“Cheeky bugger!” Tinker growled, fighting to control the wobble occasioned by a close encounter of the fast kind. A taillight rapidly diminished into the night, but Tinker had already dropped a cog and given pursuit. He’d been on the way back from ‘Rockers’ Reunion’ in Reading, humming the old songs, dawdling along the M4 at eighty when the other bike blew past him like he was painted on a wall. Ubermensch the Vee would see about that.
Off the 120 mph clock and up into Uber’s new Baker overdrive sixth; a hundred high-cam cubic inches will move out seven hundred and seventy pounds of meat and metal pretty sharpish. Then a taillight flared red as the rider ahead veered off into the services with Tinker coming up fast on his arse.
The rider barely dismounted at the pumps before Tinker pulled alongside, so close he nearly had him over.
“Oi!” the other remonstrated, jumping back.
“Oi yerself,” snapped Tinker, getting off. “You nearly skinned me lane-splitting back there.”
They glowered, each sizing one another up. Both over six foot, however Tinker’s iron-pumped frame filled out his leathers while his adversary seemed whipcord slim. Helmets and scarves off, the differences were even more marked. Tinker’s full black beard bristled under emerald eyes that met the other’s bright blue, set in a pale face too acne-scarred for any decent growth. Flipping out a silver-shot braid from his jacket collar, Tinker watched his opponent automatically rearrange a jelly roll and duck’s arse, white as a snow goose, with a comb from the hip pocket of his Lewis Leather jeans. They regarded each other, preening unconsciously like old rival dogs, but the pissing height would be determined by their bikes.
Cripes! thought Tinker. A bleedin’ Norvin. He noted the understated artwork on its big, polished alloy tank; a circle with lightning striking through it. A bit like Oswald Moseley’s fascist emblem, derisively known as the ‘flash in the pan’. Yet this bolt was black and no swastika in the ring, instead the three armoured legs of an Isle of Man triskele. He swore under his breath. A Manx Lightning, the absolute ultimate café crossbreed and likely good for a ton fifty.
The rocker, in turn, whistled through his teeth. Not the lard-arsed hog he’d expected at all, it was… “What’s yer motor, mate?” he asked, scratching in Stewart Granger locks. “Like a bleedin’ castrated V-8.”
“Close,” said Tinker, not entirely happy with the analogy. “Closer to your Vinny though: another high camshaft, two valve, twin carb, air-cooled alloy vee.”
A commonality established, the hackles came down and they decided to bury the hatchet over a mug of tea at the adjacent truck services. Rocky, as he introduced himself was a dyed-in-the-leathers South London greaser from the early days of the Ace and Nightingale cafes. Single, enjoying the rocker resurgence like a second chance at life, Rocky was stuck in the early sixties.
Back then a youthful Tinker only had eyes for the other side of the pond; kinda apehangers ‘n angels instead of clip-ons and café.
Nowadays more demons and angels, apes didn’t hang high enough on the tree. Still, a life of dealing in iron ponies, like a good gypsy, meant he’d slung a leg over his share of sterling steel. Tinker had acquired his own favorites; Thruxton over Goldie, Vinnie over… well, everything. Fortunately, as they sniffed each other out, Tinker’s tastes coincided with Rocky’s. His dad used to take the family for spins on a ‘101’ Scout with a Princess sidecar. A young Rocky inherited the paternal prejudice against Harleys, hence that blow-past on the motorway.
“If you dig Indians,” said Tinker, hauling out his wallet, “you might like my old iron lady, Pocahontas.”
Rocky took the photo Tinker handed him; looked, looked very closely then stared back with a peculiar expression on his pitted face.
“I’ve seen this Indian Scout before,” he said, pointing at the nose-art on Poke’s cerise tanks. “You don’t soon forget a bird like that.”
Admittedly a naked squaw, posing provocatively behind the challenge ‘Feeling Brave’, left a distinct impression.
“Way back when I was a pizza-faced spotty hanging around the Ace on an ex-post office Bantam,” he persisted. “That bike was there, and you were on it.”
