Chameleon

Standing at around six feet two inches tall, and with a solid stomach that hung over a straining studded belt, Bricko would have looked like eighteen stone of menace to any opposing biker gang. His long oily hair and unkempt beard did not detract from the menacing message his cold ice blue eyes sent when he frowned, and he was frowning now.

Bricko had been living in this run down mobile home park for three months but he now knew that the time had arrived for him to move on. He knew that if he removed the Warrior motif painted on his black leather jacket and replaced it with a target he couldn’t be in more danger than he was already. With a back story that linked him to the five most wanted biker gangs in the country, Bricko would have been considered the archetypal violent and transient biker. Once he had set things in motion this morning he would have to be out of here and on the road again within the hour.

The aging biker reached into his pocket and removed an ancient and battered ‘pay as you go’ mobile phone. The phone only registered a couple of bars and so he climbed off his bike and walked further into the clearing. When more bars appeared he dialled the number listed in the newspaper as being the ‘Crimestoppers’ confidential helpline. It took some time for the phone to be answered and when it was he heard a young woman on the other end of the line. She sounded bored and tired as she a

“This is Bricko. You might want to take notes.” The biker knew that the call was likely to be recorded. “I’ve just seen the newspaper article about the motorcycle gang we talked about before and I can tell you that the “Warriors” are living in an old mobile home park outside Harringford Village off the B436.” He paused while the operator took notes. “But the pigs had better be quick or the camp will be empty when they get there. Tell the paper I’ll be calling for the reward money. Remember the name ‘Bricko’”. He spelled it out and ended the call.

Having made the call, he knew he could expect the police within the hour. Bricko removed the battery and sim card from the phone and threw them deep into the undergrowth; not that there was anything on the card that could lead the police to him. Then, quite deliberately he placed the phone under the wheel of the bike and climbed back on. The engine roared into life; there was no need for quiet now. He rode over the mobile phone and into the camp.

***

UK biker gangs had proliferated in the craziness of the 1960s when their reputation for violence and disorder preceded them. Each successive summer their standing had been enhanced as they were blamed for terrorising seaside towns and quiet villages across the country. But like most worries and concerns the fear of biker gangs was largely u

By the end of the mille

Jonty, christened Jonathan Derek Latimer, was raised in a bungalow in a leafy suburb of Oxford and had been a pillar of middle class young adult society until his final year at university. Celebrating the completion of his final exam and his last edition of the OSH “Oxford Student Herald” as editor, he had spent the night participating in a student drinking game and had drunk so much it was a wonder he could stand up, let alone walk home.

Jonathan was close to the digs he shared with fellow students when he spotted a young girl sitting on the kerb, crying. It turned out that it was her birthday, and she had got drunk and become immobile so her friends had abandoned her. She sat forlorn in torn tights and a black dress that concealed little. The new graduate helped her to her feet and together they stumbled towards his lodgings.

Even now, fifteen years later, he couldn’t remember the details of what happened that night. He recalled, inasmuch as he could recall anything, that they had consensual sex and that he treated her well, but the bruises on her thin body and the invisible tears to her young organs told a different story. By the time he had sobered up, the girl had been interviewed by the police and admitted to a hospital, where she had been subjected to a rape test whilst her mother and father waited outside, bemused and confused.

“She was supposed to be at a friend’s house…… we didn’t even know she owned a dress like that,” they were later quoted as saying.

Jonathan had fully recovered from his hangover by the time he picked up the local evening newspaper. He had even managed to attend his final tutorial. The lead story shook him to the core and he knew at that moment that his life was over.

Even through his drunken stupor he had appreciated that the girl was slightly built, not yet a fully developed woman, and somehow he had liked that about her, but never in his wildest imaginings had he thought that she was a virgin and had just turned 14 years old. As he read the article he swore out loud, to the consternation of a crowd of tourists walking by. He forced himself to read on. The police had his fingerprints on her handbag and the girl, Olivia, recalled that she had been raped on a college campus with historic buildings but was confused as to which one it might have been. Any scintilla of hope about evading justice that Jonathan might have held onto evaporated when he turned to the inside pages.

The sketch was masterful. His mother would have loved it on her living room wall. It might just as well have had his name written underneath. The girl had obviously spent the wee small hours awake and staring at his sleeping face before making her escape. If there had been any doubt about who the sketch portrayed it was removed by the description of his tattooed shoulders, a colourful eagle whose wingspan reached from shoulder to shoulder with the words “Freedom from Tyra

Since then, and for the intervening fifteen years, Jonty had stayed one step ahead of the authorities. He changed his appearance, he made money where he could and now he led an ever decreasing band of hapless bikers who lacked the imagination to break free from the “Warriors” and its less than charismatic leader.