He ran a hand through his hair again.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll put it to them tomorrow night.”
“Good.” Indie rose to his feet. “Looking forward to having you on board.”
The bass of the music bled out into the street. Not enough to raise a noise complaint. The only things being disturbed in the street this late at night were the pigeons roosting in the rafters of the dilapidated buildings on either side of the club, and the men shooting up in the bail hostel two doors down. They probably didn’t even know their names right now, never mind hear the beat of the music.
“You reckon Tyne Thunder will vote to be patched over?” Magnet asked now we were out of earshot of anyone else.
“Aye. Tez will make sure they do. He knows the score. Then we’ll be at least twenty stronger and we take South Shields.”
*****
The phone buzzed against my chest, deep in the leather. I ignored it. Fury had peeled off at the bridge, back to Heidi and their warm bed. I carried on alone, through the wet glow of the Gateshead streets, tyres humming over slick tarmac. The river smell followed me, diesel, rain, and old ghosts. Down through Teams, where the streetlights flickered and the pavements remembered every fight. My house waited at the end of the row, a sagging red-brick cottage with more history than hope. I killedthe engine, the night folding in around me. The phone was still vibrating when I swung off the bike.
I stood there a second, helmet in hand, watching my breath billow in the cold, stars bright overhead in a black, cloudless sky. A sheen of damp already covered my tank, cold air condensing quickly on the steel. The street was quiet except for the hum of a telly bleeding through someone’s curtains and the distant bark of a dog that never shuts up. Same as always. The gable end of the next street crumbled in the shadows, concrete and render collecting on the broken pavement below. My name had been painted on these walls once, long gone now, but the mark stuck. Gateshead remembers its own, even the broken ones.
The phone started up again. Persistent. I fished it out, screen lighting my gloves in a sick green.Indie.Figures. The Kings never sleep. There was always someone owing, bleeding, or vanishing. I thumbed the call away, wondering whether it could wait till morning.
I glanced back at the cottage, at the single yellow light glowing in the rectangular glass above the door, thick curtains hanging in the windows, sagging heavy at the corners that had come away from the tracks. Grandad’s place. It smelled of dust and stubborn pride, oil and petrol from the bike parts sitting by the kitchen sink. It was home. I ran my hand over the scar on my jaw, hidden by my beard, the old ache in my knuckles flaring with the cold. Then I pulled out the phone, pressed the button and pushed it to my ear.
“Brie’s been on the blower,” Indie’s voice growled into the quietness around me. No ‘hellos’ or ‘how are yous’. “Need you to get over to their Clubhouse.”
“Now?” I pulled the phone from my ear to glance at the display. Four in the morning.
“Aye. They’ve got some intelligence. See you in the morning. Fury wants you at the garage to help with some work he’s got in.”
“Right. See you in the morning.”
The line went dead, the only other noise the yapping from the dog halfway up the street.
*****
The Angels and Demons clubhouse was lit like a beacon, the music thumping out like they didn’t have neighbours for miles. I walked the Rocket backwards at the end of the row of bikes, till the back tyre touched the kerb, and killed the engine. The doors were open. Unmanned, and I wandered in unchecked like we weren’t in the middle of a fucking war, and everyone was friends again.
Brie would be fucked, or fucking, and the rest of the officers had one foot in God’s waiting room and probably looking for an excuse to die a biker’s death. Whatever the fuck that was.
“Hey, Reap.”
Ash Calder. A&Ds answer to surviving. He reminded me of myself sometimes. Or at least what I had been all those years ago. Enthusiastic. Full of energy, all bundled in the same imposing height, same stature. His passion for the club was always the first thing you noticed: for the lifestyle, for his brothers. Not all of that had left me. Just the energy. The happiness. That had left long ago, and the Kings had filled that space with something else. Belonging. The only place I ever had.
“Ash.” I nodded, my voice gruffer than I meant it to be. But at 4.30 in the fucking morning, if anyone expected smiles and giggles, they were very fucking mistaken. “What’s the craic?”
He tipped his head, saying nothing, but I followed anyway, as he led me through a door at the back of the bar and up to the top of the building.
“Brie about?” I asked.
The Kings trusted the Angels & Demons. They’d been with us through the last war. They’d always had our backs. But the landscape was changing. New members. New dangers. And old alliances that might die with the oldest members of the clubs. The one thing that didn’t die was suspicions, and I was full of them.
I was used to doing club business by myself, but I usually chose my locations to conduct it. Somewhere that gave me the upper hand. Somewhere I knew the exits. The sightlines. This wasn’t that. Ash pushed open the door at the top of the stairs without knocking and stepped aside, letting me go in first.
Noted.
Inside, the room was dim. One lamp in the corner throwing long shadows across a battered table and a couple of mismatched chairs. No windows. No easy way out.
Also noted.
I stepped in anyway. Ash followed, closing the door behind us with a quiet click that sounded louder than it should have.
