Chapter 1

Heart

Taking my pack of cigarettes from my cut, I tap one out, put it in my mouth and light it, inhaling the smoke deep into my lungs. Accepting part of the reason I took up smoking again is just one more way I hope to rid myself of the body I’m trapped in. I’d kicked the habit when my wife, Crystal, got pregnant, but now that she’s no longer breathing, I couldn’t care less what happens to me. A nicotine fix is a poor substitution for the object of my main addiction, which I’ll never be able to indulge in again.

Taking another drag, my mind flits to my daughter, Amy. The three-year-old little imp that is, was, fuck, I don’t know what tense to use, the second love of my life. Close, but not right up there with Crystal. I blow out smoke, seeing the vapour swirl like fog as the warm air from my mouth meets the cold of this autumn day. Amy. Too great a reminder of just what I’ve lost, and left behind in the safe hands and care of my president, or rather, ex-prez and his old lady. They’ll look after her as though she was their own, and better than I ever could. Of course I miss her, but can do nothing for her. I know I’ll never play the role of her father again. I’ve no intention of ever going back.

Still astride my bike, I wait for my leg to stop throbbing enough to let me put my foot to the ground. I shiver, a visible sign of how much lower the temperature is here, a sharp contrast to the warm balmy day I’d left in Tucson. Cold. Like my soul.

When the pain’s eased sufficiently, I still pause before throwing my leg over the seat, taking a moment to consider my surroundings, knowing I’ve been lucky to arrive in Flagstaff just before the first of the winter snows. The tops of the mountains glow white in the last of the day’s sun, as if a warning that if I want to carry on I can’t linger here long. Not unless I want to be trapped here for the winter. Bikes and snow do not mix.

My leg protests, shooting pains stabbing up to my groin as I attempt to put weight on it, leaving me in no doubt the four-hour ride combined with the noticeable drop in temperature was far from the best thing I could have attempted. A sensible person wouldn’t even be riding yet, but I hadn’t left my brothers much choice, and I wasn’t going to constrict myself in a cage. The timing of my journey determined by the wrong I’d done to my club. The pick of destination had been mine, an unconscious decision, an undeniable urge to start on this pilgrimage originally planned with my wife before she was so cruelly snatched away from me.

I’d managed to cover the miles by gritting my teeth through the gear changes, and once in top keeping it there as long as I could. The Harley beneath me forgiving, continuing on while the grunt from the engine letting its protests be known as I attempted to drive without shifting down. It’s not that I don’t care about the Low Rider, I’ve no desire to damage it, it doesn’t belong to me, but letting me borrow it was the quickest way Drummer could get me off of the compound. And there was no one who wanted me hanging around.

Not that Adam, its rightful owner would have much to say about it—seeing as he’s been dead for going on six months. While I might not be religious and don’t believe in life after death, there’s part of me wondering if somehow he knows and is looking down, grimacing each time I grind through the gears. Sorry, Brother, I’m doing the best that I can.

Finished with my smoke, I pull the key from the ignition and stand and stretch before entering the restaurant that’s next to the motel I’ll be holing up in for a few days. I’m as weak as any human, not having the strength to neglect the burning in my stomach reminding me that, just like my bike, I need fuel.

The bell above the door tinkles as I step inside, and the sight in front of me makes me come to an abrupt halt. Fuck. Crystal would have loved this shit.

Crystal, my wife. My soulmate. Killed just two months ago. Not that I’d known she was gone until she’d been dead for four weeks. The accident that took her had left me in a coma, and she’d been buried and placed deep underground before I came to. Accident? It certainly wasn’t that. Cold-blooded murder which was supposed to kill me as well.

Every second, every minute, every hour of every day, I wish that it had.

