Lela flicked her long dark hair as she stepped into the living room, her boots landing soundlessly on the carpet. Her black riding leathers clung snugly to her body, accentuating every curve perfectly. She hooked her arm through the visor of the helmet, pulling on a pair of soft, black gloves with effortless grace.
“I don’t know about this, babe,” Lela said, her gaze drifting to the window. “I feel terrible for going off gallivanting on the bike, while poor Ingrid’s sat in that hospital with Asmund.”
“You need this, Lela. You need to let off some steam,” I said, my voice steady. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy sitting around here waiting for that phone to ring. And what use will you be to him then?”
“You’re absolutely right,” she said, a soft sigh escaping her mouth as her shoulders relaxed. “Let’s do this. I’ve got a spare jacket in here.” She turned to the cupboard under the stairs and, after rummaging for a few moments, she tossed a worn leather jacket over to me. “Oh, and you’ll be wanting this too.”
“You kept it?” the words tumbled out of my mouth in genuine surprise as I caught sight of a battered red helmet sitting on the shelf.
“Of course I kept it,” she said, her shoulders shrugging as she handed it over to me. “I’ve been looking after it for my favourite riding partner.”
My cheeks flushed with heat, bunching up with the smile that I couldn’t help spreading across my face.
“It’s such a shame that Ingrid won’t ride with you,” my voice was almost too casual.
Inside, the slight twist in my gut, the old trepidation at riding, was quickly replaced by the bubbling ecstasy of this newly found weapon.
“I know how much we used to enjoy our rides together.” My thumb traced the scratches and scuff marks on that old helmet. “It’s such a pity that you can’t share that thrill with her.”
My voice twisted almost imperceptibly, tinged with a sharp, brittle coldness.
Lela shrugged, looking towards the door. “I’d love to take her out, but she thinks it’s too dangerous. It makes her nervous.”
My guardians in the shadows rose up in a triumphant cackle. “She thinks it’s dangerous,” they jeered. “She’s weak. You have something that she can’t be part of. A world that she can’t enter.”
I slipped my arms into the well-worn jacket, its heavy weight settling on my shoulders. The worn leather felt soft against my skin as I tugged up the zip, closing it with a satisfying metallic chatter. Drawing a deep breath, the scent of old leather filled my nostrils. A deep, earthy musk that mixed with the slightest, lingering hint of warm, spicy perfume.
I took my old helmet from my best friend’s outstretched hand. It felt so familiar as my fingers closed around it. I knew every scratch in the paint, every slight knock. On the side, the black eagle that I had drawn so long ago stared back at me with wide, knowing eyes.
“You had better show me the way then,” I said.
Together, side by side, we walked out of the house and into the bright morning sunshine. Lela led me over to the top of her driveway and towards a shape that hunched beneath a dark blue tarpaulin.
Her face seemed to beam brighter than the sun that shone down on us as she gripped the sheet and pulled it aside in a single, fluid motion. Her eyes were wide, her hand caressing the gleaming metalwork gently. A smile burst across her face as she turned to me.
“Heidi, let me introduce you to Guinevere.”
And there she was, Lela’s ‘other lady’. Polished chrome shone brightly, the twin exhaust pipes sweeping backwards in a sleek curve. In the front, the forks and handlebars gleamed. Behind the deep crimson petrol tank was the seat. A double saddle made from flawless black leather studded with bright silver buttons.
My breath hissed out in a sharp gasp.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Lela spoke, a deep reverence evident in her voice. “A Yamaha Virago, a bit of a step up from the old Honda we used to mess about on.”
I nodded, unable to look away from my own reflection staring back at me from the tank. “She’s beautiful!”
“Hop on, babe! Let’s fire the old girl up.” Lela said. Putting on her helmet, she pulled the chin strap tight and slung a leg over the seat of Guinevere, settling herself on the wide saddle.
I pulled on my own helmet, that old, peculiar musty smell tingling my nostrils. Tightening my own chin strap as much as I could, I climbed up behind Lela, wrapping my arms tightly around her waist, my fingers locking together over her stomach.
