Heavy Duty Attitude Read Online Free PDF Page A

door of the further one, above which nestled a cluster of CCTV cameras covering the approaches from the front. The other front door had been bricked up so I assumed the houses had been knocked through inside somehow. A high brick wall topped with broken glass enclosed the yard to the rear which was accessed by a set of double steel gates, again in the same paint scheme, and which were, unusually I assumed, open, so that as I drew up I could see there were at least half a dozen Harleys there, parked but loaded and ready to go.
    Not that The Brethren would be worried about security too much this morning. A further couple of dozen Harleys in various states of customisation were drawn up along the curb outside the yard and along the front of the clubhouse, all facing outwards, with their riders hanging around in groups, smoking and chatting as they waited for the off. The club’s strikers had put out some police cones along the road to reserve space for themselves. Someone had nicked them, I guessed.
    I read some bollocks somewhere a while ago, some journalist who had been fed a line that bikers always parked up so the bikes were backed against the pavement and facing away from the road so as to conceal the registrations from police observers. I had almost wet myself laughing. How the hell the pillock’s informant had managed to keep a straight face with that one was beyond me.
    It was just practical. If you were going to leave it on the side stand the bike was generally safer if you parked it that way so it couldn’t roll forward. Christ, I despaired sometimes at the crap some people would believe.
    Faces turned to check me out as I pulled up at the far end of the line where there were a couple of anonymous large Jap bikes tucked away as if out of sight. The nearest full patch guy turned away from a youngster he was talking to and fixed me with a wary glare.
    ‘Yeah?’ he demanded as I swung off my bike and he eyed the large teddy bear bungeed to the pillion seat of my bike, which I had indeed put on expenses for the day, ‘And who the fuck are you?’
And a good morning to you too, I thought, but obviously didn’t say.
    As he’d turned I’d caught the flash across his chest, Sergeant at Arms above the blood red dyed tottenkopf tab. The head of club security. Shit, just the sort of guy you wouldn’t want to have a problem with at the start of something like this.
    ‘It’s OK Scroat, that’s the writer guy Parke. He’s with Wibble,’ growled a voice behind him that seemed slightly familiar, as I saw the man-mountain from the meeting at the service station walking across to where we were standing.
‘We’ll be off in a few minutes so you just fit in here at the back with us and the tagalongs and Wibble’ll see you when we get there, OK?’ That was OK by me.
     
Scroat grunted and abruptly turned his back on me to resume his conversation with the kid he’d been talking to.
     
That was OK by me too.
    The order in a club run is always the same. The club’s officers would be at the front, the president and the road captain first, followed by the sergeant at arms and secretary, full patch members next, then strikers and finally the lowest of the low, tagalongs and very, very occasionally, a stray civilian like myself. Sometimes there would be a full patch tail end Charlie to keep an eye on the back of the column and a support truck if there was one bringing up the rear. The pack would ride close together in pairs and with this number of bikes on the road, a couple might take it in turns to ride ahead as shotgun so as to block traffic coming out of side roads while the column passed to prevent the pack getting split up by intruding traffic.
    The only variation today was that it seemed as though Scroat and the manmountain were fixing to ride at the back with me and two young looking guys.
    I looked around and caught the eye of the kid standing next to the bike beside mine. From his unadorned jacket he was presumably a