Free Blood in the Water (Kairos) by Catherine Johnson Page B

semi-automatic fire some years previously.  It had been Dean’s suggestion to replace the small club sign at the apex with a mural that covered the entire wall as a statement that they were unbowed.  The result was a mix of styles something between graffiti and realism in white silver and black.  It was very modern by Samuel’s tastes, but it worked, and it certainly made an impression as you pulled up through the avenue of wood and scrub.
     
    The garage building had been extended further.  Originally it had been a convenient place for the members to build and repair their own bikes, and then it had attracted some interest from townsfolk which had turned it into a viable business.  Now they were surfing the wave of MC hype.  In the wake of televisions shows about bikers, both ‘real’ and scripted, they were now taking on a lot more work producing customized motorcycles of all origins rather than concentrating on Harleys.
     
    From the neat line of bikes resting on their kickstands outside the building, and the Dodge Ram parked at an odd angle on the opposite side of the open end of the driveway, Samuel guessed that he was the last to arrive for Friday Church.  His wife was going to be the death of him.  He wasn’t quite late, not yet, but Moira grabbing him on his way out of the door had seriously tested his time-keeping ability.  Her reasoning was that he’d get drunk later and end up sleeping at the clubhouse so she was getting hers while she could.
     
    His later than usual entrance raised a few eyebrows in the main room.  Samuel was mildly irritated that he didn’t have time for a drink beforehand, but he intended to make up for it later, so he walked straight through the room without stopping until he reached the double doors at the end that led to the Chapel, their private meeting room.  He paused to drop both his personal mobile phone and the unregistered club phone into the wooden box that had been hung on the wall next to the doors solely for such a purpose, before proceeding through the doors and taking his seat at the head of the table.
     
    The plain slab of golden pine shone with polish despite the scars of hundreds of cigarette burns and bottle rings.  Gouges from be-ringed fists emphasizing opinions and scratches from many, many other actions throughout the decades mingled with the grain and knots of the wood.  There was a lot of history in this table, fifty years worth.  Samuel felt the reassuring weight of that history every time he ran his hands over the smooth wood.  Even as President, at thirty-five Samuel had been considered among the club’s new blood.  With Kong and Fletch still remaining from the original band of his father’s friends that had formed the club, he wasn’t an old-timer yet by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly wasn’t a young blood anymore. 
     
    He could see a small portion of the main room beyond the open double doors.  They had refurbished the clubhouse after the incident that had resulted in the bricking up of the gable window.  Now the club room at least didn’t look like a throwback to a ‘70s dive bar, which ironically enough was when it had last been decorated in any shape or form before it had been torn up by bullets.  The bar had been refitted; the original wooden flooring had been re-sanded and re-varnished.  New tables, chairs and couches had been bought in. 
     
    It was nothing fancy. Given the good-natured fights, and sometimes ill-natured ones, that broke out occasionally and all the physical activities that took place here as well as the heavy drinking and smoking, it wouldn’t do to have surfaces or fabrics that were high maintenance or that anyone was fussy about cleaning.  Samuel had become so used to the smell of the place that he barely even noticed it anymore, but Moira regularly assured him that even starting from fresh plaster hadn’t eradicated the ingrained aroma of years of alcohol, smoke, men and sex.  Two