The Initiation

PATRIOT NEWS

Huge Increase in the War Chest

A Whitehouse spokesman today announced a massive increase in military spending. Over the next five years $300 billion will be spent on strengthening American armed forces and defences. President Koil was quoted as saying: ‘We need a stronger Army, a stronger Navy, a stronger Air Force. We need to be able to protect our assets at home and abroad. Nobody respects a weak nation. Nobody. We need to be the strongest nation on Earth. I’m keen to develop advanced weapons technology that will give us the edge over our enemies. They are some exciting ideas on the table, but I can’t say any more than that.’

Chapter 6: The Initiation

‘Here’s to the new prospect!’

Eddy clinked bottles with Bog, who he had met in a bar in Peel – the Banshees were doing a ‘pub crawl of the island’ and were currently doing their best to drink the west coast town dry. They were on friendly terms with the Wild Hogs and so were allowed on their turf, as long as they paid tribute – which involved getting everyone roaring drunk. Impromptu sessions had kicked off in some of the bars, and hearing the Irish jigs and reels, Eddy, still on a post-gig high and keen to party, had wandered into one and had bumped into the new friend – or rather Bog had backed into him with a handful of pints. They were both soaked in beer, but they just laughed as they recognised one another.

‘Red, you fecking eejit! Thought I’d bump into you here, but not literally!’

‘Bog, good to see you! Like the new iron.’

Bog was sporting a shiny new nose-ring – a design he had spotted since he’d arrived on the island. ‘Ah, that thing! My Knoz-ringtm . Help filter this filthy air. They’re all the rage in Douglas now!’ He nodded to the floor. ‘Shocking waste of good ale that…’

Eddy offered to get a fresh round in, and once this was collected he joined his new mate to catch up.

‘Ah, that’s more like it! Full glass, full tank, full woman!’ Bog raised his pint. ‘Slainte!’

‘Slainte!’ Eddy replied, laughing. They clinked glasses.

As the beer started to flow, Eddy filled him in on the recent developments in animated fashion. Pausing for breath, he took a thoughtful sip. ‘So, what do I have to do next, do you reckon?’

‘Well now, there’s the thing.’ Bog stacked some beer mats on his elbow. ‘Most clubs expect prospects to ‘show willing’ for a good year or so. Eat shit, basically. Be their bitch. Some make you do crazy shit. The criminal variety I’m talking about. Anything from breaking and entering to buggering a corpse.’ He flipped his arms and snatched the mats out of the air.

Eddy looked mortified, which made his friend chuckle as he swigged his beer.

‘But your fellas, the Wild Hunt.’ He tried the mat-trick on his other elbow. ‘They are gold standard bad arses. Feck knows what they’ll make you do!’ He flipped his arms and the mats went everywhere. ‘Shite!’

Eddy downed his beer.

‘Well, this is what happens if you fall for a bird from Val-fucking-halla… I just hope she’s worth it, Red.’

Slamming his empty down, Eddy’s eyes gleamed. ‘Yes, yes she is.’

‘Then, best of Irish to you, my friend. And get another round in. If you’re gonna hang out with the Vikings, I’d better teach you how to drink.’

The next morning Eddy staggered along the seafront, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the sun which was being objectionable – breaking over the town, shouting ‘Glory, hallelujah!’ when for some contrite ‘Hail Marys’ would have done. Cursing his friend, he shook his head, laughing at the confused montage of madness from the night before – which seemed to involve dancing on the pool table at one point, badly juggling the balls and balancing the cues on their chins; racing a dwarf down the high street on their knees; snogging a bearded nun; and other dubious activities. ‘Oh, my head!’ Eddy winced, gulping down the fresh air; hoping that the bile would subside. The sharp smell of brine, the screech of the seagulls, the piss streaked streets – everything made him nauseous.

It was early and there were very few signs of life – only a few small cooking fires smouldering down on the beach encampment. Detritus was devilled by the morning breeze across the promenade. A few bodies lay snoring where they had collapsed the night before, strewn like victims in a massacre. The place felt like a war-zone where a truce had been called.

Eddy’s head felt like a bloated jelly-fish. He had to do something to sober up, so he made his way down to the sea, stripped off and plunged into the spume. The shock of the cold made him gasp, but he swam out into the bay.

It was then he noticed another swimmer a few hundred yards away. Hard to discern more than the bobbing head amid the scintillation of shivelights piercing the pall of cloud. He shielded his eyes. Was that a flash of blonde hair?

He swam closer, curious.

