Red
I remember when I was a little kid, before Dad died and before Mom sent me on my way, sitting on the grass with one of my friends and talking about soul-mates. It’s odd to think about it now, but back then I really believed in that shit. I really believed that there were these things called souls inside of you and that your soul was meant to be connected to somebody else’s soul. I really believed that there was a special person for everybody. Fuckin’ ridiculous, but I was a kid. I stopped believing in it pretty damn quick when I learnt about Mom cheating on Dad all those years, when I learnt that it was Mom who gave Dad that heart attack.
Which is why it’s so strange that during the week I keep thinking about Christina, as though there really is something in this soul bullshit—though I know there’s not, that it’s absurd. If I keep thinking about her, it’s ’cause she is damn hot and nothing more. That’s what I have to remind myself every day. But still, she’s persistent in my mind. I’ll be out with Bron, either tailing some unpatched or questioning one of their members, and she’ll be there, lurking at the peripheries of my mind, sometimes seeming to lurk at the peripheries of my vision. A couple of times, I feel like a real crazy person as I turn to glance and see that it’s just the way the sun is reflecting off the handlebars of my bike or a streetlamp or something like that. Not Christina, ’cause of course it’s not.
I know nothing about her; I only met her once. Sure, she is hot, and her body felt amazing pressed up against mine, but that’s it. There are plenty of women I’ve been with who I could say the same about: hot, sweet-feeling, their bodies offering pleasure for the taking. But for some reason it’s this specific woman who keeps coming back to me, day after day, night after night. Once, we’re having a party at the club and one of the club girls comes onto me. Hot enough, willing enough, the sort of girl I’d normally fuck for a night and then forget about. But tonight, I make some bullshit excuse about needing to go outside to make a business call and then I just lean against my bike smoking a cigarette.
I watch the smoke curl into the summer evening air and then dissipate and I think about Christina, try and pinpoint exactly what it is about her that keeps her lingering in my mind. Her looks are the obvious answer, but the girl in there has looks. So what else? We only spoke for a couple of hours, if that, so I struggle to believe we could’ve made any sort of connection, even if making a connection was something a man like me could do. But then …I search and search, and come up with nothing. Souls? I laugh harshly at the thought. No, not that. Maybe it’s that ‘spark’ people are always talking about; maybe we had ‘chemistry’. But I don’t think I was doing much else than being my usual self.
I have never loved a woman. I know that much. I’ve seen men who were in love—Bron thinks he’s in love with every other new girlfriend—and I know I’ve never felt that. They get all soft, start saying unrealistic shit like this girl is the most beautiful girl in the world, that they can never imagine being with anybody else. They turn into bitches half the time. I’ve never got far enough with a woman where I could even get close to feeling that. And I am definitely not in love with Christina. But—no, it’s stupid, way past the point of stupidity. But what if this is what the start of that love stuff feels like? Thinking about them all the time? Wondering what they’re doing? Missing them even though you know nothing about them.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter, flicking my cigarette to the concrete. “Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot.”
I go back into the party, but I find myself heading for the corner with Bron and a bottle of whisky, and ignoring the club girls for the rest of the night, probably the first time I’ve done that in damn-near a decade.
Toward the end of the week, Bron and I are scouting out one of the unpatched at a train station in a rundown part of town. The station’s floor is more chewing gum that tiling, squashed faded pink and blue and white circles under our feet, and the walls are all chipped wallpaper and exposed metal and brick. A few homeless people crouch in the doorways, and poor working folk walk to and fro, heads down, as though wanting to blot out their surroundings on their way to work.
We’re watching the crowd for Jordy, though this lead is weak, leaning up against the wall and just watching for an hour or more.
At some point, Bron mutters: “So, that was pretty strange the other night, man.”
“Huh?” I grunt, not wanting to get drawn into it. I know he’s talking about the party, and I have no interest in talking about the party.
“The party,” he says, and by the way the bastard smiles I know he’s enjoying it.
“Don’t know what you mean,” I murmur.
“Yeah.” Bron’s bastard grins gets wider. “Of course you don’t. So—you meet this girl once and now you’re going steady, that it?”
“I haven’t even talked to her since, you asshole.”
“But she’s playing on you, eh, up there?” He taps the side of his head.
“Nope,” I say.
“Come on, man. I know you—”
“Then you know I have no problem with knocking teeth from mouths that talk too much.”
