Page 24 of Beautiful Ruins
My grandfather used to tell us stories about this place growing up—ghost stories, ones to keep us from terrorising the old man who had owned the place back before Jenkins. It didn’t stop us, though. Getting chased on a quad bike by Sylvester Skinner was a rite of passage. Hell, it practically made you a local.
Logan and Sadie had managed to escape his clutches all those years ago, their trips to the creek ending up in containersfull of tadpoles. I didn’t much care for the slimy little creatures, even though Logan had a fascination with watching them transform into frogs.
But the farm wasn’t the deranged serial killer kind of place anymore. It rose up in a haze of red dirt and smoke as we rode the long gravel drive up to the entrance of the farm. The place looked half-dead—dry paddocks, busted fences, paint peeling like sunburnt skin.
Much like the old man who owned it now. He had been in his late eighties when he bought the place six years prior. The old bastard just wouldn’t die.
I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, which wasn’t far with that limp and that goddamn rifle slung over his shoulder like it was another limb. He’d been known to aim it at anyone he deemed untrustworthy.
Bear and Scout flanked me, the gravel crunching under our tyres as we came to a stop in front of the old weatherboard house. It sat there, quiet, watching us, eerie in that way you only find when you’re good and lost in the middle of the bush.
I swung off my bike, Scout and Bear following suit, and waited for Jenkins to realise he had guests. We weren’t there for a social call. Bear skulked around, kicking dust up under his boots as he went. If I didn’t trust many people, Bear trusted even less.
The bikes’ engines ticked as they cooled. A large shed sat opposite the house. It was once the heart of the farm. Now it was nothing but bones, slowly rotting away against the elements. Another one sat about two hundred metres further up, steel siding glinting in the sun, smoke curling up from a burn-off behind it.
Hammering sounds echoed out from the inside, while two men standing in the large opening eyed us, their movementsslowing as they sussed out the reason three bikers would be showing up to visit Old Man Jenkins.
The bastard had always claimed poor, so what was he doing with the likes of these blokes? I called bullshit. He was doing better than he let on. Rumours had it the old man liked to pick things up that weren’t his. I was inclined to believe them. He’d sold the odd stolen part here and there for some cash. Always had his nose stuck where it didn’t belong. If he had stolen bike parts hiding somewhere in that shed, I’d have put the stupid bastard in the ground myself.
Two more farmhands hauled rusted-out parts from the shed, dumping the twisted metal into the fire pit like they were erasing evidence. They didn’t look our way. Didn’t need to.
I jutted my chin in their direction. “What do you reckon? They look like our culprits?” I gave them a two-finger wave, letting them know they could mind their own fucking business.
All I got in return were their backs as they disappeared back into the shed.
“Don’t know,” Bear said, shielding his eyes with a hand as he narrowed his eyes in their direction. “Too hard to tell from here.”
We were boxed in, the surrounding bush thick enough to hide a dozen bodies on one side, and scorched dirt stretching toward the carcasses of rotting cattle on the other. No neighbours. No-one to hear a damn thing.
Five k’s out from the town centre, right on the border of Timberflat—far enough for things to go missing, for people to disappear. That’s why this place had a reputation. Smuggling mostly. Weapons. Drugs. A couple of murders, too. So, they said. That was before my time in the Riders, and what filtered through the grapevine wasn’t always truth.
Jenkins finally appeared at the edge of the rotting porchof the farmhouse. He squinted as if he couldn’t quite see, but I knew better. He couldn’t hide from me. He’d noticed our patches as soon as he’d stepped out the back door. When a Ridge Rider paid you a visit, you best believe it was for a good reason. It wasn’t just the parts. It was the lying. The pretending. He knew what happened the last time someone stole from us.
Bear and Scout stepped up beside me, and we stood like stones in his yard, waiting for the coin to drop.
“Looking for me, boys?” Jenkins’s voice carried across the dirt like sandpaper, rough and unwelcome like he’d smoked a pack a day for the last fifty years.
With careful movements, he limped down the porch steps, his hat pulled low, his joints just about giving way beneath his scrawny frame. As expected, his rifle was slung across his back, more of a prop these days than an actual threat.
“Here he is,” I said, crossing my arms. “Thought you’d run out on us.”
He shook his head and adjusted his hat, his grey-blue eyes crinkling as they narrowed on me. “Ain’t much out here but hard work and bad knees, fellas. What’s got you sniffing around?”
“Just checking in,” I said. “Thought you might know something about stolen bikes getting torched last night.” My voice remained careful. I didn’t want to spook the old bastard before it was necessary.
Jenkins darted his gaze towards the shed where the boys were working, pausing for a long moment before speaking again. “You accusing me of something, boy?” His hard stare landed back on me, a dare set in his eyes. Or more like a warning.
He was kidding himself if he thought I’d bow down to the likes of him. He wasn’t even a local, swooped in from out-of-town years ago and snatched up the place. Christ knows why. It had been a dump back then, and nothing had changed.
I smirked, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
“You think I got time for pinching bikes?” He barked out a dry laugh. “I can barely keep the damn pump running. Besides, you think I want you fellas breathing down my neck. You think I’m stupid.”
I nodded towards the working shed. “Seems like you’ve got plenty of help.”
Jenkins grunted. “That’s just my great-grandson and his mates. They’re helping me keep the place from ruin.” He gestured to the men now watching us from their plastic milk crates beside the shed. “Cheap labour, but not always the smartest.” He spat on the ground by his feet, saliva seeping into the red dirt.
“How long they been here?” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as I stared at the four men.