By the time he got to the other side of the bay, the figure had started to emerge. Eddy’s pulsed race, as he recognised the tall, slim figure rise from the waters. Clothed in nothing except the dazzle of light, the foamy spume sluiced from her pale skin as she stepped onto the sand. She bent to pick up her towel, and drying herself, half-turned towards him.

‘Hey, Fenja! Good morning.’

Was that the ghost of a smile, as she wrapped the towel around her torso and walked back to the main marquee?

Eddy was glad the water hid his erection, but it took a while before he was able to get out.

A fried breakfast inside of him, and several cups of coffee, and Eddy was starting to feel normal again and ready for the challenges that lay ahead. As he sat back with a sigh, taking in the vista – no longer so offensive to his senses, he saw three burly Wild Hunt members swagger towards him – two men and a woman. They looked like they meant business.

Their large frames blocked out the view. ‘Come with us.’

‘Morning! I’ll just finish this coff—’

‘Now!’

Eddy got up and followed.

‘So it begins,’ he muttered to himself.

Eddy was taken into the centre of the biker camp – a clearing by the main firepit.

‘Stand here,’ one of the three grunted, shoving him into the fire pit. He could feel the heat of the ash through the souls of his boots.

‘Hey, this is still hot!’

‘Best not to complain,’ offered the old man next to him. ‘Could be part of the initiation.’ Bald headed, with a grey-beard and pinched expressed. He held out his hand. ‘Gunther.’

‘Eddy.’

On his other side stood a woman with a Mediterranean air about her.

‘That’s Cruz. She doesn’t speak much.’

Eddy nodded to her, but she ignored him – eyes forward, stance proud, paying no heed to the hot ash.

The foul reek of singeing rubber started to assail his nostrils.

A few of the patches gathered round – a bit of entertainment over breakfast.

Finally, the warriors returned, escorting the tall female with the hammer tattoos on her hands Eddy had seen in the procession. The crowded respectfully stood back.

She towered over them, glaring, shaking her head sceptically.

‘Audhumla’s udders! What a pitiful selection. These are the prospects? Are you sure?’ she gestured to the three guards in disbelief. ‘I didn’t order a plumber, a pizza guy, or a hooker.’

Gruff laughter from the circle.

‘Though I could certainly make use of them. Would make for an interesting morning.’

More laughter.

The three of them stood there, taking it.

‘So, you think you’ve got what it takes to join the Wild Hunt, do you? Do we look desperate? Better you leave now. Go on, fuck off!’ She snarled in their faces, pointing back to the town.

They stood there, chins out, heads high, boots smouldering.

‘Maybe they’ve welded to the sand!’ The Hammer roared as she pushed the old guy back. He fell on his arse in the ash, howling as his hands hit the hot ash. He quickly got to his feet, blowing on his palms.

‘Mmm. Maybe they’re serious after all. What do you think? should we let them prove themselves?’

Murmurs from the gathering crowd. ‘Why not? it’ll be a laugh!’ called out one, which got a few cheers.

The Hammer eyed them fiercely. ‘Very well. Prospects, you have a chance to prove your worth. Normally, it’ll take few months of being dogsbodies and the butts of all our jokes and pranks before we start to take you seriously. But these are … unusual times. Things are happening, happening fast. And there is something useful you can do… If you don’t fuck it up, then you’re get your patch.’

Each of them stiffened, keen to hear the task at hand.

‘One of our bikes was stolen by those Svartheim scum, the Devils Hogs. They’ve had it for a few weeks, stolen from one of our members in Switzerland. They’ve brought it over here to show off. Flaunting it in our faces.’

Growls from the crowd at the mention of the name of their arch-rivals.

‘It’s been kept in their camp at Ramsey. If you can steal it back, and get it back to here in one piece, you would have earned your patch. Do you except this challenge?’

Each of them looked nervous. Ride into the enemy camp and steal a bike from under their noses? It was a suicide mission!

Eddy suddenly caught a glimpse of Fenja, watching the proceedings from the main marquee. The flash of her standing in the morning light, naked, smiling, came to him. Without further thought, Eddy stepped forward and called out. ‘Yes, I accept!’

The other two did the same.

‘Very well. Our Rig, our Road Captain, will give you the details. You will use your own bikes for the mission and wear no identifying marks. If you fail, we don’t know who you are, and we don’t care.’ The Hammer left.

The circle disbanded, the patches ignoring them again. They may as well have been invisible.

