Allan Lowson April 1992
4661 52A Street, Disposable Copy
Ladner, B.C. About 5,700 words
CANADA. V4K 2Y7.
(604) 946-2427
"DIE SCHWARZWITWE"
Sun in my face, moolah jingling in the pockets, and a willing little one-lung pony between my legs. Royal Enfields were never exciting motorbikes even back when they still made 'em in Redditch, 'Rolling Oilfields' we called them. The parent factory had failed, but the Madras branch in India hadn't spiced them up any. Thing was, I was in a hurry to find a more potent ride and it looked like I might just be on to one.
That's my business, I'm Tinker. Classic bikes, parts, literature and memorabilia appraised, bought, or traded.
I know a brand new wog Bullet don't count as a classic, but I'd never had a new anything, not even as a kid. Besides I was, as we say, between wheels. I'd recently picked up a bog stock army 741 Indian, attached to a rotted-out plywood sidecar, for a song. The owner hadn't changed a thing since buying it from Pride & Clarke, including the oil from its smell, and his widow just wanted rid of it like they usually do.
Now a well-heeled Danish military collector was mad for an all- original 741 and threw in a worn-out Nimbus on the deal. Just so happened I knew this other punter who was real keen for an in-line four. Tarted up by yours truly, that Nimbus fair had his eyes going like a fruit machine. Kind of think he was too, but I'm never prejudiced when it comes to money. 'Course once I delivered the real thing, he didn't need his neo-classic, still-in-the-box Enfield.
I was barely off the ferry and glad to be home. The Tuborg lager had been okay and the Christiana hash excellent as usual. I'd even taken in the brewery tour, but nothing beats your very own British local.
It felt good to be back, and I pulled into the familiar parking lot with a thirst. The "Nelson Touch" was a free house and, as the shingle suggested, turned a blind eye to the sundry eccentricities of its clientele. This week's guest beer turned out to be Taddy Porter, a black charmer from the brew-kettles of Tadcaster. I'd had enough of blond lagerettes.
A flash of colour caught my eye as I walked up to the bar. Red the Ted of course, over by the window and rattling his empty glass on the table. I added a pint of mild and a couple of packets of crisps to my order, then carried them over to his table. He'd left a message for me about a strange bike. Old, black, big--my kinda ride.
Red had the build and colour sense of a rubix cube, but it wasn't the wild scarlet drape jacket that earned him the moniker, it was his hair. Not that you'd guess now, the silver jellyroll and immaculately coiffured 'duck's arse' locks suggested more powdered Regency than macassared Edwardian. The last time they had been scarlet was in the application of forehead rhinoplasty to an unfortunate opponent. Red was a bar fighter par excellence; his pork sausage fingers curled around the jar of mild and the faded H.A.T.E. tattoos from his Borstal boy days stood out. He was predictable as clockwork and a far better friend than enemy. I knew he'd be in the pub; like every Saturday afternoon while Shirley got on the steak and two veg.
Our girl Shirl was quite the piece of work too. At the Working Men's Club Saturday night Rock-Hop you'd still swear they were Wee Willy Harris and Diana Dors out there on the floor. Any remarks and you'd be out on the floor too, stretched out. Shirl carried a length of bike chain in her purse; as knuckleduster or flail it was a fearsome weapon, and Red a lifetime expert. She kept a stiletto-sharp steel comb in there too, and would cheerfully offer facial rearrangements to perceived rivals for her sweetie's affections.
He rapped on the battered "Old Holborn" tobacco tin that was inset with spent matches, another memento of Borstal days, and got out the makings. When Capstan Full Strength disappeared off the shelves he switched to rollups; before real ale made a comeback he was brewing his own. "I can piss stronger than what they're selling," he'd grumble. Red knew what he liked and what he didn't. Fortunately, he liked me.
"So Red," I ventured, "where is this mate of yours with the weird Vinnie?" Red was never really a Rocker, a V-8 man our Red, but how many bikes are just a gigantic polished-black engine with a wheel either at end? From his description it had to be a Vincent, and a 'special' at that. I could feel anticipation tingling in my bones, it sounded wicked.
"Chas'll be along, my old son, don't you fret. Even if he is a bit slow." Red chuckled, "I told you to come early so you could get 'em in." He held up his empty glass. Finder's fee.
He'd swilled another two out of me by the time a well- crunched Ford Transit van smoked into the lot. Chas turned out to be a London cabbie hustling a few quid on the side--but who isn't these days?
#
"So anyhow," Chas gurgled around a slurp of ale, seemed I was buying for everyone today. "I get hailed by this bloke in torn leathers, see. Looks like he got thrown down the road sumfin' chronic, and he's just hoppin' mad."
I could relate to that, test riding other people's neglected 'old nails' has ruined many a pair of my under shorts.
"I reckon he's hurt 'is head, concush... like what happened to me... 'cos he's raving away. Can't understand much, Jerry bloke, you see. He's swearing and shaking terrible, he is. Stuff like "Schwarz Teufel" and "Gottverdammt englischer rad". See, I can remember new stuff good. Tell you another thing, he was scared shitless of that bike. I saw a chance at a deal."
He looked at us for approval. "I gotta make the extra dosh with the kid coming 'n all. The funny thing is though, I don't have to say nuffin'. He don't want the bike, won't even go near it. I can't remember much about bikes from before the accident, but even all banged up that way, I just wanted it. I could tell it was special like." Chas beamed at his acumen. "The jerry pulled out the owner papers right there and then, said he'd sign anything, in blood if he had to. I got it for a hundred quid and even I know its worth more--only it was my mate John's money, so I gotta move it before he finds out." He looked at me uncertainly. "Red says you won't screw me."
I looked over at Red, and he nodded. I nodded back; frankly, Chas didn't put a rise in my Levis.
So we get out to the van and Chas opens the back. I didn't know who this John character was, but his investment was safe.
Whoa boy! It was a series "B" Vincent Black Shadow, the world's first motorbike designed exclusively for homicidal maniacs; and it didn't seem that bent at all. Mind you, it wasn't exactly stock either, kinda of gothic cafe racer that oozed viciousness like pitch.
I got in the van from the front and checked some more. Funny, no sign of road rash; no bent controls, 'no nuffin' as Chas would say. I was beginning to wonder if the simpleton act was a cover for some rip-off deal; then Chas pulled out the papers. Curiouser and curiouser! The bike was from Argentina originally and it seemed to have had lots of owners. For sure nobody appeared to have kept it long.
I wanted a look at the frame and case numbers. I straddled the front end and grabbed tight on the bars while Red heaved it around from the back. A shock hit me like I'd grabbed a plug wire. I cursed Chas's dirty acrylic shag carpeting and useless anti-static chain--a few links short, like its owner. Made me jerk and nearly let go, scaring Chas.
"Watch out for the side stand, it's not steady. Bleedin' thing rolled forward on me coming here, nearly had me into a pole." Having seen his version of a secured load I wasn't much surprised; knots weren't his forte.
