Brigands M. C. (31 page)

‘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 fancy it, James?’

James laughed. ‘Maybe the Dogs of War will make me a better offer.’

‘Cheeky little bastard,’ Shampoo Jr shouted, giving James a gentle punch in the back and making beer spew down his top.

‘So what do you boys fancy?’ Will asked. ‘Hardcore stage for some dancing? Look around the strip, or the swap meet?’

‘Flesh Tent,’ Minted and Rhoda said in unison.

‘What’s that?’ James asked.

Will laughed and grabbed James by his shirt. ‘If you’ve never been you’ve
got
to go there first.’

‘And it’s better while you’re still sober,’ Rhoda added.

At the bottom of the hill the lads turned away from the strip and headed towards a white hexagonal tent. After stopping to buy bottles of iced Budweiser they paid four quid each, got their hands stamped and headed inside, with James getting teased as the older boys pointed at the
Strictly Over 18s
sign.

Inside there were about a hundred and fifty seats, but the all-male audience stood crushed up at the front. Music blasted out of tinny speakers as six topless women danced limply up on stage.

James and the other lads jostled up close to the stage as the music stopped playing and a seedy looking fatty in a velvet jacket walked up to a microphone.

‘OK folks, let’s give our beautiful amateur ladies a big round of applause. And a reminder, our winner walks out with a hundred pounds and
you
the audience get to decide.’

‘Looks like we’ve missed most of it,’ James said.

Will shook his head. ‘It goes on like this all day. Strippers, pole dancers, amateur girls. Last year they had these two Estonian chicks in leather whipping each other.’

‘So let’s hear some noise for contestant number one,’ the compere shouted.

The room stayed quiet as a woman in her fifties dressed in red suspenders stepped forward and wiggled her flabby arms.

James spat out a mouthful of beer. ‘Oh that’s
gross
,’ he moaned.

‘They always do that,’ Shampoo Jr explained. ‘One really disgusting one to rile up the crowd.’

Contestant numbers two and three got some noise from the crowd. Contestant four got a good reception, except from a group behind James who were jeering and calling her a whore. This caused a whole bunch of men to back up from the stage and before James knew it two groups of outlaws were facing off directly behind him.

‘Come on folks, it’s just a bit of fun,’ the compere shouted. ‘My old mum used to tell me to hold my breath and count to ten.’

‘I’ll slit your throat,’ roared a huge barrel of a man standing directly behind James, but it all seemed like bravado until James saw the flash of a butterfly knife, which promptly plunged into a stomach.

Will and the others had backed out through a gap, but James found himself trapped between the stage and the fight as a dozen men traded kicks and punches. Folding chairs scraped on the wooden floor as men piled out the back of the tent in a state of panic, then became the weapons of choice as the brawl spread across the room.

James didn’t want to get involved, but his only way out was up the three steps at the side of the stage. To his astonishment the fat compere charged towards him and ordered him to get down before swinging a punch.

‘I’m just trying to get out,’ James shouted, as he ducked the punch and whacked the compere around the head.

The six topless contestants had run off and were grabbing their tops and shoes from behind a flimsy partition. As James raced across stage to a back exit someone switched on the lights. The smaller of the two fighting groups was running out, there was no sign of Will or the others, but James could see the patches from up on stage and realised that the man who’d been stabbed was a London Brigand.

James jumped off the back of the stage and followed two of the contestants through a rear flap. The tent backed on to the metal perimeter of the Tea Party compound. James stepped gingerly over an air-conditioning pipe and cables, but he heard a girl screaming back inside the tent.

‘You dirty bitch,’ the compere yelled as he hit the girl again. ‘I don’t give a shit where your clothes are.’

This seemed wrong, so James rushed back inside where the petite contestant number five stood barefoot and still topless. Her dark hair was wound around the compere’s hand.

‘Give it up,’ the compere shouted.

‘Pick on someone your own size,’ James said indignantly, as he popped the fat compere in the mouth, before snatching his wrist and bending it up behind his back.

‘Let go of her hair or I’ll break your arm,’ James ordered.

The compere set the girl loose, but when James released his arm he swung at him again.

‘You’re too fat and too slow,’ James explained, as he threw three quick punches, knocking the compere off the stage, where he clattered backwards into a bunch of chairs before landing hard on his arse.

James didn’t know who the compere was, but if he ran a tent at an event like this he’d certainly have well-connected biker friends and James didn’t intend sticking around long enough to meet them.

He looked behind the stage as contestant number five searched through pom-poms, twirling sticks, a caged parrot and leather whips while swearing loudly in Spanish.

‘What was that all about?’ James asked. ‘Why did he hit you?’

‘Someone took my T-shirt,’ the girl seethed. ‘How do I get back to my caravan like this?’

