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"I’m Rat," he says in a flat monotone. "And you’re Bill Butcher."

"Rat?"

"Rat one-percenter, of course," he says with some disgust, as though I’ve failed some kind of test. "Roggy said you’d be along." He throws an arm round my back, as he ushers me though the door; a surprisingly friendly gesture, but I can feel the subtle pressure of his fingers as he checks me out for a shoulder holster. That’s just the beginning.

 As soon as we’re through the door it slams behind us and Rat produces a gun, which he holds to my head, and pats me down expertly. "Drop your pants," he says when he’s done.

"Huh?" This I had not expected. "What the fuck is this?"

"Drop the pants," he repeats in the same monotone. "Or I’ll blow your head off."

I undo my belt and let my trousers collapse round my ankles. Rat quickly feels around my legs with his free hand. "All right," he says, stepping back. "Now the jacket."

"Did you think I was carrying a bug?" I ask when he motions for me to get dressed again.

"No," he says. "If you were, it would be disguised anyway. But I needed to be sure you weren’t carrying something illegal to plant on us. It happens."

"Yeah?" I ask, pulling up my zipper."Roggy specifically told me not to carry any kind of contraband, so I’m not."

He shrugs, putting away the gun. "Sorry about that," he says insincerely. "But you can’t be too careful.  Well, come on."

I follow him down a short, brightly-lit corridor to a large room. It’s got a bar counter down one side, and a small opposite. The wall behind the stage is covered by a huge grey cloth bearing the hooded death’s head with the crossed scythes, with Grim Rippers above it, MC to the side and the charter name, in the same Gothic script, below. The rest of the room is scattered with chairs and tables. It looks like a cross between a community hall and a pub, except that there are no drinks behind the bar. Of course, for these people, there wouldn’t be.

There are several of them sitting in the room, and glance up at me with feigned casualness. The casualness is obviously feigned because their eyes all have the same glittering, watchful look, and once again I’m reminded of dangerous wild animals.

"Roggy will be here in a bit," Rat tells me. "Make yourself at home. Hey, Tiny," he calls, "we have a guest." Clapping me lightly on the back, he disappears through the door by which we’d entered.

"Hi." Tiny, of course, is so huge I have to tilt my head back slightly to look him in the eyes. He gives me a benign grin through a faceful of curling beard. "Welcome to the Ripper Nation."

"Yeah, hi. Thanks." Tiny’s hand is so large it envelopes mine. "I don’t want to trouble you," I tell him. "I’ll just wait for Roggy. He’s to meet me here."

"It’s no trouble, no trouble at all." Tiny’s teeth are small and even, his cheeks ruddy above the beard. He looks friendly, happy, and so vital that apart from the slightest waxy sheen on his skin one can hardly tell he’s dead. "It’s nice to see a guest here. We seldom have any."

"What about them?" I nod towards a couple of women in the far corner.

"Oh, them. They aren’t guests. Hey, Bonny," he calls. "You a guest?"

One of the women grins back and waves. She’s tall, muscular, chocolate-complexioned, and her hair’s worked into short dreadlocks – as I already know, these biker gangs don’t discriminate on the basis of ethnicity. I watch the muscles slide and bunch under her skin – I wouldn’t fancy my chances against her in hand-to-hand combat.  "Guest?" she shouts back. "How I wish." It seems to be some kind of inside joke, because everyone laughs except me.

We sit at a table and Tiny leans back, his hands locked behind his head. The insides of his arms crawl with tattoos. "Can I offer you a drink?" he asks casually.

"A drink?" I wonder if this is a trick question of some kind. "But you don’t drink alcohol, do you?"

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