Motorcycling: The Ultimate Therapy

Chapter 1

Silently the clouds moved in from the west like bulging balls of sweat. A band of dark angry grey from one side of the sky to the other lay fixed for over an hour. Silently it started to release its deluge. By mid-afternoon, the rain was lashing in torrents. The ground quickly swelled and became saturated. Gutters filled with water and overflowed onto pavements. Down pipes spluttered and coughed choking bolts of water into gullies. Sewer surcharged. Puddles formed. The driving rain washed the grey flags. Stair-rods lashed against the hard surface, cleansing the area like a baptism.

The rain stopped abruptly. Puddles seeped away. Gullies swallowed their contents. And the soft breeze turned sharper. Keener. Scouring the grey flags of the square, leaving it crisp like fresh ironing.

At the corner of the square was the entrance to the underpass. The rain had spilled over the drain bar and had run into pools along the middle channel. Above ground the square was a modern insane world but down in the underpass it was a fetid nether world littered with the detritus of a thousand junkies, crack pipes and syringes, tumbling into the bowels of the earth.

Now, darkness was about to throw its pall over the area like some dark gladiator. Those who revered the night would cavort on its barren terrain. Those who feared it would keep clear.

The lights from the flats in the tower blocks glowed distantly. Glowed, but added nothing to the god forsaken pit that stretched below. This was no time to venture; no time to be brave. The residents knew the score. They were of an ilk; a see-no-evil kind of folk. A keep your head down and mind your own business kind of folk. They were the faceless silent majority that allow what happens to happen.

The arterial road that ran adjacent was a flashing, whirring, snorting beast. The beaming headlights momentarily lit up the harsh stone walls that framed the underpass. Then the light of hope succumbs to the dark of night.

Chapter 2

Changing the façade of Windsor Heights from curtain walling to pastel colours on aluminium sheets was the banality you might expect from a council at its wits end to improve its housing stock. Anyone could see it would have no effect. And of course it didn’t. Alice lived on the twelfth floor of the post war sixties dream turned nightmare. A nightmare for the occupants. And sometimes worse for the surrounding area. She was more or less a prisoner in the place. Not because of the aggressive druggies on virtually each landing of the main stairwell, or because of the piss soaked lifts that were always out of order. It was more fundamental: early onset Alzheimer’s, a dodgy ticker and arthritis.

The pain and every forgotten year were etched in every line on Alice’s face. Her soft green eyes were watery and sunken. Her hair a sprinkling of salt and pepper, unkempt, flowed about her face like ragged curtains. And Alice, God bless her, was none too wholesome. Left to her own devices she wouldn’t wash. It was a wonder she ate.

A carer visited twice a week. A young woman with a family of her own. A pretty lady with dyed auburn hair. She wore the make-up of the young. Fitting the likes of Alice in around school times was a problem. She did so much but no more. To her, Alice was a number. A visit. Alice was eight pounds an hour. She was a woman who was becoming used to the wreckage and vulnerabilities of age. She brought groceries, settled the bill with Alice’s pension that she collected for her, made Alice a quick cuppa and then was gone. Sometimes, on the second visit the unopened groceries were still in their bags on the table in the small kitchen. An almost unoccupied kitchen about six by eight. A fridge, a dry sink with watermarks in the bowl. A window looking out over London’s rooftops to the west. A small work surface and a double wall cupboard. The room was drab with yellow painted walls and white painted skirting. The ceiling had been painted with gloss paint years ago and was yellow and flaking. Age old thermoplastic tiles on the floor were chipped and cracked. When time allowed, she would pack the groceries away in the wall cupboard and the fridge. Maybe a half-eaten yoghurt was left on the table next to them. Alice could exist on fresh air.

Then there was a district nurse who called to ensure Alice’s medication was being taken regularly. She was an older woman with a homely nature. Another female warrior whose cause was to alleviate suffering and bring succour to the fading mind. She was accommodating. Kind. She would hug Alice; tend to niceties like combing her hair. Making sure Alice was warm. She fussed Alice and Alice liked her. From visit to visit Alice had little or no recollection of her, but at each meeting, Alice took a shine to her all over again.