“Are you ready to fly?” Lela called back to me as the chrome pipes gave a rattle before a low, guttural roar erupted from beneath me. Deep vibrations rumbled up from the seat. My arms wrapped tighter around Lela’s middle, pulling myself closer until I could feel her body, warm and firm beneath her leathers.
“Hold on tight!” Her voice sounded crisp and pure despite her helmet and the low thrum of the engine.
A hollow clunk quivered through the frame as she kicked it into gear, and then we were away.
It wasn’t the gradual, whining acceleration that I was used to from the Honda. Guinevere bellowed like a wild beast before surging forward. Instinctively, I pressed myself tighter against Lela’s back. The gravel of the driveway sprayed out behind us before the tyres hit the smooth tarmac of the road with a low hum.
My heart hammered against my ribs as a surge of pure energy flooded out from my core and cascaded across my entire body in a tingling warmth. The world flashed before my eyes. Trees and buildings flew past me in a blur of green and grey. The bike leaned a hard left and then right through the corners. We slipped effortlessly through the morning rush hour traffic of the city. The air was thick with the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes as the loud drone of the engine filled my ears.
I could feel every twitch of Lela’s muscles as she reacted to every tight twist and sharp turn. I clung to her as we hurtled towards the Sentrum. The world around us seemed to dissolve into a smear of motion. In that moment, it was as if the two of us and that machine were the only things in the universe.
Eventually, the roaring engine calmed to a low, vibrating purr. The city around us slowed down as Lela pulled up outside a narrow-fronted shop. Framed paintings cluttered the single window, chaotic abstracts jumbled amongst stark, bleak landscapes. The door, brightly painted in a dizzying array of pink, blue and yellow, stood open, inviting us inside.
The art shop was an Aladdin’s cave of paints and pigments. The sharp scent of turpentine mixed with the heavy, earthy aroma of damp clay. Pots crammed with brushes of every size sat alongside boxes of palette knives, charcoals and pastels. The rainbow of watercolours, acrylics and oils was squeezed into every available nook and cranny. Floor to ceiling, dark wooden shelves bowed and groaned under the weight of canvases, sketchbooks and reams of paper.
Beyond the aisles was a dusty counter stacked with blocks of clay. In front of a backdrop of vibrantly coloured tiles sat a myriad of glazes. A massive green printing press stood pushed up against the far wall.
A small table, littered with papers, half-finished sketches and the gleaming brass of an antique till, was squeezed into a tight corner. Glancing up from behind the clutter was a man, perhaps a year or two older than me. His hair was a bleached blonde mass of unkempt coils, falling to just above his shoulders. He wore a thick, woollen turtleneck jumper, a leather patch neatly sewn on one elbow, and the cuffs fraying.
His ice-blue eyes glanced up at us as we entered, while his paint encrusted hands carried on sketching. The light scratching of the charcoal pencil on paper was the only sound breaking the silence of the shop.
“Good morning, ladies. Is there anything I can help you with?” he said in a low, husky voice.
I could feel a smile spreading across my lips. When so much around me had changed and with too many things now feeling so alien to me, this little art shop was exactly how I remembered it. It was exactly as it had always been. It was a fragment of my old life that remained untouched, a quiet, dusty sanctuary amidst the chaos.
“Good morning, Erik! How have you been?” I spoke cheerfully, stepping up to his cluttered table.
Erik blinked, the pencil freezing in his hand. Brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face, his gaze drifted over my leather jacket before settling back on my face.
“Heidi?” His eyes narrowed, his forehead crinkling into a frown, before suddenly snapping wide in disbelief. “I didn’t recognise you with your new haircut. I haven’t seen you for ages. I think the last time was…” Erik’s voice stammered, his face flushing a hot red.
“The night I helped you with your self-portrait.” I cut in, offering him a quick, sharp wink.
Behind me, I heard the soft squeak of Lela’s leathers as she stepped up to my side.
“Ah, yes, of course. The self-portrait,” Erik said, still stumbling over his words. “Are you back for good? I’d heard that you’d moved down to Copenhagen?”
Copenhagen! Lars’ lie!
I remember thinking at the time that it’s amazing how far small rumours can travel and the precision of the damage that they can do. It was a thought that stuck in my mind.
