Lightning Strikes

Part 1 of a 2 part novella.

Lightning Strikes is a gothic tale written by Lynette McClenaghan. It is published in the collection Voice in the Mirror and is available for Kindle from your Amazon store.

Lightning Strikes is a tale of possession, horror, and wickedness.

LIGHTNING STRIKES

Chapter 1

Vic was irritated by the phone ringing then the old man’s voice interrupting his meditation. What the hell does this guy want? The stranger identified himself as Jack then mentioned a mutual acquaintance, Phil, who he’d just been talking to the other day. Vic thought: Is there any point to this conversation? He was almost going to hang up when Jack said, ‘He tells me you are into motorbikes.’

Vic’s mood brightened. ‘Ah, yes, that’s right. But I haven’t ridden for a while. Sold the last bike about four years ago.’ It still rankled. Vic’s Honda 400 café racer was a masterpiece, recreated with meticulous care from the ground up. Money became tight when Vic’s sessional work as bass guitarist fell away and a few too many bills had seen the Honda go. Hell, they’d been queueing up to buy it and the price he got was astounding. To add to his chagrin a recording session fell two weeks later. A month in the studio with a young band, whose bassist was capable but limited, put him back in clover.

Jack continued. ‘Well, I’ve got this old bike under the house; been there since the seventies. It was my nephew’s. Me house is too big; too much work, my wife and I sold it and we’re moving to a retirement village after settlement. The bike’s got to go and when Phil mentioned you, I reckoned I’d give you a ring and see if you were interested. You can have it, we don’t need the money. We just want someone to take it away. Free to a good home.’ He wheezed then chuckled.

Vic refrained from sounding too excited. This is too good to be true, but what the heck, wouldn’t be the first time. ‘Could be interested. What make is it?’

‘Dunno. It’s a red one, I remember that. And I remember it’s a bloody noisy thing too.’

A red one! That’s great! Very helpful! This news has made my day. ‘Alright, I can certainly come and take a look.’

‘Good. Even if you don’t want it for yourself, you might be able to get some money for it. Money always comes in handy.’

Yeah and it might be a POS; half the bike missing. Phil was Vic’s boss at the First Fret music store, a branch of a large national franchise. After his divorce eighteen months ago, Vic had reluctantly taken up Phil’s offer to work at the music store: ‘I need you there man. I want experts selling and demo’ing gear. Good money, security.’ Vic had been surprised at how much he enjoyed it. Paid lessons were an added bonus and he was very much in demand.

‘Well, I can’t promise that I’ll take it. I’ll just have a look. I’m a bit tight on space.’ As if. Vic had a fully equipped garage and workshop in the backyard. The house had been his parents’. Since the divorce he had the place to himself, with their daughters coming to him for a week every fortnight. He and his older brother Daniel had grown up in that house. In those days it had been in a court in a suburb at the edge of the city. Vic inherited the house. His parents figured because his brother went to university, had set himself up in real estate with the dollars rolling in he’d made a better fist of life. Leaving Vic the house was their way of evening things up. But Vic had always been the favourite. Talented and mercurial, he had always taken first place in their eyes.

Vic arranged a time to look at the bike the next day and hung up. This could make up for the Honda that slipped through my fingers. He knew that he had always been lucky. Things usually fell into place for him. Except for his disastrous marriage. The woman he had once loved turned into a complaining – no, a hyper-critical know-all and harping battle axe. When Jane left she had made threats that she’d prevent him from having any contact with the kids then have to sell the house. The bluster, as usual, came to nothing.

His left knee gave him some trouble in cold weather, the legacy of being rammed, while on a motorcycle, at full speed from behind by a motorist not looking where he was going. The surgeon’s comment, that Vic should be in a wheelchair, permanently, not just in a leg cast, seemed to him to sum up his life. Risks, chances, but always landing on his feet.

The next day he was in the Camry wending his way around the streets of a suburb that made him feel uncomfortable. A rich people’s suburb – big homes, SUVs, lovely leafy streets, immaculate gardens. So conformist, he thought, so predictable. If you want to stand out you don’t stand out by being the same as every other rich dweeb. Vic was a firm believer in originality, authenticity; that’s what made you stand out from the pack, made you unique. And for Vic whatever he did had to resonate with his soul.

Moments later he turned into Jack’s street and found the house. It was old and in disrepair. The house clung to the side of the hill. From the road Vic could see paint peeling from weatherboards and worn curtains hanging in the windows. A recent model Kia hatchback was parked in the driveway. These people looked okay. This bike would be worth coming to see – he knew it – felt it in his bones.

As Vic walked up the moss-grown driveway, Jack spotted him from the garden, waved and called out, ‘Hey Vic? Here for the bike?’

