Page 37 of Fury
‘And she’s buying a stairway to heaven…’
The sound of the recorder held heavy in the air, no one inside the church making a noise, just the soft steps of the funeral procession carefully treading down an aisle that seemed to be a mile long. And then the guitar joined, the tempo increasing, the coffin now reaching the front, the men stopping. And the music continued, no one moving as the soft bass of the drums joined now, the lyrics filling the arches above, beautifully consuming, pressure inside my chest building. As the guitar solo kicked in, the atmosphere surrounding us seemed super charged, heavy, imposing, incredible, emotional, raw. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced. The entire church waiting, listening, respecting. Coming together to mourn and to celebrate all in one. Just the song choice was enough to feel that.
‘And she’s buying the stairway to heaven.’
The church descended into a silence. Total silence. No sound from anyone, even though there were hundreds packed in here, filling the seats, lining the walls. And me and the unmarked biker at the very back.
Chapter Seventeen
The church was packed out. Bike clubs from all over the country and abroad had turned out for Ste’s funeral. A testament of the respect and fear he had commanded. Some would be here to see if the Kings still held their might and others just to make sure the old president was gone. Long gone, hoping his son would forget indiscretions and forgive where he wouldn’t. And over the last few weeks, I had wondered the same. Until the night the Aces attacked Emmie. Even though it was Emmie’s ex that led the attack, the Aces would always be accountable, an eternal foe, and at some point, I knew Indie would give the order to wipe the fuckers from this earth. But so far, it was only the Viking; the man exiled from this club long ago, that had been authorised to draw blood.
Now Indie seemed hardened. Like the sudden rise to the club’s president had darkened his soul. That the boots he’d stepped into were changing who he was. That he was falling into the void his father had left, into the darkness of tough decisions, violence and death.
The priest at the front of the church rambled on. Some bible passage I had no interest and belief in. I’d learned long ago that if there was a God, he was the most sadist one of the lot of us. My mind drifted on. Memories poking through the ball of forget that I tried to wrap them up within. Memories of funerals long ago. Funerals that came thick and fast. Without remorse, without stopping, as the club died around us. None of us knowing which one would be picked off next, and then dealing with the overwhelming emotions that it all left behind.
Beside me, my mam squeezed my hand. The same thoughts plaguing her own mind. Memories of sitting here in this church, burying another of the original line of club officers. Only this time, I was nearly twenty years older. The emotions had never really faded, just buried, ready to resurface like a dormant virus. Mam squeezed my hand again, another song ringing through the loaded air, deep, guttural words. A take on Simon and Garfunkel’s Sound of Silence. The words thrummed in their own silence, a heavy weight crushing my chest, pressure on my heart. Fuck, how I hated funerals. The emotions, the pain. All bottled up to deal with another day because we were an MC. The Kings. Any show of weakness, even among mostly allied clubs, would be enough to lose control. But these weren’t all allied clubs here today. Others had travelled from opposite ends of the country, some to mourn, but some to scope out whether we were worth a fight to take our patch. Today was as much about a show of strength as it was a send-off for our president. And I couldn’t wait for it all to be over.
I turned to scan the church. To see the place packed out in leather, faces to the front, watching proceedings, curt glances at rival clubs. But right at the back, I saw her. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves round her shoulders, a tight black suit and a long black overcoat. Even in black, she stood out in the crowd as an angel. Unblemished, unreal, unbelievable. And beside her stood the angel of death. His own blond hair matching hers. I grinned at the irony. The daughter of a man who buried people for money stood next to a man who killed people for money. Fate had a dark sense of humour.
Heidi would never know that the Viking was the most dangerous man in the country. And neither did the majority of the people in this church. To them, he looked like another regular biker covered in tattoos and leather. But for every piece of ink on his skin, was a life he had taken. And it filled up, millimetre by millimetre.
My mam squeezed her fingers round me again, vice like and tense. She’d sat here more times than I had. Buried more brothers than me, and more presidents. On her other side sat Magnet, who was nearly as much a son to her as I was, replacing the Jake shaped whole in her life. And next to him sat his wife, Suzy, probably one of the longest standing ol’ lady’s the club now had left.