Gunther and Eddy exchanged glances, rolling eyes and blowing out cheeks. Cruz quickly walked down to the cooling shoreline, and they stamped their smouldering boots out in the sand. ‘Well, Geronimo…’ said Eddy.

Rig showed them the photo of the stolen bike on his tablet. ‘Look hard. Remember the detail. Don’t bring back any other, or you’ll just be turned away. No marks on it, not a scratch, or your life will be forfeit. You don’t want to know who this belongs to, believe me. It’ll make you even more nervous. Just treat it like the Brisingamen itself.’

Eddy scrutinised the photo, letting out a low whistle. It was a work of art – a real show bike, a Bündnerbike Softtail Blue Edition – decorated with diamonds and gold-plated screws.

‘This is worth millions!’ gasped Gunther.

Rig gave them each a map of the island, identifying the Ramsey camp, plus a hand-drawn ‘reconnaissance’ map, with greater detail. ‘This is what our scouts have managed to find out. You may be able to find a way in through one of the drainage ditches, but the perimeter is going to be heavily guarded. The Hogs have guard dogs and assault rifles. They don’t mess about. They will rub you out in an instant.’

Gunther raised his hand. ‘Where will we find the ignition key?’

‘No need. Here’s the spare. Don’t lose it.’ Rig tossed it to the old man. It was gold, on a Bündnerbike fob.  ‘Remember, work as a team and you may survive this. The success of the hunt comes down to collaboration. That’s the Wild Hunt way. No one hunts alone. Now go. Odin be with you.’

It was lunchtime when Eddy made the mistake of going into town for a bite to eat. He met Bog outside a chippy and was talked into some ‘hair of the dog’ (or Fenris’ Pubes, as the local brew ‘Wolf Moon’ was nicknamed, specially made for the Wild Hunt gathering).

‘Well, here’s some Dutch courage, you crazy fekker. Get this down you!’ said Bog, thrusting the blood-red pint at him.

Eddy shrugged at took a sip. Anything to calm his nerves and quell the sick feeling in his guts.

‘Oh, and here’s a good luck present!’ Bog tossed him a small paper bag.

Inside was a box. Eddy opened it, and saw a Knoz-ringtm.

‘Now don’t think I’ve gone all gay on yous or anything. I had a spare. I don’t like one up each snout-hole. Me. I like to sniff the air. Beer. A woman. The sea. Even if the air these days smells like the All-mighty has let rip a wet one.’

‘Cheers, Bog!’ Eddy had a piercing that had nearly healed up. He thrust in the spike with a wince, and clipped the filter into place, taking a deep breath. ‘Ahh! Wow. It really makes a difference, doesn’t it? It’s amazing what you get used to.’

‘The sky’s been shite since the Evil Sorceress blew her stack. Not good for yer constitution. These Knoz fellas are making a killing, but fair play to them.’

Eddy sipped some more of his pint, knowing he couldn’t have more. ‘Talking of making a killing, it’s the Devil’s Hogs I’m worried about. From what I’ve seen they don’t play nice.’

‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just keep your head down. Stay shiny side up.’

‘I don’t have the luck of the Irish, like you.’

‘Mm, maybe not. We can’t all be born blessed with good lucks and charm. But, the Isle of Man is a mongrel – like you, like me.’

Eddy raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

‘Have you met many Irish-Asians before? Don’t say you didn’t notice my fine Irish coffee skin-tone? Anyways, Man has both Gaelic and Norse influences – a place where the worlds meet. It’s in the place-names; Hell, it’s in the bones of the land here. So, one thing I can offer you – whenever you cross a bridge here, say good morning or goodnight to the Good People.’

‘The Good People?’

‘The People of Peace, the Kind Neighbours, Themselves.’

Eddy was still non-plussed.

‘There’s more than one Fairy Bridge here, that’s all I’m saying.’ Bog tapped his nose, then raised his pint and finished it off. ‘Go get your patch and get your woman, Red! And savour the sweet air, for every day alive on this Earth is a fekking miracle, and that’s the truth!’ Bog was distracted by a good-looking biker-woman, who smiled provocatively at him. He got up to follow, smoothing his wild mane. ‘Now I’m gonna make the most of it, and you’re gonna get some food and caffeine down you!’

‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Eddy hopefully, as they crouched amid the undergrowth on a hillside overlooking the Devils Hogs camp at Ramsey – expanding like a syphilitic rash from the edges of the north-east coastal town. It was mid-afternoon, and the air was filled with the rumble of bikes, gunfire, and the smoke of burning caravans and trailers. They had set light to the surrounding land, which created an intermittent wall of flame which stood between them and their objective. The blackened ‘buffer zone’ beyond did not offer much in the way of cover.

