Heavy Duty People: The Brethren MC Trilogy book 1 by Iain Parke Page B

were all Brethren of course, but Dazza always seemed part of an inner circle, almost a club within the club, I guess that was partly because he was coming close to joining The Freemen, but partly it was his air of self-control, his self-assurance, his watchfulness. Even at a party he was always serious, maintaining a distance.
    Then it had been the ex Legion ’s turn.
    Dazza had been happy to take in the club and thereby to obtain the territory, but he clearly didn’t have any personal loyalty to the club’s individual members. We may have all come into The Brethren, but we certainly weren’t all going to stay. If your face didn’t fit, or if Dazza as judge and jury decided that you weren’t going to make The Brethren grade, then you were soon going to be out. And you’d have one chance to remove your club tattoos before Butcher and his crew did it for you with a hatchet if you left in good standing. If you left in poor standing you didn’t get the option.
    I didn ’t like Butcher. I respected him, but I didn’t like him, or his crew. He had the dangerous brittle intensity that seemed to mark the coke head and Christ he was a miserable fucking hardnosed prickly bastard. I remember we were riding once and there were some kids coming the other way. Bikers wave to each other, or nod or do something to acknowledge each other, it’s us against the car drivers after all.
    So I remember the first of these kids on their 250s or whatever they were, he lifted his arm in greeting as we approached.
    And Butcher just looked straight ahead, blanked them completely from behind his wrap round shades. Apart, of course, for the one finger salute. It was so fucking funny to watch. What a complete and utter arsehole he was.
    But I just thought, why the fuck did you have to do that? It had been a respectful enough greeting. If it hadn ’t been I’d have been with Butcher like a shot in pulling round, catching them up and giving the little wankers a good kicking. But it hadn’t been. It hadn’t been presumptuous, it had been civil, so what was the problem?
    Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t think they had to like us, it wasn’t anything like that. When you’re in a club like ours you know you ain’t going to be winning any popularity contests.
    But s o long as they feared us, that would suit me fine.
    You never knew who might be useful at some point in the future. You can’t control whether people like you and even if they do, you can’t rely on them doing what you want them to because of it. People forget friendship and gratitude and all that shit really quickly when the chips are down.
    But you sure as hell can control whether people fear you. And you can rely a lot more on people doing what you want them to if they’re scared of you and the swift and sure retribution that will come their way if they fuck-up or wimp out.
    But you can be feared without being hated, all you have to do is avoid unnecessarily disrespecting people or stealing their gear, and being hated can be dangerous. Someone who hates you will actively work against you.
    So a void being hated and you will stay feared but respected; and successful was my rule. Waste that respect by behaving like an arsehole the way Butcher did and all you do is breed resentment and hatred that can work against you.
    And that was something Butcher never really got. That ’s why he was a tool. A good one and very useful to Dazza no doubt for some things, but one I recognised as ultimately disposable that could and would be sacrificed with impunity when it suited Dazza.
    Mind you he had his funny side as well. Fat Mick had been moaning one evening in the bar about not having been made up before the vote the way Wibble had been. We’ve a strict rule about no fighting in the club house, you get fined. So Butcher just calmly reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and plonked his fifty quid on the bar. Then he turned round and just coldly smashed one straight into Fat Mick’s