Whether it’s a masochistic action, or in reverence to her memory, I can’t stop my hand reaching out and reverently touching some of the Christmas ornaments on sale, remembering how each year Crystal would buy a new one for the tree we’d put up at home. I would laugh at her, joking she seemed to go for the gaudiest she could find. Last year it had been a Santa riding a motorbike. And the year before that, a Micky Mouse dressed in red and white—for Amy she said…

I’ve become a bastard, selfish. Not giving a damn about my life or the people around me. Caring more for the dead than for the living. I have nothing to offer my daughter, she’s better off with people who can give her what I can’t anymore. There’s no love left inside me. Crystal took all of that with her. That emotion, my heart and my soul, left me when Crystal took her last breath.

Heart. That’s my fucking handle, that’s who I am. And that’s what the accident took away from me. Thrown away from my body just as I was tossed off my bike. There might be the organ of that name still pumping blood around my body, but I only curse it for keeping me alive. The cold in the air outside has nothing on the chill deep inside me. I don’t give a damn for anything anymore.

Which one would you like, Crystal? My fingers touch a snowflake globe. In the scene Santa’s landed his sleigh on a roof, the reindeer looking impatient to get going again. It’s cheesy, and just what she’d go for. Shall we get this one? But what’s the point? This year there’ll be no tree in the house that we shared, and which has lain empty and abandoned since the last day she was alive. Without her, I have no home. There’s no place for me in this world anymore.

For a second I swear I feel a hand on my shoulder, fingers pressing in in a barely-there caress. I look around, but there’s no one behind me. Only the storekeeper eyeing me strangely, the biker transfixed by Christmas ornaments, a look of suspicion on his face as though I’ll steal it away. Something that costs just a few dollars, but which would have brought my dead wife so much joy.

“You gonna buy that, son?”

Son? I haven’t been anyone’s son for a very long time, but I won’t pull him up on it, he must be sixty if he’s a day, almost double my age.

Without knowing what I’m doing, or why, I slide the ornament off the rack and take it across to the counter, passing over the dollars and rejecting the change. He puts the five cents in a collection box for orphans. Apt. My Amy is now without either of her parents. But Drummer and Sam will give her the love that I can’t.

Having made my senseless purchase, I proceed into the restaurant, order something and attempt to eat it, my hand automatically lifting my fork, unable to distinguish the different flavours. I could be eating a gourmet meal or a bowl of leftovers. I snap at the waitress when she attempts to be friendly, glad when she has the sense not to bother me again. I’ve not been able to make polite conversation since the day I woke up from my coma and the doctors delivered the news.

At last my plate’s empty and my attention is caught by the weather forecast on the TV. The sound is turned right down, so I’m forced to read the captions. Snow is forecast for the day after next. Unless I want to spend more time than I’d like in Flagstaff, it’s time for me to get moving again.

Returning to the motel, I prepare for bed like an automaton, undressing and sliding under the covers, going through the same mechanical routine born simply from habit. As usual, sleep evades me. I spend the night planning the next stage of my journey, accepting my mind no longer knows how to switch off, allowing me no respite from my thoughts. Crystal might be gone from the physical world, but I’m never going to let her leave me. I feel her presence so strongly. My hands twitch, unable to understand why I can’t reach out and touch her. And oh, how I ache to be able hold her. My arms feel so empty, my heart broken completely.

Crystal. I love you. Like a clock that’s stopped working, hands frozen in time, I can’t move past this, can’t acknowledge I’m never going to hold or see her again, or smell the sweet perfume that was all hers.

Another sleepless night passes, and I rise early. After a smoke I refuel both my bike and myself, stuffing down a breakfast that tastes like cardboard simply to get myself moving again, knowing I’ve another long journey in front of me. Vegas, Crystal. Are you ready for that?

That’s my next destination, the second stop on my itinerary. One place I know I’ll avoid, the Sin City’s Satan’s Devils chapter. I doubt I’d be welcome after the trouble I’d caused back in Tucson, and it’s far too early for me to see any man I used to call Brother again. I’m busting to fight, to argue, to mock… Which is all I’ve been doing since I woke up. And if I started that shit in Red’s chapter, word would get back to Drummer, who wouldn’t hesitate in carrying out his threat to kill me. The idea is tempting.

