Fearless Leader

FEARLESS LEADER





         He was royalty. Exiled maybe, but royalty nonetheless. His kingdom: the stretch of High Street between Lombard and Grainge. Here he could stride proudly in his worn leather jacket emblazoned with words that made many in the neighbourhood recoil in horror. His jeans were worn, almost threadbare in places and fitted him almost too well. Young girls giggled and flushed as he passed, but could not look away. His name could be found scrawled on notebooks and inside shakily drawn hearts on the walls of the high school girls’ bathroom. Best friends had come to blows over an imagined wink as he passed, and a cool, blue-eyed glance was enough to keep a girl at the top of the lunch table for a week.



         The younger boys hanging outside the video store watched him go by. Slouching against the wall they talked more loudly, swearing and spitting as they smoked their stolen cigarettes and tried to catch his eye. Once in a while he would select one of these kids to run an errand for him, and this would subtly shift the centre of power within the ranks. They all hoped to one day be in his gang; would follow him to the death if necessary. Older ladies clutched their purses tightly to their chests as he passed. Mothers dragged their daughters to the far side of the street as he approached. These were the same daughters who sighed his name as they went to sleep at night and secretly scribbled his name with their own on hastily crumpled slips of paper.



         He seemed all confidence, his proud swagger down High Street reflecting his belief in his ownership of this stretch of the city. But it had been a long battle and it showed. The piercing blue eyes were shadowed and suspicious. This was a man who trusted no one and allowed nobody to get close to him. Like ancient emperors he expected assassination to come from any direction. Even his gang - the chosen few - were kept at arms length. The tests he set for anyone foolhardy enough to want to be in his gang were gruelling and often dangerous. You could not be frivolous about your desire to be in his royal posse; many had tried and failed. Others wore scars proudly, their badges of honour, their medals, their decorations for services rendered.



         So who was this local deity? Underneath the shabby leather jacket that labelled him leader he was nothing: a tall, skinny kid with greasy, too-long hair. He could not honestly be called handsome. His features were too large for that. Eyes too big and a little too close together, nose just slightly too pointed, his mouth overly generous. His shoulders were broad but the arms that hung from them were long and thin. His strength took enemies by surprise. He looked as if a strong breeze would snap him in two, but he was wiry and used his frail appearance to his advantage. He would hang back when fights broke out, let his henchmen enter the fray first as if they were there to protect him, then strike when the others were not expecting it. It was this strategy that had won him his little patch of turf.



         He lounged fearlessly on the bench in front of the post office, some of his gang reclining on the grass nearby, soaking up the last of the autumn sun. A gaggle of high school girls straggled by, slowing their steps and flipping their hair to get his attention. One of them did, but only because she did not giggle or wink or toss perfectly groomed hair in his direction. She walked with her head down, ignoring both the boys and the girls she appeared to be with. He slid off the bench in one cat-like motion and was walking beside her before the others even realised he’d moved. She glanced up as she saw the booted feet fall into step with her own. He grinned at her, a crooked, mischievous grin that she could not help but return. He leaned down and whispered something into her ear. Shaking her head she clutched her books closer to her chest and hurried to catch up with her friends. He laughed heartily as he sloped back to the bench and the congratulatory hand shakes of his gang.



The next day he followed her home.



         The gang were dismissed with a toss of his head and an almost imperceptible hand gesture. He walked behind her and her friends, ignoring the titters, shrieks and blatant over-the-shoulder glances. As they left High Street, first one then another disappeared, sidling off into houses and yards, lingering a moment to flash a smile or drop a wink in his direction. Until she was alone, heavy-soled shoes scuffing the pavement as she walked. His eyes burned holes in her back, slowing her pace until finally she stopped, one hand resting on the white picket fence in front of her house.

“What do you want?” she asked, turning to face him.

“What are you doing tonight?” He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head to look at her.

“Nothing.” The beginnings of a smile tickled the corners of her mouth, her lips trembling as she tried to suppress it. “Why?”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”



         Away from his kingdom, striding through the side streets, his confidence drifted. He stuck to the shadows, scuttling spider-like down streets and through alleys, thin body pressed close to the protection of buildings, never venturing into the open spaces. Eventually he reached a small, white wooden house, not unlike the others on the cul-de-sac. Looking suspiciously over his shoulder - left, then right, left again - he slipped through the gate. The back door was unlocked and he let himself in, stopping to stamp his boots on the doormat before stepping over the threshold.

“Who is it?” The voice that wafted down the staircase was thin and high pitched, wavering in fear.

“It’s just me, Nana,” he called back. Kicking off his boots by the door, he ran up the stairs. He looked out of place, black leather and tight jeans incongruous with the pastel flowers on the wallpaper and delicate porcelain gee-gaws gathering dust on the shelves. At the top of the stairs he turned left and entered a bedroom, yellow lamplight spilling through the door.

“How are you, Nana?” he asked, kneeling next to the wizened figure in the wheelchair who gazed out the window at the gathering darkness.

“I’m fine dear,” she replied, smiling and resting a soft, wrinkled hand on his cheek. “Lucy left something for our dinner in the fridge.”

“I’ll heat it up for us in a while, Nana. It’s too early to eat. Unless you’re hungry?”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “Just sit with me for a while. Tell me about your day.”



         After dinner he got his grandmother settled for the night. She lay in bed, propped up on a pile of floral pillows smiling toothlessly at him.

“You’re a good boy,” she murmured as he kissed her goodnight.

