people, there was one fragment that kept coming back to me, playing itself out endlessly again and again like a loop of film projecting against the back of my eyelids.
It was a vision of Wibble. Wibble standing, a picture of cold, calm and collected fury, his lieutenants, and The Rebels guys as well, gathered round him.
It was stuff I hadn’t put in my piece for the paper. He might not even know that I had seen and heard it from where I was sitting on the clubhouse steps, still deep in shock at what had just happened.
‘It’s your shit,’ I heard Wibble say forcefully, his face set like stone and all but prodding a fuming looking Thommo in the chest.
‘You want to be a P in this club? Well then it’s your responsibility to take care of these local cunts, unless you need us to come in and do it for you?’ he demanded, backing Thommo even further into a corner.
Of course Thommo couldn’t do anything but say he would handle it, take care of business on his turf. The idea he would lose face in front of not just the gathered Freemen, but also The Rebels, by saying he couldn’t tackle some local second string club was simply unthinkable. Thommo just had to stand there and suck it up.
And I was sure that Wibble had deliberately done it, putting a Brethren on the spot in front of Stu and The Rebels as well.
Snapping his ferocious gaze from Thommo, Wibble turned to speak to Stu who had been standing by his side.
‘Well,’ he asked him, addressing him formally in Stu’s capacity as president of the assembled Rebels, ‘we know you guys have skin in this as well. It not just Brethren that have been hurt here today, but Rebels as well.’
‘So this,’ he said waving his arm to indicate where bodies were still being tended by the bikes, ‘was an attack on both clubs, which means you have your rights here as well, we recognise that.
‘But you’re our guests here and it’s happened on our patch, on our watch, so we have to take responsibility. The question is, are you happy to have these guys here,’ Wibble indicated towards the fuming Thommo and his skulking crew, ‘handle it for both clubs, or do you want a piece?’
Stu considered this for a moment, glanced across at his guys and then turned back to Wibble with his decision.
‘We’ll let them handle it,’ he announced, but then laid down his condition, ‘so long as it gets handled right and quickly enough.’
Wibble nodded. He obviously felt that this was fair enough and honour would be satisfied on both sides.
‘Understood,’ he answered. ‘We’ll keep you posted and if these guys need any back up both clubs will step up,’ he proposed. ‘Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Stu, and then grim-faced they shook to seal the deal. Again it was a strong biker handshake, clasped forearm to forearm, but this time it denoted something much grimmer. They wouldn’t want to pose for a photo of this one.
Wibble had backed his own local charter into a corner. The onus was now solely on them to hold up The Brethren’s reputation in front of not only the other charters but also The Rebels by finding and dealing with the attackers. And quickly.
And Wibble had known, I realised, putting my finger on it for the first time. Even back then, as the bullets had only just stopped flying, Wibble had known it was a local club that had attacked.
The problem with that I pondered, as we swayed to a stop again back in the services’ car park, was that it was either bloody good guesswork or it was something else on Wibble’s part.
And he didn’t strike me as the type to be a psychic.
*
The support patch lay on the desk next to the phone where I had dropped it as I came in. I really wasn’t sure how I felt about it and the bargain it implied.
Despite my misgivings, I picked up the phone and dialled Bob’s number. ‘The answer’s still no,’ I said, when he came on the line.
‘Is that what this was about?’ I had asked him, what, only this morning. ‘You
It was a vision of Wibble. Wibble standing, a picture of cold, calm and collected fury, his lieutenants, and The Rebels guys as well, gathered round him.
It was stuff I hadn’t put in my piece for the paper. He might not even know that I had seen and heard it from where I was sitting on the clubhouse steps, still deep in shock at what had just happened.
‘It’s your shit,’ I heard Wibble say forcefully, his face set like stone and all but prodding a fuming looking Thommo in the chest.
‘You want to be a P in this club? Well then it’s your responsibility to take care of these local cunts, unless you need us to come in and do it for you?’ he demanded, backing Thommo even further into a corner.
Of course Thommo couldn’t do anything but say he would handle it, take care of business on his turf. The idea he would lose face in front of not just the gathered Freemen, but also The Rebels, by saying he couldn’t tackle some local second string club was simply unthinkable. Thommo just had to stand there and suck it up.
And I was sure that Wibble had deliberately done it, putting a Brethren on the spot in front of Stu and The Rebels as well.
Snapping his ferocious gaze from Thommo, Wibble turned to speak to Stu who had been standing by his side.
‘Well,’ he asked him, addressing him formally in Stu’s capacity as president of the assembled Rebels, ‘we know you guys have skin in this as well. It not just Brethren that have been hurt here today, but Rebels as well.’
‘So this,’ he said waving his arm to indicate where bodies were still being tended by the bikes, ‘was an attack on both clubs, which means you have your rights here as well, we recognise that.
‘But you’re our guests here and it’s happened on our patch, on our watch, so we have to take responsibility. The question is, are you happy to have these guys here,’ Wibble indicated towards the fuming Thommo and his skulking crew, ‘handle it for both clubs, or do you want a piece?’
Stu considered this for a moment, glanced across at his guys and then turned back to Wibble with his decision.
‘We’ll let them handle it,’ he announced, but then laid down his condition, ‘so long as it gets handled right and quickly enough.’
Wibble nodded. He obviously felt that this was fair enough and honour would be satisfied on both sides.
‘Understood,’ he answered. ‘We’ll keep you posted and if these guys need any back up both clubs will step up,’ he proposed. ‘Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Stu, and then grim-faced they shook to seal the deal. Again it was a strong biker handshake, clasped forearm to forearm, but this time it denoted something much grimmer. They wouldn’t want to pose for a photo of this one.
Wibble had backed his own local charter into a corner. The onus was now solely on them to hold up The Brethren’s reputation in front of not only the other charters but also The Rebels by finding and dealing with the attackers. And quickly.
And Wibble had known, I realised, putting my finger on it for the first time. Even back then, as the bullets had only just stopped flying, Wibble had known it was a local club that had attacked.
The problem with that I pondered, as we swayed to a stop again back in the services’ car park, was that it was either bloody good guesswork or it was something else on Wibble’s part.
And he didn’t strike me as the type to be a psychic.
*
The support patch lay on the desk next to the phone where I had dropped it as I came in. I really wasn’t sure how I felt about it and the bargain it implied.
Despite my misgivings, I picked up the phone and dialled Bob’s number. ‘The answer’s still no,’ I said, when he came on the line.
‘Is that what this was about?’ I had asked him, what, only this morning. ‘You
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