He nodded, took long quick strides towards the old man to close the gap, held his hand out. ‘Hello Jack…’

Jack clapped his worn gnarled hands. ‘Now come and see the bike. No time like the present.’ Then he paused, and Vic took in his short stature and large belly hanging over his belt. His face was square; the red dried out skin showed that he had spent years baking in the sun. As Jack turned on awkward legs he said, ‘Follow me.’ And Vic followed him down a path beside the house. He opened a wide, tall door to the space beneath the front veranda. At this point there was enough room to stand up. Vic followed Jack in and the old man turned on a light.

‘Over here.’

Vic tensed. Something told him yes, this was going to be good news. Jack pointed to a tarpaulin and said, ‘Under there.’ Vic could tell straight away that this was a big bike. Then he sensed a change in the old man’s manner. Without warning Jack had become brusque. Jack turned and walked towards the door. ‘Have a look. Like I said, if it’s something you can use it’s yours. If you can take it today, even better.’ Then he was gone.

How weird. Vic turned to the tarpaulin and grabbed the edge. He tugged and it began to pull away from the bike. He yelled, ‘Ta da!’ But his voice sounded hollow, and he felt foolish. What if Jack had heard him? He pulled the tarp slowly and carefully, bunching it in his arms as he removed it. He was tempted to shut his eyes until he’d cast the cover away, but couldn’t resist looking. As the last bit of the cloth pulled away he instantly knew what he was looking at. A BSA Lightning, ’69 or ’70, with the rare, cherry red tank. Complete. Mufflers, lights, seat, mirrors. There was even a number plate and registration label attached to the rear. This was better, much better, than he dreamed. Even without him doing anything to fix it up, this bike was worth thousands. But he would not sell it; this one would be restored to mint condition, maybe mildly café-ed. Daniel will be jealous. He’ll ring his bro to bring his Range Rover and trailer here to bring the bike home. He anticipated, no relished, telling his brother the story of how the Lightning became his. He didn’t find this one. It landed, almost mysteriously, into his hands.

Jack’s eyes sparkled when Vic confirmed that he would take the bike. He slapped him on the back gesturing mateship when Vic informed him that the bike would be gone in hours. Vic rang Daniel, summed up what happened and arranged for him to come and pick up the bike. The telling would be better face to face, at length and spinning every detail of Vic’s luck.

Then an odd thought struck at Vic. It troubled him that the bike was free. He couldn’t just take it from this stranger no matter how well intended, or even desperate the old man was to offload it. Since the machine was valuable, shouldn’t he tell Jack? Was the old man’s ignorant bliss simply Vic’s good fortune? Luck was luck, but hell, five minutes on the phone to a classic bike dealer and Jack would be a good deal wealthier. Still he felt uneasy about the uncanny manner that the bike had become his possession. It was the wildest of wild cards, and strange that in the same manner that the Honda slipped through his fingers, the Lightning appeared.

‘Look Jack…’ he began, but the old man looked at him as if he feared Vic had changed his mind. He continued, ‘This is a valuable bike. I must tell you that – if – you ring a dealer you’ll almost certainly make a tidy profit. I can suggest a few names.’

Jack looked at Vic as if he was offended. ‘That bike has to go to someone who deserves it. It’s not about money. Jack pointed at the machine. ‘That bike is family. I told you, it belonged to my nephew. He was my sister’s kid. He bought it and rode it everywhere. Then he got conscripted and sent to Vietnam. He gave it to us to mind while he was away. He rode it again when he came back. But he changed, becoming really mean and bitter. He rode the bike like a maniac. We worried that he’d do himself an injury or worse. He hung around with bad people, doing drugs. He stayed with us for a while because his parents couldn’t cope. One night he went out; that was the last we saw of him, the last anyone saw of him. When we gave up hope that Tim would ever return, the bike went under the house.’ Jack paused, scratched his head then scrunched up his eyes. ‘That was seventy-six. And it’s been there ever since.’

Vic didn’t know what to think or say about this tale, afraid he’d say something foolish or that would offend. Worry spread over his face. War brings trouble, and that war brought a lot of trouble.

‘My nephew is almost ancient history now. What ever happened all those years ago is in the past; can’t be altered.’ Jack stared past Vic as if looking back at hard times. ‘I hope the bike brings you good times; never did for us.’

Daniel’s arrival broke the mood and Vic was grateful for this. The brothers couldn’t be more unalike. Vic was a wiry bundle of energy; Daniel was short, pudgy, his hair thinning. Shrewd and affable he had become successful through hard work and attention to detail. Steady and reliable, unlike his brother, Daniel now enjoyed a comfortable life: his wife Elaine was a medical receptionist and their two daughters, Brianna and Emma, attended a private school. Daniel worked hard for success; graft and good judgement were his means. Vic capitalised on his talent and sharp mind; could turn his hand to almost anything. He followed his musical talents as a bass guitarist and keyboardist, playing in almost famous bands, touring with overseas acts and working as a session musician in recording studios.

