FICTION: Backfire, Pt 1

The smoke stung my eyes as it drifted up from the smouldering remains of my tent. I sat on the cold earth, leaning bruised arms on battered knees as I gazed blankly at the mess, the nauseous smell of melted nylon and plastic creeping into my bloodied nostrils as I wondered, painfully, why some people could be so...

The right expression escaped me just for a moment, but despite (or maybe because of) the boot-inflicted pains all over my body, the anguish of my losses, and strangely, the sense of shame at my failure to defend myself, I could feel pure rage simmering for the first time in many, many years. It took quite a while for the sensation to well up, rising from my tingling bare feet and soothing bruised nerves on its way to my numbed brain, but when it hit and the shaking began, I knew that for only the second time in my life, I really wanted to fight back - and I would, somehow. No way was that...bastard...going to get away with this; no way on Earth...


It had all started out well enough. For the first time in fifteen years, I wanted to go to a bike show and have a chill-out weekend, away from the stress of driving, working, call-outs and exhaustion, and my long-suffering, non-biking wife agreed that it would probably do me some sort of good - either calm me down, or prove that I’d "grown out of such things", to loosely quote her. Whatever the outcome, I’d packed my old tent and kit into our little 4WD (the `Guzzi was in bits in the garage, having choked on a dropped valve) and chugged off on the Friday afternoon to what I’d hoped would be a quiet weekend filled with bikes, chinwags and music. I’d parked the `jeep’ in a neighbouring field, lugged my basic kit on site and pitched the tent, chucked the sleeping bag in and strolled off to grab a small beer and see what was what.

The atmosphere was a warm, familiar one - a sea of tents, growing larger by the hour as bikes and trikes rumbled and growled through the gateway, leather-clad people weaving between them all as they sought out old friends, or inspected others' machinery... I caught myself grinning with pleasure, muted it to a subtle smile in case anyone thought I was on "happy pills" or something, and I wandered the grounds, taking in the smells of hot oil, the "tink-tink-tink" sounds of cooling engines and exhausts, the glow of subtle paint schemes, the dazzle of others; it felt good to be back...

As the evening ticked by and the first band started up, I plonked myself on a hay bale and leaned against one of the marquee poles, all set to enjoy things. To be honest, I don’t tend to get up and bop around like I used to because various problems and illnesses have weakened me more than I like to admit, so I was content to enjoy a long sit-down, nod and foot-tap to the beat, without hassle. Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

A hand grabbed the neck of my old cut-off jacket and yanked me backwards off the bale, my fresh beer tipping all over my face and chest as I landed on my back beside a pair of huge boots. Someone laughed above me, and a voice was raised above the music.

"Oi! That’s MY seat!" came the declaration, as I wiped the beer from my eyes and face and struggled to my feet.

"Since when?" I responded without thinking. "I didn’t see any names on it."

"Oh, we’ve got a smart-arse, Danny!" came the rumble of impending doom.

I thought, `Oh, shit - here we go’ - and the troglodyte landed a punch in my ribcage that sent me flying backwards into another group of lads like a ten-pin ball into skittles. A few went down with me, but all I could focus on was the searing pain in my chest that seemed to stop my heart. I heard a lot of strong language, but as the lads picked themselves - and me - off the floor, their protests dwindled as I followed their eyes. Some heavy-looking bodies had swung into view, and other folks turned away. When I could breathe again, I apologised to the lads and offered replacement pints for spilled drinks, but they waved me away, wanting to distance themselves from the disturbance.

Eventually I got my wits and vision back, and I saw the `trog’ and his mate - presumably `laughing Danny’ - perched on the hay bale, with their backs turned to me as if I no longer existed...and it was then that I noticed the Prospect bottom `rocker’ badge on `Laughing Danny’s’ cut-off. The troglodyte’s back was bare, but even so, my already pained mood plummeted even further when I noticed that most of the crowd now around them were full members of the same MC. The troglodyte glanced back at me, bared his teeth in a snarl, and I thought `Uh-oh, here we go again’ as I glared and gritted my teeth back at him, slowly shook my head, then turned and shuffled out of the marquee. The last thing I saw when I exited and glanced back was the `trog’ grinning his head off as he and his mate turned the bale to the side of the marquee.