Tinker cursed under his breath, he’d been showing off burning doughnuts in the lot. It was forty years ago. It was last summer.
“So I remembered when I saw you at Gene Vincent’s last show ten years later,” Rocky continued. “Another ten go by and I spot you at the Ace reopening—and you know what?”
Tinker knew exactly what.
“You’ve never changed; same bloke, same bike.” Rocky had started becoming agitated. “You can restore bikes, but not people, not regular ones like.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I know your game, I’ve seen the films—you’re one of those immortals.”
Now Tinker figured the nearest Rocky had ever been to magic was mayhem with Mods at Margate or beating Bonnies back to the Busy Bee before Be-bop-a-Lula finished spinning on the box. Speed and violence; victory always has wings, yet no substitute for the sex-magic that would surely elude such a seriously lunar complexion.
Only one thing for it. Tinker eased the Buck knife from his belt and flicked out the blade. Rocky stiffened in his chair, blood suffusing his face causing the acne scars to stand out.
“Relax,” grunted Tinker. “I’m not gonna cut off yer friggin’ head.” He sliced a decent cut in the ball of his thumb; carefully, that star-honed edge would have the hand off a statue. Blood welled up and kept on coming. Tinker held it up before Rocky’s eyes. “See that healing any time soon?”
Being a methodical sort, Tinker kept a couple of butterfly plasters in his pocket and repairs were effected before he ran out of serviettes and leaked all over the table.
“Okay,” grumbled Rocky, not entirely convinced. “So you’re not one of those ‘Highlander’-type jocks. Who the fuck are you meant to be then, H. G. Wells?”
Tinker looked around, and then leaned over the table. “Keep it to yourself,” he said, sotto voce. “I’m kind of a wizard.”
Rocky stared, and exploded into laughter. “Right, the pointy hat should have been a dead giveaway. Gonna turn me into a bleedin’ toad then?”
Tinker regarded him steadily. He didn’t appreciate the old ways being mocked. “Naw, that’s for the bad boys. How about a handsome prince?”
Rocky just looked at him, disbelief twisting his lip. “That’ll be the day.”“Right.” Tinker dragged him over to a photo booth in the lobby. “Right profile, left, full face; just like down the nick. Last shot, pull your scarf up tight over your face and breath in, okay?”
Tinker jerked the curtain closed and fed in change. Several flashes later, Rocky came out, collected the strip of images and lifted a quizzical eyebrow.“Don’t take the scarf off yet,” Tinker instructed, pulling a pencil from his pocket. He reversed it and started rubbing the eraser against the edges of the scarf in the last snap.
Rocky stared over his shoulder. A creamy expanse, smooth as silk, now covered his lower face like its lunar landscape had been airbrushed away. Tinker tore that picture off and stuck it in Rocky’s top pocket. He held the rest out and with a snap of his fingers, they disappeared in flame. “Okay, you can take off the muffler, careful now.”
Hesitantly, Rocky peeled it from his face like bandages. “Hoi!” he shouted. “Look at my bleedin’ scarf.” The material was puckered and scabbed as if the silk worms had contacted leprosy. His face, on the other hand, felt smooth and pink as a smacked baby’s bum.
“Magic,” whispered Rocky, staring in the booth’s mirror and touching his cheeks with trembling fingers. “Fuck me rigid.”
“Not my type,” Tinker demurred. “A simple thank you will suffice. Maybe it’s the facelifts keep giving me a new lease of life. I bet it will for you.” This was a bit of a porky pie, but Tinker couldn’t be arsed explaining about his traveling through time passages.
Outside and the bikes warming up, Rocky still stared at himself in the handlebar end mirror. “Never believed in magic,” he breathed, fogging the glass. “Wish I had earlier.”
Tinker snicked into gear and revved the big-inch Vee. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “Tell you what, if you can catch me I’ll gift you a crank like a baby’s arm holding a cricket ball.”
Rocky had to settle for a baby’s face.