But fortune favours fools. It was really special and after hauling it out, I walked around this terrible panther in awe. Everything shiny black except that peculiar scarlet emblem atop the leather tank cover; an hour glass or dice shaker, bit like that poisonous spider marking. This brute had clearly been evolved for one purpose alone—-brute speed.
Holee Moley! Someone had fitted fuel injectors and discs, and... Well, that's when I must have started talking to myself. There was something just didn't seem right with the motor, and it wasn't the numbers. The barrels had been dropped about an inch, major motor work for big gains. Bleedin' 'ell, it was a 'short-rod'.
"Izzat like a hot-rod?" Chas wanted to know. Not far off the mark. They run hotter, but they also run mucho faster. That weird tingle seemed to run bony fingers over my scalp again, and it peeled back my lips in a grin. I didn't care if it was a man-eater, I had to twist this pussy's tail to hear her howl. Maybe a little private burn-up before I buy. I can start any bike, I can.
Those weren't exactly my thoughts a second later, writhing around on the gravel and clutching my knee while the backfire still rang in my ears. Also ringing in my ears was laughter. It's times when you've revealed an inability to start a bike, or protect your person, that you need the sympathy of friends. I can understand bursting out laughing, but did it have to sound so diabolical?
Red lifted me up and the twitch in his face wasn't from the effort. "You're the hard man, Tink," he grunted approvingly. "I don't think I'd be able to laugh that off."
I took my weight and the pain made me snap at him. "Don't try to kid me, it was you laughing. You were howling like a tart."
Anger suffused his broad face, highlighting the white battle scars-- the pain in my knee suddenly seemed much less important.
"It must have been Chas," he growled, "and the last bloke as called me a nancy-boy is still eating through a straw."
I was perfectly willing to blame Chas, only he didn't look in the least amused, in fact he was the picture of misery.
"I've got nuffin to larf about, its a fuckin' jinx bike like the Jerry said. You won't want it now, and I'll be lumbered with it. John said he'd turn me into something 'orrid if I spent his dosh."
"Then it's not your lucky day, Sunshine," Red remarked, looking across to the side door. He waved. "Over here, Johnny boy."
A lanky blond guy was heading our way from the pub. Chas groaned aloud and even Red twitched his velvet collar with an instinctive pre- battle shrug. I wasn't impressed with the guy's Bogart act; dirty flasher's mac, unshaven, fag dangling out the corner of his mouth. Then he was close enough to look in the eyes. Crazy eyes--this bloke was capable of anything. I have a touch of the 'sight', being part-gypsy, and I could see big trouble ahead.
"'lo Chas," he drawled. "Where's my loot then?"
We all looked at Chas, then at the bike, then back at John.
"Jesus wept, Chas," he flared. "I can't even drive a car. What do you expect me to do with this ugly pile of shite?" John smacked the tank contemptuously; that's when it fell over on top of him.
"Watch out for the side stand..." Poor Chas, always a tad too slow.
Red pulled it off John's legs, but not before oil and petrol had spilt all down his mac. Surprisingly he didn't jump up and belt whoever was chuckling; he just lay there with a surprised expression on his phizog.
"Chas, you pillock, do you know what you've gotten us into here?"
Chas looked helplessly at me. Time to introduce myself, maybe good time for a deal. I reached out and helped John to his feet.
"Tinker's the name, old bikes are my game; and this vicious brute here is a 1948 Black Shadow special." I went to pat the tank, and then thought better of it. "Despite it just trying to kneecap me, I would be willing to take it off your hands if you're not interested in keeping it." There were a few posers I wouldn't mind seeing on crutches. But more than that, I wanted to break her in; to take 'er out and give 'er stick.
"Well, Tinkerman," John drawled. "I may know dick about bikes, but this one is more special than you can imagine, and I am interested." He replaced the fag that had got smeared across his face. "Very interested."
Shit, just when the financial prospects were making my knee feel better.
"But don't worry," he reassured me, noting my disappointment. "I don't want to keep the machine or jack up the price. I just want to get something out of it." He turned to Chas. "C'mon, let's load her up and go to your lock-up, there is a spot of business to attend to before anyone rides off into the sunset."
#
We unloaded at Chas's. Red figured he'd better give Shirl a bell to say he'd be late for dinner, and with him off to the corner box I chained the Vinnie to a pole and went inside. I didn't bother with my bike; the local 'tea leaves' could have the Bullet for all I cared now. I wanted that big black cat.
John was clearing a big space on the cluttered floor. I thought it was for the bikes, but then he started fooling around with lumps of chalk and weird shit from the boxes he'd been moving around. I should have split when I saw him light those stinking candles and arrange the magic gear, mumbling the whole time. I looked at Chas and immediately regretted it. He was sweating and trembling like a tethered horse scenting fire. I was about to sneak out, when John spoke over his shoulder.
"You know it will take more than your chains of faerie bane to keep that machine leashed," he remarked casually. "It's possessed, of course-- fascinating case. Usually it's animals or trees, but transmigration for sure. Actual metalmorphosis, first I've got my mitts on. Soon as it went for me, I knew." He shrugged. "What a beauty, pity she's gone bad."
Now I came here to horse-trade, not play "Ghostbusters". Unfortunately the door frame became filled by Red and he was staring glumly at the intricate layout on the floor.
"Yer at it again, John," he accused. "The bike, she's a wrong 'un, isn't she?" Red looked apologetically at me. "I could feel 'er hating me as I was holding the bike down in the back of the van on the way over. I always could smell out the bad eggs."
John puffed a fresh cancer stick into life at the candle flame before him, exhaling a great plume of smoke. "You always had a good nose, Eddie, forever sticking it in the wrong places like me."
Considering Red's nose looks like a derailed goods train, I thought, it's a wonder it can smell anything.
Red flashed his gold-reinforced ivories in a rueful grin. "You should know, you're always leading me by it--you'd charm the foreskin off an elephant, you would." He looked at John for a moment, then shrugged and came in. Red never missed a fight.
John turned to Chas, and pulled out the bike papers. "This isn't so much a record of ownership; it's a bloody obituary list. So, we're going to stop it right here."
Chas didn't look too keen on the 'we' idea till John reminded him of the formalities.
"Course really it's the current owner's problem, he's next." John looked suitable concerned. "Would I be right in thinking this was your signature, Chas?" Chas seemed to nod; mind you it could have been him shaking.
John turned to face me. Mr. Crazy-eyes.
"How is your knee, Tink? Is it going to bend or stand?"
The pain flared up suddenly, blotting out everything else. But through the red mist I could see his eyes, feel his will forcing me to look.
It was like I was re-living a whole series of bike crashes; experiencing one horrible wreck after another, young men thrown down the road and smashed like eggs. It was always the same bike, the same blood- thirsty laughter. I'd seen their names on the log; but it was their faces I saw now, and they were all looking at me. Fallen riders. Always give a hand to fallen riders--that's the rules.