I’m burning inside and unable to see a time when this anger will leave me. Accepting I’ll be gone before it has a chance to morph into another emotion, the chances are good that I won’t stay long breathing. I’m a lone biker, out on the road, unprotected, no one to watch my back. It’s the rightly deserved punishment I had handed to me.

Drummer. The president of the Satan’s Devils Tucson chapter, the mother chapter for the club. He let me off lightly, he could have burned the tattoo from my back, and I’m still not sure why he didn’t. Instead he sent me out to roam as a Ronin. Six solitary months on the road. Automatically my hand rubs my bare cut, stripped of all Satan’s Devils’ patches, but having gained a new one denoting what I now am. I’m just an anonymous biker out on his own, unable to call any man Brother, but carrying a token that will maybe ease my passage through areas controlled by different clubs, respect being mutually given where due. Unless I fuck up.

If I can’t control my temper, I’ll be disrespecting Drummer. Although I’ve no intention to return and again wear the Satan’s Devils’ patch on my cut, there’s part of me inside that doesn’t want my behaviour to reflect on my club. I can’t take the risk of lashing out at any brother. It’s been an easy decision to steer well clear of the Las Vegas chapter.

My hand lingers on my wallet, and the business card inside. My token. And then on the one patch I wear on my sleeve. Ronin. Everything happened so quickly, it still hasn’t completely sunk in that I’m now solitarily roaming, just like the legendary samurai of old, with no master to serve and no one to pay allegiance to.

I feel no sense of urgency, no place to be or appointment to attend. My thoughts continue churning as I put the key in the ignition of my borrowed bike. Just another sign of how much I’d blown it. While I’d been injured the club had offered to buy me a replacement for my smashed-up sled, but how could I think of a cold metal beast when I was in mourning? I’d turned down their offer, and not pleasantly or with thanks. In fact, I remember clearly telling whoever suggested it to me to fuck off. And that wasn’t the worst of the shit I’d pulled back in Tucson. If I still had a heart, I’d hate myself for what I did.

But a biker can’t go on the road without a bike. When Drummer had banished me, he’d brought Adam’s bike out of storage. Yesterday morning, as it was wheeled in front of me, I had a pang, a worry that after my accident I wouldn’t be able to ride. But having no recollection of being shunted off the road, I found being back on a bike didn’t concern me. Memory muscle had taken over and, like my head, my body seemed unable to recall the terror of those final minutes before we’d landed shiny side down. If I’d seen Crystal’s broken body, it’s one mercy I can’t recall it.

Adam’s bike suits me down to the ground—a long-range tank on a Low Rider, chain-drive replacing the belt for added speed, and the best thing? Adam, a confirmed bachelor, had had a single seat fitted. Never again would anyone ride up behind me, that place reserved only for my wife.

Ghost arms come around me and a chin rests on my shoulder. Okay, babe. Let’s get this show moving. I take the one final item I need to carefully pack in the saddle bags, holding it in my hand for a second. The Christmas snow globe, wrapped carefully in tissue paper. I slide it down between my clothes for safe keeping.

Pressing start, the engine roars into life. A single snow flake flutters to the ground, and as I watch it melt on the tarmac, recognise the sign it’s too late to linger. My indicators flash, then I’m leaving the parking lot, the motel, and then Flagstaff in my rear view.

Did it live up to your expectations, babe? There’s no reply, not even in my head, just a light touch to my shoulder.

Another four-hour ride lies ahead. I’d planned to stay longer at my first stop to give my body a chance to rest, but the weather had had other ideas and had chased me away. My leg, the most serious reminder of the accident I can’t remember, and now bolted together with steel pins, starts complaining before I’ve gone more than a few miles. As I did yesterday, I ignore it and just push on through, only stopping when the pain gets too bad to go on. A smoke, a piss, then popping a painkiller, and I’m on my way again, this time wearing a helmet, knowing the law in Nevada is stricter than Arizona, which I’d just left.

