Lightning Strikes

Part 2 of 2

When Vic returned home he felt anything but normal. The vision of the young man out in the hills was all too real. Just like Easy Rider. They were fiendish and ugly and cruel – not of this world. Vic was not given to flights of fancy or hyperbole, but he knew that he was stalked – twice. And likely, most likely, the writing carved into the bike’s frame has something to do with these encounters. His mind repeated this thought and it chilled the marrow in his bones.

He scoured the net desperate to find out anything he could about the writing etched onto the bike, but found nothing. Someone must know something and I must find that someone. The thought slowly filled his mind: If not this spells doom. Do – these – demonic – riders – whatever they are, think I’m someone else? Who then? A more dreaded possibility hovered over him. Was it the bike’s original owner? And did it really matter? He only possessed the bike. Then he brightened. They want the original owner, not me. This is an easy fix. He almost laughed with relief at the simplicity of the solution, and at the absurdity of what was happening in his life.

Five minutes with an angle grinder and the writing was gone, as he ground it from the paintwork on the frame, all the way back to bare metal.

‘No magick spell, no evil demon riders.’ He carefully gathered the paint that had ground to dust, put it in a small pot and burned it. ‘No point taking any chances. Gone, gone, gone.’

Two weeks later Vic knew he was free of the menace he recently encountered. There were no more ghostly riders on classic bikes. There had been a few minor scares though. He was in the bank when a Triumph pulled into the parking bay. His blood ran cold for a second until he saw it was a brand-new machine. Another time he had been followed by a rider on an old bike until Vic had pulled off the road to see an old man potter past on an ancient unidentifiable two-stroke machine. He’d laughed aloud.

Life returned to a steady rhythm. Brianna came for regular keyboard lessons. His girls came to him every other week. Work continued at First Fret. One boy’s mother suggested to him that he should take the lessons at her home. ‘You’d be put out, but I can make it up to you.’ But Vic wasn’t quite ready for that yet, so he politely refused, citing loyalty to the store. ‘Never mind. Offer’s still open though.’ He’d got her phone number but that was as committed as he wanted to be for the moment.

By the middle of the week the warm autumn sun dried the grass so Vic gave the lawn a trim with the mower. He finished the cutting quickly and then stood on the front lawn undecided whether to finish the job and rake up the grass or go inside and grab a beer first. His t-shirt was wet with perspiration so he removed it and threw it at the porch. He looked at his torso. The hair on his chest was turning grey; from above he noted the beginning of man-boobs. He could still make out his ribs but was concerned by the sagging above his belt and the thickening around his waist.

Maybe a beer was not such a good idea. In the last year of his marriage Jane had often complained about his drinking – a beer or two every now and then was too much for her prissiness to bear. His absolute refusal to acknowledge her complaints had been one of the many tipping points over that tumultuous year.

He’d spend a few more minutes on the porch to cool down and catch his breath. He sat at the edge of the porch and wiped his face with the t-shirt. When he pulled it away from his face the smell of sweat was mixed with a whiff of a hot motorcycle engine cooling off. The oily, metallic smell was unmistakeable and as Vic sniffed and heard the slow tick, tick of a cooling engine. For a moment his head swam and he was a fifteen year-old, dismounting from the old Honda that he and Daniel rode brazenly and illegally around the roads at the back of their parents’ property. He could see the tired old machine’s engine oozing oil and Daniel fetching an ice-cream container to put under the bike before it dripped oil onto the driveway and their father had a fit.

He returned to the present, staring at the mower, t-shirt in his hands. But the smell was stronger; the ticking louder. Suddenly the smell filled his nostrils, flooded into his throat; he choked, coughed then spluttered, gasping for breath. The ticking escalated to crashing rhythm; pain pounded at the back of his head. He dropped the shirt and held his hands to his ears. It was no use as the sound seemed to come from inside his head. His vision swam. Writhing in agony he stumbled against the porch then fell to the ground. Vic struggled to his knees. This is it, a brain haemorrhage. I’m dead; worse, it is the rapid descent into a vegetative state. He cried out in agony, but there was no one to hear his pleas. He reached down and pulled his phone from his pocket and held it in his right hand. As his thumb reached to punch in the emergency number a shadow fell across him. He looked up. A short, plump young man in jeans and a suede jacket, frilled at the sleeves, stood over him. A diagonal cut sliced through his face. It was a deep wound oozing blood. Each hand was missing two fingers, middle and ring. His long hair was plastered to his head with more sticky blood.

Vic whimpered in horror. The noise and the stench faded. He wriggled away from the mutilated figure. As it stepped towards him with a pronounced limp, Vic screamed. It held up its ruined hands in a placatory gesture, and then spoke.

