Phantom Neutral is a self consciously traditional styled yarn.

The wind changed and Skunk shifted around as the smoke from the fire was blown his way. The light drizzle didn’t bother them as they sat round the fire. They had the clothes with them to keep them dry on a motorway at speed so this was relative comfort. There was always the beer tent and the marquee where the bands had played if they wanted shelter, but they wanted to sit by the fire and listen to the story the strange old biker was telling.
They were at the ‘Pist-On and Crank-Shafted Rally’ in a remote location on the South Downs.

They sat around and listened intently. There were no shortage of old bikers about with a tank bag full of war stories to tell, but this old biker had the ‘in’ story that they wanted to hear. The story of events that happened on the roads around this very rally site several years back.

Between puffs on a thinly rolled joint the old biker told his story:

“People saw him about, on runs, at rallies, but no one knew where he came from, or if he had any friends or family, he was always alone. People liked him though, he was sociable and knew how to party, but no one who met him, no one, can remember his name. They know what he looked like, they remember his bike, yes, his bike. It was a BSA B33. It had been made into a chop some time in the 1970s, raked forks high bars and the like, but still powered by a nice 449cc single cylinder engine. You knew he was coming when you heard that deep thud, thud, thud hammering through the air, a good four octaves beneath the usual whine of the Japs.
In the 1980s it had the electronics updated and bits and pieces to make it more reliable. It was nothing special, I’ve seen lots like it but it was a nice bike, a little ratty, he did all the repairs himself and he would sooner be riding than polishing.”

The old biker gave a glance towards Lummox, who was sitting in his official matching Harley Davidson leathers, that had cost him more than most of the others around that fire had spent on their bikes. Lummox was a little uneasy because his bike was standing in the drizzle and he had spent so long polishing it before the rally and then again on arrival. He was thinking that it had been a mistake to take it out the garage at all when there was a chance of rain, and decided that he would stick to sunny weekends in future, like he usually did. Lummox noticed the glance in his direction but thought nothing of it, the old man couldn’t know what he was thinking, he had only just met him.

The old man grinned and continued:

“It was in the early years of this millennium, some when between the first and second Gulf Wars. The unknown biker was thudding through the back roads that cross the South Downs. He had left the A272 and was heading South to join the A27. He had heard the thunder for a while and could see the black clouds ahead. He could see the lightening jump between clouds. He didn’t care, he rode all year round and had enough experience with snow and hail that a summer storm wasn’t an issue. As he approached a roundabout near Arundel the black clouds emptied their rain down in torrents.
Mr. Gridson was on the return commute from London, the Friday traffic had been hell as usual. He was already in a bad mood about the new London congestion fee that had just been put in place. He had just overtaken a family in an old Ford Sierra, they where only doing 80mph and holding him up. He was wondering why someone as important to the business world as himself had to use the same roads as hairdressers and shop assistants. He was annoyed even more when the rain hit. He reached the same roundabout that the unknown biker had just pulled onto. He saw the bike already on the roundabout, but reasoned that ‘I am much more important so the bike will just have to break; after all, I have side impact bars on a company car, why should I care, I don’t even pay my own insurance; and who would believe some greasy biker over me, a Vice Chairman.’
The unknown biker tried to break, but his 1950’s drum breaks where not up to stopping in such a short space, Mr. Gridson had pulled straight out in front of him. Breaking on that bend in the wet would have been near impossible whatever the bike. The unknown biker changed down, the engine breaking on a 500 single is very powerful, but he was rushed and lacking syncromesh he slipped into a phantom neutral; he tried to swerve more but there was no time. The unknown biker hit Mr. Gridson’s car just behind the front wheel, he came off and his body rolled under the back wheels.
Mr. Gridson carried on driving, swearing about his missing wing mirror and the dents in his door.
‘Why didn’t he break, bloody suicidal maniacs, all of them, shouldn’t have been on the road to start with.’ Mr Gridson ranted and pretended to himself that he thought it must have been the bike that he felt the rear wheels go over, and by now the biker was picking himself up and shaking his fist. If Mr. Gridson let himself think that he had just killed a man, then he might have to deal with guilt and that would have been inconvenient for such a busy man.
The police found the remains of the bike blocking the roundabout, but there was no sign of a body, just a pool of blood and some shreds of torn black leather.
It is said that a hill walker looked down on the roundabout and saw the pool of blood, but thought it was paint, as from above it formed an image of a human skull. He thought that it was a weird graffiti tag in an even weirder location. The police noticed nothing of this from ground level.”

“Bollocks” heckled Tizer.

“I’m not saying it’s true,” answered the old man, “ I’m just telling you what the witnesses said. You don’t have to believe it, you don’t even have to listen, but others here do. Now if it’s all the same to you I will continue Tizer?”