I’ve never been one to dispense violence and certainly didn’t enjoy receiving it, but there had been a time, long ago, when - if it had been a one-to-one situation - I would have dug deep into my reserves and slugged him back, or maybe unleashed one of my old anti-bully `penalty kick’ specialities into his groin and given him a triple Adams apple to choke on - but not now at my age, not in my present state...and certainly not against an `army’, because I simply didn’t know if he was actually connected with the Club; that old cliche of the "all for one, one for all" MC motto still drifted in my head. I knew I’d lose - it was that simple.

I felt that old double-sense of dismay and depression as I wandered aimlessly around the ground for nearly an hour, browsing trade stands, noticing a few vaguely familiar faces from long ago, and all the while experiencing that emotional roller-coaster of fury then frustrating depression; should I stay, or slide off home? Maybe I should forget the bike scene once and for all and be comfortable with my changed lifestyle...?

I kept glancing at the marquee entrance, thinking to myself, `Why me?’ while I plodded around, stewing on the unfairness of it all, and the lousy coincidence after all this time; the last two bike shows I’d visited had resulted in similar scenes, and had been a deciding factor in my `dropping out’ and going into animal rescue, amongst other things.

It looked like another weekend was going to turn sour...but then, something sparked deep inside, smouldering into resolution, and I thought, `Oh, to hell with him!’ I wasn’t going to waste my ticket money after all, and in those few seconds I recaptured a little self-respect, turned around, and went back into the marquee to join the queue at the bar.

As I waited to be served, just to boost my slightly dented confidence, I struck up a conversation with someone who looked vaguely familiar. He turned out to be a bike spares trader who’d been doing the shows for years, and we cross-referenced many long-past events we’d attended.

A pleasant chat indeed, I was thinking, as a bottle of pale ale finally materialised in front of me, and just as I raised it for a sip, I caught sight of a side-curtain moving slightly behind the `trog’. A tattooed fist appeared, then a fire bucket slid through the gap in the canvas over his head, and I nudged my companion and nodded toward the `trog’. As the trader turned his head to see, the bucket was inverted and the icy contents cascaded down. A roar of anger thundered out as the `trog’ leapt to his feet, and the whole marquee seemed to freeze, then roar with laughter as water streamed from the `trog’s long greasy hair and beard. I laughed too, thinking `YESSS! There IS justice, after all!’, judging the quantity of water as "accrued interest" on the loss of my first beer - and then he was pounding past us, barging everyone aside with `laughing Danny’ close on his heels, in furious pursuit of the joker.

There were smiles all round as life resumed in the marquee, with several of the MC Club’s members grinning their heads off as they follow slowly after the `trog’. They returned a few minutes later with him still dripping amongst them, slapping his back and shoulders to make him squelch and grimace...but a few moments later, his eyes locked on to mine.

He zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking missile, a snarl on his face as he hunched his head and bunched his fists. My blood ran cold and I felt rooted to the spot, my heart starting to pound with both fear and anger as he closed in on me. Strangely, the muscles in my right leg began twitching, subconsciously preparing for action. `What the hell...?’ I thought. I narrowed my eyes back at him, started to raise my hands in both defence and protest, but the trader and another bystander stepped forward to block his approach as two of the Club members saw what was starting and joined the bunch. For a moment it looked like things were going to get ugly, but the Club members held the `trog’s arms as the trader spoke to him.

"I think you should back off, my friend," he advised, obviously confident in dealing with the type. "You’re picking the wrong fight - it wasn’t him."

"No, I -" I began, but the trader cut me off with a wave and a sidelong glance.

"He was standing right here when it happened," he continued, "so let’s just calm down, eh? Like a drink, maybe?"