Envious, Daniel gazed at the Lightning. Both brothers, as younger men, owned a succession of motorcycles. All through university Daniel had continued to ride, but sold his last bike when he began his career. Occasionally he suggested to Elaine that he’d buy a bike, a classy café racer. But she had adamantly forbidden this endeavour, which had become a casual joke between them.

Vic continued to ride, to buy bikes, own them for a while, then, hankering for something new, sold each one on, replacing it with another. Since the Honda there’d been nothing.

As he walked down the driveway of Jack’s house towards Vic and the old man, Daniel ruefully reflected: My car, my trailer, Vic’s free classic and rare bike. What a surprise. His resentment evaporated, turning to excitement as he closely examined the prize and his appreciation of the bike kicked in. Daniel couldn’t help but be caught up in the moment. This was not just a good bike; it was fantastic, unbelievably good.

He grinned at Vic. ‘British model, red tank, flat bars. It looks as though you could get on and ride it away.’

‘I wish. Anyway, thanks for coming to pick it up for me.’

‘No problem. Elaine’s taken Brianna to soccer. Fortunately, it’s only local. Wow, what a bike.’

As the brothers pushed the bike towards the trailer they didn’t see Jack standing behind them, watching, his mouth pursed into a grim line. He followed them up the path watching them load the bike, chatting and engrossed in the machine. When the bike was loaded and secure he stepped forward and offered his hand to each brother in turn. ‘Look after that baby – you will won’t you?’

Vic nodded, surprised by the old man’s comment. Why wouldn’t I? ‘You bet I will. Anyway – thanks. All the best at your new home.’

Jack smiled as he waved the boys off, turned towards the house and walked slowly up the path to the front door. When inside the house, his wife, Marjorie appeared from the other side of the foyer. He saw her shadow before her face appeared. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘Only what he needed to know.’

‘You should have just put it out on the nature strip.’

He laughed, half relieved, half in derision. ‘After you helped me push it up the path? You know that’s not the way it’s meant to work.’ He’d told her dozens of times that someone has to cross the threshold to take it; that someone has to take it away. The punk felt a bit of middle-class guilt and offered me money, knowing full well I wouldn’t go back on my word. I feel a bit better knowing it’s gone to a real poseur.

Still the money would have come in handy. But, yes, I know, it’s got to be passed on.

Jack smiled grimly. ‘Now it’s gone.’ He looked up to the ceiling as if directing his words to something or someone unseen. ‘Tim, if you are still alive, you’re free of it. If you’re gone from this world, your soul can rest in peace.’ He sighed hard as a tear welled. Marjorie stared into the distance.

The brothers loaded the bike onto the trailer, secured it and Daniel drove to Vic’s house. They arrived simultaneously. Vic’s ex, Jane, was there. She had delivered their daughters on time for their weekend with their father and was unimpressed that he wasn’t there. ‘I hope this goes straight to the garage. Looks like a lot of work. And you’ve got the girls for the weekend,’ she snapped. Ignoring their mother’s litany of complaints, the daughters rushed to Vic, full of questions.

‘I’ll film it first, for the documentary on youtube – show the bike as it is now.’

‘Don’t forget these,’ Vic called and threw them the house keys. Jane glared at Vic without speaking, then walked to her car and drove away.

Jane’s abrasive manner had always made Daniel nervous. The muscles in his face tightened. Still he brightened when he saw his nieces Eithne and Rionach emerge with film gear. Proud of their Irish heritage, Vic had given his daughters traditional Gaelic names. Each sister was two years younger respectively than Daniel’s daughters. The girls had stepped from the pages of a Celtic storybook with their fair skins, red hair and a sprinkle of freckles across their noses. These girls seemed eternally in good spirits; remarkably unlike their scowling, vindictive mother.

The next day Vic began work on both the bike and the documentary.

He set up a video camera and sound recording gear for the best possible quality footage. He reckoned on weekly youtube updates as he vlogged the Lightning’s rebirth.

By the second day he was ready to strip the bike down. First item to be removed: the seat. He marvelled at how well-preserved it was. He carefully unscrewed it then removed it and inspected the wiring beneath. All seemed good, almost too good to be true. It was as though the bike was manufactured two years ago not decades ago. He tugged at some wires and discovered obscure writing; possibly a series of symbols written along the top of the frame.

‘Woah!’ He pointed at the ornate markings. ‘Special magical spell to protect bike from evil. Straight out of the Necronomicon is my bet.’ He grinned at the camera. ‘What have we here?’ he mused theatrically as he took the camera from the tripod and zoomed in on the writing enhancing the collection of short symbols. He peered at them intently before rubbing them with a rag. Crudely engraved marks etched into the bike’s painted frame looked like occult sigils. Vic wasn’t certain, but this thought evoked a sense of unease followed by a sudden spasm of nausea. Why would someone write a magick spell on the frame of a motorcycle? What did the strange markings mean?