Bron shakes his head. “Alright, man.”
And that’s that as far as Bron is concerned. We both know I’d never really go for him, but he must know how much I don’t want to be bothered about this ’cause he actually backs off, something I didn’t expect him to do.
We don’t find Jordy at the rail station, and so we head back to the club.
The first thing I hear when I get in is some kid shouting, and the first thing I see is this same kid pacing up and down in the bar waving his arms. Chains is standing opposite him, a bat in one hand, watching the kid carefully. A few of Chains’ lieutenants are standing behind him. Chains is as hard as his attitude to the club: a short, squat, hard-faced man with thick arms and thick legs, an ugly gash running jagged from the top of his forehead down to his chin.
“You want to kill me!” the kid screams. He’s about seventeen or eighteen, I’d guess, skinny as a beanpole with thin bone-like arms and long bony fingers, wearing a tattered stained T-shirt and baggy jeans, with sneakers that were once white and are now crusted brown. A street kid, then.
I nod to Bron, who nods back, and we creep silently into the bar up to where the kid is pacing. I wonder why Chains and the others haven’t taken him down yet, and then I see: he’s holding a small switchblade in his right hand, which he swipes through the air as he rants. Bron and I approach carefully, having done this countless times before even if it was under different circumstances.
“You want to kill me, I know you do! I know you do!” the kid rants.
“We’re trying to help you,” Chains says calmly. Always calm, is Chains, never laughing or panicking or getting angry. A businessman. “We explained all this to you, kid,” he goes on. “You’re a meth-head; we’re getting you off it, thinking about patching you. You said it was what you wanted, and now you’re ranting and raving with a knife.” Chains keeps talking, distracting the kid.
Bron and I get close enough that I can smell him: the stale beer and the lingering cigarette smoke, something deeper which might be the scent of whatever crack house this kid was in before Chains brought him here. The kid goes on, accusing Chains and the others of trying to kill him, and then on a silent count of three—something we’ve perfected over a number of years—Bron and I jump on the kid, Bron going for the weapon as he always does and me wrapping my arms around him, holding him back. He flops around in my grip, but he’s all skin and bones, not a challenge to hold back. Bron tucks the knife away into the waistband of his jeans, and Chains steps forward.
“Calm down,” Chains says, looking plainly at the kid.
But the kid keeps squirming. I whisper in his ear: “Listen, kid, you’ve got two roads in front of you right now. And you should listen ’cause I’ve been pretty much where you are. You’ve got two roads. One will lead you back to whatever shithole crack house you came from. The other will lead you to be a patched member of The Faithless. You need to see past this anger and ask yourself: who do you want to be? Do you want to be one of those toothless fuckin’ junkies who can barely stand up, or do you want to be a patched biker? Come on, kid, be smart. I don’t want to see you slip back into that shit.”
Chains and the others look surprised as these words come out of me, and I can’t blame them ’cause I am, too. Maybe it’s because I really do see something of myself in this kid. The angry-at-the-world teenager I was when Mom kicked me out all those years ago.
Slowly, the kid quietens down, stops thrashing. We all wait patiently. We wouldn’t do that if this was just some knife-wielding teenager, but if we’re going to patch him, he gets more leeway than others might.
“I’m okay,” he mutters, after a few minutes. “I’m okay. It’s just—coming off this shit is hard. I’m okay.”
I let him go, take a step back. He turns to me. He has a young face, but his addiction has aged it in places: the lines around his eyes, the deep dark bags under his eyes, and the cracking of lips. His freckles and his bob of ginger hair give him a look of youth despite all this, though.
Chains gestures to me to come over to him. I leave the kid with Bron and go to Chains in the corner.
“I want you to deal with this kid’s detox,” he says. “I didn’t know you had that in you. That was good, Red. Real good. I want you to get him clean, so that we can see what he’s really made of. You have no clue what a man—a boy—is really made of when he’s still thinking caught up in the drug haze.”
I would normally be pissed off at being tasked with something like this, but the kid clearly needs help—and there’s that thought again, that he’s not so different to the kid I once was.
“Alright,” I say. “What should I do?”
Chains shrugs. “That’s up to you.”
I’m about to say I have no clue, but then I remember a certain lady, and a certain pamphlet.
I nod. “I’ve got an idea.”