As the near freezing temperatures give way to gentle heat, my muscles stop tensing. The warmth and painkillers kick in. I’m feeling almost normal as in the mid-afternoon I approach Vegas, the city that never sleeps appearing in front of me, rising up from the desert. Before finding somewhere to make my base, I take a leisurely ride along the strip, turning my head this way and that to gaze at the casinos I’ve only before seen on TV and in films. Excalibur, shaped like a castle, then almost opposite, the MGM Grand. Then Bellagio and Aladdin and Paris. Venetian and Treasure Island. Taking them all in until I come to Sahara and Stratosphere at the other end.

Is it what you expected, Crystal? Larger than life, isn’t it, babe?

Again, I feel hands squeeze my waist, making me appreciate how excited she would have been to ride down the strip. I can picture her laughing, her hair flowing back with the breeze. Giggling with anticipation, joking she was going to win our fortune at the tables tonight. Me grumbling I expect, it more likely she’d lose all my money instead.

Turning off the strip, I explore the back streets. I draw up at the first cheap looking place I find, dump my saddlebags onto the bed, and place my head in my hands. Then I stand and slam my fists into the wall, beating them until I break the skin. Why did you leave me? Why? The burning rage all but consumes me as I fail to understand why this world took the love of my life away from me. She should be here, by my side, enjoying Vegas. Not in a cold grave.

I concentrate on my breathing, taking breaths in and out. Ranting at the world isn’t going to bring her back. The only thing I can do is go through the motions. For her. Until we’re together again.

When I finally have myself under control, I go to revisit the strip, this time on foot.

It’s the noise that gets to me. Music playing, machines ringing bells or playing sequences of notes to attract you to take your chances, to get rich quick. Occasionally there’s a rattling of coins as they pay out, followed by shouting and cheering, but more often groans, as yet more dollars are lost. Croupiers are calling, and all around people are talking loudly. My head starts to pound with the cacophony of sound.

I’m approached as I walk along the pavement, leaflets shoved into my hand showing scantily clad girls offering a menu of their services, but none interest me. I crumple them up and throw them into the already overflowing bins. My cock hasn’t stirred since I lost my wife. Not one twitch, consolidating my perception that while I might still be breathing, inside I’m already dead, just waiting for the grim reaper to creep alongside and catch up.

That evening in Tucson when I attacked Tinker, I wouldn’t have been capable of rape, even though I’m not surprised that was thought my intention. I was angry, incensed that a sweet woman like her was stripping off to earn money, ignoring the fact she didn’t have any other choice. I was trying to show her what a man would think she was offering. I’d been out of my mind with rage and grief, not knowing what I was doing, just wanting to lash out, and she bore the brunt.

No, even an erection is now beyond me. I might be only thirty-four years old, but I’m beginning to think Viagra’s in my future if I ever want to have sex. But as that’s the last thing on my mind, I’m not worried. It’s one less thing to think about. I’ll be faithful to Crystal for the rest of my hopefully short life.

I make myself stay a few days in Vegas, owing it to my dead wife, experiencing the things she’s missing out on. But one day I can’t make myself leave the hotel, justifying it that I’m taking the opportunity to pop painkillers to give my leg a rest. The bones might have healed, but the muscles needed more time than I’d been able to give them.

Then my restlessness, my desire to put an end to all this, my growing hatred of the discordance of sound I can’t seem to escape, drives me to leave before I lose what little remains of my mind. I pack my saddle bags, making sure that Christmas ornament is stored carefully, and take off for somewhere quieter. A few hours later, and I arrive at Stovepipe Wells in the centre of Death Valley.

