Read Online Heavy Duty Attitude by Iain Parke - Free Book Online
Authors: Iain Parke
Tags: Suspense
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bodies and over to the tent flap.
Peering outside, the world was grey and misty damp. The bonfire out front was a blackened charred mess, steaming gently where coals still glowed red in the centre amongst the ash, while a swathe of soot blackened field stretching out to my left where the smoke from the burning tyres that still gave it a rank sulphurous smell had soaked everything in a clinging coat of sticky ink.
As I trudged over towards the ground’s clubhouse and the relative civilisation of their indoor bogs, I saw there were other survivors. Amongst the field of tents a few bodies were moving about quietly. It felt like the start of a bad zombie film.
Bladder emptied and cold to the bone, I headed over to the burger vans to join a few other souls, my fellow living dead, their voices no more than a murmur if they did speak, their hands grasped around their first hot coffee of the day, and bleary eyed I wondered whether I could face a greasy bacon roll.
Thank God for bacon sandwiches. That’s all I can say.
By my second roll and strong sweet coffee, the grease, caffeine and sugar combination was starting to do its work. That and the fact that the sun was staring to break through and burn off the dank morning mist, was gradually making me feel more human. From where I sat at a wooden picnic table I could see there was a promise of blue skies emerging any time now. It could be a scorcher of a day, I thought.
All told, by this stage, I wasn’t feeling too bad at all.
Well I’d survived for one thing. No one had shown any sign of wanting to stomp or murder me, Cambridge excepted, and I got the feeling that even that wasn’t particularly personal about me. There was something else going on that I didn’t know enough about yet I decided.
Gradually as the sun came out the rest of the bikers began to emerge. Bung sat next to me and I couldn’t look at him as he put away a full English off a paper plate and then lit up.
‘You look as though you fancy another one of those,’ I observed. ‘Yeah, maybe I will,’ he said, ‘You offering? Nothing like a good fry-up to set you right for the day.’
I’d walked into that one I realised with a resigned smile. Well I could do with one more brew I decided.
‘OK you’re on,’ I said getting up. ‘I owe you for last night anyway. The works?’
‘Great.’
So I watched him put away another piled high plate with undiminished speed and equal apparent satisfaction.
‘So,’ I asked as he finished up, ‘what happens now?’
‘Well Wibble wants a chat with you a bit later but hey it’s a sunny day so it’s just kick back, relax and enjoy the show I guess,’ he said expansively.
By this time it was gone ten and Bung announced that he wanted to check out the bike show entries and so for an hour or so we wandered along the rows of parked up, primped, painted and polished entries.
To start with it felt much like most of yesterday afternoon. Again I was careful to stick with Bung and the Freemen since I guessed that show or no show, I didn’t fancy running across any of the Cambridge crew on my own.
But then as the morning wore on the mood seemed to change. It was imperceptible at first, to be honest to start with I thought it was just me and my hangover kicking back in as the baps and shots wore off. I was feeling rough, but then as the knot of Freemen and their brothers began to coalesce around Bung as we made our slow way through the show field I began to realise that it wasn’t just me. They really were becoming increasingly distracted, and closed off. By the time one of the strikers found me to say Wibble was ready to talk there was little or none of the relaxed chattiness of yesterday. They were changed, quiet, tense even, as though through some silent telepathy that I as an outsider wasn’t privy to, the pack had become aware of some danger on the horizon and I was glad to get away.
Which seemed odd, since the evening was billed as the
Peering outside, the world was grey and misty damp. The bonfire out front was a blackened charred mess, steaming gently where coals still glowed red in the centre amongst the ash, while a swathe of soot blackened field stretching out to my left where the smoke from the burning tyres that still gave it a rank sulphurous smell had soaked everything in a clinging coat of sticky ink.
As I trudged over towards the ground’s clubhouse and the relative civilisation of their indoor bogs, I saw there were other survivors. Amongst the field of tents a few bodies were moving about quietly. It felt like the start of a bad zombie film.
Bladder emptied and cold to the bone, I headed over to the burger vans to join a few other souls, my fellow living dead, their voices no more than a murmur if they did speak, their hands grasped around their first hot coffee of the day, and bleary eyed I wondered whether I could face a greasy bacon roll.
Thank God for bacon sandwiches. That’s all I can say.
By my second roll and strong sweet coffee, the grease, caffeine and sugar combination was starting to do its work. That and the fact that the sun was staring to break through and burn off the dank morning mist, was gradually making me feel more human. From where I sat at a wooden picnic table I could see there was a promise of blue skies emerging any time now. It could be a scorcher of a day, I thought.
All told, by this stage, I wasn’t feeling too bad at all.
Well I’d survived for one thing. No one had shown any sign of wanting to stomp or murder me, Cambridge excepted, and I got the feeling that even that wasn’t particularly personal about me. There was something else going on that I didn’t know enough about yet I decided.
Gradually as the sun came out the rest of the bikers began to emerge. Bung sat next to me and I couldn’t look at him as he put away a full English off a paper plate and then lit up.
‘You look as though you fancy another one of those,’ I observed. ‘Yeah, maybe I will,’ he said, ‘You offering? Nothing like a good fry-up to set you right for the day.’
I’d walked into that one I realised with a resigned smile. Well I could do with one more brew I decided.
‘OK you’re on,’ I said getting up. ‘I owe you for last night anyway. The works?’
‘Great.’
So I watched him put away another piled high plate with undiminished speed and equal apparent satisfaction.
‘So,’ I asked as he finished up, ‘what happens now?’
‘Well Wibble wants a chat with you a bit later but hey it’s a sunny day so it’s just kick back, relax and enjoy the show I guess,’ he said expansively.
By this time it was gone ten and Bung announced that he wanted to check out the bike show entries and so for an hour or so we wandered along the rows of parked up, primped, painted and polished entries.
To start with it felt much like most of yesterday afternoon. Again I was careful to stick with Bung and the Freemen since I guessed that show or no show, I didn’t fancy running across any of the Cambridge crew on my own.
But then as the morning wore on the mood seemed to change. It was imperceptible at first, to be honest to start with I thought it was just me and my hangover kicking back in as the baps and shots wore off. I was feeling rough, but then as the knot of Freemen and their brothers began to coalesce around Bung as we made our slow way through the show field I began to realise that it wasn’t just me. They really were becoming increasingly distracted, and closed off. By the time one of the strikers found me to say Wibble was ready to talk there was little or none of the relaxed chattiness of yesterday. They were changed, quiet, tense even, as though through some silent telepathy that I as an outsider wasn’t privy to, the pack had become aware of some danger on the horizon and I was glad to get away.
Which seemed odd, since the evening was billed as the
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