I refocused into his steady grey stare. "Okay, okay. You're the bloody magician." I nodded, "I'll stand fine."
#
"... and don't go beyond the circle any more than you'd stretch your hand into a panther's cage." I cocked a skeptical eye at Red as John rattled on, but he gave me a hard look that said "Watch your 'bottle'".
John took out a Swiss army knife and cut away the oil-soaked tail of his trench-coat.
"We're off to the 'Twilight Zone' kiddies and no mistake. No matter how strange things get, trust in yours truly or we're all fucked." The rag went into the center of the penta-wottsit and he bent over it.
I jumped as he deliberately stabbed the blade into his thumb and directed the flow of blood on to the oil-blackened gabardine, folding the cloth over quickly. Nothing like fresh blood to command attention; mine was drawn to the bright stain as he spread it open again... the crimson blot was in the shape of a corset, like that red leather design on the tank.
John lit a fresh coffin nail. He took a big drag then dropped the match on the oily rag, stepping back quickly into the protective concentric rings before it caught.
"We stand at the stations," he intoned, "and have just cause for summoning. You were nearly the death of Chas here, Tinker has a limp, my mac's ruined, and... " He turned to Red.
"Yeah, Shirl pissed off," Red grumbled. "Always knows when I'm up to something, said she's going to give my steak to the dog."
John hurried on. "Anyhow, on behalf of the more serious victims, we call you to account. From the union of my blood with the life fluid of your avatar, I claim the courtesies accorded to kinship. It's Show 'n Tell time."
The rag burst angrily into flame, emitting a foul pall of smoke like it was a CS canister. I could hardly see across to Red for the greasy black cloud. Whatever could be in a bike to stink like that, whale oil? Strange, the way it just hung there and grew like doom. John was even stranger.
"Now then, don't be shy; Johnny boy knows what you like." He leered and took a roughly cut triangle of leather from his pocket, about the size of a G-string. He held it up to his nose, snuffling 'n slobbering like a bloodhound, and then winked suggestively at me... That racing solo seat! He'd cut the crotch out of the bleedin' seat.
John leaned to the edge of the inner chalk circle so the fragrant pelt was just one thin red pubic hair over. He was stretching out an obscene length of tongue when the foul smoke flew at his face like a dust- devil. John's tongue snapped back faster than a chameleon with a bug--and he dropped the leather scrap.
It fell half across the chalk line. He stamped down on his side as a polished black riding boot smoked down from out the cloud on to the other. I nearly swallowed my tonsils, but John spoke with the voice of authority.
"We stand toe to toe, but you cannot cross the fossil dust line that has ever barred evil from the world of creation. From the earliest strata of Life her physical remains press you back. The undead may not cross a proper line; that's the rules." He fired me a quick wink. Cocky bastard, you had to like him.
The writhing smoke billowed towards him like blood in water. It was compressing into a form opposing his, indistinct as a shadow. He blew an enormous smoke ring from lasciviously pouted lips straight into the roiling darkness that faced him. It was like an old 'Invisible Man' movie, where steam or powder reveals the features--only it wasn't a man's face.
A form coalesced, all in black leather with only the pale face showing. Even paler was the platinum hair braided in a thick coif around her head. The Coleridge rhyme came to me, "... skin as white as leprosy, the nightmare life-in-death was she..." but it was rage that whitened those pure Aryan features.
"Untermensch," she spat, vainly tugging her boot sole against the saddle scrap.
John took a thoughtful whiff, and flicked away the ash. "Tell you what, speak English and answer my questions. I'll take my foot off your 'sit-upon'."
The mouth bared faultless teeth. "Scum!"
"That's me, darlin', " John replied cheerfully and nudged the fragment over the line. It seemed to flow up the polished boot, like a ripple in black chrome, and was lost in the flair of tight leather breeches. The tailoring was perfect; it could have been her own flesh. The military cut jacket was of the same second-skin variety and around the high collar was a ribbon, on the ribbon was a gold swastika in a cog wheel. We hadn't just raised any old demonatrix, we'd released a Valkyrie.
"Scum," she repeated, as if the word was a maggot in her mouth, and her perfect porcelain doll face sneered at each of us in turn. Her finger stabbed at John. "You, the perverse lunatic."
Chas quailed before the cold fire of her eyes. "Your quivering dupe, the subnormal."
I was next.
"And you, Romany, who would trade me like a horse." Her eyes were sapphire that hurt to look at, and then she turned the beam on Red.
"Last and lowest of all, der Jude. Halbstark, in the foppish guise of a forgotten class to celebrate your decadence, such Kitsch. The tasteless Jew."
Red's face screwed up around his much-broken nose and he slipped out his dental plate into a velvet trimmed pocket. He didn't look particularly Jewish; he looked exactly like Winston, his bad tempered bulldog, just before it bit.
"My dad Sol, God bless 'im, fought your kind from Mosley's black shirts to the Ruhr. Nazis don't scare me."
Unfortunately, nothing did when Red's blood was up, and I realized she was goading him into breaking the circle. Luckily, so did John, but he merely whispered a name.
"Fraulein von Schwarzstein."
She spun around like a cat.
"Yes, your name from the motorcycle log." He pulled it from his pocket. "Now you shall give account of yourself, that's the rules of naming. You do know they are strictly enforced? "
She hissed hungrily at him, but complied. Not every day you learn how to bind a demon.
"General von Schwarzstein was my father; his armoured column was caught refueling in the Ardennes by rocket-carrying Typhoons during an unlucky break in the weather. He had foreseen the Gotterdammerung and made plans for the family. In the event of his death, I'd be smuggled to Argentina where we had relatives. I didn't care what happened to me by then anyhow; my Siegfried had also died in that last, heroic offensive."
Her jaw worked like it was anticipating raw flesh. I sure hoped we were following the right rule book.
"Seigfried was serving under colonel Skorzeny and had volunteered to deliver false dispatches on a captured American motorcycle. He hit a mine and was found by one of their patrols, wounded and pinned under the machine with his Schutz Staffel uniform showing beneath the torn US field jacket. They fired tracer into the tank and roasted him like a pig--bragged to their prisoners about it afterwards." She drew her coral lips back in a snarl of contempt for lesser breeds. "He had raced the Kompressor before the war; none of your effete riders could ever catch him. He was like an iron centaur on that supercharged BMW." Her eyes blazed up like acetylene. "Siegfried fell beneath a burning bike while riding for his country. He died a hero, my hero."
I bet he was pure Nordic stock too, nose like a steel ruler and the distant blue eyes of an angel. It dawned on me that this was her weakness, her potential salvation--good love gone bad. Then the evil rolled thick in her voice again
"My uncle managed Cimic Ltd. in Buenos Aires, and they had the distributorship for Vincent Motorcycles. He obtained the Shadow at my request just before Peron clamped down on imports. Many men have laboured to hone the performance since, but none had the will to master its power. They were all weaklings."
