Itinerant Child

  INTINERANT CHILD

  FREAKS M.C.

  ENGLAND

  Sarah Osborne

  THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

  Itinerant Child © 2015 Sarah Osborne

  All rights reserved

  Sarah Osborne has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Also by this author

  A Family Man.

  Sanctuary.

  Legacy.

  For Oz

  ~oOo~

  1

  Either England had changed a hell of a lot in the twenty-five years he'd been away, or his memory had been playing tricks on him. Nitro followed his brothers out of the misty rain into the clubhouse, and, not for the first time, questioned his decision to leave sunny California for the rain-soaked, overcrowded, shithole in the middle of the North Atlantic.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His divorce had been messy—restraining order messy—and heat was falling onto the club as a result. So when it was suggested that maybe he should drop off the grid for a while, it made sense that he should return to the country of his birth and spend some time with his limey brothers.

  The Freaks MC had realised, a long time ago, that the way forward was to follow the example of the bigger clubs. They needed to expand into Europe and up their profile, so throughout the late Eighties and early Nineties, chapters had been set up in the UK, France and Germany. Like their counterparts in the States and Canada, the chapters had autonomy, but paid tribute to the mother chapter in Bay View for the right to wear the Viper on their cuts, and a licence to sell Freak merchandise.

  The club was a corporate entity now, with lawyers and accountants, and while there were still those who would shut them down, the public perception was shifting slightly. There were bigger and scarier monsters in the world, and a bunch of guys on Harleys didn't seem to pose much of a threat anymore. This suited the Freaks just fine, and while the world looked over its shoulder for the next terrorist threat, for them it was business as usual.

  Nitro liked the chapter he'd patched into, and was surprised with just how outlaw it was. It had close links to a club in Rotterdam, and illicit goods of many varieties crossed the English channel on a regular basis. Business was brisk, and the coffers were full, just how he liked it. He'd been surprised how much he liked the English countryside as well, and on those rare days when it wasn't raining, he was enjoying experiencing the delights of country roads.

  Unfortunately, in the six months he'd been there, it had rained pretty much all of the time, and the country lanes that were just begging to be ridden on were littered with death traps. The roads around these parts were unforgiving, and he quickly realised that if he wanted to be able to keep up with the pack, his love affair with his old chopper was going to have to come to an end.

  He was the last to take his seat in church. There had been a few girls in the bar, and he was still enough of a novelty to get the cream of the crop; it had seemed unfair to completely ignore them.

  Denny, the President, grinned as Nitro sat down. “They'll still be there when you come out, mate.” He looked around. “Before we start, I wanna throw some work your way. Bloke's bought a farm on the edge of Dartmoor. He's got a bit of a squatter problem, and would like it resolved quickly.” He laughed. “Nice easy gig. We go in—no colours—crack some snot nosed punks' skulls and be home by midnight a good deal richer. Anyone want in, stay back when we're done, and we'll go over the details, then. Now, on to business.”

  ~oOo~

  In Mouse's world, everything was the enemy.

  On a daily basis, she battled the cold and the system in equal measure. No cause was too small, and no oppressor too big. Mouse would take them all on with a passion that came from knowing that without people like her, nothing would ever change, and the rights of the many would be swallowed by the greed of the few.

  Mouse was a warrior. She fought on behalf of those who couldn't. She fought because someone had to. And she fought because she wanted to live in a better world.

  Today though, she was fighting mud.

  It had been an ongoing battle for nearly three months, and if she was completely honest with herself, she was about ready to throw in the towel. Living off the grid with this small group of travellers wasn't quite as idyllic as she'd envisioned. She'd known it wouldn't be easy, of course; Mouse was a veteran of occupations and had lived in communes, on encampments and in squats for years, but she hadn't been prepared for just how mind numbing and soul destroying, day after day, month after month of subsistence living could be. And she sure as shit hadn't been prepared for the mud.

