Siren Read Free Page B

Scrambler. At least she had given up riding twitchy sports bikes that did wheelies at intersections and required her to hunch over the petrol tank like a spider on a windshield. She now preferred what her father called ‘those handsome British bikes’. Her particular handsome bike was a retro model, with knobby tires, plenty of chrome, a long flat seat and upright handle bars. It had no shortage of guts or beauty, and when she had ordered new leathers—the old ones having practicallydisintegrated in the crash—she had chosen black with an old-style sports stripe through the jacket, something Steve McQueen would have approved of. In fact, she would have looked just right burning down the Federal Highway wearing goggles and with a white scarf trailing behind her.
    Mak’s thick dirty-blonde hair wrestled free of its ponytail and blew back into tangles at her shoulders, having escaped from her stiff jacket collar. Somewhere across her consciousness danced a brief thought for the wild mess of knots she could anticipate when she dismounted in Sydney. Within her helmet, a stiff current of air came through the vents, by turns refreshing and stinging. She squinted as a speeding truck passed her, turning the air momentarily gritty and foul. It pulled her into its wake before she hunkered down and steered back into position, a touch of moisture running from her eyes to sweep back across her temples. Moisture. Not tears. And then the road was clear again.
    Big trucks like those had once frightened her. Now, very little did.
    The addiction to riding was closely linked with the sensation of complete freedom, and that palpable liberation seemed appropriate as Canberra fell away behind her, along with another of her failed romances. Makedde rode with a few valuables, her toiletries and a couple of changes of clothes quite literally strapped to her back, the rest of her belongings packed in boxes and headed for storage. It was only a four-hour ride, but this particular four hours had been a long time coming, and her sense of direction was even clearer now that she could negotiate it, smell it, ride it.
    New beginnings, Makedde Vanderwall told herself, staying focused on the road. New beginnings…
    Hours later, with the sun low in the sky on a warm Sunday evening, Makedde was exhausted, dishevelled, and smiling.
    She had arrived.
    With a relaxed roll of the throttle she pulled into a suburban lane in the inner-city Sydney suburb of Surry Hills, an area of warehouse conversions, and rows of terraces and brick apartment buildings with wheelie bins lined up at the kerb. She flicked her visor up and geared down, looking left and right to pinpoint the address she sought.
    Loulou’s place. Here it is.
    Loulou was an eccentric makeup artist friend she had met in Sydney back when she was working as a fashion model. She was letting Mak stay in her apartment while she and her on-off muso boyfriend Drayson rocked out at a music festival in Byron Bay, and Mak planned to crash there for a couple of weeks while she looked for her own place. She hoped that finding a one-bedroom rental would not prove to be too tedious.
    Mak pulled up to the kerb and cut the engine, flicked the stiff kickstand into position and set the heavy bike on its support. At over 180 centimetres, she swung her long limbs off the bike in one smooth and practised move, like a roundhouse kick. Grabbing hold of her full-face helmet with both hands, she tugged it off, leaving red imprints across her face in patterns like warrior paint. A mild breeze felt cool against her perspiring skin.
    Mak could imagine her friend’s feverish dialogue— Darling! Sweetie! It’s so good to see you! But she was alone. Even without a welcoming party, Mak really was happy to be back. She had notrealised how isolated she had been without her girlfriends, and being back in familiar Sydney reminded her of the friendships she had put on hold. ‘I knew you wouldn’t last long in Canberra, sweetie,’