“Things didn’t really work out there, so here I am. Back in Oslo.”
It was easier to just go along with those lies than deal with the awkward questions that would come if I denied them.
“Anyway, I’m going to make a banner for Lela’s band. I’m after some heavy black fabric, one metre square, and some titanium white textile paint.”
“I’m sure I can manage that for you,” Erik said, squeezing out from behind the table and walking towards a door at the back of the shop.
“Oh, Erik?” I called out behind him. “Could you throw in a chalk pencil and a couple of wide, hog-hair brushes?”
Erik waved a hand in acknowledgement before dipping his head and vanishing through the low doorway.
When he returned, he had a bolt of black cloth draped over one arm, while in the other hand was a brown paper bag. He laid the cloth across the table, placed the paper bag on top of it, and slipped back into his seat.
“Is that everything?” he asked.
“That should do me, thank you, Erik.”
His fingers tapped on the keys of the old mechanical till, each press a crisp, loud click that echoed in the quiet shop.
“That’ll be 280 kroner, please, Heidi.”
Beside me, Lela reached into her pocket, but I quickly held up my hand to stop her.
“No, Lela! You’ve already done so much for me. This is my treat to the band. A little thank you to you and Asmund.” I looked into her eyes as I spoke, watching the smile that formed on her lips.
“Thank you, babe!”
Pulling out the leather purse that I had retrieved from my things earlier, I counted out the notes. A one hundred and a two hundred kroner note. I passed the crumpled pieces of paper to Erik, our fingers brushing lightly as he took them from me. He looked up, his eyes wide, startled by the contact.
“Keep the change,” I giggled lightly, tucking the fabric under one arm and picking up the bag of paint and brushes.
****
We left the maze of the city centre behind us. The noise and the bustle faded away and the traffic thinned out. The white stone facades were replaced with weatherboard houses. The crisp, salty scent of the marina cut through the lingering smell of exhaust fumes. Lela slowed the bike as we took the final corner, the tyres crunching on the gravel of her driveway. The machine gave one last, final splutter as she turned the ignition key and killed the engine.
Dismounting from the bike, I tugged off my helmet with a sense of urgency beginning to tingle through me. It had been the perfect day so far, but there was still one shadow looming, one thing that could ruin everything. I needed to deal with it, and I needed to do it quickly.
“Le-Le, why don’t I go inside and start getting everything ready, while you lock up Guinevere?”
“Go for it, babe!” she said, tossing the house keys over to me.
Snatching them out of the air with one hand and clutching the fabric and bag of paints in the other, I made my way up to the door, the keys heavy in my palm.
Stepping into the living room, I didn’t even notice the big German shepherd running towards me. There was only one thing in that room that mattered to me. On top of the dark wooden side table was the phone, and beside the phone sat the squat, grey answering machine, a red light blinking rhythmically beside the array of buttons.
Someone had called while we’d been out.
My breath hitched in my chest; I could feel the cold, sharp keys pressing into my hand. My head snapped around to see Lela still fiddling with the bike’s steering lock.
I had time, but not much.
I rushed over to the table, Bella giving a low grumble as she scampered out of my way.
Lunging forward, I slammed my finger down on the ‘play’ button. The machine gave a high-pitched whir as the tape began to rewind, the sound grating against my nerves. Outside, I could hear the clanking of a heavy chain as Lela locked up her bike.
Suddenly the machine gave a mechanical click, followed by a loud beep, before a voice shrieked from its speaker.
“Ummmm, I’m not sure where you are, but they’re saying that Asmund can have visitors now. They’ve moved him to the Holst-Frølich Ward —”
A sound from the front door snagged in my ears, my finger automatically jerking to the stop button, hitting it with a firm clunk.
Spinning around, I saw Lela’s sleek, black leather form silhouetted in the doorway. Her dark eyes fixed on me.
“Any messages?” She asked, stepping inside. “Anything from Ingrid?”
“No, nothing,” I lied.
My hand remained over the machine, my damp palm pressing down on the cold, grey plastic as if to hide the tape from her view. The small, red light still blinking its slow, treacherous rhythm beneath my hand.