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I feel the rage bubbling within me, my vision narrowing. I almost throw hands when I’m juddered by the shovel-hand slapping on my back.

“Wooooosah, wake up, wanker” Reaper laughs, but under his humour is a man who knows exactly what happens when I lose my shit in the wrong moments. I just can’t figure out what Harry’s planning. We can take every precaution, but not knowing what your adversary is up to has issues.

I tense and release my fists. I don’t believe in fear. I believe in warning signs. I can absolutely refuse fear. There’s only two things that matter for tomorrow, and I’m going to make sure they’re wrapped up long before we walk through the door.

All I have to do now is keep my cool, give Sawyer the space she needs, then get the fucker done. Stay in control of what you can control. That’s it, that’s the whole game.

“Brother, get a beer in you, you’re making the place look fucking untidy” he instructs, and I do as I’m told. For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, the beers flow at a social pace. We reminisce and take the piss out of each other. My mind keeps finding its way back to everything that’s going to happen tomorrow, and the uncertainty of it all. I hate uncertainty.

Despite his best efforts, I’m brooding and ruminating. Fortunately he’s got some work that he needs to do in his workshop next door, so we head over there.

“Do you remember how to use an angle grinder, or are you too domesticated for that now?” he mocks, I raise my eyebrow and tell him to fuck off. Handing me some piping he gives me the dimensions of pipe he needs cutting and polishing up for some custom build he’s doing.

A few hours pass, and my forearms ache from fighting against this stainless steel. We’ve mostly worked in silence, the odd joke, a little cussing whilst he tries to disassemble and reassemble some old Harley-Davidson, but nothing particularly stimulating.

“What do you want done with these?” I ask, after measuring and cutting the pipe down to size, and polishing them all to a near-mirror finish. Walking over to check them over, he looks at me, inspects the pieces “Nice. Beer?” he offers and I gladly accept. He tells me to give him a minute, waiting by the door I hear a bunch of pipe hitting the bottom of a metal bin.

“The fuck… did you just bin those pipes?”

“Yup. Clubhouse” he doesn’t even break his stride. I can’t help but smirk. I think back to the food offcuts I give Sawyer to keep her from being annoying, fuck sake. She’s ruined me, and now she might not even choose me. And it’s so obvious that Reaper’s just done literally the same thing, he just used power-tools and a piece of old pipe instead.

We walk up to the bar, where a bottle and glasses are waiting for us. Liska leaning on the bar from the other side, and Ghost sitting at a stool. He doesn’t greet us so much as immediately update us.

“We’re all set, it’s sorted” and he pours the drinks. T-minus twenty four hours.

Thirty Three

Sawyer

You know when time does that weird thing where it seems to stand still for ages, and then all of a sudden fast-forwards? That’s how the last day or so has been. Filled with nothing but a weird routine of hanging out in the clubhouse with some of the old ladies and Liska, eating, drinking a bit, and falling into light naps in my room.

I find myself waking up, and pining for Nik. I feel naked without my human body armour, my protector and safety, like waking up in the winter to find you’ve kicked the duvet off the bed. It’s cold and foreboding, a dark winter desperation.

He’s either been incredibly busy, or avoiding me exceptionally hard. Probably both. I know I told him that I wanted space, but I’m just not sure how I feel about having this much space. For security reasons we’ve been instructed not to leave the industrial estate that contains the clubhouse. All the other units here are occupied by “friendlies”.

There’s been a growing unease amongst some of the big dogs in the clubhouse, but particularly around Reaper, Ghost and Nik. They’re definitely up to something. And this time I have not really had access or the intention to try to find out what’s going on. I’ve been too nervous-poo anxious about this sit-down, what might happen, why I have been specifically invited. So rather than deal with all of that, I’ve ate, drank a bit, smoked a bit and lived in a whirl of anxiety, paranoia and uncertainty. It’s been fantastic, best few days of my life. Who wouldn’t want to leave their comfortable, suburban, familiar, detached four-bed to live on an industrial estate with a bunch of greasy, stinking bikers.

I’ve not got anything against the Bastards, actually I already feel kind of bad for being rude about them even in my own head. By all accounts they’ve been very hospitable, and spending time with the old ladies has been interesting. It’s a very different culture to the Firm, and it’s been eye-opening to experience it.

I’m called into the huddle, Ghost and Nik clearly orchestrating things. I stand there waiting to be filled in on some epic master plan that’s going to make everything alright and reassure me. Instead I get a series of people simply confirming that they know what they’re meant to do. There’s a few of the Bastards, then me, Nik, Reaper, and Ghost.

“Everyone happy? Kickstands up in fifteen.” Ghost finishes the meeting, and I’m still stood here like a prat with no idea what’s going on. Everyone nods and disperses, am I even here? Do I even exist? Dizzied by how little I know about probably the most dangerous situation I’ve ever willingly walked into, I’m slapped back into reality by Nik’s low and deliberately softened voice.

“Can we talk?”

Oh my God, finally! I thought he’d lost his ability to speak. Yes, we can talk, obviously, please. Tell me everything’s going to be alright, that you’ve got some master plan or reassure me. I don’t even know if he still wants me after the last couple of days.

“No matter how much we plan, we can never know what’s going to happen out there. And I don’t know what happens after. There’s a bag in the van, there’s a hundred bags. If you need one, Ghost can get you a passport. I trust these lads with my life, and with yours. Either way, after this you’re free to do whatever you want” I’m left in stunned silence. Since when did he have money? Then he leans in closer, turning almost to a whisper “But don’t think I’ll ever let you go. Just because I won’t trap you doesn’t mean that I won’t hunt you”

I bite my lip and look down, my hands find each other below my waist. For the first time in what feels like the longest time, I allow myself to feel comforted by him. There’s uncertainty in this whole thing, but there’s certainty in being at the front of his mind. I can rely on that, in this whole crazy world of all the bullshit and madness. That is a certainty. But would I bet my life on it? I don’t suppose I have much choice, really.

I don’t have much choice as I’m told “it’s time” and climb into the back of the van, the engine starts with a rumble and rattles my arse once more, and I hear Harley-Davidsons roar to life alongside us. It’s a fairly short drive, and nobody says anything. There’s a solemnity and seriousness replacing the usual banter and bullshit, and it’s palpable.

“Reaper is going to search their people, and one of theirs will search us” Nik tells me “the agreement is no weapons. Let him do his job, no drama, no bullshit” I silently nod, the dread fills my stomach and my mouth dries.

It’s strange to me, I’m terrified for my life, I’m scared for everyone else. I definitely don’t feel prepared, and the atmosphere in the van is making me feel even worse. But I’m starting to understand what Liska means. You’ve got to be all in or all out. I become suddenly aware that I feel like this, and all I’ve got to do is turn up and shut up. The guys have got way more to worry about. A different kind of appreciation waves over me, not in some warm or fuzzy way, in a sudden, stark, cold, horrid realisation that they play these games all the time.

I look at the faces, Ghost at the front driving as if he’s on his way to the supermarket. I look at Reaper and take in his ageing face. I take in the details of Nik’s face, his eyes that have lost their warmth and humour. The creases on his forehead seem deeper somehow, even his skin looks somehow darker and less colourful. The way his hair is tied, the weight of his forearms hanging from his knees. His thumbs tapping each finger in turn. Glancing back to Reaper, I see him cracking the knuckles of each finger in turn. For a bunch of very still men, they’re moving an awful lot.