Tizer noticed the annoyance of the others about her, and her boyfriend gave her a glare, as he knew that it was not the done thing to openly dispute the truth of an old bikers war story, not to his face any way, or at least not until he had finished. Tizer didn’t give a toss about biker etiquette, but she did want to hear the rest of the story so she nodded for the old biker to continue. She wondered how the old biker knew her name.

The old biker continued:

“The old steel number plate was torn and two thirds of it were missing. The frame number had been scrapped off on the tarmac. They never found out who had been riding. There was so much blood on the road that a 20 stone man would have been dead through blood loss, so it is assumed that he died, but the body was never discovered. The only trace of the rider was a pin badge found in the road that the unknown biker wore on his jacket. It was a crossed spanner and piston underneath a blood red skull.
Several years later Gunk was tearing …”

“He’s the bloke with the matt black Z750, right?” asked Biscuit Tin. “I remember him, he was here last year.”

“Yes that’s him. He couldn’t make it this year, he broke his fist on some townie’s face.” Replied the old biker and carried on with the story:

“Gunk was tearing along the country lanes just West of here when a thick fog fell. He dipped his lights to stop the beam bouncing back from the fog and dazzling him. He couldn’t even make out the edge of the road. Gunk had been on reserve for the past few miles and was heading to one of the petrol stations on the main road, but he couldn’t make out the way. He went too close to the verge a few times and decided to pull over before he had an accident. As he was slowing he heard a thumping, like an old British single cylinder engine, but it was more thunderous and echoed. His mirrors filled with the light from a dazzling white headlight behind and a bike shot past him through the fog, too fast to make out the rider. Gunk decided that if someone can go that fast on an old Brit then he could make it through the fog at his own pace, if he could remember the way. He was able to go much faster following the fire red taillight of the bike in front to let him know where the turns were.
The bike pulled out on to the main road opposite a petrol station and Gunk pulled off into the station to refill. The other bike carried on and faded into the fog, the engine note seemed to merge with the thunder of an approaching storm that came over the downs clearing the fog away.
Later that night long after the fog had cleared and the storm subsided, Gunk was on his return journey. He went past the petrol station he had filled up in earlier and noticed that there was no road opposite it where he and the old bike had pulled out of. He rode back to take another look. It was definitely the same petrol station but opposite was just woodland, and there wasn’t another turn off for 3 miles. Gunk was befuddled.”

“Gunk's full of shite more like,” shouted Biscuit Tin “He told me that bollocks last year and I didn’t believe him then. Too much toking that’s what I…”

“Let him finish you snazwick, stop interrupting” said Biscuit Tins mate Moog and shoved a jaffa cake into Biscuit Tins mouth.

The old Biker resumed:

“There were other stories people used to talk about in the little country pubs of an evening, always the same sort of things happening, always at night. The sound of the engine, the unrealistically bright single headlight. I overheard one tale in a small inn on the Hampshire Sussex boarder, I can’t remember which side it was on but I don’t suppose it matters. I was supping ale with a lady friend of mine when a local farm worker came in and started necking fluid like he had just crawled out of the Sahara. The farm worker called his mates around him and began his tale.

‘I had taken the gaffers Land Rover out to pick up some new lengths of hose, the weather was bad and visibility was shite, I had the radio on load listening to Queen and I started to pull out at that T junction up by where Vicky lives. I heard this thundering type thudding sound, really loud. I thought that the rivets where going to rattle right out of the old Land Rover. Then I saw the headlight. One solitary light brighter than the lightening that split the heavens. It shone like a cup of Hell fire and headed straight for me. I slammed on my breaks and skidded to a halt. The bike shot off up the flooded road like it was a fighter plane. It’s just as well it came past though, being that loud and bright. Cos, as I went to pull away again I saw the little black learner bike waddle past in the wet. The headlights were quite dim and it was riding close into the verge, I probably would have hit that if it weren’t for that other bike.
I reckon it was that bloke who got squashed up by Arundel, the one where they never found the body, or who it was or who killed him. I’ve heard of other sightings, Phantom Neutral they call him. No one alive could ride that fast in weather like we had today, not on an old bike like that.’”

“He sounds like a better story teller than you,” shouted Tizer, who had been enjoying vodka and lemonade premixed in the bottle.
“’One solitary light brighter than the lightening that split the heavens. It shone like a cup of hell fire…’ Lets find that bloke from the pub and get him to tell the story.”
Tizer’s boyfriend looked very embarrassed.

