Page 3 of Demon
“Demon!” my father barked, shooting me a look that told me I was already on thin ice, and we’d only been in church two minutes. This day was seriously going to shit.
The wiry biker stood up, lean, toned arms covered in tattoos hanging out of the t-shirt sleeves, his leather cut over the top. We all wore them to church. It was etiquette.
“There’s some gaps in the party drug market at the moment. And with the festival season creeping up, it would be a good idea to get in on the action.”
The men round the table nodded.
“I’ve found a supplier who can get a great new mix for us. It’s coming in off the continent. Nice and easy. We would need to buy a decent batch initially and then agree on a monthly supply. Money up front and then in advance every month. I can shift it easy. I just need the investment money and storage so I can cut the product to get the most profit.”
“How much are we talking?” my father asked.
“£50k.”
“And what are you offering the club?”
“Thirty percent profits.”
“Forty percent and we’ll put it to the vote.”
Magnet nodded. It wasn’t really a negotiation. If he wanted the loan, he would have to agree to the terms. But it was etiquette to pretend to negotiate. The fifty-thousand-pound investment was a big risk to a member. If they fucked it all up, they’d have to repay the entire amount with interest, and they’d unlikely get another loan from the club. Yet if it worked, they’d get profits and kudos. And no matter what barmy scheme Magnet was running, it always paid off.
“All in favour….”
I scanned the members at the table, watching everyone raise their hands in agreement, my own joining them. And so, business continued. I’d drifted off halfway through, my mind wandering off to fleshy lips and Irish accents. To a shirt pulled tight over good-sized tits and the brown hair that fell loose around her shoulders. She’d had a scar on her right cheek. Still angry. As angry as she had been. But it hadn’t detracted from the big doe eyes with thick lashes and the heart-shaped face.
“Demon! Demon!”
“What?”
I blinked, clearing my vision, twenty odd faces staring at me expectantly.
“You going toTroubletonight?”
“Aye. We’re due to collect a payment.”
“Well, make sure the club actually gets this one. We’re not taking it in anything other than notes.”
A deep chorus of chuckles vibrated round the room.
*****
Trouble on the Tyne, almost a namesake of our own clubhouse, was packed as full as I had ever seen it. From the outside, the building looked half-dilapidated. An old shop front now bricked up with a patchwork of reds and oranges and terracotta, nothing matching, all reclaimed just to fill the gap. It was a sensible approach. The area had been long earmarked for demolition, but with Council coffers running dry, money had been re-designated and the once thriving shopping area was now revived with pop-up bars and a new sex club. Just what the residents of South Shields really needed. But we weren’t complaining.
The sign was painted crudely on the building, a vertical wall of black and red lettering to read justTrouble. There were no doormen. There was little need. We had a presence there most nights and all the punters knew to be on their best behaviour. The consequences were worn on our cuts.
It was a neighbouring motorcycle association who’d approached us for a loan and our contacts in the licensing department. And now we took fifty percent of their profits. Every night. And I took another ten percent in kind.
The music bounded out the doors and along the road. Heavy tunes and thick bass, but the vibrations of the overly loud music couldn’t dilute the roar of the bikes. We pulled into the car park opposite, lining the bikes up from where we could see them out of one of the upstairs windows. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to steal them.
We walked in from the grey of dusk; the sun setting far away, only the tiny sliver of burnt gold, dying out on the western flank. It was late. But as it was just May, the nights were getting longer, and the days warmer. The street outside the club was dimly lit, some streetlights firing to life, others too dead now to even attempt a dull glow; the council having given up any proper form of maintenance.
Six of us entered the club. I was there to collect and the other five were just there for a whole load of tits and pussy. And there it was before us. On the stage, hanging around the pole in the middle, and then moving between booths. A feel copped here and there, and a handful of pound notes stuffed in snug places.
Fury and the twins evicted the nearest booth. The men in there did not even bother to resist, just glancing at the patches on our backs and moving dutifully out of the way. I edged in beside them, watching their eyes fix on the women wearing little more than a thong. Reap joined us, his usual pained look making me want to buy him a lap dance and a wank just to cheer him the fuck up. He was two weeks out of prison and had never cracked a smile yet. Instead, he was constantly on edge, like a caged animal, desperately trying to figure out what to do with his freedom.
“Mate,” Fury shouted across the table towards him. “Maybe you should chuck some money on a bit of pussy tonight? No one wants sausage constantly.”
Reap frowned, and the twins howled, one of them, although I could never tell which, slapping Fury on the shoulder as if he’d cracked something worthy of an Edinburgh Fringe award. And off to my right, a waitress passed.