He zoomed in as close as he could and looked at the writing with distaste. It was incongruous; plain wrong. Motorcycles were solid, they appealed to the heart. Maybe the previous owner was an occultist who put his faith in sigils in the way that some did with a St Christopher medal. He replaced the camera on the tripod and spoke into it. ‘Forty year-old mystery writing found in motorcycle innards. Look closely. Anybody out there watching this video know what this means? If you do, let me know. And tell me why the hell would anyone carve a message onto a motorbike frame?’

He returned to the bench and picked up a spanner then resumed dismantling the BSA. As he removed parts he placed them carefully on the bench and in containers. But the writing on the frame continued to command his attention. He was no expert but he’d picked up enough over the years to identify a magical sigil when he saw one. But who had written these, and what were they for?

Chapter 2

Daniel and his family arrived at Vic’s place for the big event early Saturday afternoon. As they stepped out of the car he whispered to Elaine, ‘It looks like Vic’s going to make a feature film.’ His fourteen year-old daughter Emma ran to greet their cousins, both of whom were laden with audio-visual equipment. Brianna, two years older than her sister, wandered casually in the direction of the action, then leaned herself against the carport entrance, watching silently. Vic’s older daughter Eithne carried a long pole with a microphone attached and recording equipment hanging from a shoulder strap. Rionach held a video camera up to her eye. She turned and pointed it towards her cousin running towards her. ‘Smile!’ she chimed. Emma screamed and yelled, ‘Don’t you dare!’ then laughed as she ran to hide behind the overgrown magnolia that dominated the front yard.

The Lightning sat in the sunshine. Polished and gleaming, it looked like a new machine. Vic smiled as he stalked around the bike. ‘This is the best angle; bring the gear over here.’ He positioned his daughters to record the historic moment and said, ‘Right, we’re ready. Get some footage of the bike on its own first of all.’ He leant down behind Rionach and watched over her shoulder as she filmed the stationary bike, then tapped her shoulder and directed her to walk slowly around it, filming as she went. ‘We might use this footage. Looks promising, but we’ll have to see how it looks first.’

He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, with motorcycle boots and a cap sporting the BSA logo. Daniel laughed, ‘I hope you’ve had it running so that it starts easily for the camera.’

Vic was shocked. ‘No way! This bike is about to be fired up for the first time in forty years. There’s no cheating with a machine like this one. There’s a whole genre of bike videos on youtube where the bike is started in front of the camera for the first time in years. This has to be authentic.’ Daniel turned to his wife and raised an eyebrow.

Brianna watched and listened to her uncle with a look of wry amusement. In some ways she resembled Vic more than her own father. At sixteen she was taller than him; clever and witty, musically talented and an excellent photographer. Unlike her uncle, though, she was athletic and sporting. A fierce and competitive girl she had already made a name for herself as a fearless and deadly striker in the local girls’ soccer team. It seemed only a matter of time before a bigger club stepped in to recruit her.

Emma mostly resembled her father – slightly pudgy, determined to do well at school. Daniel empathised with her, already in the shadow of a more talented and spectacular looking sibling. He was determined that he and Elaine would not repeat his parents’ mistakes of favouring and indulging the child who best fitted the template of what they wanted. Sometimes he would dwell on his mother’s words as he took her to the retirement home, a year before she died, ‘I’ve left the house to your brother. It’s only fair because you had the university education and have the advantage of a good job. You don’t need anything. Vic needs my help to catch up a bit.’ He’d left behind the bitterness towards his parents and their favouritism years ago, but it did occasionally rankle with him that so much seemed to come so easily to his brother, who was always glib about his good fortune.

The Lightning was a perfect example of Vic’s luck, which he always accepted as a natural birthright. The BSA was exciting because everything Vic turned his hand to became exciting. Daniel glanced back at his Range-Rover, a company car of course. He then thought about the Real Estate Institute awards hanging on the wall of his modest study. He wouldn’t swap his life and his family for anything. But that powerful, handsome BSA reminded him of choices made, paths not taken and sometimes regretted. This was such a time. How great would it be firing up the bike, riding it in the hills for a long day, far away from the humdrum of family life, sport commitments, phone calls, emails, mowing the lawn, helping out with homework? The list goes on. That would be Vic’s lot, while he was sports taxi, taking Brianna to some suburb the other side of town where she would dominate another match towering over team mates and competitors. The thought made him smile. He didn’t look very sporting these days, but as a teenager, he’d been a first-class rugby player. His parents made him give it up, claiming it took too much time from his studies. Neither of them had been the least bit interested in sport, so although he was very good, it meant nothing to them. At about the same time his weight problems began. He knew Brianna would shine and was determined to fully support her in whatever path she chose.

