there is no way out. Not really. I thought you’d have realized that by now . ’
*
B ack at Scampi’s place that evening , B ung and Scroat were squabbling about the club again.
‘What the fuck are we doing with a mumblie like that in the club any way ?’ Bung was saying , sneering at Scampi’s drug- slurred speech.
‘Earning good, that’s what.’
‘And that’s what it’s all about these days isn’t it?’ said Bung in disgust. ‘Damage wouldn’t have let him stay in the club for a minute, and neither w ill Wibble once he sees him again , and you know it.’
‘Well Damage ain’t here anymore is he? And Wibble ain’t P either, so I guess what they would or wouldn’t do ain’t worth a toss is it? So what Charlie says goes in my book. ’
‘Who says Wibble’s not P? What gives Charlie the right to call himself that? When the fuck was that voted on?’ Bung objected violently. ‘The club’s about more than one bloke and what he wants to do . ’
‘Yeah, but the club needs a leader, someone who decides what we’re going to do.’
It made me think back to the three months or so I’d spent interviewing D amage in jail, and about something Damage had always used to say whenever I asked him about his role in the club. Damage was always adamant that he didn’t run the club.
The members run the club , he had insisted, the officers are just there to serve the members. And if the officers get too far up themselves and want to do things that the club ’ s members don’t want to do then the club needs to remove them.
But sometimes you make decisions and have to make them stick on the members whether they like it or not , don’t you? I had said, referring back to some of his earlier talk about the need for strong leadership in the club.
His response had surprised me, Sometimes institutions need individuals to take great actions to reinvigorate them .
I guessed it was from the same play book as Charlie was now following. The old saying about a pples and trees sprang to mind.
*
Bung went out to get pizza, it was his turn.
It left just me and Scroat together, not a situation I relished.
Unlike my chats with Bung, Scroat and I normally just sat in silence. On one of our jail trips Bung had hit the shop at a service station and loaded up on stuff to pass our time here which was now scattered across the room, airport novels, the more rocket launchers involved the better, the current month’s Harley and custom bike mags, and a fine selection of illustrated journals for adult gentlemen from the top shelf.
Scroat was lying on his mattress, study ing a bike write up in American- V when I broke the silence.
‘So how is it going to end?’ I asked.
Scroat looked up and regarded me with his usual contempt.
‘How’s all what going to end?’
‘All this shit that we’re involved in here. All this talking between Wibble and Charlie?’
‘For Wibble?’
‘Yes, all right , for Wibble , ’ I said, an answer to that would be the start , although obviously I had concerns closer to home that I was really focused on.
‘Well, you know as well as I do what the answer is to that one,’ he said, ‘So how do you think this ends for fuck’s sake? And they all lived happily ever after?’
With two claim a nts to the post of P, I knew this was fundamentally a power struggle . And in a power struggle you could onl y have two outc omes, either you were the winner, or you were the loser.
And if Wibble lost, he wasn’t going to have a quiet retirement. The Brethren didn’t work like that. You might retire in good standing if you were a soldier with long service and you had served your time , but at Wibble’s level, with what he knew and with what risk he would pose to anyone still in the club, if he ever talked, the only way out was in a box.
*
Bung came in through the door bearing the familiar cardboard containers which were beginning to pile up in the corner of the room.
He clocked what Scroat was
*
B ack at Scampi’s place that evening , B ung and Scroat were squabbling about the club again.
‘What the fuck are we doing with a mumblie like that in the club any way ?’ Bung was saying , sneering at Scampi’s drug- slurred speech.
‘Earning good, that’s what.’
‘And that’s what it’s all about these days isn’t it?’ said Bung in disgust. ‘Damage wouldn’t have let him stay in the club for a minute, and neither w ill Wibble once he sees him again , and you know it.’
‘Well Damage ain’t here anymore is he? And Wibble ain’t P either, so I guess what they would or wouldn’t do ain’t worth a toss is it? So what Charlie says goes in my book. ’
‘Who says Wibble’s not P? What gives Charlie the right to call himself that? When the fuck was that voted on?’ Bung objected violently. ‘The club’s about more than one bloke and what he wants to do . ’
‘Yeah, but the club needs a leader, someone who decides what we’re going to do.’
It made me think back to the three months or so I’d spent interviewing D amage in jail, and about something Damage had always used to say whenever I asked him about his role in the club. Damage was always adamant that he didn’t run the club.
The members run the club , he had insisted, the officers are just there to serve the members. And if the officers get too far up themselves and want to do things that the club ’ s members don’t want to do then the club needs to remove them.
But sometimes you make decisions and have to make them stick on the members whether they like it or not , don’t you? I had said, referring back to some of his earlier talk about the need for strong leadership in the club.
His response had surprised me, Sometimes institutions need individuals to take great actions to reinvigorate them .
I guessed it was from the same play book as Charlie was now following. The old saying about a pples and trees sprang to mind.
*
Bung went out to get pizza, it was his turn.
It left just me and Scroat together, not a situation I relished.
Unlike my chats with Bung, Scroat and I normally just sat in silence. On one of our jail trips Bung had hit the shop at a service station and loaded up on stuff to pass our time here which was now scattered across the room, airport novels, the more rocket launchers involved the better, the current month’s Harley and custom bike mags, and a fine selection of illustrated journals for adult gentlemen from the top shelf.
Scroat was lying on his mattress, study ing a bike write up in American- V when I broke the silence.
‘So how is it going to end?’ I asked.
Scroat looked up and regarded me with his usual contempt.
‘How’s all what going to end?’
‘All this shit that we’re involved in here. All this talking between Wibble and Charlie?’
‘For Wibble?’
‘Yes, all right , for Wibble , ’ I said, an answer to that would be the start , although obviously I had concerns closer to home that I was really focused on.
‘Well, you know as well as I do what the answer is to that one,’ he said, ‘So how do you think this ends for fuck’s sake? And they all lived happily ever after?’
With two claim a nts to the post of P, I knew this was fundamentally a power struggle . And in a power struggle you could onl y have two outc omes, either you were the winner, or you were the loser.
And if Wibble lost, he wasn’t going to have a quiet retirement. The Brethren didn’t work like that. You might retire in good standing if you were a soldier with long service and you had served your time , but at Wibble’s level, with what he knew and with what risk he would pose to anyone still in the club, if he ever talked, the only way out was in a box.
*
Bung came in through the door bearing the familiar cardboard containers which were beginning to pile up in the corner of the room.
He clocked what Scroat was
Similar Books