‘Hello Vic. My name’s Tim, Jack’s nephew. You know why I’m here. Not fair, is it Vic? It’s a great bike; I know – it used to be mine. But they were onto me. They marked my bike and then they came for me. They took me away. They hurt me – a lot. I’m one of them – I belong to them – now. They’ll put me back together properly – that’s if I can prove myself – and that’s why I’ve called on you. Then – I can have the Lightning back; be one of the gang.’

Vic knelt, petrified, unable to speak.

As the fiend’s cruel unblinking eyes bore into Vic’s face, it grimaced. ‘My time’s running out.’

Vic thought of an hour glass ready to release its last grains of sand before something dreadful changed everything.

Tim’s voice crashed over Vic’s desperate thoughts.

‘I’m here to hurt you Vic. Then – they will take you. No hard feelings Vic.’ The figure clapped its mutilated hands. It looked momentarily puzzled, before its train of thought kicked in. ‘Now, back to business. I just have to… I want my bike. This’s just a taste of what’s to come. You can’t run – I tried – it didn’t work – it never works.’ The voice turned reedy and thin, ‘It never works, it ne…’

Vic watched as the figure began to twitch before shaking violently. It gibbered, bent backwards; arms flailing wildly. It twirled around then fell to the ground. It tried to haul itself up before fading from view. Faces with hollowed out eyes stared at Vic, filling the space that had emptied where the apparition disappeared. Then these too dissolved. The warm breeze and smell of the newly cut grass brought Vic back to his front garden and porch.

Another spectre? Huh, this one seemed to be struggling to manifest itself. It could hardly move or speak properly. Or maybe this time I really am cracking up.

No. Removing the writing only worked for a while. They are back.

‘Get away – get away – that’s my bike.’ Vic dropped the rag he was using to polish the BSA’s front mudguard, stood up and turned. Tim stood a few metres away, dressed the same as yesterday. ‘Time to hand it back Vic. Time for a thumping.’

Tim smiled, more of a malevolent fiendish grin. The wound across his face gaped slightly and oozed dark stale blood. He stepped towards Vic. I’m supposed to be scared, but I’m not. There’s something wrong here. He watched Tim move towards him; slowly, awkwardly. If corpses have emotions then this one doesn’t look too sure of itself. He circled around and Tim stumbled as he tried to follow. Vic yelled out before he knew he was speaking, ‘How you gonna ride it anyway, Spook Boy? Missing fingers will make it hard to change gear, or brake! You won’t be able to keep up with your mates!’ To Vic’s surprise he coughed out a screeching laugh, perversely he was almost enjoying himself taunting something dead.

Tim’s head wobbled. He seemed to be looking around. Vic yelled hysterically, ‘Looking for the cavalry Timmy? I can’t hear them. Ya gonna have to terrify me on your own.’

Tim’s mouth pursed and he called out, ‘I can’t do it on my own. You’ll have to help me Bevan.’ Suddenly the young man on the Norton rode into view. He glared imperiously at Vic, stopped the bike, killed the engine and pulled it onto its centre-stand. This time Vic saw him close up. Bevan strode towards Vic, his shirt collar open slightly and Vic saw a livid blue bruise around the man’s throat. Vic breathed hard. Two dead men stood on his front lawn, faced him and were perhaps two metres away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the street. The postman was due; his neighbour’s new Nissan was parked opposite his driveway; he could still taste his recent coffee. And two dead men faced him across his front lawn.

Bevan’s tone exuded affected charm. ‘You’ve observed my decoration. Don’t you know it’s rude to stare? But I’ll show you something, something you never counted on seeing, wouldn’t dream up on your own.’ Bevan chuckled, emitting fetid breath that hung in the air.

Vic gaped as the familiar scene of his front lawn faded. He was in a small room reeking of sweat and dirt. He was struck by the cries of a girl and turned slowly in the direction that the voice seemed to come from. Bevan was sprawled over a girl who lay on filthy bedsheets. Her dress was pulled up and Bevan’s huge hands were wrapped around her throat. Vic watched in horror as this beast forced himself on the girl, throttling the life out of her, thrusting into her cruelly as she thrashed beneath him. Her desperate screams simmered to weak gurgling in her throat. Now spent, the fiend turned his head, resting a look of self-satisfaction over Vic, as the girl lay lifeless beneath him. ‘I get to relive all of my finest moments over and over. Tim likes this one. What do you think?’

Back in the real world, Vic was struck by nausea; appalled by what he witnessed, he dry-retched again, then again. Bevan and Tim mocked in unison.

Vic tried to shout, ‘Stop! Stop! Stop it!’ But only silent words spilled from his mouth while the fiends, braying marionettes, laughed cruelly. Bevan jeered, ‘You can come with us; there’s more of that waiting for you.’