Vic now stood behind the bike as he intoned seriously to the camera, ‘This is a nineteen sixty-nine BSA Lightning. It has not been started since nineteen seventy-six. Now, today, the Lightning returns from the grave. Stay tuned for the next video in this series detailing the bike’s history, my restoration efforts and the philosophy behind what I have done.’ Brianna grinned. Vic grinned at Daniel. ‘Gamma rays on; Yobba rays on.’ Daniel smiled at the shared memory from their childhood. Vic reached down to the engine, primed the carburettors, straddled the bike and brought his weight down on the kick-starter. The bike spat and a brief spurt of blue smoke coughed from the exhausts. Vic tried again. Once again the bike spat. On the third try the bike kicked back and he was whacked in the leg by the kick-starter. He winced with pain and with the grim knowledge that the Lightning was not going to cooperate. He said, ‘Methinks more petrol in the carbs.’ He reached down to the engine again.

Another kick, then another, then another. Daniel noticed his lean brother was developing a bit of a paunch and the hint of man boobs under a sweat soaked t-shirt clinging to his torso. His breath was ragged and gasping. Too many ciggies, too many joints over the years. His hair, Daniel noted with satisfaction, was starting to thin right across the top.

He waved a hand at the girls. ‘Turn the recording off.’ Vic’s head hung down as he leaned against the bike’s seat. ‘Petrol, spark, it’s gotta start.’

‘This is pretty comical dad. You sure you want us to keep filming?’ Rionach laughed.

Vic puffed, ‘Cinema verite my child – warts and all. But we will probably edit it.’

Elaine called, ‘I think it’s time for a break. Let’s go in for coffee and a bite. I’ll get it started. I know where everything is.’

They all sat around the kitchen table. ‘I put beers in the fridge to crack when the bike starts and we can celebrate. I feel like one now. God, that’s hard work.’

‘It’s a British bike, what do you expect? Might be flooded. A few more kicks then we’ll bump start it down the hill,’ Daniel suggested flippantly. The house sat at the top of a steep court that ended in a t-intersection with a corner, dangerous at the best of times.

‘That’s far too dangerous.’ Elaine said, ‘If you end up at the bottom of the street you’ll get killed by a car rounding the corner.’

‘Perfect!’ Vic grinned. ‘Three kicks, then if she hasn’t started, a bump start.’

Emma spoke up. ‘Maybe it’s haunted by the ghost of the Vietnam Vet and he won’t let you have his bike.’

Eithne laughed. ‘Yeah Dad, if we see an ectoplasmic soldier riding pillion we’ll yell out.’ The girls laughed. Vic was momentarily startled. He hadn’t told anyone about what he’d found lurking in the bike’s innards; the joke about a ghost was a little too close to the bone.

Rionach laughed, ‘Have you already seen the ghost dad?’

Vic rested a serious gaze on the girls. ‘You’re all humour.’

Daniel cut in over the girls’ giggles. ‘You look a bit pale bro – haven’t strained anything?’

The group traipsed outside and set up again for recording. ‘We’ll give you a round of applause when it starts,’ said Elaine encouragingly.

‘Three kicks then bump,’ Vic grinned and Daniel regretted his comment; he didn’t want to encourage his brother’s recklessness. The look in Vic’s eyes suggested he now really wanted to bump start the bike.

Three kicks, three spits.

‘As Mum used to say, we’ll get this bastard going.’ He pushed the bike off its stand and wheeled it to the end of the driveway.

‘Be careful, Vic,’ Brianna called.

Determined to beat the bike, Vic waved to her, ‘I’ve done this a million times. I’ve bump started a bike in peak hour traffic.’

Vic once more addressed the camera. ‘As you can see the Lightning has not been cooperative. In the eternal struggle between man and machine there can be only one winner. So, we will now bump start the bike by hurtling it at breakneck speed down the court towards Dead Man’s Curve.’ He sang a few bars from the song then straddled the bike. ‘Give us a push to help build up speed.’ Suddenly not wanting to appear on a video clip where his brother is seriously hurt, Daniel reluctantly stepped forward, got behind the bike, and pushed. Brianna rushed to join him.

The Lightning gathered speed. Vic dumped the clutch and the bike spat and growled. The corner was approaching rapidly, but Vic was not going to slow down. Suddenly with a bang and two jets of blue smoke from the exhausts, the Lightning fired. Metres from the corner Vic wheeled the bike around and roared back up the court. He did not see the removalist’s van that sped past as he turned. Except for Brianna, the girls cheered. Daniel looked over at his daughter’s ashen face.

Grinning crazily Vic rode the bike onto the flat driveway and yelled, ‘It’s unbelievable!’ Eithne and Rionach had gathered their wits and were now holding camera and microphone out to their father. The bike’s roaring prevented any comment being properly recorded so Vic gave the camera the thumbs up and rode off, flying down the court then out onto the open road.