Sauntering into the motel, unable to hide my limp, I toss a glare at the clerk behind the reception desk, recognising I look out of place alongside the vacationers who are taking advantage of exploring the area in the lower temperatures of late autumn.

“We’ve no vacancy.” She throws me and my leathers a look of disdain, and then a glance of distrust at my face.

But I’d pre-empted this disappointment. Knowing this time of year the valley would be busy, I’d pre-booked a room before I left Vegas. I show her my phone, and my booking.

Faced with the evidence she sighs, then gives in and admits they have a spare room at the end of a row. Keeping the biker well out of sight of the rest of the guests.

“Mr Norman.” She checks my driver’s license. “How long do you intend to be with us?”

I tap the booking still showing on my phone. “A week, as I told you. And I’m here to rest, recover.” I make a show of rubbing my sore leg. “I’ll be sleeping a lot, so I won’t need the room serviced.”

I ignore her suspicious glance, only registering her nod. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me anymore, only thinking of the seven days of privacy while people would think I am hidden away, licking my physical and mental wounds. One hundred and sixty-eight hours when no one would think of looking or trying to find me.

Taking my key, avoiding her guarded half-smile, I ride down the row and park my bike. As I cut the engine, I notice immediately how quiet and peaceful it is. Such a stark contrast to Vegas, the silence causing a ringing in my ears.

Collecting my saddle bags, I enter the room that’s been assigned to me and close the door, shutting out the world. I take off my cut and lie on the double bed, leaving the right-hand side empty, as always. My hand rubs over the comforter feeling her absence, missing the warm body lying next to me.

I hadn’t lied when I said my leg needed time to recuperate. I’m sure the surgeons would have conniptions if they knew how little I cared for all the hard work that they’d done. I lie, waiting for the painkillers to work, and only when the throbbing in my leg begins to ease, take a shower to wash away the dust of the road. When I clear steam from the glass and glance in the mirror, I barely recognise the face looking back at me. There’s no point fussing over my appearance, there’s no one to care. My hair is the same as when I awoke from my dream and stepped into my nightmare. One side half shaved and the other side long. The hair on my left side not as stubbly as it first was, now starting to grow back, but not long enough to hide my unbalanced appearance—just the right look for an unbalanced man.

I need to eat, so as I’m entering polite society, quickly shave away my five o’clock shadow, but that’s the most I bother to do before I re-join civilisation.

Walking into the restaurant next to the motel, I get the strange looks that I’ve become used to, but am quickly seated and left all alone. Not surprisingly, no one wants to share a table with a biker whose face is fixed in a scowl. I order a steak, fitting for a man’s last meal. But the succulent meat is as tasteless as anything I’ve recently put into my mouth.

As soon as my plate’s empty, I walk back to my room, noticing, to my surprise, coyotes wandering around the forecourt of the gas station and small convenience store on the other side of the road. I hadn’t expected that, and I pause a moment to watch them scavenging. Fuck, Crystal. You’d have loved this shit. Are you with me, babe? You seeing this?

The timing is wrong, as autumn is coming to an end in the valley, and it’s not perhaps the best time to do what I intend. But having checked, tomorrow’s forecast is predicting unseasonal temperatures that might reach the forties. Enough for an unfit biker to carry out his plan.

I’m tired and exhausted from days, months of no real sleep. I don’t even get undressed, just lie fully clothed, letting my thoughts torture me until I’m ready to start on my final journey. Hours of thinking there’s nothing left. Only the hope of joining my wife in her rest, where there’ll be no more pain and no memories to haunt me. Wait for me, Crystal. I’m coming.

When only the sounds of the night can be heard, the crying of coyotes, hooting of night-hunting birds, nothing to suggest humans are still stirring, I slip on my cut, open my door, and start walking.

The night air is cool, which will allow me to put sufficient distance between myself and the motel. Come morning, I’ll be too far, too weak, in too much pain, and too exhausted to turn back in the dry, debilitating heat.