Vic flashed them a dark look of horror.

Bevan grinned then taunted, ‘So – our sport doesn’t impress – tough – you’re in on it.’

Tim sniggered behind a hand. ‘You’re gonna rape, torture, kill…’

Vic bowed his head, covered his ears with his hands and his words of terror and protest sounded loud with fury. ‘No – stop – I don’t want to – to hear any more.’

Bevan cut in over Vic. ‘You have no choice. You will do our bidding – partake – like it or not – then you will be passed on.’

Tim cut in, ‘Passed around to participate in crimes your worldly existence hasn’t yet imagined.’ He stepped forward, chin jutting out as he stared at Vic through cold eyes. ‘In Hell you relive your crimes over and over. It’s heavenly – and we recruit new members to share our exploits.’ He rubbed his hands together and grinned, exposing a set of ragged broken teeth. ‘And best when an unsuspecting fly is caught. This time it’s you, Vic: the ultimate pleasure is when the wrong person comes into possession of one of our bikes.’

‘Not all of us escaped the consequences of our misdeeds. Your new friend Tim, here, was tortured by drug dealers then bled to death. Do you know what it is like to have your fingers sawn off with a fish knife?’

Vic shook his head.

‘You will. My own decoration is courtesy of the hangman’s noose, Manchester, 1929. As our guest you will share in the variety of unpleasant demises that befell many of our members. Unlike most of us you don’t get to keep the bike – it’s Tim’s machine.’

Vic’s mind reeled. An abyss of horror opened beneath him. Everything he knew, the whole of his existence, had been brutally torn from him. Sudden weakness and terror filled him; he fell to his knees, unable to stand, let alone speak.

Bevan hit him with that same cruel laugh. ‘We’ll get to know each other – very well – and sooner than you expect.’ He walked towards his bike; gestured to Tim with a grand sweep of his right hand. ‘He’s all yours, Tim. Make him suffer.’ He turned away and faded from view.

Tim limped towards Vic, still kneeling. ‘Take my bike huh?’ His awkwardly aimed kick missed Vic’s head, but struck his shoulder. Vic flinched. Tim began circling Vic, yelling.

Chapter 4

Daniel pulled up and through the car window he saw a strange shadow flicker and circle around his brother, kicking out at him. Fury filled him. He leapt from the Range Rover and began to run.

Overweight and seriously unfit, it took a few metres for him to gather momentum. But the body remembers. Daniel knew from his rugby days how to hit hard, smash an opponent to the ground and inflict serious damage. Vic’s head was down, his right arm raised and the shadow’s back was turned as Daniel accelerated across the lawn then crashed at full speed into his brother’s tormentor.

Tim’s body crumpled like a small car hit by a train. He fell to the ground and screamed. Vic gasped with astonishment. Daniel picked Tim up by the front of his jacket and rammed his head into the side of the house. Tim’s head exploded like a piñata filled with ashes spraying filthy dust into the air. The brothers, Vic still kneeling, watched as the headless body flailed for a few seconds then crumpled, leaving a scattering of greasy ash on the ground.

Vic staggered to his feet; Daniel stood, transfixed by what he saw. He turned to Vic, threw his hands up into the air. ‘What…’ Words failed him.

Vic gasped, turned to Daniel, tears spilled from his eyes. Daniel despaired as his brother cried. Shit – this is serious.

‘What the…that’s unbelievable. But it’s gone – whatever it was. It’s okay – it’s going to be okay.’

Vic shook his head. ‘For now – this is just the beginning…’ His face tightened, the colour drained from it, he bit his lip like a frightened girl. ‘Daniel, I’m scared.’ He squeezed his eyes to stave off more tears.

‘Scared – scared of what…’ Daniel looked into Vic’s red rimmed eyes, dazed and exhausted face: What the hell was that thing anyway?

As Vic seemed to switch back to the real world a serious look formed over his face. And in a quiet, strained yet faraway voice he said, ‘You saved my life. I owe you – big time. Thanks.’

‘It was nothing. Don’t...’ He was going to say: Mention it. Then he paused at his brother whose look of confusion turned to one of being haunted and hunted. ‘What’s a big brother supposed to do?’ Leave you to fight your demons alone?

Vic wiped the tears from his eyes then ran his hands down his sticky tear-stained face. ‘That thing… Come on in and I’ll tell you about it. I’ll fetch us a couple of beers; it’s the least I can do.’ He smiled weakly then walked towards the path down the side of the house.

Daniel followed, glancing back briefly at the dirty smear on the ground and caught a whiff of something that stank. He stopped, sniffed the air, there it was again, reeking of something from the dead.