The old man looked at Tizer sideways, smiled and replied:

“The farm worker does not know the end of the story. Only I know that.
A year later Mr Gridson was following the same route back from London that he always took. Down the A24, joining the A27 at Sompting and on to his house just North of Chichester. It was still daytime but a storm rolled across the Downs in such thick black dense clouds that it brought with it dusk several hours early.
Mr. Gridson thought that 6 o’clock was too early to put on his headlights on however dark it was, but then the rain came and he conceded to put them on and then overcompensated by putting on his fog lights as well, regardless of dazzling the bike whose headlight he could see approaching in the opposite lane. The bike headlight brightened by many times, dazzling Mr. Gridson who switched to main beam to fight back, but his halogen bulbs in is head lights and fog lights where nothing compared to the blinding bright light emanating from the single motorcycle headlight in front of him. Mr. Gridson couldn’t see anything but the headlight, and he could see that it was now in the same lane as him and heading straight for him. He steered hard right to avoid the bike, he had got away with killing a biker once, he thought he might not be as lucky a second time, and a head on collision might write his car off. He steered again hard left but the light stayed exactly where it was, as if he hadn’t steered at all. All Mr. Gridson could see was the light; all he could hear was the thudding of a 499cc BSA single cylinder engine, pounding as if he had it was strapped to his ears. He felt the car go over some bumps and down a slope, but however he steered he couldn’t get away from the headlight getting closer. Mr. Gridson braked and came to a halt. The thumping noise started to change in to a roaring noise, and the headlight dimmed and an arch shaped silhouette appeared behind it, ‘wait no it’s not an arch, it’s the front of a train and that roar is the roar of a tra…’
Mr. Gridson could not finish his thoughts because his brain was smashed out of his skull by the roof of his car, which was caved in by the train that ploughed over it.
A witness had seen Mr. Gridson’s car driving erratically and then veering off down the slope through the barrier and onto the train track. He said that the weird thing was that he had enough momentum to clear the tracks but he seemed to break as soon as he reached them. The witness made no mention of ever seeing a motorbike; he said that the road was empty.
Suicide was the official verdict.
There were no more sightings of Phantom Neutral. It is said that once he had achieved his vengeance he was free to move on to the next world, but I know different, he didn’t leave, instead they came for him, and now he rides with them.”

“Who?” asked Moog like an enthusiastic toddler being read his bedtime story.

The old biker took a long toke and continued:

“Those who died too young. Those who raced from café to café, overtaking on blind bends and on the brow of hills, only to meet with a van coming the other way. Those who rode carefully to work only to meet with a Volvo more interested in tuning the radio than to where they are going; those that hadn’t finished playing, and chose to remain. Those not ready to move on the next world.

It is said that Phantom Neutral rode to a graveyard by an ancient church in a place called Catherington, about 30 miles West of here. One hundred bikes stood parked in the shadows of the gravestones awaiting him.”

“Cool, just like in ‘Psychomania’” added Biscuit Tin.

The old biker smiled, and then continued:

“He was asked to join one of the many bike gangs that race from storm cloud to storm cloud. That hold bike rallies in the mist on mountain tops. He accepted. He wasn’t ready for the next world; he hadn’t finished with this one. I doubt that we have seen the last of Phantom Neutral.”

A wind kicked up and the fire blew out, with it went the light. The old man had finished his tale and remained silent. Moog threw his empty jaffa cake box on the smoking ashes of the fire and followed Biscuit Tin to the beer tent. Lummox went to get an early night so that he could get up early and ride his Harley into the nearest town, park it up and stand near it waiting for someone to walk up and talk to him about it. The others got up and either staggered back to their tents, or walked off to see what was happening around the other fires that could be seen burning around the rally site.

“Nice Story” Tizer said to her boyfriend as they walked back to their camp.

“Yep, very romantic. How much of it do you think is true?”

“Well the bike accident was real, and so was the train incident, they were both in the papers. But what I want to know is: If the only witness to the car being hit by a train said nothing about a motorbike then how did the old bloke know what happened; and as for the gangs of ghost bikers in the graveyards, where did that come from?”

“Why don’t you go back and ask him? I’m going to bed.”

“I will then, I’ll see you back in the tent.”

Tizer headed back to the remains of the fire. Despite being long blown out the fire was still kicking out plenty of smoke. She could see no sign of the tatty green tent that the old biker had been sitting outside. She heard a clunk, turned and saw a movement through the smoke. It was the old biker. It was definitely him, she could make out the blood red skull air brushed on the back of his faded and patched leather jacket. He was kick starting what looked like an old BSA B33 chop. The bike fired up and a flash of lightening lit up the camping field. Tizer caught the face of the old biker, illuminated in the flash, it was his face but he looked no more that 35 years of age in that flash. Another bolt of lightening cracked the sky. Tizer looked up at the storm clouds rolling in. The bright moonlight lit up the fringes of the black clouds. For a moment Tizer thought that she saw bikes, riding the edges of the clouds like the foam on the edge of waves resembles white horses. She looked back at the old biker, he was not there, she looked back up at the clouds, but they started to obscure the moon and all she could see were black clouds against a black sky on a black night. Thunder bounced around the field, and to Tizer it sounded just like the rumble of 100 old British thumping bike engines.
Then the rain came and she headed back to her tent, with a new war story to tell around future fires.

by baRoN