The snarl settled into a lipless smile. "I was an overmatch for the gaucheros on their Harley-Davidson and Indian carthorses, even the police's Vincent Rapides were too slow. I ran with a fast set that dabbled in black arts and white powders. Their weakness disgusted me, life disgusted me-- only my motorcycle was black and perfect. It was my Shadow, my instrument, my dark desire. Out on the road at night we were one, and God help the dawdler we found in our way." A shockingly red tongue flicked out over her cold lips.
"My family had always moved in occult circles. The Fuhrer's astrologer was a frequent houseguest and I was considered a promising student amongst the inner Reich. So, as an ice-blonde amongst the greasers, I found judicious applications of sex, money, drugs and blackmail obtained powerful secrets from the self-corrupted. There are old forces that slumber just beneath the veneer of civilization and I discovered how to wake them."
Her laughter rang cruel and hollow. "The Old Ones were strong and ruthless, and they were hungry. I didn't have to explain my need for revenge; they understood perfectly. They showed me how to realize my dream. How to become the perfect instrument; no corruptible flesh, no vacillating emotion--a killing machine. All it would cost was my worthless life; to ride beyond the edge and let my dark steel lover enter this weak vessel. The impact split me wide open; the older ones had their blood--and I had my will. Now I was a true Valkyrie."
Hell's teeth! Talk about the "Shadow of Death", they'd really sucked her into a devil's bargain. It was a terrible black spider we'd snared in our web. Mateless, but sustained for decades on the hot blood of young riders who'd strove to master her power. As we did now.
John tried the charm. I gotta admit he was smooth.
"Look, I know what it's like to lose a father and so many friends and lovers that I've lost count. It can really mess your head up, and I don't mind admitting I've been to the 'farm' a couple of times. I'm sorry about what happened; but it was war, and over half a century ago. It's no good keeping the old wounds open."
You could see he'd have a way with the ladies; wish I could turn on sincerity like that.
He spread his hands in a gesture of peace and forgiveness. "It's all over luv; the Reich, Evita and Peron, Vincents--all in the past with the dead. It's time to rest with them now--the killing's over."
Her nostrils flared in contempt. "You English never change, blind to the forces of manifest destiny; effete and perfidious. My last owner spoke of the Red blunderers crawling to beg for bread at the Brandenburg gates. Our time has come again and my country needs me. Only the fittest must survive the race and I hunger to thin the Autobahns of 'slave' breeds. Only the best, the strongest, the most pure may survive."
Her face was something from "Triumph of the Will". Goebbels did a great job on this one. How can anyone imagine evil cares which race it feeds on? Mind you, it does seem partial to the Herrenvolk. I like to think there is a well-warmed spot in Hell for our rarer monsters.
"I thought my new owner would ride with me and scour Deutschland clean, but the bloder kerl wanted to put me in a museum."
The "bloody oaf" had a hundred nicker and his life; we had a tiger by the tail.
I wet my lips and swallowed. "I hate to tell you, luv, but he was right. They wouldn't let you out of the collection, never mind burning up the 'bahns. You're not type approved--too loud, too dirty, too politically incorrect. Really you'd just be an embarrassment to the new order; they're still trying to pretend people like you never happened."
John picked up my theme. "'S true, you can never go back to the river- -it's all washed away. The dead can't feed off the quick either; so if you won't pass over gracefully, I'll have to exorcise you. It's all for the best really." He held out the ownership log close to the candle flame. "Your name, and in your hand. Your contract with the Black Shadow: repent, and let me free you."
Her laugh was operatic in its range, Wagner would have cried in public. Every passion was there: sexual challenge, triumph, hatred, and yet... torment.
"You don't know me," she hissed, but it was all there for anyone to see writhing across her face.
"I am no longer Fraulein von Schwarzstein--Siegfried and I married secretly on his last leave. Father didn't approve of him; he wasn't from an aristocratic family or even in the party, but he was my hero... no one rode like Siegfried. He was decent and pure as I am now evil. He would even forgive those who took him from me, but not I. They made me witwe...und jetzt bin Ich die Schwarzwitwe!"
Jesus, she was and all. The Black Widow, and I thought it was just another motorcycle apocrypha. I'd heard about the ghost Vincent that rode its riders to death but somehow always survived to kill again. The factory made Shadows, Lightnings, Knights and Princes, all of them Black. I'd always assumed some joker made up Black Widow story; but I wasn't laughing now.
She curled her perfect lip and spat--John's candle was extinguished.
The cigarette butt fell from his fingers. That candle was on our side of the line; I had a very bad feeling. Her glittering black toe pointed at the inner circle, to where John had pushed the scrap of leather over to her--its suede side had wiped a path through the chalk.
Time slowed down like in a bike crash; the blood left John's face, Chas groaned; Red tensed himself to spring. There was nothing I could do: nada, nix, zilch. Zilch? Zilcher? Siegfried Zilcher, best of the BMW riders before the war and one of Goebbels' propaganda heroes till he was lost in action. It wasn't my day to die after all.
"Frau Zilcher," I whispered gently. Nothing falls harder on the ear of a demon than its true name.
She turned with a hiss--what a face! Agony and ecstasy, beauty and naked horror. So deadly dangerous, yet so vulnerable. It had fallen on me to pronounce sentence.
I spoke again, but the voice wasn't my own. "It really is over, liebschen." She froze in mid-spring, and her eyes opened very wide.
She looked right through me and took a step forward. "Siegfried?"
Things happened very fast then. Red threw himself at her, but then the doors blew open in a fiery explosion, and she was gone.
We picked ourselves up, dazed, and rushed outside. The Vincent was a pillar of hungry flame, and standing beside it smelling of singed peroxide, was Shirley.
"Where is that blond tart you was throwin' yerself at?" she shrilled at Red. "She won't get far without her bike, and when I catch..." Shirl stopped in mid-screech, and I followed her eyes. In the flames was the terrible answer.
"'Strewth!" John saw it too.
The Widow was burning with her bike; the blazing petrol had stripped away her leathers. Underneath the blistered, peeling flesh was evil incarnated in steel--the metalmorph. I flashed on Brigette Helm as the insane robot, Maria, burned at the stake in Fritz Lang's 'Metropolis'. We all gaped and stepped back, the heat was unbelievable and the alloy parts were going Salvador Dali. Then it was like a movie gone into reverse; pink virgin flesh lay below the molten metal that rolled off her flanks in toxic glittering beads. But it wasn't the body of a Brunnhilde that the fires revealed. She was a girl, fresh in the perfection and innocence of youth. Her face was uplifted to a brighter light, eyes focused and her lips parted in a smile of wonder. "Oh,Siegfried," she whispered, "I'm coming."
#
Then it was just the stink of burning rubber and smoke nipping at our eyes. The bike was a puddle of slag. John held the log book over its dwindling flames and used it to light up a fag, dropping the faded papers into the embers.
"Forget the hundred quid Chas," he muttered. "I reckon we all had our money's worth."
