Power of Love

THE POWER OF LOVE

They could have been twins: medium height, slim, muscled bodies,
shoulder length brown hair and a love of all things motorcycle. They
had been friends, though not close, until the night Sheena arrived at
the 'King's Head' on Dek's pillion and left on Rick's. That was four
months ago and now, tonight, it was head to head...

Sheena's ghetto blaster was tuned to Radio One and the straggle of
leather-clad teenagers twitched to the rhythm of 'Queen' as they waited
in the drizzly darkness. Dek and Rick crouched, side by side, tensed
for the start; jerking wrists sending the revving howls of their
motorcycles hammering round the silent workshops of the industrial
estate. The drizzle had turned their hair into 'rats tails' on their
unhelmeted heads. A handkerchief fluttered and the revving turned to
snarls and screeches as the bikes leapt forward into the sodium-lit
gloom. A ragged, sardonic cheer rippled round the dozen or so
onlookers. Sheena crossed her fingers.

Rick, eyes smarting from the wind and rain, whacked through the gears
anxiously, aware that his old Suzuki couldn't match Dek's new Yamaha;
conscious too that his tyres were somewhat worn, which wouldn't help on
the wet corners. Why had he let himself be goaded into this race? But
hadn't that always been the way of things: Dek always that one step
ahead? Attracting Sheena was probably his one and only victory.

Rick couldn't help but glance back. Dek gave a 'thumbs up'. Was he
that confident of winning Sheena? Course he was - with that bike, who
wouldn't be?
At the third bend Rick was still clinging to a tiny lead. He needed
more for the final run-in. "Come on," he urged his bike, ramming the
throttle wide open. "Come on!"

He glanced back again. Dek raised a hand. Something looped out of the
wet darkness. Rick's bike reared and flew at a tangent. Bike and rider
parted company in mid air. The motorcycle landed bouncing and sliding
in a flashing of sparks. Rick gracefully somersaulted high through the
air. Unprotected head met road. Blood spread, the rain speckling and
smearing the deep red rivulets.

Dek raced past without a glance and raised his arms in triumph,
acknowledging the cheers of his supporters.

"Where's Rick?" asked Sheena, peering down the street anxiously.

"He came off." Dek shrugged and patted his pillion. "Come on, get
on."

Sheena began to hurry down the track. "Rick!" she wailed.
"Rick......"
A police siren hee-hawed in the distance, coming closer. Long before
the squad car arrived, the street was deserted except for one more
accident statistic.
The following evening, Jack, the 'King's Head' barman, frowned at his
watch. "Rick's late. He should be putting on his record right
now."
Chaz and Dek exchanged glances but said nothing.
Jack glanced over to a corner table where Sheena huddled alone,
clutching her glass but not drinking. "What's wrong with Sheena," he
inclining his head towards her, "has she had a bust-up with
Rick?"
"Rick's dead," muttered someone.
Jack shook his head slowly, as if exercising a muscle. "And it's only
a few weeks since his mate killed himself. Why is it always the decent
ones who cop it?" He scrubbed at the polished counter. Apart from the
custom they brought, he didn't care much for these teenagers, with the
possible exception of some, like Rick.
"Yeah, well at least we won't have to listen to that flaming record
any more," sneered Dek.
"No," replied Jack, thoughtfully, then made a sudden decision. "In
fact I don't think anyone will should play it again. I'll have it taken
out tomorrow and hang it up near the pinball machine. It'll be a
memorial for him, so I don't want anyone playing it tonight."
Suddenly, the jukebox whirred into life and the strong sound of
Jennifer Rush filled the room..?
''The...Po..w..e..r..of..L..o..v.e...'
"Who put that on!" snarled Dek, whirling round to face the jukebox.
There was no-one there. "Come on! Who did it?" he demanded, glaring
round the room, fists clenched.
The half dozen leather-jacketed youths at the pinball machine shrugged
and turned back to the game. Sheena was sitting stiffly upright, tears
in her eyes.
"Was it you?" growled Dek.
She shook her head.
"It must have been somebody!" Dek's eyes raked the bar, but there was
no answer.
Eventually, the music ended and despite Dek's continued grumbling,
things returned to the normal quiet Tuesday evening at the 'King's
Head'. Jack was puzzled though: he had a good view of the room from the
bar and could have sworn that no-one had approached the jukebox. Of
course, someone must have - but why that particular record? It hadn't
been in the charts for a long time and only Rick ever played it now -
so often, in fact, that it was known as 'Rick's record'.