‘Beats me. Perhaps Ladyhawke here has an idea?’

Cruz, who still hadn’t spoken a word to either of them, lay prone amid the grass, eyes fixed upon the smoky vista of the encampment. She scrutinised the comings and goings of the packs of bikers from the main access points.

‘According to the map it used to be camping and caravanning park,’ offered Gunther, to nobody in particular.

‘Well, looks like they’ve evicted any residents…’ quipped Eddy, dryly, just as one of the trailers collapsed in upon itself.

‘They are animals. We must be insane to be even considering this…!’ complained Gunther.

‘Then walk away. Forget the Wild Hunt. There are other biker gangs, if you really need to join something. Me, I’ve never been much of a joiner…’

Gunther gave him a curious look. ‘Then why are you…?’

Cruz turned back to them. ‘A woman. It’s always about a woman.’

The two men looked at one another, surprised to hear their silent companion finally speak, her voice husky with the spice of Galicia.

She scrambled back to join them. ‘This is what we do.’ She met their puzzled stares, unblinking. ‘We approach from three directions, using the drainage ditches – they will be filthy, but at least they’ll be wet, protecting us from the flames, and providing cover. Also, that way improves our chances by three.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Gunther, ‘though I wish there was another way than their open sewers…’

‘Shit happens,’ added Eddy. ‘Go on.’

‘The compound where they keep the bikes is here. We’ll need a distraction…’

‘Ah, I was afraid you were going to say that…’ said Eddy.

‘An explosion would be good.’

‘An explo—! Are you insane!’ gasped Gunther.

‘She’s right. Mmm.’ Eddy scanned the hazy vista. ‘Some of those caravans haven’t gone up yet. They’ll have gas canisters in.’

‘Good. You create the diversion. Gunther, open this rear gate. It looks like it’s a five-bar one leading into a field, which leads onto this lane … here. I can follow that up the mountain road, lose them in the hills.’

‘Hey! Hang on a minute!’ said Eddy. ‘And that leaves you to ride out of Dodge, leaving us up shit creek, no paddle! No way, José!’

Cruz gave him a look. ‘They’ll all chase after me. Plenty of opportunity to steal a couple of bikes. If they’re like the Hunt at all, they’ll leave keys in ignition, ’cause nobody would dare to steal another patches’ bike. You can just ride back to where we’ve hid the bikes – take the long road home, heading north and following the coast. I’ll have to get mine when the craziness dies down.’

Eddy shrugged. ‘Well, I’m not happy … but it’s the best we’ve got. Unless you’ve got a brighter idea, Gunther?’

The German shook his head, shame-faced.

Cruz held out her hand. ‘Then give me the key.’

Gunther cursed under his breath, but reluctantly handed it over.

‘Okay, let’s stash the bikes and wait for sundown.’

They hid the bikes in a small stretch of woodland called ‘Elfin Glen’ which had an access track connecting to the mountain road. It was a bit of a walk to the Hogs’ camp, via the circuitous route of the drainage ditches, but it felt at safe distance. On a bike it would take a minute.

They smeared charcoal on their faces, eyes pale in the twilight. ‘Right, let’s do this thing,’ said Eddy. ‘For the Wild Hunt and glory.’

‘The Wild Hunt and glory!’

Silently, they parted, each taking to their respective route.

Eddy made his way quietly through a plantation, hyper-aware of every sound he made – the slightest crack of a twig, his breathing. His boots sank into the carpet of needles, which fortunately seemed to suck up most sound. In the distance, the rumble of bikes, of death metal music, gun shots and wild screams grew louder.

 He came to the edge of the pines and stared across a blackened wasteland of smouldering stumps. Covering his mouth and nose with his scarf, he scrambled down into the drainage ditch, his legs sinking into the icy gloop.

Gritting his teeth, he made his way towards the camp.

He tried to focus on the image of Fenja on the beach, turning to him amid the glittering light, as the water turned to raw sewage.

Gagging on the reek, he choked down the bile, and pushed on.

The nearer he got to the camp, the more the ditch became clogged with trash – bottles, cans, pizza boxes and barbecues, broken or unwanted stuff.

He froze as he heard voices nearby. Two or three Hogs, complaining about the shite beer and ugly women.

‘Give me a pint from my local and a night with that blonde barmaid any day…’

 ‘Yeah, the women here seem to have been bred with the cattle.’

‘You’ve never complained about a good pair of udders before.’

