Rolling Thunder (© Biswapriya Purkayastha)
Page 1 Grim Rippers MC, says
the sign on the red brick wall, in large black letters on pale grey. The
letters are stylised Gothic, set below the club logo of a hooded skull and
crossed scythes. It’s evening, just after dusk, and the skull glows faintly
luminous with phosphorescence. "It might look cheesy," I’d been warned, "but do not
be tempted to laugh. Not even to yourself. There is nothing funny about
these people." As though I’d needed to be told that. It’s a strange place to have an outlaw biker clubhouse, in
this fairly upscale residential district with its tree-lined streets and neat
houses with well-tended little gardens out front. It’s an especially strange
place to find this particular kind of biker clubhouse. These streets
were built with family cars in mind, modestly fashionable vehicles hushing by
unobtrusively to work or shopping at the malls downtown. Nobody probably ever
imagined they’d echo to the pulsating beat of V-twin cruiser engines. But then
there’s nothing usual about the people inside those walls. Nothing at
all. There are motorcycles parked in a double line on the small
concrete court by the gate, along with a couple of pickup trucks. I glance at
them, counting quickly; there are about fourteen or fifteen. Not a full house
then, because some of these will be associates’ and prospects’ bikes, but still
a fair number of the full-patch members will be here tonight. I can imagine
them on the other side of the wall, and I’m sure a couple of sets of eyes are
watching me at this moment, sizing me up, and more likely than not checking to make
sure I’m the one they expect. Despite my training, I feel my tension rising, and pause a
moment to get myself under control; but not too much, not all the way to
base-level calmness. They’ll detect my nervousness, of course, and to some
extent they’ll be expecting nervousness. Nervousness is normal under these
circumstances. But they’d react as suspiciously to outright anxiety as they
would to a dead – if you’ll forgive the pun – calm. They’re as sensitive to
atmosphere as hunted wild animals, and they can be as dangerous as one of those
wild animals when brought to bay. I’m ready for my role, I tell myself, once again. I won’t
screw up by making some stupid mistake. I repeat it quickly, so that I know
it’s true, and walk up to the gate. The owner of one of the sets of eyes I’d known were watching
me steps out of a small wooden cubicle next to the gate. He’s a big man with a
round hairless head, shining in the light pouring down on us from the
floodlight on the gatepost. He crosses his beefy arms on his white T shirt and
stares at me silently. "I’m expected," I say after it becomes obvious he’s not
going to make the first move. "I’m..." for the briefest instant I have a shaft
of panic when I can’t remember my code name, but then it comes to me. "Bill," I
tell him. "Bill Butcher. Roggy one-percenter invited me." For a moment he doesn’t react, his stony expressionless eyes
gazing into mine. Then he holds out a hand. I fumble my ID through the wire
mesh to him; he takes it without a word and disappears into the cubicle. After
a couple of minutes, there’s a faint hum of an electric motor and the gate
begins to slide open. The big man reappears, and speaks for the first time. His
voice is harsh and low, as if it is an effort for him to talk. Perhaps it is.
"Roggy will be here later," he says. "You’re to go in and wait." "All right. What about my licence?" He stares at me. "You’ll get it back when you leave. Rules
of the house." I’d been coached to look out for any attempt to intimidate
or dominate me, and to resist from the outset, but it seems counterproductive
to raise a ruckus before even getting into the clubhouse. So I shrug, turn away
and walk up the steps to the door, which looks very heavy, as though it’s
sheathed in metal under the wood. More likely than not it is. It’s already opening, and another man appears. This one’s
surprisingly small, barely up to my shoulder, and thin, almost spindly, which
makes me instantly wary. His short stature means he must make up in other
attributes what he lacks in centimetres. The club can pick and choose its
members – it isn’t hurting for candidates – and it recruits only the best. He
grins up at me, a feral smile with a lot of tooth and little else. [ Continue to page 2 ] |