Vic relayed the story to his brother, every grim detail. It stretched even beyond his sometimes over-active imagination. Had he not lived every minute of it he would have dismissed it as fantasy. A few times he stopped to prevent his despair turning to sobs. He concluded, ‘I don’t know what to do. Who will believe this stuff? Do I call in the exorcist?’

Daniel remained silent, wanting to believe that Vic’s story had been the embellishment of an over wrought mind, possibly brought on by smoking weed. As Vic described Brianna’s confrontation with Easy Rider his face tightened and his eyes hardened; still he said nothing.

When Vic finished Daniel pulled out his phone. ‘I’m ringing work telling them I won’t be in for the rest of the week.’

Vic’s eyes widened with disbelief. ‘But you can’t!’ Then pleadingly, ‘You’re the responsible one. Not on account of me – not ahead of your family’s welfare.’

‘You are family. Besides, my work owes me tons of leave. They’d rather give me time off than pay in lieu.’

The truth about Vic’s Peter Pan existence was slapped hard across his face as he flushed embarrassment.

After they downed two beers in the kitchen they moved into the lounge room. Vic sunk in the shabby club chair Gran gave him nearly twenty years ago when she moved into the retirement village for the last few years of her life. Then he sat hunched over, his elbows digging into his legs, face cupped into his hands and staring into the swirling caramel pattern in the carpet. Daniel sat opposite his brother, sitting in the centre of the three-seater; arms spread over the back of the lounge. He said, ‘Hey Vic.’

Vic didn’t answer, remaining stonelike.

‘Hey Vic, you can’t just push this out of your mind and allow it to crush you.’

Vic lifted his head up slowly; his tired pale face was without expression. His blue watery eyes widened like that of a drowsy and dazed child trying to familiarise itself with its surroundings. As Daniel spoke Vic rubbed his eyes.

‘It has to be something connected with that weird writing.’

‘You mean like a spell?’

‘Ah – yes – that would be a curse. Show me the writing, I’ll get some photos.’

‘Too late – I ground it off, but I took some photos.’

‘Then it must be more than just the writing.’ He paused, running a hand through his thinning hair. ‘This might be a longshot. Elaine knows this guy; he’s a witch she sees for readings every now and then. He’s a seriously heavy dude. You’ve probably heard of him.’

Vic looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know any witches.’

Daniel raised a hand. ‘Hear me out. It’s that footballer who gave up a stellar sporting career to pursue esoteric studies. And he has a select clientele.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘I might even have his number. Ah there it is. I’ll give him a call – see what he has to say.’

Vic’s eyes brightened. ‘I thought I was the one with the important connections. You’re a bit of a dark horse…’

Daniel snorts. ‘You bet! I’ve got drug contacts that you musos only dream of.’

Two days later Vic and Daniel sat in the backroom of a new-age shop on a busy main street. At the other side of the table, Adrian, a tall, muscular man in his late thirties sat listening intently. His hair was in long red dreadlocks, his sleeves were rolled up to the armpits, revealing muscular arms. He looked more the professional footballer, than Vic’s idea of a witch. He examined the photographs before speaking.

‘You’ve got yourself involved with a pretty nasty bunch. These kinds of entities deal nasty – they’re vicious mercenaries.’

Vic’s face tightened.

Adrian paused, his focus shifted momentarily to Vic. ‘Most times they can’t really do that much. It’s almost impossible for them to drag you into their dimension. But this mob’s different. The writing is our problem; a spell that works like a homing beacon. Unfortunately, you activated it when you started the bike. So, first off, you must never start that bike again, and never ride it.’

‘Will it get rid of them?’

Adrian shook his head. ‘They’ve tagged you; know who you are and now their sights are on you.’ He paused, Vic was going to speak, but Adrian continued. ‘If you don’t start the bike their capacity to locate you is reduced. When you encounter them they look human and act human, like they once were. Except for the one you pulverised.’ He nodded at Daniel. He pointed a finger at Vic, his eyes staring intently at him. ‘Remember they’re not human, their senses are different from ours; their geography of this world is different. By not starting that bike it’s like you’ve in a mist making it difficult for them to track you.’

‘But they’ll keep looking?’

‘You bet! They will continue their search for a victim.’ He turned to Vic. ‘They would have materialised when Vic started the bike.’

Vic nodded.

Adrian nodded back at Vic. ‘It’s fortunate that they’re like bombers flying over unlit and unfamiliar territory. You’re somewhere down there: only where? They might find you next week or in ten years. But sooner or later they’ll get you, because they don’t abandon a quest.’

‘And if I get rid of the bike? Dump it in the ocean?’

Adrian looked at Vic, his face was impassive. ‘Damage is done – get rid of the bike – they’ll still find you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now that you’ve given them the scent of their quarry – you belong to them. There’s only one way out: do what was done to you. Give the bike away. The next person who rides it draws their attention.’