He crouched as low as he possibly could, hoping the muck he was covered with would help camouflage him.

A zip unfastened and a warm trickle splashed down on his face.

He flinched, but bit his tongue.

‘Ah, empty the tank. Make room for more of that piss.’

‘Yeah, does the job though, dunnit? Hurry up, Naz. Done playing with yourself yet? We’ve got to do a circuit of the perimeter before we can get our nosh.’

The zip is fastened and heavy boots crash through the burnt layer of undergrowth. ‘Hold up, you whazzers!’

The voices fade, and Eddy shuddered with disgust. His leather jacket took the worst but some went in his hair, clinging warm to his neck.

He pushed on, slipping under a wire fence. The surroundings changed to the manicured lawns of the golf course, churned up by bikes. The Hogs had turned it into their own motorcross circuit – a drunken biker skidded erratically across a green, plunged through a bunker, churning up the sand, and then shot out across the rough, leaping over the ditch within inches of his face, before roaring off into the gathering gloom.

Peeping over the edge, Eddy scanned the vicinity. The clubhouse was clearly the centre of things and was in full swing, going by the rock music and raucous sounds coming from within and outside.

The ditch headed towards the trailer park – now resembling some kind of cemetery for holiday homes. Most were burnt out shells, but one or two remained relatively intact. Why would they destroy them rather than use them as billets, he wondered? That was probably typical of the Hogs. Violence and destruction for its own sake was the order of the day with them.

Heart thudding in his chest, he crawled out of the ditch towards a trailer, slipping beneath it, hugging the shadows as a pair of legs staggered by. A belch and a crash of glass; then it was clear.

He wriggled out to the front of the trailer where the large gas canisters were hooked up. One in use; one spare. Looking around to check he wasn’t being observed, he set to work. He unscrewed both, unhooking the connecting pipe, and letting the gas escape with a sinister hiss.

Pulling out his zippo, he edged back to the ditch. Checked his watch. An hour since they split. Everybody should be in place. It was now or never.

He snapped the zippo open, clicked the flame alight, enlarged it to max, and then tossed it towards the canisters.

Diving into the ditch, he covered his head as the explosion ripped open the night.

Showtime.

The sound deafened him momentarily.

As the whining abated he heard cries of alarm, calls to action, bikes revving up, arclights coming on.

Now to get the hell out of here!

He waded along the ditch until he was a safe distance from the blaze he had caused, where most of the bikers had gathered.

With relief, he extricated himself from the foul water.

‘The things I do for love,’ he muttered to himself.

Amid the chaos, Eddy raced towards the hard-standing, where the majority of the bikes were parked.

Two or three Hogs lingered there, but were called over to help with the spreading fire. Moaning, they left to pitch in.

Now was his chance. Eddy scanned the bikes and picked not the fattest, but the fastest looking – less fork, more torc, as his buddies in the band liked to say back home. Choppers looked cool and were great to ride on long straight roads, but weren’t designed for these poky British lanes with all their twists and turns.

He jumped on the scruffy, stripped down soft-tail and thanked Crazy Horse for the key sitting in the ignition. With a flick of his wrist it started up. He gave it a couple of revs, and it sounded hungry for the road.

Just as he skidded out of the compound, he heard the shouts.

Cruz blasted by on the gleaming bike Rig had shown them.

‘Catch her!’ somebody roared. ‘Or you’re all dead!’

A posse of mean-looking bikes skidded in the gravel and growled after her.

Eddy prayed Gunther had sorted the gate, and floored it, hot on their tail.

Cruz shot like a bat out of hell, straight across the camp. Tents, people – it didn’t matter what was in her way.

A pack of a dozen bikes were already on her tail.

Eddy could see the gap at the far end of the site, silhouetted by the burning fields beyond.

Gunther had done it!

If she could make the gap … There were too many of them to go through all at once. It would thin them out, slow them down.

Eddy sped along behind the hunting party, ignored by them, and by those dealing with the fire. There was another blast. Out the corner of his eye he saw a trailer lift into the eye, and topple onto some of the Hogs.

Cruz shot through the gap like a blue bullet. That was one helluva bike, whistled Eddy.

Her pursuers awkwardly thinned out as they filtered through after her.

Then it was clear.

As Eddy reached the gate, Gunther appeared from the shadows.

‘I didn’t get time to go back and get some wheels!’ he shouted.

‘Never mind! Jump on!’

Gunther leapt onto the back and grabbed the rail.