  She leaned on her broom and decided that the floor of her home—an old converted horsebox that she shared with Digger, a true crusty of indeterminate age—was clean enough. Digger would regale her with tales of Solstice festivals at Stonehenge, of tree houses built to protect ancient woodlands from the developers' grasp, and of getting the shit kicked out of him by the cops on The Beanfield. Mouse sighed; she loved him, and loved how the years hadn't dulled his passion, but she swore to every deity there was that next time he didn't take his fucking boots off before entering the tiny space they shared, she would tear him limb from limb.

  “Mouse!” Gaynor, a little punk who would probably tire of rebelling against mummy and daddy very soon, poked her head around the door. “Looks like we've got trouble.”

  “Shit.” Mouse pulled on her boots. “Who's here?”

  Gaynor ran her fingers through her hair. “Everyone, I think. What do you think they're going to do?”

  Mouse looked at the men climbing out of the van a few yards from the edge of the camp. “Well, I'm pretty sure they're not Jehovah’s Witnesses. Fuck, Digger was right, everyone was being too complacent.” She looked around. “Where is Digger?”

  “I dunno.”

  Mouse felt her jaw clench. Both she and Digger had warned everyone that this would happen. The scrap of land they occupied had been owned by a succession of developers—carpetbaggers—who just wanted to sit on it until house prices went up enough to make building on it profitable. The travellers had first set up camp a couple of years previously and, as they were tucked away out of sight in woodland, no one paid them any heed. There had been no eviction notices, and even social services seemed unaware of their presence—despite there being several kids on site—and the little group had dropped their guard.

  “Fuckin' hippies.” Digger marched over, pulled her from the doorway and ran inside, returning, seconds later, with a machete. “I told 'em. I fuckin' told 'em that this would happen. And what did they do? Fuck all, that's what.” Digger knew all about fortifying encampments, but his suggestions had fallen on deaf ears. He had dug ditches across all but one of the tracks leading through the wood but hadn't had time to build fencing and towers. “Those fuckers aren't here to serve a writ.” He grabbed her arm. “Get Meg and the kids together and take them down to the cow barn by the river.”

  ~oOo~

  “Fuck, man. There are women and kids here.” Nitro glanced at his brothers, who looked as unhappy as him.

  Denny clearly wasn't happy, either. A small, skinny man with a straggly beard and dreadlocks to his waist approached, a machete held loosely in his hand. Denny took a step forward. “You've got five minutes to get out.”

  “Sorry, no can do, squire.” The hippie, or whatever the fuck he was, gave a gap toothed grin. “Would appreciate you giving us a minute to get the kids out, though.”

  Nitro wanted no part of
this. He'd thought the squatters would be militant anarchists who were as much up for a fight as he was. But these were families, and this was their home. He turned away. “Count me out, bro.”

  Next to him, Biff, the huge SAA, shifted and wrapped the bike chain around his hand. “Fucking dirty pikeys. Shouldn't be allowed to have kids in a place like this.” He took a step forward but was halted by Denny's hand on his arm.

  “Ten minutes. Talk fast. Can't guarantee anyone's safety after that.”

  ~oOo~

  There were five kids on the encampment. The eldest were aware of the threat, but all were calm as they followed Mouse and Meg through the trees. This was part of the drill—another thing Digger had insisted on. The cow barn was warm and dry, and they would be safe there while... shit. Mouse handed Meg's youngest, a six-month-old baby, to her oldest brother. “Stay here. I'm going back.”

  “Don't be stupid, Mouse.”

  Mouse grinned. She'd known, as soon as she'd seen them, that those men were bikers—they might not have been wearing cuts, but it was written all over them. And she knew that they were miles from anywhere, and doubted they'd all traveled for hours in the back of that van.

  She kissed Meg on the cheek. “I'll be fine. I just want to check something out.”