Then there were neighbours and relations, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, all calling in, hoping, against hope that Alice would suddenly, as if by magic, become the person they once knew. Between them they kept Alice and her flat clean, which was no easy task.

These days, that was Alice’s life, ancient memories interspersed with periods of lucidity. Her day was passed in front of the old cathode television, day dreaming, napping and pacing, even on occasion watching the box itself.

Her living room was, like the kitchen, in dire need of decoration. Her sofa was out of the ark. Shiny worn and, in places, threadbare. The damask material once deep rowan red was faded and pale. The carpet beneath her feet was no better.

Ordinarily she would wander. At first, she did. They would find her shivering from the cold when she walked out without suitable clothes. She was picked up from police stations and care homes, neighbouring houses and council offices. As time wore on and the Alzheimer’s worsened, so the arthritis kicked in and prevented her wandering. A blessing in disguise!

Her attention span was small and by the evening she would look out the window, onto the grounds below where she would watch the goings-on. A ruffled curtain, unseen by anybody. High in the clouds she could already be dead. She even used her late husband’s binoculars to enhance the view, although Alice’s eyes were going to be the last thing to go. It was what her brain did with the images that was the problem.

Chapter 3

The small clutch of youths were jostling each other and generally acting up. A disordered bunch of kids. Skurfing. Pulling. Slapping. Coats wrenched off. Bullying. Hierarchical posturing. It was getting louder. Building to a crescendo.

Alice stared through her window. The pale faded curtains pulled back. She was stoical. Non-judgemental. She watched. She made no conclusions save for her spasmodic periods of lucidity. She watched the car arrive. A shiny black car. Big and heavy. It bounced over the uneven ground, lurching and dipping like a massive beast.

A tall figure emerged, overcoated, wide hat, glasses that flashed in the half light from a dull street lamp.

He called over the youth with the beige anorak and remonstrated. His arms shot up then moments later down. Up and down.

The youth with the beige anorak was smaller. Younger. That much she made out. He had a belligerent swagger. He leaned into the man with the overcoat. It was hubristic. Aggressive. Downright cheeky.

The doors to the vehicle opened and two men got out. Tall, thickset. Suited and booted. Alice watched the light go on inside the car. She noticed the cream leather upholstery.

The kid with the beige anorak was getting too close. The first man stepped towards him and cuffed his head. The threat vaporised. Alice’s face contorted, her brow furrowed. It was a gut reaction.

When the three men got back in the car, the kid had his hands held high in submission. The car roared away. Flashing headlights lit all before it and the intense red tail lights danced as it went.

The arrival of the car had caused the group to split and just the kid in the beige anorak and one other ambled over to the underpass wall when the car left. They lit cigarettes and took some shelter from the grinding wind.

In a moment of complete lucidity, Alice was appalled. For a second she wondered what the overcoat had said, wondered why the youths were there at all. Then she went back to simply watching. Staring. Alice’s mind once again became a closed shop.

Jacob, the overcoat, wanted the money the boy owed him. He was vain enough to make a visit. Arrogant enough to let the lowlife know he was still the man. There were family connections. On his mother’s side, an intricate web of half-brothers and second cousins. All he knew was he was related. How? He didn’t know. Family or not, debts had to be paid. Jacob was no walkover but the boy was the least of his concerns. It didn’t hurt to put in an appearance, show who was boss.

Chapter 4

The two boys were a product of urban decay, bad homes and a desire to please peer groups. A desire to be cool. To be streetwise. To fit in – somewhere. Maybe anywhere. Probably born into grief. On one level of thinking, they were deprived, underprivileged. On another, they were despised as wastrels and ne’er-do-wells.

Fuck Jacob, said the youth with the beige anorak. He was full faced, almost cherubic although he was no angel. He held the cigarette in a thin pointed hand, his sleeve fashionably too long. His fingers nicotine stained. The coat oversized. His face belied his body. Oversized clothes can accentuate an undernourished body. Beneath his anorak he was thin. He lived on cigarettes and the occasional line of coke.