‘What’s he doing? No helmet, no registration. What if he crashes?’ Elaine looked shocked. Sometimes her brother-in-law reminded her of that crazy fisherman in ‘Jaws’.

‘You know him well enough by now; that’s Vic being Vic.’

Vic arrived at the Registration Office to register the Lightning. He strode in through the automatic doors knowing he would attract attention. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, full leathers in dark red with the white BSA logo emblazoned across the back. Smiling inwardly, he observed a couple of teenage girls watch him walk towards the counter and grin at each other.

A small rotund man in his sixties strode towards him and said, ‘I’ll help you out. Motorcycle reg, this way.’ Vic followed him then sat in a chair and presented his documentation. The man sat in front of him and said, ‘Well, well, you have got yourself one hell of a machine there.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Had an old Beeza myself; earlier’n yours, a ‘61.’ Vic enjoyed the attention certain bikes elicited. The Honda had been popular with the ‘I had one of them’ crowd and he expected the Lightning to be a similar crowd-puller.

The man continued. ‘Always wanted a Bonnie but couldn’t afford it. Preferred the Triumphs.’

‘Yeah, well, these days you can’t just walk into a dealer and pick. You take what you can get. ’The man filled out the paperwork then wished Vic best of luck. He waited until Vic walked out the door then picked up his mobile phone and punched in a number.

As soon as Vic arrived home he removed the noise reducing baffles from the silencers and fired up the bike again. It was satisfyingly loud. Heck, good enough for the Harley boys to be illegally loud, it’s good enough for me.

Thursday, later that week, Vic was determined to take the Lightning into the hills to the east of the city early in that morning. His day off was his chance, the weather was great and he did not want to think about, let alone be bogged down by the household chores. It was easier to forget that the house was a train wreck.

As he passed through the last small town before heading into the hills, away from the markers of civilization, he saw another vintage bike sitting in the forecourt of a petrol station. He slowed down to have a look and get the rider’s attention. Vic recognised it as a nineteen-twenties Norton M18, in stunning condition. But it was the rider who drew his attention. A young man with a pencil moustache and centre-parted, slicked down hair straddled the bike, and as Vic rode past, turned to stare. Vic waved cheerily but the young man simply stared resentfully. What a drone; so much for classic bike rider camaraderie.

He rode on up through the hills. The road unfolded before him, the Lightning roared, eating up the kilometres. The dappled light and slightly cool air filled Vic with a sense of joy. This was how you lived, a big bike and the open road.

As the road climbed it became more twisted and narrowed. Up ahead he could see another bike, by the rider’s posture another old machine. The Lightning closed rapidly and Vic was surprised to recognise the surly young man on the Norton. How on earth did he get up here so quickly? Vic was unaware of any shortcuts. His affable good nature was ruffled. This dud could do with a lesson on rudeness. The road swept up in a long curve to the right. Without slowing down Vic powered the Lightning past the Norton. There’s a lesson for you. His finger reached for the horn, but he resisted the temptation. He checked his mirrors; the old machine and its rider had vanished. Vic relished the Lightning’s power and handling. He flew across the top of the hills, man and machine as one, then began the descent back towards the city.

Movement in the bike’s mirror caught his eye. He looked to see the visage of that same surly young man hunched down over the Norton’s tank, closing in on him. His face was contorted into a grimace of hatred under the cloth cap he now wore, turned backwards. His mouth was open as if he were about to bite Vic if he got close enough. His bike was shaking with the speed it was travelling and the young man’s head was twisted sideways as if willing his machine on.

What a maniac! He’ll kill himself! Vic’s shock at the man’s hatred forced the hand wrapped over the throttle to twist forward; in that moment the young man closed in on him. Vic’s shock turned to anger. Now he’s trying to run me off the road. I’ll show you! Adrenaline made him reckless; he raised his left hand and gave the rider behind him the finger, then twisted the throttle and sped away.

Suck on that! No way could that old bike stay with the Lightning. In seconds it was just a dot in the mirror. Vic was furious then his innards turned cold. Jesus, I could have been seriously hurt. I think the cops will want to know about this psycho before he actually kills someone.

The luxury of further reflection was disrupted by a howling sound that drowned out the roar of the Lightening’s engine. Without checking the mirrors, he knew. His eyes slid slowly to the right mirror. It was filled with the other rider’s face. His mouth was open impossibly wide, his nostrils distended and his eyes blazing black.

In a state of terror, Vic’s bladder let go. Everything seemed to have slowed down and the noise of the two bikes became distant and muffled. Vic turned his face away from the mirror and looked at the road ahead. It was like a dream, his bike was hardly moving, yet he felt the sensation of ripping along the road at great speed. It had taken flight, becoming a crazed bullet flying through space. As he leaned forward; felt a hand touch his shoulder.

