. James was inside, leaning on the counter and trying to cool down in the blast of a small plastic fan mounted atop the drinks cooler.

‘She’s nice,’ James said. ‘A good laugh.’

‘Gettin’ any action?’

‘No such luck,’ James sighed. ‘She might smoke a lot of dope on Saturday night, but she goes to confession on Sunday morning and her parents have indoctrinated her with all that love and marriage bullcrap.’

Martin laughed as he flicked his cigarette end over the edge of the promenade and stepped into the stiflingly hot kiosk. ‘At least I’m not the only one suffering from sexual frustration then,’ he smiled.

James broke into a big grin. ‘Tell you what, bend over the counter, pull your trackies down and I’ll sort you out.’

‘Oh I wish!’ Martin said, putting on his campest voice.

James turned around to hear a fifty pence being tapped on the counter top. A thirty-something mum holding a little girl stood at the counter frowning. ‘I don’t think that talk’s appropriate, do you?’ she said irritably.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ James said, clearing his throat and putting his hand over his mouth to disguise a smirk. ‘What would you like?’

‘Do you sell ice cream?’

James shook his head and pointed out the front of the kiosk to a queue of people. ‘Two along,’ he explained.

The woman pointed to the tubs of ice cream. ‘What’s that then?’

‘If you want it in a hot crêpe, I’m your man,’ James said.

‘They’re fresh cooked, very nice,’ Martin added. ‘But if you want ice cream we don’t have cornets or anything to put them in.’

‘You could put a scoop in a cardboard coffee cup.’

James and Martin exchanged glances. ‘Can’t,’ Martin said. ‘There’s no button on the till.’

The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’d be a lot busier if you sold ice cream,’ she said, before reluctantly heading over to join the queue two kiosks over.

‘And that’s
exactly
why we don’t sell it, you dippy tart,’ Martin said, as he yawned and stretched theatrically.

‘Now you’ve had your smoke, you mind if I take a break?’ James asked.

‘Dead here,’ Martin said, as he checked his watch. ‘Take half an hour, but check back just in case I get busy.’

‘Cheers, boss,’ James smiled, and opened the kiosk door.

But he only made five steps before his smile got wiped by a woman called Noelene. She had
duty manager
embroidered on a tight-fitting red polo shirt and she had the kind of sparkly, upbeat, hard working attitude that made her teenage workers hate her guts.

‘Where you going, James?’ she asked, with a heavy New Zealand accent.

If James had engaged his brain he would have told Noelene that he was going to the larder fridge behind the diner to get fresh pancake batter or ice cream, but instead he mumbled weakly about going for a ten-minute break.

‘Oh no you’re not, sweetie pie,’ she grinned as she pointed into the diner with painted nails that matched her shirt. ‘I’ve got a big food order needs taking over to the Brigands clubhouse, right now. And look around and see how busy we are: there’s a dozen or more tables need cleaning. Do you think it’s right to swan off on a break when your co-workers are busy?’

James huffed. ‘I’ll go get the food.’

‘I don’t like your attitude, Mr Raven,’ Noelene said as James sauntered towards the restaurant. ‘And pull your trousers up so that I can’t see your underwear. This isn’t a skateboard rink.’

Skateboard park, you fat arse
, James thought to himself. He stepped into the restaurant. The diner bustled with noise, and James nodded to a couple of Lauren and Dante’s mates as his nose caught the smell of frying oil and pickles. There was a two-tier serving trolley stacked with donut boxes, fried chicken, burgers and also foil dishes from the Chinese restaurant at the upmarket end of the promenade.

A black chef came out of the kitchen and squeezed on three large pizza boxes. ‘Better run with that,’ he grinned. ‘You serve cold food to the Brigands and they might just stick a boot in your arse.’

‘Gotcha,’ James said.

The clubhouse wasn’t far, but it was only when James got outside that he realised he couldn’t take the trolley downstairs. He had to take a tortuous route down a long disabled ramp at the front of the building and then walk all the way around the shops before going back to the clubhouse at the rear.

Five minutes had passed by the time he’d got inside the clubhouse and crossed the deserted main hall. A few Brigands prospects, girlfriends and members of puppet gangs sat at the clustered tables where Lauren had been embarrassed by the Führer two Saturdays earlier. The full-patch members were meeting in a back room and James felt anxious as he knocked.

The door opened and the Führer roared ‘Boy!’ from his seat at the head of the table.

Cigarette smoke curled up towards the ceiling. More than twenty Brigands sat in walnut-trimmed leather chairs. It could have been a corporate boardroom, but for their clothes and the array of medieval weapons and torture implements displayed along the side wall.

The trolley wheels dug into thick green carpet as James pushed it towards the Führer. He recognised Teeth and noted the presence of Sealclubber and two other London Brigands, which almost certainly meant that they’d brought the next forty per cent instalment of the money for the weapons deal.

James was freaked as the Führer stood up, ripped a twenty-centimetre blade out of his boot and stepped up to face James off.

‘Is this everything we ordered?’ he demanded. ‘Is it
piping
hot?’

To James’ alarm, another Brigand stood up behind him and pulled an even bigger knife. ‘I didn’t cook it,’ James bumbled. ‘But I ran over here as fast as I could.’

He tried to rationalise that even the Brigands wouldn’t randomly stab some teenager who’d been sent to deliver their food, but it still wasn’t easy to feel comfortable being hemmed in by two crazy men holding out huge knives.

The Führer flipped open a pizza box, skewered a slice of Hawaiian with the end of his blade and took a bite off the end.

‘Tepid,’ the Führer complained, and grabbed James’ Marina Heights polo shirt.

The other Brigands all hissed. ‘Kill the delivery boy,’ one shouted, but a few were giggling which pretty much gave the game away.