Eddy blasted out of the compound. Riding across the smouldering fields wasn’t very pleasant, even along the farm track and he was relieved when they reached the far side, where it entered the cool pine plantation. In the distance he could see the headlight cones and hear the snarl of racing engines, as Cruz and her pursuers hit the mountain road.

Eddy headed to the Elfin Glen as quickly as possible, but when he approached their bike stash Hogs emerged from the trees and starting firing at them.

‘They found the bikes! Hold on!’ Eddy yanked on the throttle and the bike raced straight towards the Hogs, making them dive to safety.

Not letting up, he gunned the bike onwards, swerving to avoid the gunfire.

But then there was a sickening dull thud and Gunther fell from the back of the bike.

‘No!’

Eddy skidded to a stop.

Gunther’s body lay motionless on the floor in a broken heap.

‘Fuck! Gunther!’

There was no reply, except the revving of engines. Beams split the night.

He had to go.

Feeling sick inside, he bolted out of the glen and onto the mountain road, hearing the Hogs on his tail.

The road snaked up the side of Snaefell, the highest point on the island. Its dark mass loomed ahead, picked out by the restless beams of the front pack.

Eddy put his foot down and started to see glimpses of their tail-lights appear around the bends. He had to tip the bike low to take the curves at such speed – a lot easier than with a pillion.

He was still in shock about Gunther. Those guys rubbed him out without even thinking. This shit was getting far too real for his liking.

All for a fucking bike. No. For his desire. For Fenja.

All he could do was make Gunther death not be in vain.

He had made the right choice with the bike, and started to catch up with Cruz’s pursuers.

Snarling, he gunned the engine to a dangerous speed and overtook the lead biker, weaving erratically, creating a pattern of interference to make them slow down, to give Cruz a chance.

Eddy was all too aware anyone of them could put a bead on him at any moment, but it would be hard to at such speeds. The curves of the road were his friend. Each bend kept him alive a little longer.

They were high up now – the Isle of Man spread out below them, the lights of the towns and villages like a terrestrial firmament.

Wind buffeted the side of the bike and he had to use all of his strength to keep it on the road. Sweat lined his limbs, dripped down his face. He had to hold on; hold his nerve.

He shivered as the temperature plummeted. They were up high, but not that high…

Skeins of mist drifted across the winding road.

The stars blinked out as the sky was consumed by dark clouds.

Suddenly, small projectiles started to smash onto the tarmac, onto his visor and upper body.

‘What the fuck?’

Hailstones the size of golf-balls started to cascade downwards. Eddy had to weave as much as possible around them but it was impossible to avoid them all. He could feel the grip of the wheels becoming less and less reliable and it took all of his skill to start upright.

Behind him he heard a crash, another. Someone’s gone down, taken some poor bastard with him.

The Gods must be on their side!

With relief the freak hail-storm died away, as he descended the other side of Snaefell.

Maybe they would make it after all…?

Ahead, he saw Cruz, who pulled over at the empty grandstand which overlooked the sharp bend down to Douglas.

Eddy pulled up by her.

Flipping up her helmet, she asked ‘Where’s Gunther?’

‘He didn’t make it.’

Cruz didn’t say anything.

They came off the main road, taking an obscure back route: Lanjaghan Lane.

For a moment it seemed like they had given their pursuers the slip, but then a cone of light appeared behind them, getting closer and closer. It was hard to go at any speed along such a narrow, twisting lane.

Gunshots split the air.

At any moment, one of them was going to get hit.

Eddy braced himself for the inevitable.

Up ahead there was a small bridge. Eddy suddenly recalled Bog’s crazy advice – the kind of shit his grandfather Running Bear would come out. Or Grandpa Gunnar, who saw elves everywhere. Every stream with its resident spirit. Every rock and tree… He’d never given the old beliefs much credence … until now.

Until his life depended upon it.

As they flew over the bridge he called out, ‘Good night, fairies! May you sleep in peace!’

As their pursuer reached bridge something happened to him: he vanished into a bank of mist. There was a crash, and the broken chassis of the bike skidded out of the mist, along the road, coming to a stop against the dry stone wall.

Riderless.

Eddy and Cruz both saw this, but didn’t want to say anything, in case it somehow directed the wrath of the ‘People of Peace’ onto them.

Silently, they continued. Eventually, the back lane intercepted the Peel Road.

No more bikes were on their tail. They had shaken them off, or something had…

Bog’s words echoed in Eddy’s mind: ‘…every day alive on this Earth is a fekking miracle.’

Grateful for their lives, they headed back to Peel.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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