He gasped, overwhelmed by the impossibility of what was happening. A sudden shriek of cruel laughter assailed his ears, then he was back in the real world, the Lightning flying along, the young man had vanished. His mouth was dry, his breath came in gasps; he was riding too quickly. Throttling back, he slowed down, then pulled over to the side of the road. He got off the bike slowly, hardly able to stand, then tottered to the grass and vomited.

In a few minutes the terror from the vision, that’s what he convinced himself it was, had faded. It was driven out by the fear that he was going mad. Some kind of brain freak-out that could have killed him. Had he somehow fallen asleep; had a nightmare while riding the bike? Christ almighty!

He rode home slowly, expecting the onslaught of another waking nightmare. As he rode through the small town he looked for the young man, who failed to materialise. When he arrived home he raced through the foyer, into the kitchen unaware of the walls and door jambs he almost crashed into. His hand instinctively grabbed at the fridge door, he hauled it open before a hand darted and pulled out a beer. I need this.

He sat on the chair at the back of the house, beer on the table, and lit a cigarette. What happened today in the hills? He’d had a nightmare in broad daylight and nearly managed to kill himself. On the odd occasion he smoked a bit of dope, but nothing like when he was young. Was this what they warned you about? It would eventually screw up your brain, magnifying paranoid tendencies. Was his past finally catching up? Vic imagined the sudden deterioration of his mind, shutting down bit by bit, all the things that made him Vic Densmore. He sometimes forgot things: words, where he left his wallet; and he knew that he was clumsier: banging his head against cupboards, walking into doors. At forty-five he wasn’t prepared to accept the onset of senility, especially as punishment for his reckless youth. If his mind was failing he knew what to do; plenty of ways to off yourself and he’d do it alright, he wasn’t afraid of dying and he wasn’t afraid of a little pain in the process.

He’d seen them, in supermarkets, on the streets – old guys, slow, useless, in the way. Not him, he’d be gone long before that happened.

Chapter 3

Café L’Amore was a short fifteen-minute ride from work and a favourite destination for Vic any Sunday afternoon after his shift finished. The coffee was great, the waitresses were friendly, but best of all, Brianna worked that shift. Her musical talents and don’t give a shit attitude endeared her to Vic as she reminded him of his younger self. He was looking forward to catching up and arranging some keyboard lessons for her, as she was determined to expand her musical repertoire, just as he’d advised her to.

Café L’Amore was positioned at the end of an old-fashioned strip of shops which had become filled with boutique women’s clothing and antique stores, bookshops and cafes. A magnet for what Vic called the ‘stale bottle of piss brigade’. By the late afternoon most had vanished back into wherever they’d emerged from. As Vic rode the Lightning down the street towards the café the footpaths were almost empty. There was a spot right in front of the café. He turned his head to catch a glimpse of a group of girls walking in the opposite direction. When he turned and looked down the street he saw a huge guy on a Harley chopper U-turn into the spot. Vic rode past slowly; he’d spotted another place to park the Lightning just around the corner and as he passed the chopper he almost burst out laughing. This guy was a walking cliché. His bike was straight out of the hippy sixties: high handlebars, extended front forks and a tiny fuel tank with flames painted on it – Easy Rider! Vic expected Easy Rider to look up at him as he rode past and heard the Lightning’s throaty rumble, but the big man was struggling to get off the bike and ignored the Lightning. What a loser; fat, awkward and filthy. Vic noted the corny Confederate flag bandanna, filthy sleeveless denim jacket, ponytail and greasy grey beard. How has he not been pulled over by the cops? How is that bike in any way legal? Maybe he’s an extra in a film.

In the café Vic sat near the window and Brianna took his order. ‘We’re slow at the moment so I’ll come back and have a chat in a minute. The boss is okay with it, he knows who you are.’

He contented himself with the newspaper and his coffee and a few minutes later she returned and sat opposite him. ‘So I can come round on the weekend, any time except this shift.’ She looked eagerly at him. He was often struck by how she resembled no one in his or her mother’s family. The intensity and wholeheartedness with which she threw herself into any endeavour was a bit scary. Brianna was self-possessed and passionate.

Suddenly she scowled and glared at the window. ‘Is this that idiot’s idea of a joke? I hope you don’t know this clown!’

Vic turned to look out the window and there was Easy Rider’s face, centimetres from the glass, grimacing brutally at the pair inside. But now he didn’t look like a joke. His eyes were slits and his mouth was open. He stared past Vic at Brianna and stuck out his tongue, wiggling the tip up and down.

Brianna stood, pushing her chair back, eyes blazing. She leaned forward across the table and stuck her middle finger in the air. ‘Go to hell pervert or I call the cops!’

Not a good idea, Vic thought, fearful for his niece. If this guy decides to have a piece of us…

The owner ran from behind the counter. Pointing at the miscreant, he said, ‘What’s going on? Who is this person?’ He waved his arms at the face in the window. ‘Go away! I’ll call the cops!’