I lowered one hand, but the Club members pulled at the `trog’s arms; he looked far from happy at the turn of events as he was pulled away. They nodded and waved mute apologies, though, so I nodded to accept the gesture, breathing a huge sigh of relief as my leg muscles slackened. It felt reassuringly good to know that the old leg-twitching reactionary instinct was still there, even though I might not have had the real strength to follow through.

"Let me buy you both drinks, lads," I offered my defenders, and refused to take no for an answer. "Thanks a lot for that - I thought that was going to turn rough, there."

"No problem," the trader said, as we turned back to the bar. "We saw what happened earlier, when he pulled you off the bale. Not very gentlemanly, was he?"

"His sort never are," I confirmed, still nervous at the reminder...and I began to tremble a little in reaction to the close shave.

"Something not right with the grey cells there, I’d say," the trader continued. "Might pay you to stay out of his way," he suggested.

"Don’t worry, I intend to," I confirmed. "I came here for a quiet weekend. Anyway - where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?" I asked, trying to inject some jovial dignity back into the moment. Maybe - just maybe - the troglodyte would find out who really doused him, and leave me alone.

I really should have known better.

* * *

I woke with a start as something clinked outside my tent, then I heard mumbling, followed by the sound of liquid spilling on the fabric.

`Bloody cheek!’ I thought, believing someone was peeing on my tent - until the acrid stench of petrol hit my nostrils and I turned ice cold in an instant. I don’t mind admitting that I felt abject terror for the first time, and I felt my insides turn liquid as I scrambled to free myself from my cocoon of a sleeping bag as a match was struck and my world erupted in an eye-searing flash.

Seen from inside, a fireball is horrific. It turned my muscles to jelly as I fumbled with the flap zipper, but I couldn’t move it. Desperate and absolutely terrified, I grabbed the tag, pulled with all my strength and every hidden reserve I could muster, and the fabric ripped all the way up as I dived out - straight into a pair of steel toe-cap boots that battered first my nose, the back of my head as I hastily covered it, and then my back and shoulders as I instinctively rolled into a ball for protection.

"Oi! That’s enough!" someone bawled, running, but the boots kept pounding my back. I could hear several more feet approaching fast, and my fear increased.

"I said, THAT’S ENOUGH!" came a second shout, punctuated by the sounds of several heavy thumps and grunts.

The kicking stopped, but I stayed foetal, too scared to move in case the pummelling resumed from even more boots, but then my `saviour’ - whoever it was - doled out a string of obscenities at the assailant.

"Take him to the barn," I heard. "Danny - take care of the old boy. See you in a while."

I felt anger rising again at the mention of Danny. It had to be the same one who’d laughed at me in the marquee, but the pain now coursing through me from all points took prime attention and I couldn’t stop shaking as my eyes watered, not crying, certainly in shock, but very grateful to have survived either being roasted or kicked to death. I sensed someone squat down close to my face, then a hand touched my shoulder.

"It’s okay, mate - he’s gone. You can relax, now," came a voice. "Come on, mate - open up, and let me check..." He touched my arm, but his voice trailed off as I took my hands from my throbbing face, raised one elbow defensively and squinted sideways at him, trying to deter his touch. He sighed and shook his head.

"Look, my friend, I’m trying to help you here," he tried.

"You? Help me? After what happened in the marquee?" I reminded him. I groaned, but relented and allowed him to ease me into a sitting position. "Oh shit!" I gritted at the pains lancing from all over.

"Hey, I’m sorry about that," he said, not very convincingly. "Just high spirits, y’know?"

"High spirits, my arse!" I retorted, trying for a touch of dignified contempt. "Too much beer, more like it!" I protested - and that started me off. "That bloody well hurt - he twisted my back and almost smashed my ribs! What gives arseholes like him the right to throw their weight around, eh? Does he always pick on weak people? Being big in front of his mates? What did I do to deserve that?"

"I don’t know," he muttered, giving me all the answers in one. "Still, that was a bloody stupid thing to do, tipping that water over him. Asking for trouble, that was."