Vic shot a look of horror. I couldn’t do that.

‘I’m sorry – it’s your only way out.’

‘Jesus! I couldn’t do that. Do you think the man who gave it to me knows about this?’

‘Probably.’

Vic was struck by a wave of anger. ‘If I manage to get out of this alive, I’ll have words with that old fuck. No! I’ll strangle him.’

Adrian nodded. ‘I’ll join the posse, but back to business. Do you live in a nice neighbourhood?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where I grew up, anything that wasn’t nailed down and visible from the street would be gone in minutes. Maybe it would change your mind if the next owner, well, liberated it from you.’

‘Yeah,’ Daniel enthused. ‘Don’t put it on the nature strip, someone decent might grab it. Stick it under the magnolia and wait.’

‘Like I said, you may have days, you may have years. But the riders will be back. You know in your heart what you must do. The bike wasn’t meant for you – you’re a decent guy.’

Daniel and Vic sat in front of the computer screen, typed into Google what they knew about Bevan. Then there he was, staring out at them from the screen. Vic shivered. Bevan O’Dowd raped and murdered at least six girls between eight and fourteen during the nineteen-twenties. He was caught, tried and hanged in Manchester in 1929. A wave of nausea swept through Vic, then again; he wanted to throw up. Bile rose to his throat and he gulped it back down.

‘Some bastard,’ Daniel observed, turned to his brother who looked pale and ill. ‘We’ve seen enough.’ They had planned to find out what they could about any of the riders Vic encountered, but one was enough. ‘Perhaps some other time,’ he continued then checked his watch. ‘It’s getting dark, I’m due home soon. The bike’s out on the lawn. Fingers crossed. See ya.’ He gave Vic the thumbs-up. ‘Please drive by criminals. Here’s a great bike to steal – an offer too good to pass up.’

Vic remained at the computer, logged on to youtube to review the comments on his vlog. After this one last look he would pull it down. He couldn’t stomach watching his painstakingly edited video; him there a grinning idiot, smug and naïve, oblivious to the horror about to descend. Watching his daughters and nieces on the screen pained him intensely. Watching Daniel push the BSA to help start it, was too much to bear.

He scrolled down; quite a few, but generic, comments like: Awesome bike, Great bike, Cool man, and so on. Then he read: Contact me now! VERY, VERY URGENT. I am not a buyer. Phone number in email message.

He opened the message; there was the number from somewhere in the U.S. He scrolled down. The message was brief: RING NOW! THIS CAN’T WAIT!

Okay! Mightn’t be impressed when your sleep is disrupted by a stranger, but first – a joint.

Since his first encounter with Bevan and the Norton he smoked dope regularly. An advantage of being divorced meant he didn’t have to say: ‘I’m going outside for a toke.’ You just did it; no incriminating questions, no moralising, no ‘bad influence’; just a man and his weed.

Vic sat in the chair under the back pergola and rang the number. His joint was mellowing him out and the niggling fear that pursued him for days, as it did each time he smoked, was replaced by reckless fatalism and a strange satisfaction about knowing the worst, but not caring.

The voice on the end of the phone was cultured, grave and that of an older man. ‘You are the man with the BSA?’

Vic affirmed, ‘Yes.’

‘I cannot say I’m glad that you called, but I cannot have it on my conscience that you weren’t warned. I know this is going to sound melodramatic, but hear me out.’

‘But first, what’s your name – what do I call you?’

‘Names are irrelevant for this brief; it’s the story I’m about to tell you that is. Listen carefully – please refrain from interrupting or asking questions. I expected to take this story to the grave. I might pause – this won’t be your invitation to comment.

Vic raised his eyebrows: What the…?

‘Do I have your agreement?’

Cautiously, Vic said, ‘Agreed.’

The voice over the phone began. ‘Like you I’m a classic British motorcycle man; that’s how I came across your video. I’m a retired lawyer with time and money to indulge my passion. I watched until I saw the writing on your bike. You asked for information about it – and – unfortunately, I know what you want – rather, need to know. I wrestled my conscience: fighting off painful memories. You have become my concern. Since I discovered you online I only sleep in snatches.’

What does he know about the writing?

This stranger seemed to answer Vic’s thought. ‘The writing on your bike is a kind of beacon. I do not know how it got there. You must know and accept in good faith that the last person who rides this bike is marked prey for a ghostly motorcycle gang.

‘Preposterous! But frighteningly true. No doubt you will wonder how I know.’

Vic was about to interrupt to affirm he knew this much, then remembered that this stranger implored him to remain silent as his told his sorry tale.