“Have you got everything you need? I’m going out. But I’ll be here in the morning before Lucy comes.”

“No, I’m fine.” She settled herself on the pillows more comfortably, reaching for the book on the nearby table. “You have a good time, dear. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Hey, if I didn’t worry about you, who would?” He said it lightly but they both knew it was true.



         Down the hall he pushed open a door, closing it behind him. His room was barren. A narrow single bed lined one wall. Other than a low dresser by the window, there was nothing else. Nothing to indicate anyone lived there. But he seemed not to notice as he flicked on a lamp and hunted through the dresser for a clean t-shirt. He peeled off his leather jacket, laying it on the bed almost lovingly, before stripping off the t-shirt he was wearing, sniffing it once before a toss to the corner left it lying with a crumpled heap of other such garments. Pulling on his fresh shirt, he paused to examine a scar on his chest. Running down the left side of his ribcage, it was long, thick and relatively new. He winced as he ran his had across it, not because it hurt anymore, but because it felt strange, not a part of his body. He traced it once more then shook his head, tugging the t-shirt down over his chest. It was tight, hugging the flat, hard muscles of his stomach. He touched the scar again, through the fabric this time. It didn’t feel strange now, just lumpy. Slinging the leather jacket over his shoulders once more, he turned the light off and left.



         She was outside in the yard when he reached her house, sitting in a swing that hung from the huge old oak tree in the front yard. He stood back in the shadows, watching as she kicked off and swung herself, legs pumping as she pushed herself higher and higher. Her skirt flew up, revealing long narrow thighs and a glimpse of innocent lavender panties. He scuffed his feet loudly, warning her that someone was coming, and watched in amusement as she leapt from the swing, arcing through the air to land gracefully on both feet.

“Bravo!” He gave a sweeping bow as he exited the shadows, holding an arm out to her. Flushed she took it, breathless as she felt herself pulled in close to his side. His body felt hard against hers and she breathed deeply the scent of leather, maleness and somewhat strangely, old people.



         She wasn’t quite sure why she was here with him. After he’d left her that afternoon she’d promised herself she wouldn’t go. She’d planned to barricade herself in the house at eight o’clock, not even peek out the window. But at seven she’d found herself carefully dressing, and by quarter to eight she was in the front yard, waiting for him. She was intrigued she supposed, and perhaps a little flattered. After all, he had chosen her. And she was curious as to why.

“Where are we going?” she asked after they had walked for a while.

“Anywhere you want to go.” He grinned at her, trying to reassure her. He could sense the tension in her, the apprehension. And why wouldn’t she be apprehensive? She was with him, the living legend of High Street.



         In silence they walked the streets, hips bumping occasionally, streetlights casting eerie shadows across their faces. Suddenly he stopped, let out a low whistle and ran forwards towards a parked car.

“It’s beautiful!” he exclaimed as he circled it, admiring the sheen of the paint, the shine on the chrome and the glossy black and white tires. “It is just beautiful! A work of art!” She stood on the curb watching this, a bemused expression on her face. This was not cool. This was not tough. He looked like a little boy opening a train-set on Christmas Day. He circled the car once more then grabbed her hand, dragging her towards the vehicle.

“Look at that finish!” He drew her hand along the shiny side of the car. Unsure why it was so special, she just nodded. The car was black. Big. Old. Had white-wall tires like cars in movies she’d seen. But it didn’t look or feel all that special to her.



Then he tried the door and it was unlocked.



         He slid in behind the steering wheel, a look akin to ecstasy on his face. In the cool white light of the streetlights his eyes glittered. She shivered as he beckoned her. She didn’t want to get into that car, didn’t want to be party to some criminal act. Yet she found herself climbing over him to sit in the passenger seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, the seat wide and well sprung, covered in soft black suede. She tugged at her skirt as he fiddled with the ignition, jumping as the engine sputtered into life.

“There!” He goosed the accelerator, loving the way the engine growled and purred. It was music to his ears. “Let’s take her for a spin!” He glanced at her, hugging her door as if she might leap out at any second. “Don’t be scared. I’m an excellent driver.”



         As he pulled the car out onto the street, slowly at first then gathering speed, she looked back over her shoulder, realising she had just crossed a line. She had gone from good girl to criminal, just like that. A thrill shot through her and she could not suppress the grin that spread across her face as the car gained speed. They headed for the lights of High Street, fast now, engine roaring as they whipped around corners and skidded along narrow side streets. Reaching High Street he slowed a little, watching the activity on his patch. He caught a glimpse of one of his gang in the shadows by the candy store, blonde head moving in the darkness as he made a deal. He honked the horn as he passed the kids outside the video store, startling them into looking up.



         Next to him she smiled to herself, feeling cocooned and safe. The dangers of the street seemed far removed from here. She watched his profile as he drove, the casual way he changed gear, the way his eyes flicked between mirrors and windshield. At the end of High Street he pulled over, leaning towards her in the darkness, headlights illuminating the road ahead but nothing more.

“Where should we go now?” he asked, voice low and husky as his hand crept out to touch her waist.

“Anywhere!” she cried, feeling a brand new sense of abandon. “Everywhere! Just make it fast.”

“You got it, Darlin’!” He grinned at her as he revved the engine once more, easing off the brake so the car shot forward like a bullet into the blackness, never seeing the truck coming around the corner.



He was royalty. Exiled maybe, but royalty nonetheless…



2369 words

May 2009