"I didn’t!" I growled. "I was in the marquee at the bar when it happened. You both ran right past me on your way out," I continued, seeing sudden doubt in his eyes as I glared at him. "It must have been one of your own blokes pissing about, or something. I saw a heavy tattoo on the hand - ring any bells?"

I saw his frown deepen as he thought hard about it. "Yeah, maybe..." he mumbled, eyeing the ground between us. I was certain he knew the culprit from that detail, but true to form, he wasn’t going to let on to me. "Any bones broken?" he asked, diverting the subject and trying to check me over.

"Hope not - especially not my nose," I mumbled, shivering, and searched the ground for something to staunch the dribble of blood. I couldn’t find anything, so I pulled up the bottom hem of my t-shirt instead, and swabbed. "The bastard! My wife’ll go mad if it’s bust." Stupid thing to babble, but true enough, I thought.

I really started shaking then, as much from cold as shock, because I’d been sleeping in just t-shirt and pants. Danny pulled the burnt remains of my sleeping bag towards me, then shook it out and wrapped it around my shoulders as best he could.

"You sure you don’t need any first aid?" he offered. I shook my head, very slowly. "Can I get you anything?" He tried. "Hot drink, or something?" He was only young, and I sensed that his nerve was breaking; maybe he wasn’t so hard, after all.

"Where’ll you get that at this time in the morning?" I had to ask, somewhat ungraciously, squinting at my watch. 5.30am, it told me. I groaned again.

He looked over to his Club’s pitch, then turned back and twitched his head.

"Someone’s got a brew on. Fancy a coffee?"

"Make it a sweet tea, then," I relented. "And thanks. Maybe you didn’t mean me any harm, but that psycho mate of yours..."

"Yeah, well, the less said about him the better, I think, my friend," he said, turning serious once more. "I’ll be back in a mo’."

He stood up and trudged off, and it was then that I noticed quite a few spectators outside their tents despite the early hour, many bleary-eyed and hung-over, but most looking sympathetic. When Danny had made distance, a few came over to make all the right sort of noises, one or two helping to salvage my scorched jeans and cut-off (miraculously intact, thanks to a habit of sleeping on them in case of sneak thieves) and boots. The remains of the tent still smouldered, and I managed a few quiet, grateful comments to the concerned as I gradually stopped shaking. Eventually they drifted back to their tents, and I subsided into a stupor, gazing at the ashes and blinking the smoke away from my stinging eyes. At least, I think it was the smoke making them tingle...

I tried to tell myself that the fire could have been worse, that the heavy weatherproofing I’d been applying to the storm-sheet over the years had probably saved me a severe burning, that I was lucky he hadn’t doused the surrounding grass as well; lucky, too, that the others were close enough to stop me getting totally pulverised... My thoughts hopped all over the place as I shivered and twitched again with my nerves jangling, staring blankly at the mess, until I slumped to that nadir of numbness that all victims reach, a point I thought I’d never reach again..and that’s when I began to feel umpteen years’ worth of anger rising, bubbling up from half-forgotten episodes, all focussing on that one Neanderthal nutter, who - at that moment - stood to represent all the bullying arseholes I’d ever fallen foul of, at school, at work, at `play’ in my varied social life...

I’d learned how to look after myself the hard way when I was younger and fitter, though I rarely needed to resort to violent behaviour; there were always other ways to deal with people - especially if it hurt the offender’s pockets (always more satisfyingly painful in the long run) - but right then, I wanted to belt seven bells out of that troglodyte; I yearned revenge like never before. It was a strange sensation feeling my temper `hitting the red line’, as some folks put it.

I sat and seethed, rocking back and forth - but as maddened as I was, my temper slowly subsided from boiling point as my frustration with my ageing body grew in its place; it was no good thinking violent thoughts - I wasn’t strong enough for that - but I still wanted revenge, no matter what. Could I find a form of payback that wouldn’t backfire on me? I really hoped so, because I felt that if I was to regain my self-respect, I needed to deal with this problem with dignity and finesse. I was still huddled up and stewing on it, grinding my teeth into oblivion and muttering to myself when Danny returned.

