Another Short Story in the Nasty Little Things collection

On the back of a motorbike you feel everything  and you are at the mercy of everything. Wind, road, speed, gravity. And in control of nothing.

The spitterspots of rain like mist. The late evening traffic window-wiping their way up shiny streets

Up Euston road, weaving through cars busses trucks. He’s laughing, I can tell. It shakes his leather-clad back, swaying left and right past traffic as if as if he’s trying to dislodge me. I want to share his delight but I’m uneasy. I’m trying to sync my balance with his, leaning as he leans, holding on to the passenger-handles at my side white-knuckled, wishing I could hold him around his waist with both arms, but I know if I did that I would crush his ribs.

Does he know

I don’t want this. I only agreed to see “this brilliant Hampstead gym” because he’s always so adamant and enthusiastic and demanding about everything. I could have taken a tube.

Approaching Baker Street he accelerates and we jump the lights within inches of a Dentressangle. I can just hear his howl of triumph and joy.

We’re speeding up. He’s showing off now.

Through Regent’s Park at way above legal speed, the Indian’s engine roaring high-pitched and hysterical, like the war-cry of a madman.

Fear. Maybe he does know.

I lean into him “Slow down! For God’s sake!” words whipped away by wind

Through Camden as a blaze of swaying speed, our passing peppered by the anger of others, we must have broken every law, every speed camera gasps and surrenders, police cars shrug, report and continue on easier missions.

He is howling with delight, man and Indian fused, a conspiracy of furious joy, if he would slow down even for a second I would bail out, leap for freedom, risk any injury

Toward Parliament Hill

Then up! Over the grass! Bucking, the Indian Bronco. Whooping.

There is an oak tree. Like a sentinel near the top of the hill. He sees it, turns the bike in a slewing wild sudden move that throws me flying into this grass and heads straight at it.

The sound was a roar and a bang like

Then silence

I stagger up to look

He lies a few feet from the tree, his head hanging off his neck. Still with the motorcycle helmet on. The low hanging branch of the tree had nearly decapitated him. The Indian lies on its side, futtering.

*          *          *

“He knew we were having an affair,” she said. “Obsessed!”

“I didn’t even know that,” I said. “But I suspected. I thought he was trying to kill me.”

“I miss him.” She said.

“Me too” I said.

“I love you” she said.

“And I love you” I said.