  The wood was bordered on three sides by roads, and could be accessed from all of them via narrow tracks. Ditches and bunds protected two, making it impossible to enter with a vehicle. The third was passable, but only just, and unless they were on dirt bikes, no one would try to ride a bike through those deep, water-filled ruts. Mouse ran back through the trees towards the derelict farmyard. The perfect place to leave bikes if you wanted them hidden from the road.

  Behind her, she could hear raised voices. Mouse didn't really have a plan. She just wanted those arseholes to know what it felt like to have their property destroyed.

  She'd been right. Five bikes were parked in a row under the roof of a Dutch barn. She was hardly an expert, but she knew immediately that three were Triumphs and two were Harleys. She grinned. And that stupid looking chopper, with its fancy chrome and paint job on the tank, must've taken hours of work.

  She pulled a small knife from the back pocket of her jeans. Too bad they were too stupid to leave someone to guard such craftsmanship. Mouse ran her hand along the viper emblazoned on the tank and flicked open the knife. “Fuck you, Mr Freak.”

  A large hand grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. “Drop the knife first, and I'll be happy to oblige.”

  The voice was deep and—fuck—hot. As he spoke, he brought his face close to her ear, and she could feel a beard tickle her cheek. His free hand grabbed her throat, but he wasn't hurting her. Just letting her know that he could. Mouse let the knife fall from her fingers and begged her mouth not to say anything stupid.

  Her mouth didn't listen.

  “Let me go, you fucking bully.” She kicked back. Her captor grunted as the heel of her para boot connected with his shin, but instead of letting her go, he twisted her arm a little more and tightened his hold on her throat.

  “Really don't want to hurt you, darlin'” He had an accent—American, she thought. Mouse found herself being pulled closer to him as he released her arm and grabbed a handful of her hair. “I'm bigger'n you, an' you'd better believe I hit helluva lot harder. So you might as well stop trying to fight me.”

  He was at least a head taller than her, and the hand around her throat was rough and... big. Mouse probably should be scared. No, she definitely should be scared. She was alone with a biker who had just caught her about to fuck up the paintwork on a stupid bike. But he still wasn't hurting her, and she couldn't detect any anger in his voice.

  She forced herself to relax in his hold. “What are you going to do to me?”

  He was silent for a beat, then chuckled. “Kinda thought I'd let you go, an' you'd run along like a good little punk. Course, if you'd prefer, I could probably overlook the fact that you an' soap likely ain't friends.”

  “You really are a complete piece of shit, aren't you?”

  He let go of her throat and gave her hair one final tug. “You'd better believe it. Now fuck off, an' never touch a man's bike again.”

  The smart thing to do, would be to keep her mouth shut, run away and not look back. It would not be to turn around and face him.

  But his friends were smashing up her home. His friends were hurting her friends.

  Mouse spun on her heel and looked him straight in the eye. “But it's okay to smash up someone's home, huh? I hope you're being well paid, maybe that's what helps you sleep at night. Although I'm guessing people like you don't have a conscience. I expect you get off on hurting women and children.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and gave a crooked smile. “I ain't hurting no one.”

  “Your friends are.”

  Mr American biker, with the, oh shit, really pretty brown eyes, shrugged. “Why don't you stop yapping, an' listen. I don't hear anything, do you?”

  Now she came to think about it, she didn't. “So your friends are efficient.”

  “Or they're talking.” His face was really... shit... nice. “We hadn't been told there would be women and kids here. My brothers are family men. That shit don't sit well with them.”

  “Told by who?”

  He shrugged again. “The man with the money.”

  Mouse narrowed her eyes. “Does this man have a name?”

  “Yup, but I dunno what it is.” He shrugged. “He wants you an' your punk buddies gone. If you're smart, you'll clear out before anyone gets hurt. Whoever he is, he ain't gonna play by the rules.”

  2

  “All we have is their word that they won’t be back.” The small group of travellers had no leader, but no one had told Nigel... or Spirit Dancer, or whatever the fuck he called himself. As far as he was concerned, he was in charge, and he would be the one to decide on any course of action they might take. “I say it's time to move on. Next time they might not be so co-operative.”