"Here you go, my friend - one hot tea," he offered, "and a bacon roll, if you’re up to it."

I squinted up at him and half-turned to take the polystyrene cup, thought about the roll and nodded.

"It’s a bit early for me," I said, "but thanks, anyway. I’ll eat it in a while, when my stomach stops churning."

He nodded in return, twitched his eyes briefly and turned away, then a voice to my left made me jump.

"How’re you doing, my friend? I’d like to offer you an apology for the aggro you’ve had," came a half-familiar voice, "and to ask you-"

His words tailed off, and pains shot up my back as I tried to turn to face the newcomer, but I gave up as he moved in front of me, then crouched down.

"Don’t I know you from somewhere?" He asked.

I squinted hard at him, unravelling the lines now etched in his face. I tried a smile.

"Hello, Ozzy - long time, no see," I greeted him, a strange and unexpected sense of relief washing through me.

"Baz? Is that really you?" He’d suddenly turned very pale.

I nodded confirmation, and winced at the spasms of pain from too many places. He settled on his knees, his mouth hanging open as his eyes flicked around my face and hands, taking stock of my general condition.

"How’re you doing, mate?" I croaked at him, and sipped some tea.

"Better than you, by the looks of it. Well, stuff my old boots! I don’t believe it! I heard you’d popped your clogs!" He breathed. "Where’ve you been hiding?"

It was my turn to gape; no wonder he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

"Me? Dead? No - though I feel about quarter-past-dead right now," I groaned. "Who told you that?"

"Some nugget obviously got it wrong, years ago - don’t worry about it," he said, flapping a hand to drop the subject. "More importantly - how are you now? Any serious damage? Anything broken? Need the hospital?"

I shook my head at the suggestion, sipped at the tea between my hands, shuddered again and spilled a little down my sleeping bag. It hardly mattered now.

"No, I think I’ll be okay. I don’t want the hassle." I squinted at him again, then ruefully - but carefully - shook my head. "Why me, Ozzy? What have I done wrong to deserve this shit? Just like the last bloody show - wrong place at the wrong time..." I slowly shook my head again at the memory as my voice cracked a little, and my temper fizzed a little more. Ozzy had been there, too...

"Well, he won’t be bothering you again - we’ve dealt with it," he said, meaningfully. He jerked his head a little, and carried on. "It’s sorted, okay?"

"You reckon?" I quizzed. He pulled a face that made me raise a hand in acceptance. "Okay," I agreed, not totally happy as my temper simmered away. "But, what’ve you done? Kicked him out of the grounds? Or shouldn’t I ask what you do with errant Prospects?"

"He isn’t a Prospect, mate - never will be, now, either. He’s a `wannabe’ with too many loose screws, to be honest. We heard he tried to get into a couple of big clubs, but apparently they sussed him pretty quick and booted him out of it, so he thought we’d be a softer option. He was wrong," he told me, flatly. "Let’s just say he’s crossed the line once too often, and leave it there, eh?" He nodded sideways at the ashes. "That’s going too far..." he paused, pulling out a tobacco pouch. He offered it up, but I shook my head.

"We can’t really kick him out," he carried on, "we’re not the hosts - but to be honest he’s so demented, it’ll be safer to keep him here where I can keep an eye on him and stop him picking on anyone else - or you, again. Once the show’s over, though...well, that’s him out."

He lit his roll-up, picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, and squinted at me.

"That bucket...Danny told me what you said about a tattooed hand. You sure you’re not just diverting attention? It wasn’t you who half-drowned him?" He smiled, though, when I shot him an aggrieved glance. "I remember your practical jokes, only too well!"

"Me? Don’t be daft, Ozzy! No way would I be stupid enough to do that to a gorilla like him, since he seemed well in with the club." I shook my head and took another sip of tea. "Much as I’d like to have done it..." I admitted, with a half-smile. He grinned and snorted.

"Yeah, I’ll bet!" He agreed.