Easy Rider is as likely to be afraid of the cops as he is afraid of a cockroach. A dread cold feeling arose in Vic’s chest. Easy Rider is here because of me. This was no encroaching senility nightmare or drug-induced vision, this was for real. Innocent people could be about to be hurt. He moved in his seat ready to stand and walk out to confront Easy Rider when the brute slowly stepped away from the window. Thank God, he’s leaving. The café owner stared in disbelief; Brianna glowered furiously, hands on hips, as Easy Rider opened his mouth and spat a huge brown gob of spit onto the window. It hit, then slid down the glass.

‘Filthy pig! I am calling the cops!’ The owner pulled out a phone and started to punch in the numbers.

Vic called out, pleading, ‘Brianna, don’t!’ But it was too late, as the girl, pulling out her phone and readying it to take photographs, stormed out the door to confront the biker.

Vic’s legs turned weak; his feet were rooted to the spot. He wasn’t going anywhere fast; was in no shape to deal with an emergency. The owner had retreated to a corner and was speaking to the police. Vic looked out the window to see Brianna standing in front of Easy Rider, phone in hand. Appalled, yet admiring, he watched. Tall and thin Brianna was a head and a half taller than Easy Rider, but probably weighed less than his forearm.

‘How dare you?’ she yelled staring into his mean face. A few pedestrians crossed to the other side of the road. Vic watched in horror as Brianna photographed the bike then turned to its owner. ‘You have no right…’ Easy Rider’s right hand flashed upwards and snatched the phone from Brianna’s hand. Her mouth opened in shock. Vic’s legs finally regained their motive power and he rushed for the door. As he exited onto the street Easy Rider, who had momentarily vanished from his view, held Brianna’s phone between his hands, then crushed it like an empty can, leering at her at the same time. She opened her mouth to speak, but Vic grabbed her around the waist before she could utter further outrage and pulled her away from danger. Her trim body was trembling with anger. ‘Don’t, Honey, you’ll only make it worse.’ Then he let go and stepped towards Easy Rider, who having destroyed the phone now watched the pair with a vicious smirk contorting his face. Vic stepped forward to confront him.

He was terrified; this man could hurt him – and badly. Other pedestrians had shifted to the other side of the road; some scurried on, others stopped to watch. ‘What do you want?’ His voice was surprisingly strong and even; he dreaded voicing a girly squeak, or the querulous impotence of an old man.

Easy Rider raised his left hand, hairy, tattooed and dirty, and pointed at Vic. Then he chuckled, went back to his bike, kick started it, and rode away, exhaust blaring.

Vic’s legs shook as he turned to his niece. She stared for a moment in the direction Easy Rider had gone then turned to speak to Vic. Her eyes were moist. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He is scum, Honey. World’s full of them.’ Vic tried to sound blasé but his mind screamed at him: He’s another one of them. They are after you.

‘He crushed my phone in his hand.’ She bent to pick it up. She brushed the tears away with her hand then threw the wreckage of her phone into her apron pocket.

Her boss appeared. ‘I’ll take you home. Sally can mind the café. You shouldn’t have to work after that.’ He looked at Vic. ‘You know what that was about?’

‘No.’ Oh yes you do. Your beautiful niece was almost smashed by some kind of fiend from Hell, just to terrify you. He spoke again to drive the thoughts away. ‘I’ll come too. Daniel and Elaine will want to hear it from me.’

Brianna was remarkably composed as she told her version of the story to her parents. By the end she was almost smiling. ‘You should have seen the way Vic stood up to the dirtiest grossest guy I’ve ever seen. In the end Mr Ugly gave way and left; he didn’t intimidate Vic. It was awesome!’

If only you knew, Vic thought.

Daniel sighed. ‘Any chance of catching the scumbag? I guess you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m glad you were there, Vic. Could’ve been worse.’

Oh yes, much, much worse. ‘Well, I was there, fortunately.’ Brianna had strategically omitted her own response to Easy Rider and the destruction of her phone, and Vic thought it best to remain silent. In expiation of the guilt he felt, he offered to replace the phone, but she refused, saying it was cheap junk long overdue for recycling.

Elaine sat speechless throughout the whole account. Vic guessed that she was sceptical of Brianna’s dramatic account of events, but she said nothing. Brianna could easily remain opaque; or she could embellish events when she wanted to. And Elaine knew that to press her for more information would be pointless. Like her uncle – wilful.

She went into the kitchen and fetched the brothers some beers. Brianna had become chipper again, as if nothing happened. Elaine would leave it that way. Vic looked at his niece and asked, ‘Not having a beer Brianna?’

‘I’m not an alcoholic like my uncle.’ They all laughed; the serious tone that had gripped the house evaporated.

Part 2 will be published midweek.