Burning Roses

Chapter Four-2

STEPPING CAREFULLY over the body sprawled on the edge of the urinal, I slid the beer into an inside pocket and reached for my zip. It had been a while since the last pit stop.

“Gotta smoke, man?” I thought the Sabbath backpatch had looked familiar. Junkie had obviously broken into his old man’s liquor cabinet again. He’d usually bring a bottle to the club. But to make the theft undetectable, he’d take a tot from every bottle and mix them all together. The result was a muddy brown concoction which smelt delicious but kicked like an epileptic mule. Sometimes he would share his ill-gotten gains. Other times – like tonight – he would savour it as a solitary pleasure. The results on these occasions were predictable.

“It’s me, you sad cunt.” I leaned against the wall and placed a boot gently on his shoulders to stop him getting up. “Don’t move or I’ll piss on your head.”

“Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout?” He was trying to roll over. “John? Tha’ you man? Wha’s hap’nin’?”

The door opened and two bikers fell in, their arms around one another’s necks, spilling beer and laughing. They wore colours showing that they rode with the Horsemen, one of the newer clubs in town. I think they’d started on the East Rand somewhere, but now they were a local fixture. As the door swung shut, they separated and one came towards me, reaching for his fly.

“Alright?” He stepped on Junkie’s back and braced himself against the wall with one hand. Junkie moaned. The biker’s buddy leant against the wall, still laughing.

“How’s that for service?” the first one asked. “Something to wipe your feet on while you answer the call of nature.”

His mate was thoroughly enjoying this. “If you get any on your shoes, see if he’ll lick it off for you!”

I finished and zipped up, then reached for the beer bottle. The Irish had never been known for the elevated culture of its inhabitants, but this bunch had only appeared on the scene recently, and were not exactly knocking themselves out trying to make friends. Everyone loves bikers. I’d grown up around bikers. Salt of the earth. These guys just seemed to have a chip on their shoulders. There had been a couple of minor scuffles between them and the normal crowd, but nothing serious enough to get anyone worried. This could have been another one.

“Gotta smoke, man?” You had to admire Junkie’s persistence, if not his lifestyle. Face down on a toilet floor. 200 pounds of aggression on his back. But he wasn’t giving up.

The big man laughed again and shook a cigarette out of a packet, letting it fall to the damp floor in front of Junkie. Then he climbed down and left, grabbing his mate around the shoulders as he went.

Junkie placed the cigarette between his lips as the door closed behind them. “Gotta light, man?”

*