"Anyway," I continued, more to divert the immediate subject, "what are you doing with this club? I thought you were..." I halted as he raised a finger to his lips, a mean look in his eyes.

"They’re long gone, mate - some other time," he cut me off; obviously a sensitive issue. "Look, what about your tent and stuff? You want me to squeeze some compensation out of him?"

I shrugged, winced, then cast a glance at the heap.

"Whatever you feel’s best, mate. It’d be nice if you can manage it," I compromised, "but don’t worry too much about it. It was old kit - and it’s insured, anyway, thanks to my wife introducing me to sensible things like household contents policies."

"Well - okay. I’ll see what I can do anyway, as it’s you."

Black Sabbath’s Paranoid blasted out right then, and he pulled a mobile phone from a jacket pocket and activated it, merely listening. "Okay," he grunted, flipping the phone shut and pocketing it again. "Got to get back, mate - the Prez is here, and he’s not a happy bunny," he told me.

"I’m not surprised," I commented.

His face softened again. "Hey, Baz - it’s good to see you again, anyway. I’ll come back later, and we can catch up on what’s what, eh?"

I squinted at him, taking in the changes again - shaven head, full beard, calloused knuckles and muscled arms, in tougher contrast to the fuzzy-haired, crazy-eyed, average-looking ex-squaddie I remembered. He wore a `Sergeant-At-Arms’ patch now, though - and I certainly wouldn’t cross him.

"Yeah, you do that," I said. "Good to see you, too, mate."

"See you later, then - `spook’," he said, smiling at his own joke as he shook hands. He stood up then, nodded and paced off briskly, leaving a lot of memories stirring in his wake.

For a few moments I felt inordinately happier - probably because of the luck of discovering an ally - but then I began to feel strangely disappointed that my previously burning temper had subsided as I finished the tea, gazing once more at the wisps of smoke and ashes and slipping into exhausted depression again. Slowly, I stretched my throbbing arms, legs and back, and finally moved on to my knees to lean forward and pull at the mess, trying to roll it up.

"Here, mate - let me help," said one of my earlier helpers, reaching down to rake the pile together for me. "Everything okay with you and that lot?" He asked, politely concerned.

"Thanks," I replied, "and yes, it’s pretty well sorted. Turns out that I know him," I added, nodding at Ozzy’s departing back.

I wriggled into my cut-off, then slowly stood and tried to step into my jeans, but wobbled an almost fell backwards. My helper grabbed me and balanced me, and I managed to pull on the stiffened jeans, shivering again from their chill. Boots on, and I picked up the bacon roll, straightening very slowly, grimacing all the way up. He hooked the sleeping bag back across my shoulders as I said my thanks, then I turned to trudge slowly and numbly back to the jeep, intent upon finding some warm extra clothes, have another brew and a couple of painkillers, and to sit and try to think.

I unwrapped the roll and ate just the cold bacon rashers as I plodded, unable to face the greasy bread. When I reached the jeep, a family of mallards on the pond close by got my attention, the mother quacking at me for food, and as I broke up the bread, cast it across the bank and idly watched them dabble-feeding and going though their...er...’motions’ - literally - I just started to smile as my dulled imagination sparked. Dabble, chew, splat; dabble, chew, splat...

My desire for revenge began to fester once more in my mind. It had to be some form of poetic justice, something that hopefully wouldn’t cost me any more pain, something to repay the deep sense of shame and humiliation I felt, likewise and with `interest’ - and the mental spark became a flame as a series of possibilities began to tantalise my imagination, inspired - in two parts - by one of Ozzy’s comments, and the ducks. I could feel my smile become a wicked grin as I stood by the pond. I felt oddly wide awake again. `Practical jokes, eh?’ I thought.

"Ah got me an idea!" I told the ducks, mimicking a hoodlum from the old film, American Graffiti. "Ah got me a good ah-dea!"

The ducks eyed me briefly, probably wondering what the nutter was muttering, then resumed their dabbling and drifted away.

Maybe they were right - maybe I was going doolally...

* * * *
To Be Continued...