The elderly stranger sighed into the phone. ‘I saw the riders take my cousin away. He paused, ‘…that was 1965. Today is the first time I’ve breathed a word about this fact. Throughout my long life I’ve wished it was a haunted tale – a recurring nightmare. My cousin and I worked on the opposite sides of the law, yet remained close. His bike was a forties Indian bike. One day he rode it to my office, asked me to take a look at it – wanted to show me the writing that had been carved into the paint on the bike’s frame. He said: Do you know anyone, a gang or mob, who might scratch these marks into the bike? I shook my head. I wanted to help, but couldn’t.’ His voice dropped and took on a more serious tone. ‘But knew, hoped I was wrong that this was the precursor of trouble.

‘Weeks later he appeared on my doorstep. I lived on a small country property. His wild look of desperation announced that he was in a terrible predicament, telling me about old bikes he’d been seeing. Rushing the words out through sobs, he told how the riders on these machines pursued him. I couldn’t make much sense of his ravings. He took drugs and I concluded he was having a paranoid vision. He claimed that ghost riders were after him, that he was marked, but he would cheat them; abandon the bike then go into hiding abroad. He dumped the Indian where he believed it wouldn’t be found. Perhaps it would spare him from the doomed fate he feared. He summed up his fear with these words: I’m going away indefinitely, going to make a fresh start. In hindsight, I guess he felt he owned me a last goodbye.

‘He walked away from the house then started to run. I was stunned into disbelief when I heard the sound of dozens of roaring motorcycles. As the volume escalated, I looked in the direction it came from – and then I saw them – immediately identifying the bikes spanning from the turn of the century. They came down from the clouds pouring onto the road like a swarm. By God I saw them. Each rider wore an outfit that matched the bike’s era. Dally ran from this spectacle of horror and its deafening sound. They were on his heels, there was no escape and they ran him down as if he were some worthless insect. I only saw Dally’s limp body stretched over the narrow lane once the pack passed outside my property. Remarkably, he stood up then staggered in the opposite direction. One rider, a member of the Gestapo on a BMW hurtled towards Dally and struck him over the head. Down he went. The rider dismounted the bike, walked to Dally and kicked him. The others joined in; collectively they jeered.

‘When he was reduced to a naked slab of meat in an abattoir, the Gestapo rider slung him over his bike tying him to the seat.’

He paused. Vic heard a sharp breath, before the stranger continued with his story. ‘Upside down and facing me, I saw Dally’s mouth move, I swear to God I did. And he saw me then tried to speak. I would never have believed that Dally was still alive after the beating – only I saw it with my own eyes – I still see this image in my mind. The ghost riders took him away – against his will – to God only knows what fate.’

This stranger’s story confirmed Adrian’s theory. But Vic wanted to be sure. ‘So if someone takes it – then – I’m free?’

‘Presumably. You will excuse me, but this has been an ordeal. And I can’t talk about it further. I wish you luck. Sorry I can’t do any more than warn you.’ He hung up.

Vic was relieved and grateful to the stranger, but was also chilled with terror despite Adrian’s reassurances. Now knowing what he did, the lawyer’s story galled him. Then, enraged, he punched a fist into the other hand, again then again. He cursed and fumed with frustration. Fuck Jack – I’ll strangle the truth out of him before I’m through.

Living in a court presented problems. Vic sighed, despairing at his lack of luck, at least to be rid of the bike. Not many crims cruising by looking for easy pickings. He shuddered, leapt up when he heard noise from the driveway. An uneasy wave spread over him, then another before he heard a car door close. He tried to reassure himself with the thought that the ghost riders were unlikely to be driving to their next assignation. He armed himself with the poker that belonged to the open fireplace. Leaving the lights off, he crept around the side of the house then peered through the gate.

Three men stalked the driveway, stepped under the carport. The short man seemed to be the leader. He walked past the carport then pressed his face onto the glass of the three windows along the side of the house that adjoined the driveway. He walked to the end of the carport, looked across it towards the gate where Vic hid. Vic made a pathetic attempt to will the intruder to stay away. If Shorty came any closer he would see Vic through the gate. Could take him out with the poker, but don’t like my chances with the others.

Shorty seemed satisfied, retreated and walked towards the Lightning where his two accomplices stood. The Camry’s transmission was being rebuilt at the mechanic’s garage; the men must have seen no car in the carport and assumed Vic was out. He surged with a sudden hope: Please steal the motorcycle! Could he be in luck? Steal it, steal it! One of the men looked around, as if he’d heard something. No! Not now! It’s so close to gone! Vic realised he was breathing hard. He had to control himself. If these men heard him he’d get a beating. He sensed they would get nasty. Still he hoped that they would steal the bike sending the ghost riders on their trail.

Shorty turned back to the bike. He lifted the rear of the machine, one of the others pulled up the centre-stand trying to avoid it clanging against the bottom of the bike. They weren’t taking any chances of being heard. This was too good a prize. Vic’s heart pounded. Take it – take it – take the confounded thing! I’m not home! Take the cursed thing!