* * *
Riding home, my little Enfield didn't seem too slow at all. But that's the way it is with motorcyclists; meeting a bike widow always puts you off burn-ups.
"DIE SCHWARZWITWE"
Sun in my face, moolah jingling in the pockets, and a willing little one-lung pony between my legs. Royal Enfields were never exciting motorbikes even back when they still made 'em in Redditch, 'Rolling Oilfields' we called them. The parent factory had failed, but the Madras branch in India hadn't spiced them up any. Thing was, I was in a hurry to find a more potent ride and it looked like I might just be on to one.
That's my business, I'm Tinker. Classic bikes, parts, literature and memorabilia appraised, bought, or traded.
I know a brand new wog Bullet don't count as a classic, but I'd never had a new anything, not even as a kid. Besides I was, as we say, between wheels. I'd recently picked up a bog stock army 741 Indian, attached to a rotted-out plywood sidecar, for a song. The owner hadn't changed a thing since buying it from Pride & Clarke, including the oil from its smell, and his widow just wanted rid of it like they usually do.
Now a well-heeled Danish military collector was mad for an all- original 741 and threw in a worn-out Nimbus on the deal. Just so happened I knew this other punter who was real keen for an in-line four. Tarted up by yours truly, that Nimbus fair had his eyes going like a fruit machine. Kind of think he was too, but I'm never prejudiced when it comes to money. 'Course once I delivered the real thing, he didn't need his neo-classic, still-in-the-box Enfield.
I was barely off the ferry and glad to be home. The Tuborg lager had been okay and the Christiana hash excellent as usual. I'd even taken in the brewery tour, but nothing beats your very own British local.
It felt good to be back, and I pulled into the familiar parking lot with a thirst. The "Nelson Touch" was a free house and, as the shingle suggested, turned a blind eye to the sundry eccentricities of its clientele. This week's guest beer turned out to be Taddy Porter, a black charmer from the brew-kettles of Tadcaster. I'd had enough of blond lagerettes.
A flash of colour caught my eye as I walked up to the bar. Red the Ted of course, over by the window and rattling his empty glass on the table. I added a pint of mild and a couple of packets of crisps to my order, then carried them over to his table. He'd left a message for me about a strange bike. Old, black, big--my kinda ride.
Red had the build and colour sense of a rubix cube, but it wasn't the wild scarlet drape jacket that earned him the moniker, it was his hair. Not that you'd guess now, the silver jellyroll and immaculately coiffured 'duck's arse' locks suggested more powdered Regency than macassared Edwardian. The last time they had been scarlet was in the application of forehead rhinoplasty to an unfortunate opponent. Red was a bar fighter par excellence; his pork sausage fingers curled around the jar of mild and the faded H.A.T.E. tattoos from his Borstal boy days stood out. He was predictable as clockwork and a far better friend than enemy. I knew he'd be in the pub; like every Saturday afternoon while Shirley got on the steak and two veg.
Our girl Shirl was quite the piece of work too. At the Working Men's Club Saturday night Rock-Hop you'd still swear they were Wee Willy Harris and Diana Dors out there on the floor. Any remarks and you'd be out on the floor too, stretched out. Shirl carried a length of bike chain in her purse; as knuckleduster or flail it was a fearsome weapon, and Red a lifetime expert. She kept a stiletto-sharp steel comb in there too, and would cheerfully offer facial rearrangements to perceived rivals for her sweetie's affections.
He rapped on the battered "Old Holborn" tobacco tin that was inset with spent matches, another memento of Borstal days, and got out the makings. When Capstan Full Strength disappeared off the shelves he switched to rollups; before real ale made a comeback he was brewing his own. "I can piss stronger than what they're selling," he'd grumble. Red knew what he liked and what he didn't. Fortunately, he liked me.
"So Red," I ventured, "where is this mate of yours with the weird Vinnie?" Red was never really a Rocker, a V-8 man our Red, but how many bikes are just a gigantic polished-black engine with a wheel either at end? From his description it had to be a Vincent, and a 'special' at that. I could feel anticipation tingling in my bones, it sounded wicked.
"Chas'll be along, my old son, don't you fret. Even if he is a bit slow." Red chuckled, "I told you to come early so you could get 'em in." He held up his empty glass. Finder's fee.
He'd swilled another two out of me by the time a well- crunched Ford Transit van smoked into the lot. Chas turned out to be a London cabbie hustling a few quid on the side--but who isn't these days?
#
"So anyhow," Chas gurgled around a slurp of ale, seemed I was buying for everyone today. "I get hailed by this bloke in torn leathers, see. Looks like he got thrown down the road sumfin' chronic, and he's just hoppin' mad."
I could relate to that, test riding other people's neglected 'old nails' has ruined many a pair of my under shorts.
"I reckon he's hurt 'is head, concush... like what happened to me... 'cos he's raving away. Can't understand much, Jerry bloke, you see. He's swearing and shaking terrible, he is. Stuff like "Schwarz Teufel" and "Gottverdammt englischer rad". See, I can remember new stuff good. Tell you another thing, he was scared shitless of that bike. I saw a chance at a deal."
He looked at us for approval. "I gotta make the extra dosh with the kid coming 'n all. The funny thing is though, I don't have to say nuffin'. He don't want the bike, won't even go near it. I can't remember much about bikes from before the accident, but even all banged up that way, I just wanted it. I could tell it was special like." Chas beamed at his acumen. "The jerry pulled out the owner papers right there and then, said he'd sign anything, in blood if he had to. I got it for a hundred quid and even I know its worth more--only it was my mate John's money, so I gotta move it before he finds out." He looked at me uncertainly. "Red says you won't screw me."
I looked over at Red, and he nodded. I nodded back; frankly, Chas didn't put a rise in my Levis.
So we get out to the van and Chas opens the back. I didn't know who this John character was, but his investment was safe.
Whoa boy! It was a series "B" Vincent Black Shadow, the world's first motorbike designed exclusively for homicidal maniacs; and it didn't seem that bent at all. Mind you, it wasn't exactly stock either, kinda of gothic cafe racer that oozed viciousness like pitch.
I got in the van from the front and checked some more. Funny, no sign of road rash; no bent controls, 'no nuffin' as Chas would say. I was beginning to wonder if the simpleton act was a cover for some rip-off deal; then Chas pulled out the papers. Curiouser and curiouser! The bike was from Argentina originally and it seemed to have had lots of owners. For sure nobody appeared to have kept it long.
I wanted a look at the frame and case numbers. I straddled the front end and grabbed tight on the bars while Red heaved it around from the back. A shock hit me like I'd grabbed a plug wire. I cursed Chas's dirty acrylic shag carpeting and useless anti-static chain--a few links short, like its owner. Made me jerk and nearly let go, scaring Chas.
"Watch out for the side stand, it's not steady. Bleedin' thing rolled forward on me coming here, nearly had me into a pole." Having seen his version of a secured load I wasn't much surprised; knots weren't his forte.
