Q-The Quest

At last I was closing in. For 3 long months I had searched for the
biker and now here I
stood, outside a remote country bar, where I had been assured the biker
would be.

I only prayed it was true. I had been so close to finding him on so
many occasions but
I was always too late.

It was frustrating, but that frustration was what drove me on. My
search for the biker
had become an obsession. I spent every hour of every day looking for
him. Even at
night, when I closed my eyes, I saw his tattoo. He had a thick black
cross etched on
the back of his neck, from the top of his spine up to the centre of his
shaved skull,
about the size of a paperback book.

Twelve weeks before I had run after him in an underground car park,
shouting at him
as he roared away from the scene on his motorbike. He did not turn
around. Whether
he couldn't hear me over the sound of the bike or he chose to ignore me
I did not
know.

I watched the tattoo on his neck grow smaller as he raced away from me
and the
image was burned into my brain. Fortunately it was a rare tattoo and
easily identified,
which made the job of tracking him down a little easier.

I could have left it to the police to find him, but I didn't trust them
to see it through, to
do all that was humanly possible to find him. If I wanted it done right
I would have to
do it myself.

The biker led a nomadic life, rarely stopping for more than one night,
so for three
months I had travelled the country, always one step behind him,
sometimes missing
him by mere hours.

My travels had taken me to some low life establishments, the kind of
places I was not
used to frequenting and where I certainly did not fit in: greasy
diners, dingy bed and
breakfasts, seedy bars.

I had arrived at one particularly seedy bar the night after the biker
had visited, and
where he had apparently fleeced some money from the locals during a
game of cards.
The memories and the bitterness were still fresh when I showed up
asking questions
and I was not given a warm welcome.

It was the kind of establishment where violence was never more than a
wrong word
away so I made my apologies and attempted to leave quietly, but they
wanted blood
and if they couldn't have the biker's then mine would do.

A particularly large rugby player approached me but a sidestep and a
shove saved me
from a fist in my face and I managed to send my assailant crashing into
another patron
of the bar.

It was then that a good old fashioned, movie style bar brawl broke out.
Fists flew,
glasses shattered and chairs were broken across backs as I took the
traditional
cowards way out, crawling through the maelstrom to escape with only a
cut on my
forehead.

That was the only time I considered giving up. I drove away from the
bar, grateful for
my lucky escape and wondering if it was all worth it. But by that time
I had been
searching for two months. I had come too far, been too close too many
times to just
give up. I would see it through, no matter what.

And now here I stood, one month later, standing outside another bar
while my quarry
waited inside, oblivious.

I walked to the door of the bar, paused for a breath, and stepped
inside.

I entered the bar unnoticed. Hotel California by The Eagles was
playing, loud enough
to ensure that voices had to be raised to be heard. It was early in the
evening and the
bar was not yet busy but a thick fog of cigarette smoke already hung in
the air.

Four men sat in a row at the bar and sitting nearest me, with his back
to me, was the
instantly recognisable biker.

He wore a pair of black jeans and a black leather waistcoat. His bald
head shone in the
pale light of the bar and his arms were illustrated with many elaborate
tattoos but
none were as striking as the cross on the back of his neck.

My gaze focused on it as I walked the last few steps of my journey, the
cross like a
black hole, pulling me inexorably forward like light being sucked into
a black hole
until I stood behind him at last, inches away, and I reached up and
tapped him on the
shoulder.

He swivelled on his stool to face me. It was the first time I had been
face to face with
him. He didn't seem particularly tall but he was a huge man with arms
as thick as my
waist and a neck like a tree trunk. His face looked as if it was carved
from rock,
stubble clung to it like moss, and he had small blue eyes set beneath a
heavy brow.

His face was expressionless when he spoke, saying only one word.

"What?"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the object I had been carrying
around for
three months, waiting for this moment. I lifted it to his face so he
could see it.

"You dropped your wallet."

"Christ, I lost this months ago." He said, taking the battered wallet
from me.

"I know. It's took me this long to catch up with you." I said.

"Are you saying you've followed me for all this time just to give me my
wallet
back?"

"Yes." I replied, "There's a couple of hundred pounds in there and a
few photos I'm
sure you want back. Sorry for looking through it but I was looking for
something with
a name and address. Couldn't find anything."

He sat there and stared at me for a moment, seemingly lost for words,
until he finally
said, "Um? well, thanks. Here, let me give you something." He said,
opening the
wallet.

"Oh, no thank you." I replied, "Kindness is it's own reward."

"Well at least let me buy you a drink," he offered.

"No thanks, I'm driving," I told him, "Well I should be off. Nice to
meet you at last.
Bye."

And with that I left the bar, leaving the biker looking rather
stunned.

I stood and watched the sun dip behind the horizon and zipped my jacket
up against
the chill that it's departure brought.

"Well," I said aloud, "I wonder what to do now?"