James could see no sign of the T-shirt, so he pulled his own over his head. ‘It’s a bit sweaty,’ he said, as he offered it. ‘But it’s better than five thousand people seeing your tits.’

‘My hero,’ the girl said, giving James a sweet smile as she pulled the T-shirt on and slid her feet into a pair of canvas plimsolls.

James followed her as she hurried out of the tent. ‘Some people are such arseholes,’ James said indignantly as the sun hit his bare back. ‘Fancy hitting you just because you asked him to help look for your top.’

The girl’s face lit up with a mischievous smile as she peeled a roll of twenty-pound notes out of her cut-off jeans. ‘I think it had more to do with me stealing the prize money,’ she explained. ‘And I would have gotten away if that slag contestant number three hadn’t stolen my top.’

James laughed as they walked clear of the tent. Three bikers wearing vests marked
Security
and a first-aid team with a stretcher were running into the tent, while a couple of London Brigands stood outside using mobiles, clearly relaying what had happened to their bosses.

‘Here,’ the girl said, as she offered James forty pounds. ‘You saved my ass, you deserve a cut.’

James grinned as he took the money. ‘I love your accent. Are you Spanish?’

‘No shitting you is there, Sherlock,’ she grinned.

‘I’m James by the way.’

‘So why does a good looking boy like you hang around with creepy fat men watching a titty contest?’

James felt embarrassed. ‘I got dragged in there by a bunch of mates. I’ve never been anywhere like that before. And I was
definitely
gonna shout for you, you were the best looking by miles.’

‘You need to come back to my caravan with me,’ the girl smiled as she led James into the crowds on the strip.

‘I do?’ James said.

‘I’ll grab a top,’ she explained. ‘Then you can have your T-shirt back.’

The radio-controlled Panzer tank clattered through the shabby lawn behind the Führer’s house. Its turret swung rapidly towards a Red Army T34 and an orange flash and tinny electronic boom came out of the muzzle.

‘Missed me, cock breath!’ Dante said, giving Joe the finger before staring down at his radio control unit. ‘Which one turns the turret again?’

Dante couldn’t find it and Joe was closing in with the Panzer, so he threw it into full reverse and crashed into a bird table. Joe fired and missed again.

Lauren grabbed Joe’s controller. ‘Gimme that thing.’

Dante had finally worked out where his turret control was. He advanced forward from the bird table and fired.

‘
Direct hit
,’ a synthesised voice announced from the controller in Lauren’s hand. ‘
Damage level fifteen per cent
.’

‘Fifteen per cent damage,’ Joe carped. ‘You’re on eighty per cent. One more hit on the side and you’re toast.’

To simulate the reloading of a shell in a real tank, the electronics only allowed one shot every fifteen seconds. This meant Lauren’s Panzer would be ready to fire before Dante’s T34, so Dante swerved in front of Lauren’s tank and charged through the shaggy grass at full speed before swerving into relative safety behind the skinny trunk of a plum tree.

‘Don’t go too near the pond,’ Joe said anxiously, as Lauren’s Panzer skimmed over a bump and briefly left the ground. ‘My dad’ll break my legs if we wreck ’em.’

Anna batted Dante on the arm as the four teenagers chased after the tanks. ‘My turn,’ she demanded.

‘Nah-uh,’ Dante said. ‘You’re rubbish. I’m trying to pull us back from the brink.’

A green LED lit up on Lauren’s controller, indicating that her tank was ready to fire again. She came to a halt and took aim at the sliver of Dante’s T34 protruding from the plum trunk.

‘You’ll never hit that,’ Joe warned, as Lauren fired anyway and missed. ‘Idiot!’

Anna scowled at Dante. ‘Don’t screw it up,’ Dante warned, as he passed the controller over. ‘The firing light just came on.’

After missing, Lauren’s tank was vulnerable to attack, but instead of retreating she charged on towards the plum tree. It was a calculated risk, based upon the fact that Anna was going to miss.

‘Ooops,’ Anna said, as her tank shot backwards.

‘That one’s the turret,’ Dante groaned, as he pointed at the controller.

‘Keep your wig on,’ Anna shouted back, as Lauren’s tank closed to within four metres.

‘Shoot now,’ Dante yelled.

Anna got the turret pointing towards Lauren’s Panzer and pressed the fire button.

‘Too soon,’ Dante said furiously. ‘The turret was still moving.’

The synthesised voices from two control units disagreed. ‘
Side hit. Tank A, damage level thirty-five per cent
.’

‘What!’ Joe yelled indignantly. ‘That was head on. How could it possibly hit the side?’

‘Must have just glanced it,’ Dante giggled, as he slapped Anna on the back. ‘Nice one.’