But fortune favours fools. It was really special and after hauling it out, I walked around this terrible panther in awe. Everything shiny black except that peculiar scarlet emblem atop the leather tank cover; an hour glass or dice shaker, bit like that poisonous spider marking. This brute had clearly been evolved for one purpose alone—-brute speed.
Holee Moley! Someone had fitted fuel injectors and discs, and... Well, that's when I must have started talking to myself. There was something just didn't seem right with the motor, and it wasn't the numbers. The barrels had been dropped about an inch, major motor work for big gains. Bleedin' 'ell, it was a 'short-rod'.
"Izzat like a hot-rod?" Chas wanted to know. Not far off the mark. They run hotter, but they also run mucho faster. That weird tingle seemed to run bony fingers over my scalp again, and it peeled back my lips in a grin. I didn't care if it was a man-eater, I had to twist this pussy's tail to hear her howl. Maybe a little private burn-up before I buy. I can start any bike, I can.
Those weren't exactly my thoughts a second later, writhing around on the gravel and clutching my knee while the backfire still rang in my ears. Also ringing in my ears was laughter. It's times when you've revealed an inability to start a bike, or protect your person, that you need the sympathy of friends. I can understand bursting out laughing, but did it have to sound so diabolical?
Red lifted me up and the twitch in his face wasn't from the effort. "You're the hard man, Tink," he grunted approvingly. "I don't think I'd be able to laugh that off."
I took my weight and the pain made me snap at him. "Don't try to kid me, it was you laughing. You were howling like a tart."
Anger suffused his broad face, highlighting the white battle scars-- the pain in my knee suddenly seemed much less important.
"It must have been Chas," he growled, "and the last bloke as called me a nancy-boy is still eating through a straw."
I was perfectly willing to blame Chas, only he didn't look in the least amused, in fact he was the picture of misery.
"I've got nuffin to larf about, its a fuckin' jinx bike like the Jerry said. You won't want it now, and I'll be lumbered with it. John said he'd turn me into something 'orrid if I spent his dosh."
"Then it's not your lucky day, Sunshine," Red remarked, looking across to the side door. He waved. "Over here, Johnny boy."
A lanky blond guy was heading our way from the pub. Chas groaned aloud and even Red twitched his velvet collar with an instinctive pre- battle shrug. I wasn't impressed with the guy's Bogart act; dirty flasher's mac, unshaven, fag dangling out the corner of his mouth. Then he was close enough to look in the eyes. Crazy eyes--this bloke was capable of anything. I have a touch of the 'sight', being part-gypsy, and I could see big trouble ahead.
"'lo Chas," he drawled. "Where's my loot then?"
We all looked at Chas, then at the bike, then back at John.
"Jesus wept, Chas," he flared. "I can't even drive a car. What do you expect me to do with this ugly pile of shite?" John smacked the tank contemptuously; that's when it fell over on top of him.
"Watch out for the side stand..." Poor Chas, always a tad too slow.
Red pulled it off John's legs, but not before oil and petrol had spilt all down his mac. Surprisingly he didn't jump up and belt whoever was chuckling; he just lay there with a surprised expression on his phizog.
"Chas, you pillock, do you know what you've gotten us into here?"
Chas looked helplessly at me. Time to introduce myself, maybe good time for a deal. I reached out and helped John to his feet.
"Tinker's the name, old bikes are my game; and this vicious brute here is a 1948 Black Shadow special." I went to pat the tank, and then thought better of it. "Despite it just trying to kneecap me, I would be willing to take it off your hands if you're not interested in keeping it." There were a few posers I wouldn't mind seeing on crutches. But more than that, I wanted to break her in; to take 'er out and give 'er stick.
"Well, Tinkerman," John drawled. "I may know dick about bikes, but this one is more special than you can imagine, and I am interested." He replaced the fag that had got smeared across his face. "Very interested."
Shit, just when the financial prospects were making my knee feel better.
"But don't worry," he reassured me, noting my disappointment. "I don't want to keep the machine or jack up the price. I just want to get something out of it." He turned to Chas. "C'mon, let's load her up and go to your lock-up, there is a spot of business to attend to before anyone rides off into the sunset."
#
We unloaded at Chas's. Red figured he'd better give Shirl a bell to say he'd be late for dinner, and with him off to the corner box I chained the Vinnie to a pole and went inside. I didn't bother with my bike; the local 'tea leaves' could have the Bullet for all I cared now. I wanted that big black cat.
John was clearing a big space on the cluttered floor. I thought it was for the bikes, but then he started fooling around with lumps of chalk and weird shit from the boxes he'd been moving around. I should have split when I saw him light those stinking candles and arrange the magic gear, mumbling the whole time. I looked at Chas and immediately regretted it. He was sweating and trembling like a tethered horse scenting fire. I was about to sneak out, when John spoke over his shoulder.
"You know it will take more than your chains of faerie bane to keep that machine leashed," he remarked casually. "It's possessed, of course-- fascinating case. Usually it's animals or trees, but transmigration for sure. Actual metalmorphosis, first I've got my mitts on. Soon as it went for me, I knew." He shrugged. "What a beauty, pity she's gone bad."
Now I came here to horse-trade, not play "Ghostbusters". Unfortunately the door frame became filled by Red and he was staring glumly at the intricate layout on the floor.
"Yer at it again, John," he accused. "The bike, she's a wrong 'un, isn't she?" Red looked apologetically at me. "I could feel 'er hating me as I was holding the bike down in the back of the van on the way over. I always could smell out the bad eggs."
John puffed a fresh cancer stick into life at the candle flame before him, exhaling a great plume of smoke. "You always had a good nose, Eddie, forever sticking it in the wrong places like me."
Considering Red's nose looks like a derailed goods train, I thought, it's a wonder it can smell anything.
Red flashed his gold-reinforced ivories in a rueful grin. "You should know, you're always leading me by it--you'd charm the foreskin off an elephant, you would." He looked at John for a moment, then shrugged and came in. Red never missed a fight.
John turned to Chas, and pulled out the bike papers. "This isn't so much a record of ownership; it's a bloody obituary list. So, we're going to stop it right here."
Chas didn't look too keen on the 'we' idea till John reminded him of the formalities.
"Course really it's the current owner's problem, he's next." John looked suitable concerned. "Would I be right in thinking this was your signature, Chas?" Chas seemed to nod; mind you it could have been him shaking.
John turned to face me. Mr. Crazy-eyes.
"How is your knee, Tink? Is it going to bend or stand?"
The pain flared up suddenly, blotting out everything else. But through the red mist I could see his eyes, feel his will forcing me to look.
It was like I was re-living a whole series of bike crashes; experiencing one horrible wreck after another, young men thrown down the road and smashed like eggs. It was always the same bike, the same blood- thirsty laughter. I'd seen their names on the log; but it was their faces I saw now, and they were all looking at me. Fallen riders. Always give a hand to fallen riders--that's the rules.
I refocused into his steady grey stare. "Okay, okay. You're the bloody magician." I nodded, "I'll stand fine."