Yea, I know, fuck Jacob," said his hoppo. The kid was white, gaunt; sparse stubble covered his chin. He was undernourished as well. Same diet. His face a rash of spots. There was no fat or curve to his face. He was hard looking. A face that had been chiselled out of one piece of stone. He may have been nineteen, just.

One day, I swear, I’ll fucking kill the arrogant bastard. The beige anorak was mixed race. His swarthy skin helped his appearance. He took a drag on the cigarette, blew out the smoke through soft lips. More like a sigh.

The white kid had finished his smoke and was already lighting another. He coughed. The fags had made his voice deep, almost gravely. He coughed again and spat a cob of fresh phlegm onto the ground. You need some money to get him off your back, that’s for sure. Jojo, the white kid knew that Jacob would come again and again for money. Not that he needed it but because he wanted the mixed-race kid, Marvin, to toe the line.

Well it looks like my lucky night, Marvin responded flicking the butt into the bushes that clung to the edge of the square. Look what I see.

He’s a fucking old tramp. Are you kidding me?

Let’s find out, shall we? Marvin said as he punched Jojo’s arm. A lone juggernaut wailed past as they made their way over. The headlights lit up the area for a brief transient moment.

Chapter 5

The old man shuffled up the underpass, clinging to the begrimed and cold rail, glancing this way and that, seeming to curse himself for being so late. His boots with metal tips on heels and toes clipped against the hard stone steps, heralding his arrival. He shuffled because, presumably, his feet were bad. He looked a pensioner, well into his seventies. He pulled himself up the last step and swung his hungry carcase around the wall into the bitter wind. The area was new to him. Jojo and Marvin thought he had lost his way. But he hadn’t. They hadn’t seen him before and they more or less knew who was who. Who they could intimidate and who they couldn’t. Being new, he was fair game.

He huddled himself against the wind as it blew straight into his face. He had a slight limp. His face ashen and tight, exuded pain or deep suffering. He was unshaven and grey-white stubble clung to his chin and cheeks. His coat long and thick and dark brown kept out the cold. It was old but good quality. Expensive in its day. He kept his head down, his thin wispy grey hair stood defiantly against his cheese cutter revealing a pair of veined near purple ears. He looked perished and tired. The temperature was dropping. It was down into single figures.

From the corner of his eye, a bloodshot watery eye, he could see the pair of them leaning against the wall. The red tips of their cigarettes darting in the blackness. Some way over a street lamp flickered and buzzed. The light was inadequate. The area was dark charcoal black, the traffic beyond the only relief. He watched a flow of headlights glance across the underpass.

He wasn’t surprised when the two youths made their way towards him. They swaggered. He paused momentarily. Looked up, and then resumed his step. He knew they were coming to meet him. Banked on it. His eyes beamed. They were all he thought they’d be. Cocky. Hubristic. Wanton.

Their clothes were ridiculous, the baggy jeans that fell to the crutch. The screaming trainers in vivid yellow, their dirty faces, their rotten teeth and their patois. He could smell them like rotten vegetables.

They were on top of him now. Face to face. Their heads leaned to the side, affectedly so, as though they were looking at an alien for the first time or something under a truck. Their outstretched arms jerked at the night air, mechanically, almost frenzied. Their dull lifeless faces showed a flicker of life.

The old man kept moving. Shuffling urgently. Don’t want no trouble, no trouble, he implored, though it was more a mumble. His shoes clicked on the concrete ground. The youths took it as fear. A two-way glance to each other. A knowing look. Jacob might box their ears, no such truck with this one.

Old man we your friends. They were almost dancing around him now, their trainers flashing in the gloom, all thoughts of the dominating Jacob a million miles away. They lay the patois on thick. They were getting excited. The blood was rushing in their veins. The adrenalin was pumping.

The old man’s face fearful and expressionless. His hat comically sat on his head like a mortar board. No trouble, he repeated. He hoisted his coat around his neck. He hated their antics and their laughter even more. He could smell them more now, a thick cloying odour of death. They were in his face, wantonly, hubristically, cowardly. Out of my way, he cried out and pushed one of the youths, the white kid. The combination of the dancing and the force sent him reeling. He pulled himself to his feet and immediately pulled a knife and flicked the blade. He felt happiest when he had the blade in his hand.