The music started again, the pall bearers stepping forward in their black suits to remove the coffin from the stand and take it to its final resting place. There had been no noise in the church. No one mumbling, no one tapping a leg, no one breathing heavy. But now, as the coffin was slowly hoisted onto the shoulders of the men dressed in black, the silence thickened.
The music that rang out round the church now was unusually light and gentle, consuming the silence. There was no heaviness to it, just a gentle piano accompaniment and the sad tones of a folk voice.
For you, there’ll be no more crying
For you, the Sun will be shining
And I feel that when I’m with you
It’s alright, I know it’s right
We didn’t move, everyone listening. In front of me, Indie sat between Emmie on his right and his mother, Grace, on his left-hand side. He reached across to her, wrapping his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Two heads of grey together. And suddenly I realised, amongst all the protocols of a biker funeral, he’d let Grace choose that song. A song that meant something to her. Beside me my mother’s body jerked, a sudden sob. She recognised the significance of this song too, of the haunting tones of Fleetwood Mac that now rang through the church eerily.
I glanced behind me at the two blonds standing at the back. The Viking’s face was tight, the sound affecting him as much as me. Beside him Heidi shifted uncomfortably, the hands clasped in front of her fiddling, playing with something she held there, both staring straight ahead, their eyes locked on something in the distance. I recognised that look, a golf ball filling my throat, sandpaper scratching every time I swallowed.
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before
Those last words. That golf ball in my throat was growing, the back of my eyeballs burning. I wanted to look about and see if the rest of the club were struggling like I was, but if I looked anywhere but straight ahead at the stained-glass windows cut into the shape of a cross at the very front of this church, I might let loose a tear. And here, surrounded by as many rival bike clubs as those who’d pledged their allegiance to us, that was the biggest sign of weakness I could show. Half of the people here today were scoping us out, trying to find our weakest links, all under the guise of paying their respects at the funeral of a fallen president. We’d all done it over the years. It was just what we did.
To an outsider, of which there were still many in this church here today, it looked like he was a much-loved brother. That this gathering of bikers was here to mourn and celebrate him. Half of them despised him. He’d ordered the deaths of their own in the Great War, almost twenty years ago. They all remembered, and whilst some of these clubs had placed their allegiance at our table as part of the coalition, they wouldn’t forget what he did.
The pall bearers walked, slow and careful. Indie and Grace followed Emmie right behind, and Demon and Ciara behind them. The rest of us joined on, the church letting all the brothers fall in behind the coffin before emptying out behind us. My mam linked her arm in with mine, her head bowed, not wanting to show the wet streaks that ran down her face.
At the top of the church, Heidi watched the procession come towards her. Her face was emotionless, quiet. Her eyes flickered into the crowd and then at the procession and back again, and then, as we almost alongside each other, those eyes found mine. Her expression was straight, not the slightest movement, but her eyes were gentle, calling to me, looking right into my very soul. And I was sure she could tell what I was feeling right then, more than anyone else in this church, even the person clutching my arm.
Chapter Eighteen
The entire church piled out. A melee of black leather. Hardly a scrap of anything other could be seen, and if it was there, it was lost in the sea of biker jackets. I had never seen so many people turn out for a funeral before, never mind that many dressed like they lived in bike leathers. The emblems on the back of the jackets added colour, but all of it was ominous. Red, white, gold. All strong colours that by themselves would have done nothing, but coupled with the corresponding pictures of skulls and demons and general images of death just gave the entire field of funeral goers the most sombre feel ever.
I hung back, watching the Northern Kings lead the rest of the guests towards the graveside, before following alongside the solemn, solo biker that didn’t seem to mix with any of the groups, almost as if he was cast out, unwelcome.
The ground under my feet quickly became wet, the heels of my Minolo Blaniks sinking with each step I took, gathering more and more clarts as I struggled to stay upright. I could have cried at the damage the mud was probably doing, working off the tip of a heel with each careful step. I should have worn boots, bought some wellies. But no. I’d put on my second-best pair of shoes for a fucking biker funeral.