#
"... and don't go beyond the circle any more than you'd stretch your hand into a panther's cage." I cocked a skeptical eye at Red as John rattled on, but he gave me a hard look that said "Watch your 'bottle'".
John took out a Swiss army knife and cut away the oil-soaked tail of his trench-coat.
"We're off to the 'Twilight Zone' kiddies and no mistake. No matter how strange things get, trust in yours truly or we're all fucked." The rag went into the center of the penta-wottsit and he bent over it.
I jumped as he deliberately stabbed the blade into his thumb and directed the flow of blood on to the oil-blackened gabardine, folding the cloth over quickly. Nothing like fresh blood to command attention; mine was drawn to the bright stain as he spread it open again... the crimson blot was in the shape of a corset, like that red leather design on the tank.
John lit a fresh coffin nail. He took a big drag then dropped the match on the oily rag, stepping back quickly into the protective concentric rings before it caught.
"We stand at the stations," he intoned, "and have just cause for summoning. You were nearly the death of Chas here, Tinker has a limp, my mac's ruined, and... " He turned to Red.
"Yeah, Shirl pissed off," Red grumbled. "Always knows when I'm up to something, said she's going to give my steak to the dog."
John hurried on. "Anyhow, on behalf of the more serious victims, we call you to account. From the union of my blood with the life fluid of your avatar, I claim the courtesies accorded to kinship. It's Show 'n Tell time."
The rag burst angrily into flame, emitting a foul pall of smoke like it was a CS canister. I could hardly see across to Red for the greasy black cloud. Whatever could be in a bike to stink like that, whale oil? Strange, the way it just hung there and grew like doom. John was even stranger.
"Now then, don't be shy; Johnny boy knows what you like." He leered and took a roughly cut triangle of leather from his pocket, about the size of a G-string. He held it up to his nose, snuffling 'n slobbering like a bloodhound, and then winked suggestively at me... That racing solo seat! He'd cut the crotch out of the bleedin' seat.
John leaned to the edge of the inner chalk circle so the fragrant pelt was just one thin red pubic hair over. He was stretching out an obscene length of tongue when the foul smoke flew at his face like a dust- devil. John's tongue snapped back faster than a chameleon with a bug--and he dropped the leather scrap.
It fell half across the chalk line. He stamped down on his side as a polished black riding boot smoked down from out the cloud on to the other. I nearly swallowed my tonsils, but John spoke with the voice of authority.
"We stand toe to toe, but you cannot cross the fossil dust line that has ever barred evil from the world of creation. From the earliest strata of Life her physical remains press you back. The undead may not cross a proper line; that's the rules." He fired me a quick wink. Cocky bastard, you had to like him.
The writhing smoke billowed towards him like blood in water. It was compressing into a form opposing his, indistinct as a shadow. He blew an enormous smoke ring from lasciviously pouted lips straight into the roiling darkness that faced him. It was like an old 'Invisible Man' movie, where steam or powder reveals the features--only it wasn't a man's face.
A form coalesced, all in black leather with only the pale face showing. Even paler was the platinum hair braided in a thick coif around her head. The Coleridge rhyme came to me, "... skin as white as leprosy, the nightmare life-in-death was she..." but it was rage that whitened those pure Aryan features.
"Untermensch," she spat, vainly tugging her boot sole against the saddle scrap.
John took a thoughtful whiff, and flicked away the ash. "Tell you what, speak English and answer my questions. I'll take my foot off your 'sit-upon'."
The mouth bared faultless teeth. "Scum!"
"That's me, darlin', " John replied cheerfully and nudged the fragment over the line. It seemed to flow up the polished boot, like a ripple in black chrome, and was lost in the flair of tight leather breeches. The tailoring was perfect; it could have been her own flesh. The military cut jacket was of the same second-skin variety and around the high collar was a ribbon, on the ribbon was a gold swastika in a cog wheel. We hadn't just raised any old demonatrix, we'd released a Valkyrie.
"Scum," she repeated, as if the word was a maggot in her mouth, and her perfect porcelain doll face sneered at each of us in turn. Her finger stabbed at John. "You, the perverse lunatic."
Chas quailed before the cold fire of her eyes. "Your quivering dupe, the subnormal."
I was next.
"And you, Romany, who would trade me like a horse." Her eyes were sapphire that hurt to look at, and then she turned the beam on Red.
"Last and lowest of all, der Jude. Halbstark, in the foppish guise of a forgotten class to celebrate your decadence, such Kitsch. The tasteless Jew."
Red's face screwed up around his much-broken nose and he slipped out his dental plate into a velvet trimmed pocket. He didn't look particularly Jewish; he looked exactly like Winston, his bad tempered bulldog, just before it bit.
"My dad Sol, God bless 'im, fought your kind from Mosley's black shirts to the Ruhr. Nazis don't scare me."
Unfortunately, nothing did when Red's blood was up, and I realized she was goading him into breaking the circle. Luckily, so did John, but he merely whispered a name.
"Fraulein von Schwarzstein."
She spun around like a cat.
"Yes, your name from the motorcycle log." He pulled it from his pocket. "Now you shall give account of yourself, that's the rules of naming. You do know they are strictly enforced? "
She hissed hungrily at him, but complied. Not every day you learn how to bind a demon.
"General von Schwarzstein was my father; his armoured column was caught refueling in the Ardennes by rocket-carrying Typhoons during an unlucky break in the weather. He had foreseen the Gotterdammerung and made plans for the family. In the event of his death, I'd be smuggled to Argentina where we had relatives. I didn't care what happened to me by then anyhow; my Siegfried had also died in that last, heroic offensive."
Her jaw worked like it was anticipating raw flesh. I sure hoped we were following the right rule book.
"Seigfried was serving under colonel Skorzeny and had volunteered to deliver false dispatches on a captured American motorcycle. He hit a mine and was found by one of their patrols, wounded and pinned under the machine with his Schutz Staffel uniform showing beneath the torn US field jacket. They fired tracer into the tank and roasted him like a pig--bragged to their prisoners about it afterwards." She drew her coral lips back in a snarl of contempt for lesser breeds. "He had raced the Kompressor before the war; none of your effete riders could ever catch him. He was like an iron centaur on that supercharged BMW." Her eyes blazed up like acetylene. "Siegfried fell beneath a burning bike while riding for his country. He died a hero, my hero."
I bet he was pure Nordic stock too, nose like a steel ruler and the distant blue eyes of an angel. It dawned on me that this was her weakness, her potential salvation--good love gone bad. Then the evil rolled thick in her voice again
"My uncle managed Cimic Ltd. in Buenos Aires, and they had the distributorship for Vincent Motorcycles. He obtained the Shadow at my request just before Peron clamped down on imports. Many men have laboured to hone the performance since, but none had the will to master its power. They were all weaklings."
