Page 3 of Snared Rider

I packed light because I thought I’d be on the back of a Harley. I hoped I would be. I can’t stop my disappointment from bleeding through, which makes Dean laugh.

“You want to ride?”

Of course I want to ride. I sat on my first Harley-Davidson when I was six weeks old. Granted, Dad was holding me and we didn’t go anywhere, but I was still on a bike. From the moment I was old enough to sit on my own, I was on the back of Dad’s bike or any of the brothers who would take me out. I loved it. I loved the feeling of being on the open road, wind in my hair, freedom on the horizon. There are some stunning bike routes in this part of the world. In my life, I’ve ridden the length and breadth of the UK. Dad even took me to Europe one summer. This means I am an accomplished passenger. I had intended to get my own motorcycle, but leaving put the brakes on that.

“Um, yeah, dummy,” I tell Dean, “I want to ride.”

Dean runs the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I’ll take you out tomorrow, if you’re up to it after tonight.”

If I’m not too hungover, he means. Given the way Club parties usually go this is a high possibility.

“That’d be cool, Dean.”

He stops at a light blue people carrier on the nearest side of the car park and hits the central locking on his keys. The flash of orange follows the click of the locks disengaging; it's bright in the rapidly darkening evening. Dean opens the passenger door for me and gestures to the seat flamboyantly.

“Your carriage awaits, Princess.”

I smack his arm before I climb in. I am not a princess, not even close, although my father would probably disagree. He doesn’t see a grown woman when he looks at me, but his little girl, still in pig-tails. Most of the men in the Club who knew me from knee-high are the same.

Dean shuts the door behind me once I’m settled in the passenger seat. I’m fumbling with my seat belt when he opens the back door to put my bag in, and then moves to the driver’s side.

Visiting Kingsley is always bittersweet. The nostalgia hit is a smack to the solar plexus while the gratitude I escaped small town living is just as severe a blow. As Dean steers the car onto the main road, I can’t help but stare out the window.

Don’t get me wrong, Kingsley isn’t a bad place, it just stopped developing in the late nineteen-eighties. Once the last colliery closed and the mining companies moved out, hundreds lost their jobs. Most of the town had the sense to leave before things got too bad, but a surprising number stayed while Kingsley crumbled around their ears.

Driving through town, it’s clear to see the deprivation continues to spread. A good proportion of the high street’s shops are boarded up, the businesses long gone. It’s better than it was last time I was here. It looks like a few new boutiques have opened, but it is still a sorry sight to see.

I’m not sure if Dean senses the reason behind my disquiet or if I’m just an open book, but he says, “Shit is better here. I know it doesn’t seem it, but it is.”

Turning towards him, I take a second to study his face in profile. He has a strong jawline and a bump on his nose from when he broke it in his late teens.

“It’s just bleak, Dean. I mean, you live and you die in Kingsley.” For the most part it’s the latter rather than the former.

I was lucky; I got out, but I had a dad who could pay for my education. I went to university in London, got a first-class degree and got a decent job. Most kids in Kingsley will never have that opportunity.

He rests one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearstick. “The Club’s investing a lot in the local area.”

This I can believe because the Club is one of the few reasons there are still any jobs in this town. The Lost Saxons run three bars, two garages, and recently they’d invested in a local construction business. And that’s just the legal side of things. My father thinks I’m in the dark about the drugs they sell, but he’s wrong. I’ve known for years they shift cocaine and marijuana. I also know they deal with the McVay brothers—Irish mob. Do I like it? No. But since I can do nothing about it, I keep my mouth shut and stay as far away from it as I can. Like, London far.

“Enough about Kingsley,” I say, shaking the darkening thoughts from my mind. “Tell me what’s new with you.”

Dean scratches at his cheek before replacing his hand on the gearstick. “Prez gave me the management of the garage on Moor Street.”

Prez—or Club president Derek Chambers—is the head of the Lost Saxons. His father Harry, alongside Sam Lawler (Dean’s late grandfather), John Harlow (Logan’s late grandfather) and my own grandfather, Jimmy Goddard, set up the Club in the sixties. The four, if the legend is to be believed, were tearaways, even back then.

They grew up at the start of the mods and rockers era. Unsurprisingly, four teens who rebelled against authority and had a flair for trouble embraced the latter. Leather, jeans, fast bikes and a love of disturbing the peace—they were made for that lifestyle. By the end of the sixties, the Lost Saxons Motorcycle Club was established in Kingsley and already had numbers edging into the double digits.

Dean may be Club royalty because his grandfather was a founding member, but he’s never asked for handouts—none of the boys with those links has. He worked his way up from prospect to patched member and was eventually offered a place at the officers’ table. He didn’t take it. Why? I don’t know, but he’s always grafted for the Club, so the news Derek has given him more responsibility makes me deliriously happy.

“Really?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah, I’ve been running it for about a month and a half now.”

The Club has two garages on either side of town. Moor Street, if I remember correctly, gets a lot of traffic from Kingsley but also from neighbouring Mountgerald, which has a more affluent clientele.

“That’s fantastic!” I tell him, and I mean it.

He smiles, trying to play it cool but I can tell he’s pleased.

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