The old man stared him out, fixed gaze eyeball to eyeball. You little shit you haven’t got the balls. But the old man knew he would do it. It didn’t take balls.

Jojo, don’t, urged Marvin. He could see Jojo was on a roll. He’s mine. And we’re not finished yet.

Don’t move, not a fucking inch, Jojo said, then turned away, trying desperately to gather himself, show some order, keep his cool. Being pushed to the ground by the old man was an indignity he couldn’t stand. There was a lot Jojo couldn’t stand. That was the reason he was there.

Marvin, the mixed-race kid wagged a finger at the old man who was still moving away. Suddenly, Marvin smashed an arm into his back and he slumped to the ground. His face a contorted angry mask. You were told not to fucking move.

The old man groaned. His trousers were torn and his knees having taken the brunt of the fall were grazed and sore. He struggled to get up, managed to get to his knees before one of the yellow trainers thudded into his ribs. He rolled over winded and almost out for the count. His ribs screamed out against the force of the kick. For a second he couldn’t breathe but, then, with short breaths he rallied.

Word on the street was that Jojo had already killed at least one man, possibly three. The tales were apocryphal at best. Shrouded in mystery and urban propaganda no one was sure of anything. The old pensioner reeling over the balcony was allegedly down to him.

Jojo walked back to the old man and dragged him to his feet. He was calmer now, more focused. Let’s see what we’ve got then. Using the knife Jojo slit all the buttons from the old man’s coat and pulled it open letting the wind rush in and chill his body. The old man offered no resistance. He just stood there looking down and helpless. Jojo rummaged for a pocket, found one and pulled out a wallet thick with notes.

Man, you’ve saved my life. Marvin edged closer. You’re fucking blinding, Jojo. He attempted to take the wallet but Jojo wouldn’t let it go.

Yea, well. It’s not all for Jacob. Suddenly, Jojo was business-like and had a serious tone. His face was flushed with success. He was excited. His dull lifeless eyes were showing signs of life.

No, no, of course not. How much is there? Five hundred?

Seven and a half, the old man intoned. His hand still outstretched in search of the wallet.

I’m so happy I could stick you right now, Marvin told him.

The old man spat in his face. Marvin lashed out and with a scarred fist; laid the old man back down on the ground. The old man groaned. The old man stayed down.

Give it back, it’s mine. Don’t want any trouble. The old man was rambling again. His arm still outstretched helplessly reaching for the wallet.

Give it back it’s mine, Marvin mocked him. You pathetic bastard. Then Marvin took the knife from Jojo, stood over the old man and plunged it into his chest. It was a mindless action borne of euphoria and relief; the old man slumped over, groaned for a second time and lay motionless on the cold grey concrete. His hand still outstretched.

One down two to go. Marvin’s face was a mixture of fear and ecstasy.

Don’t believe all you hear, Jojo said

The next one will be over the balcony like yours, Marvin responded almost drawing Jojo out.

He sure did scream, Jojo added gratuitously. A smile beamed on Jojo’s pizza face. A smile that only a mother could love. But not Jojo’s mother!

Bet he did. Marvin was feverish now, high from the stabbing. He was now one of the crowd, one of the gang. He was bloodied at eighteen. He could feel the adrenalin rush. The pleasure was not anything he had experienced before. It was bordering on orgasmic. But Marvin didn’t know that.

They rifled all the old man’s pockets but there were, surprisingly, little else there. Nevertheless, they were satisfied with what they had. A chance encounter had yielded pay dirt and it wasn’t to be sneezed at. Jojo knew it even if Marvin hadn’t fully grasped the reality of the situation. They would get Jacob off their backs. Turn a new leaf, so they thought. So they hoped. It was a vain hope. They turned to the underpass but that was as far as they got.

Chapter 6

Alice moved away from the window, started pacing inside her flat. Back and forth as though she was thinking something through. She ran her hand