The next day, the disk was removed from the jukebox and mounted on a
square oak panel, together with a small brass plate engraved with
Rick's name. The plaque was then hung on the wall above the pinball
machine in time for the evening session. Jack's wife, Gloria, organised
a collection towards the cost of a small wreath.
A week later, Rick was buried in the local C. of E. graveyard. In the
eulogy, Reverend Brampton spoke of the shy young boy who had sung so
angelically in the church choir before his voice broke. He also called
for curbs on motorcycles, speaking with strong feeling as this was the
second time in two months that he'd buried a seventeen-year-old killed
in a motorcycle accident.
Sheena and most of Rick's friends were there, trying to look
inconspicuous in the rearmost pews. They were not invited to return to
Rick's home afterwards. Dek and Chaz didn't attend the service though
they were seen lurking at the end of the street. Rick's copy of his
favourite record was placed in the coffin.
The 'King's Head' was unnaturally quiet that night. Dek and Chaz tried
to "liven things up" by abusing the pinball machine, until Jack had a
short sharp word with them. Some of the youths played a distracted game
of darts, whilst Sheena sat quietly in her favourite corner with her
cousin Debbie.
Dek, bored, walked over to Sheena. "Fancy a ride?" he asked.
"No," she replied, not looking up.
"Come on Sheena!" said Dek irritated by her indifference. "You used to
like my bike well enough before Rick came along."
Sheena shrugged, still not looking at him.
One of the youths smaned as Dek tried fruitlessly to engage Sheena
in banter and Dek finally lost his short supply of patience. Grabbing
Sheena by the arms, he lifted her out her seat and kissed her
fiercely.
"Get off!" she spluttered, struggling to break free from his strong
grip.
"No!" snapped Dek. "You're coming with me!"
"Stop it Dek! I don't feel like it." She writhed in his grasp. "You
killed Rick - I know you did!"
"Don't be stupid," taunted Dek. "How could I? I was riding my
bike."
"I don't know," she sobbed, "but you did."
Dek grabbed her hair and forced her head back, menace in his eyes.
"Now look here........." he began, then gasped as once again the
strains of the hated music suddenly boomed. He threw Sheena violently
on to her chair and charged into the middle of the room. "Right!" he
raged, "I'll kill the swine who put that on. Who did it? You'll wish
you'd never been born."
Everyone's eyes were fastened on the jukebox. No one spoke. Dek
prowled, staring each person in the face. Jack hurried over to the
jukebox, glanced into it and stepped back in shock.
Dek stepped towards him. "What's the matter with you?"
"There's no record!" said Jack. "It's turning, but there's no
record!"
The room was silent, apart from the increasing volume of the
music.
"What do you mean there's no record?" scoffed Dek striding to the
machine and looking thought the clear front and then reared in
disbelief, "what the......!"
"It's up there," whispered Jack pointed towards the far wall. "It's
still where we put it."
Eyes swivelled to the plaque on the wall and back to the jukebox. The
music swelled, swamping thought.. For nearly five minutes everyone
listened, frozen, until the music finally died away.
Jack looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock," he said softly. "Rick's
time!"
Involuntarily, everyone looked at the time. A flurry of whispers
rippled round the room. Some of the youths began to fumble for their
helmets.
"Someone help Sheena," called Debbie, breaking the spell. Sheena was
lying motionless on the floor.
Gloria swiftly hurried out as Sheena began to regain consciousness and
she and Debbie took Sheena into a private room where she lay quietly
crying despite all efforts to comfort her. "It's Rick. It's Rick," she
whispered at intervals, not making sense.
In the bar, Dek and Chaz were engaged in animated conversation. "Let's
go," said Dek at last. "In fact, let's not come here again." He looked
round the room. "We're off to the 'Rising Sun,' anyone coming?"
The teenagers filed out, but once outside, made their excuses and
left. Dek and Chaz watched them speed away, one by one, into the
night.
"Just you and me, then," said Dek to Chaz. "Rising Sun?"
"You know that'll take us through the factories, don't you," responded
Chaz uncertainly.
"So what?" scoffed Dek.
Chaz shrugged and a few moments later the pair were speeding out of
the pub car park. Just as they reached the industrial area, it began to
drizzle.
"Race you!" called Dek, throttling back alongside his friend..
"Ner - don't feel like it," replied Chaz, who, in truth, was feeling
miserable. The drizzly, dreary night was too much like the night when
Rick .....?
"What's that music?" shouted Dek.
"What music?"
"That music - listen!"
Chaz listened hard. Yes, he could hear faint music. Familiar music.
"It can't be!" he shouted, neck prickling.
"It is!" yelped Dek. "Let's get out of here!"
The bikes shot forward, engines winding up to a scream. Chaz thought
he could hear a third motorcycle. He looked behind but saw nothing. "We
didn't mean it," he whispered fearfully, clinging tightly to the bike,
urging it fiercely onwards.
Faster and faster they sped down the straight, the howl of the engines
echoing round the silent buildings.
Just as they reached the red stain in the road, the music suddenly
blared recognisably? 'The...P.o..w..e..r...of....L..o..v.e...'
In the corner of an eye, Chaz sensed movement looping through the
darkness. He wobbled. Wheels touched. Motorcycles tangled, snarled,
grated. Machines and riders separated. Sparks streaked the rained-on
road. Bodies flew. Unprotected heads met unyielding tarmac.
Blood spread.
The music faded?

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1700 words