An outside light went on next door. The three men froze. No! Go back inside pal! Nothing to see here! It became clear to Vic, that Shorty was the boss when he motioned to the other two, to stay where they were. Then he walked slowly to the fence, stopped awkwardly when he stood on something that must have gone crunch underfoot. He pressed on to the fence, pressed an ear to it before peering over the top. He turned back to his gang and shook his head.

To silence the bike the men lifted it and carried it out to the street. One of them grunted and Shorty gave him a dirty look. They carried the Lightning to the street, where a van waited. Another man emerged from it to help the three who trampled over his property lift the bike into the back. He went back to the driver’s seat. Moments later the other three jumped from the back of the van, closed the doors, scrambled into the cabin, and drove away.

Vic stared at the spot where minutes before the Lightning stood. Relief flooded his body; anger surged through his veins. He was part furious at how with little hesitation and the assuredness of thieves the men walked onto his property and stole his bike. The other part of him laughed hysterically – so loud he hoped the neighbours heard.

Then he shook. His body was suddenly wracked with an intense pain, as if the life, his life was being crushed out of him. He gasped for breath, bent over double as searing cramps wracked his insides. Steal my bike; give me a heart attack. That’ll be the coroner’s verdict. He leaned against the wall until the pain subsided, slowly, but it did.

He was safe, at least saved. The bike was gone. Someone would be bound to fire it up real soon. Then a small, niggling thought intruded: What if some kind of psychic smell has rubbed off onto me – spelling my doom – sealing me to Dally’s fate? The riders would track then hunt me down and then…? Is that what also happened to Jack’s nephew; he could run but he couldn’t hide.

A month later he had his answer. He subscribed to a youtube channel called ‘Rollo’s Bike Barn’. Rollo was fat, a prize tosser, but Vic ignored him and focussed on some great bikes that Rollo owned or had borrowed. In this episode Rollo was the Cheshire Cat; he bragged about how he scored a pristine as-new BSA. As the camera pulled back from Rollo’s smarmy smirk it revealed the new bike. A wave of gleeful spite then relief flooded through Vic. That was his Lightning – it was unmistakeable. He saw the special rear-view mirrors that he had hunted high and low for. As the camera panned around the bike and Rollo cracked some lame jokes, Vic noted the left side BSA badge which had a small chip out of the lower edge.

He couldn’t help the surge of self-pity and envy. That bike had been stolen from him, ending up in the paws of a rich, greedy, minor celebrity. Vic suspected Rollo knew his new acquisition was stolen. Why would Rollo give a rat’s? Ha – he’ll be crapping his pants sometime. This Vic was sure of and felt a sense of grim satisfaction. He thought about the terror he felt when the riders stared him down, then when the stranger from the other side of the world relayed Dally’s tragic fate. And still he couldn’t reconcile with himself that it was over. A new fear engulfed him. He thought: Even when the bike was stolen the riders might still want him, track him down. He had to have faith in Adrian’s words and wisdom.

Fuelled with a new enthusiasm, he shouted out loud and to himself, in the privacy of his living room. ‘Just you wait, greedy scumbag! Just you wait, stupid, criminal! Arsehole! I hope they tear you to pieces!’ He realised he was on his feet screaming at the computer screen.

He was tempted to write something rude in the comment box but resisted. Brianna was due shortly for a keyboard lesson within the half hour.

Epilogue

Adrian stood on the veranda registering distaste at the neglected house in need of fresh paint. He knocked. Moments later an old man’s face appeared behind the screen door. He worked his mind trying to construe who this imposing stranger was.

Adrian didn’t give this man he despised a chance to speak. ‘I’ve come about the Lightning.’

Jack grumbled. ‘What’s that? What are you talking about?’

‘You know old man. Step outside Jack, I want a word.’

Fear struck as he closed the door on Adrian.

‘Don’t make me come and get you.’

‘I’ll call the police.’

‘After I’ve broken you in two.’

Jack stopped then slowly opened the gap in the door.

‘I am not joking. Get your worthless butt out here before I drag you out.’

‘You can’t threaten me…’

‘Because you’ve got rights…’

‘It’s against the law.’

‘You stinker – hypocrite! Talk to me, or you’ll talk to some people who don’t have my patience. They won’t think twice about spilling blood.’

Jack stepped out, like a cautious crab half-expecting the robust stranger who appeared without warning to seize him then drag him onto the veranda. He was too afraid to pull the door closed, allowing it to shut with a thwack.

Jack’s face drained from the flushed look of a drinker to grey during the moments of silence as Adrian rested a hard look over the old man. ‘You rid yourself of that motorbike.’