The snarl settled into a lipless smile. "I was an overmatch for the gaucheros on their Harley-Davidson and Indian carthorses, even the police's Vincent Rapides were too slow. I ran with a fast set that dabbled in black arts and white powders. Their weakness disgusted me, life disgusted me-- only my motorcycle was black and perfect. It was my Shadow, my instrument, my dark desire. Out on the road at night we were one, and God help the dawdler we found in our way." A shockingly red tongue flicked out over her cold lips.
"My family had always moved in occult circles. The Fuhrer's astrologer was a frequent houseguest and I was considered a promising student amongst the inner Reich. So, as an ice-blonde amongst the greasers, I found judicious applications of sex, money, drugs and blackmail obtained powerful secrets from the self-corrupted. There are old forces that slumber just beneath the veneer of civilization and I discovered how to wake them."
Her laughter rang cruel and hollow. "The Old Ones were strong and ruthless, and they were hungry. I didn't have to explain my need for revenge; they understood perfectly. They showed me how to realize my dream. How to become the perfect instrument; no corruptible flesh, no vacillating emotion--a killing machine. All it would cost was my worthless life; to ride beyond the edge and let my dark steel lover enter this weak vessel. The impact split me wide open; the older ones had their blood--and I had my will. Now I was a true Valkyrie."
Hell's teeth! Talk about the "Shadow of Death", they'd really sucked her into a devil's bargain. It was a terrible black spider we'd snared in our web. Mateless, but sustained for decades on the hot blood of young riders who'd strove to master her power. As we did now.
John tried the charm. I gotta admit he was smooth.
"Look, I know what it's like to lose a father and so many friends and lovers that I've lost count. It can really mess your head up, and I don't mind admitting I've been to the 'farm' a couple of times. I'm sorry about what happened; but it was war, and over half a century ago. It's no good keeping the old wounds open."
You could see he'd have a way with the ladies; wish I could turn on sincerity like that.
He spread his hands in a gesture of peace and forgiveness. "It's all over luv; the Reich, Evita and Peron, Vincents--all in the past with the dead. It's time to rest with them now--the killing's over."
Her nostrils flared in contempt. "You English never change, blind to the forces of manifest destiny; effete and perfidious. My last owner spoke of the Red blunderers crawling to beg for bread at the Brandenburg gates. Our time has come again and my country needs me. Only the fittest must survive the race and I hunger to thin the Autobahns of 'slave' breeds. Only the best, the strongest, the most pure may survive."
Her face was something from "Triumph of the Will". Goebbels did a great job on this one. How can anyone imagine evil cares which race it feeds on? Mind you, it does seem partial to the Herrenvolk. I like to think there is a well-warmed spot in Hell for our rarer monsters.
"I thought my new owner would ride with me and scour Deutschland clean, but the bloder kerl wanted to put me in a museum."
The "bloody oaf" had a hundred nicker and his life; we had a tiger by the tail.
I wet my lips and swallowed. "I hate to tell you, luv, but he was right. They wouldn't let you out of the collection, never mind burning up the 'bahns. You're not type approved--too loud, too dirty, too politically incorrect. Really you'd just be an embarrassment to the new order; they're still trying to pretend people like you never happened."
John picked up my theme. "'S true, you can never go back to the river- -it's all washed away. The dead can't feed off the quick either; so if you won't pass over gracefully, I'll have to exorcise you. It's all for the best really." He held out the ownership log close to the candle flame. "Your name, and in your hand. Your contract with the Black Shadow: repent, and let me free you."
Her laugh was operatic in its range, Wagner would have cried in public. Every passion was there: sexual challenge, triumph, hatred, and yet... torment.
"You don't know me," she hissed, but it was all there for anyone to see writhing across her face.
"I am no longer Fraulein von Schwarzstein--Siegfried and I married secretly on his last leave. Father didn't approve of him; he wasn't from an aristocratic family or even in the party, but he was my hero... no one rode like Siegfried. He was decent and pure as I am now evil. He would even forgive those who took him from me, but not I. They made me witwe...und jetzt bin Ich die Schwarzwitwe!"
Jesus, she was and all. The Black Widow, and I thought it was just another motorcycle apocrypha. I'd heard about the ghost Vincent that rode its riders to death but somehow always survived to kill again. The factory made Shadows, Lightnings, Knights and Princes, all of them Black. I'd always assumed some joker made up Black Widow story; but I wasn't laughing now.
She curled her perfect lip and spat--John's candle was extinguished.
The cigarette butt fell from his fingers. That candle was on our side of the line; I had a very bad feeling. Her glittering black toe pointed at the inner circle, to where John had pushed the scrap of leather over to her--its suede side had wiped a path through the chalk.
Time slowed down like in a bike crash; the blood left John's face, Chas groaned; Red tensed himself to spring. There was nothing I could do: nada, nix, zilch. Zilch? Zilcher? Siegfried Zilcher, best of the BMW riders before the war and one of Goebbels' propaganda heroes till he was lost in action. It wasn't my day to die after all.
"Frau Zilcher," I whispered gently. Nothing falls harder on the ear of a demon than its true name.
She turned with a hiss--what a face! Agony and ecstasy, beauty and naked horror. So deadly dangerous, yet so vulnerable. It had fallen on me to pronounce sentence.
I spoke again, but the voice wasn't my own. "It really is over, liebschen." She froze in mid-spring, and her eyes opened very wide.
She looked right through me and took a step forward. "Siegfried?"
Things happened very fast then. Red threw himself at her, but then the doors blew open in a fiery explosion, and she was gone.
We picked ourselves up, dazed, and rushed outside. The Vincent was a pillar of hungry flame, and standing beside it smelling of singed peroxide, was Shirley.
"Where is that blond tart you was throwin' yerself at?" she shrilled at Red. "She won't get far without her bike, and when I catch..." Shirl stopped in mid-screech, and I followed her eyes. In the flames was the terrible answer.
"'Strewth!" John saw it too.
The Widow was burning with her bike; the blazing petrol had stripped away her leathers. Underneath the blistered, peeling flesh was evil incarnated in steel--the metalmorph. I flashed on Brigette Helm as the insane robot, Maria, burned at the stake in Fritz Lang's 'Metropolis'. We all gaped and stepped back, the heat was unbelievable and the alloy parts were going Salvador Dali. Then it was like a movie gone into reverse; pink virgin flesh lay below the molten metal that rolled off her flanks in toxic glittering beads. But it wasn't the body of a Brunnhilde that the fires revealed. She was a girl, fresh in the perfection and innocence of youth. Her face was uplifted to a brighter light, eyes focused and her lips parted in a smile of wonder. "Oh,Siegfried," she whispered, "I'm coming."
#
Then it was just the stink of burning rubber and smoke nipping at our eyes. The bike was a puddle of slag. John held the log book over its dwindling flames and used it to light up a fag, dropping the faded papers into the embers.
"Forget the hundred quid Chas," he muttered. "I reckon we all had our money's worth."
* * *
Riding home, my little Enfield didn't seem too slow at all. But that's the way it is with motorcyclists; meeting a bike widow always puts you off burn-ups.