  Mouse stared into the fire and sighed. The American biker had been right; his friends had wanted no part of smashing up their homes or hurting women and children, and she doubted they'd return. But someone would. “My truck is dead, Ni... Dance. I'm not going anywhere. Why not put the word out, get more bodies here and fortify the area? It could buy us more time.”

  Digger nodded. “We got lucky this time. The Freaks are big on family, but whoever comes next won’t give a shit. I suggest those with kids move out—festival season is starting soon in any case, so it's not like a lot of you'd be sticking around much longer. The rest of us should think about how we defend this place. I've called a few friends, an' they're all over social media with this.” He took a long drag on his roll up and coughed. “We dunno what we're up against, but whoever owns the land now ain't gonna play by the rules. If you don't wanna stay, you should get out as quick as possible, but if you don't wanna see these woods torn up for holiday homes, you're gonna have to be prepared to fight.”

  “We didn't come here to fight.” Meg unattached the baby from her tit and buttoned up her shirt. “We came here because we wanted something better for our kids... something better than bullshit commercialism.”

  “If you want summat better for your kids,” Digger stood up. “You have to fight for it.”

  Mouse grinned. Digger had been fighting all his life. Like her, he saw the bigger picture. He knew that these were battles they rarely won; it was nigh on impossible to defeat an enemy that had the establishment on their side... that were the establishment. As far as the rest of the population was concerned, they were the enemy. This ragtag bunch of activists and idealists, who believed that, just maybe, there was another way—a better way—to live.

  Most people went about their lives unaware that, all over the world, a handful of warriors were fighting on their behalf. They were saving everything from rainforests to whales, defending communities from developers and oil companies alike. While Mr and Mrs Average tuck
ed their two point five kids into their IKEA beds, men like Digger were on the front line in the war against The Man. And when Mr Angry from Suburbia was writing his angry letters, those scruffy, smelly gypsies who were spoiling his drive to work were doing all they could to protect the views he enjoyed so much from the devastation of fracking.

  No one was going to give a shit about a bunch of hippies who just wanted to be left alone to live a life of their own choosing.

  “We have to choose our battles carefully, Digger.” She hated to do this—pragmatist wasn't a word anyone would use to describe her. “No one here wants to fight. This isn't what they're about.”

  “And what about this place?”

  “What about it?” Mouse looked around her. “This is a man-made plantation. Nothing grows here but fucking oversized Christmas trees. No one will ever get planning permission to build on the edge of a national park, and if they do, so what? We've got bigger fish to fry. I'll stay and fight if that is what the majority want, but in the meantime, I need to get my van fixed, cos without it, I'm not going anywhere.”

  “And how do you propose to do that, girly?”

  Mouse grinned. “I'll think of something.”

  Digger snorted and stumped off towards the trees. With a sigh, Mouse stood and followed him. “Don't let this get to you, Digs. You said yourself that this was a lousy place for an encampment. Even if it gets forgotten again, I'm betting there'll be no one here by next winter. This isn't what we're about. And you know as well as me that these are just trust fund kids playing at being 'alternative'.”

  “That's a bit unfair, Mouse.” Digger rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Not everyone wants to fight the world. Let 'em be. They're just trying to live a bit differently is all.”

  “Then they should have done their homework.” This was a particular bugbear of hers. It was impossible to live sustainably in these woods—the soil was too acidic and there was too little natural light to grow anything—and although there was a sorry looking vegetable plot in the adjacent field, no one had any clue how to fully utilise it. At the moment, there were five vehicles parked on the site, housing eleven adults and five kids, but come the summer, most, if not all, would hit the festival circuit, hoping to earn enough to feed them through the winter. Or at least that was what they'd all tell themselves—the reality was that they had money, and most could survive quite comfortably without lifting a finger. Only she and Digger did what they did because they had no choice.