‘And if I did?’ He paused, ‘What’s it…’

‘For starters, the man you gave it to wound up in serious trouble – could have faced a grim death – the beginning of worse to come.’

Jack opened his mouth to speak then shut it as Adrian pressed on.

‘His niece, a teenager, fronted up to one of the horrors from Hell, that your nephew keeps company with, and had it out with him. Any idea what you did old man?’

Just above a whisper, he said, ‘I had to. We’re moving out. My daughter and her family are taking this place. My grandson is motorbike mad. Only a matter of time and he’d find that cursed thing.’

‘You palmed that cursed object onto an innocent person – damn the consequences!’

‘Try to destroy the bike – those riders will come after you – they’ll know. While that thing was here it was hidden in the dark. Bringing the damned thing into the sunlight would have been enough – had to pass it on – had no choice. What would have you…?’

Adrian cut in, ‘I wouldn’t have got involved in the first place!’

Jack’s faded belligerence now resurfaced. He smirked at Adrian. ‘I did some work for the Order. You’ve heard of them – haven’t you?’ Adrian’s face hardened as his eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yes.’ Jack continued. ‘You don’t screw with them. My nephew did, he paid the penalty.’ He smirked again. ‘I warn you – whoever you are – to keep your nose out of their business.’

Adrian clenched his right hand; resisted the urge to slam a punch. ‘I know all about the Order: Chaos Addo Australis. And that group of rebel occultists are my business. Guess you don’t know they were hounded out of the UK because they were dealing with the darkest powers. Found their way here, set up and continued with their vile and repugnant magick. Did you know they call up the worst kind of spirits to do their bidding?’ Jack’s face flinched with fear. Adrian’s face leaned in closer at the old man. He raised his voice, ‘Just like hell riders. They’re into all kinds of criminal activities, pulling the strings in politics and the judiciary, the churches, you name it. They’re enemies to every form of decency – to – to – civilization.’

‘Better hope they’re not your enemies.’ Jack narrowed his eyes then grinned.

‘We’re mortal enemies. And any weasel who’s done their dirty work is one as well.’

Jack puffed himself up with a show of bravado and an attempt to impress on this stranger that he has powerful friends, and therefore, connections. ‘Them ghost riders have a life of their own.’ His eyes widened with excitement, ‘They don’t need that or any Order. I warn you Mister.’

Adrian’s jaw and fists clenched. He’d let this weasel continue a bit longer with his puffed up talk. ‘And – and – there are other ways to bring the riders into this world.’ Jack’s voice rose into a squeak. ‘You better piss off. I don’t answer to the likes of you.’ He paused, pointed a finger centimetres from Adrian, tilted his face closer and opened his mouth emitting a stale breath. ‘Don’t mess with me…’

‘Or what?’

Jack drew breath about to add something. When Adrian cut in he dropped his finger; it dangled limply by his side.

‘It galls me that you gain pleasure from human suffering. The bike has a deserving new owner, but for how long? The cursed object will pass on from one owner to the next. That’s how the Order works: mischief, suffering, tragedy.’ Leaning towards the old and bent man he lowered his voice. ‘You’re lucky that my oath prevents me from teaching you the lesson you deserve. It would give me great satisfaction to return to scum like you what you served up to a hapless victim.’

Jack’s face worked itself into a confused expression as he puzzled over the word ‘hapless’, but he wasn’t going to ask Adrian for clarification. He didn’t want to invite further threats. Instead, he shrank back against the wall. This man was not what he seemed to be. This formidable stranger was someone to be feared. Jack opened his mouth, thought better of returning a reply then closed it.

Adrian continued, ‘And just because we aren’t bastards doesn’t mean we can’t be when we have to. Next time you stick your head up it will get kicked off.’ Adrian smiled grimly, turned then walked down the steps from the veranda, along the driveway and onto the street before disappearing from Jack’s view as if he simply vanished. Jack scratched his head as he peered into the darkening early evening trying to track Adrian’s movements.

Adrian walked back to his car half muttering a mantra like dialogue in his head: Stupid, selfish, individual. No interest or care about any consequences of his actions. Fortunately, Vic and his family escaped. We’ve won this round.

He drove away then checked the time; nearly time for junior football training. Pre-season was under way and Adrian was again volunteering as a junior team coach.

As he turned into the parking lot at the football ground a group of kids in tracksuits, carrying balls, ran towards him. He looked at their young faces and for a moment anger returned, but he pressed it away from his mind, smiled at the boys: This grievance could wait. The Jacks of this world, indifferent, sometimes mercenary enough to gain pleasure from someone else’s pain knowing that someone has been snuffed out if it served some bizarre purpose. He pushed vengeful thoughts from his mind; there were greater matters at hand.