SPECIAL CHAPTER: Enid Drakewood - 4 FINAL

SPECIAL CHAPTER: Enid Drakewood - 4 FINAL

In 1989, in the industrial area near Kreuzberg, especially around Schlesisches Tor and the streets near the old wall, clandestine motorcycle races began to be organized. The area was ideal: wide streets, industrial sectors with little nighttime traffic, and abandoned warehouses that served as meeting points.

The races were held mainly on Friday and Saturday nights, between midnight and three in the morning.

Perfect. I'll rewrite it in continuous narrative format, without bullet points.

The races were not open events. No one arrived by chance. To be there you needed an invitation or, at least, the recommendation of someone who was already part of the circle. The meeting point varied each week: sometimes it was an almost empty industrial parking lot, other times an abandoned warehouse or an esplanade near disused railway tracks. The motorcycles lined up under dim lights, and before any start, the bets were organized.

Money was handled only in cash. The sums changed hands even before the motorcycles took their positions. Some bet on a specific rider, others on who would set the best time, and some took the risk of calculating the exact difference in seconds between first and second. The pot grew quickly. The winner took a considerable part of the total, plus a fixed amount previously agreed with the organizers, who always retained their commission.

There was no official category of motorcycles, but Japanese sports bikes and high-displacement European models predominated. Many were modified. The exhausts were louder than normal, the suspensions were reinforced, the weight reduced to a minimum, and the engines tuned to squeeze out every additional kilometer per hour. There was nothing extraordinary about them, just mechanical work and an obsession with performance.

Before starting, the route was explained with precision. Sometimes it was a long straight between industrial buildings; other times, an improvised circuit that turned through several almost deserted streets; occasionally, a stretch parallel to the wall where nighttime traffic was scarce. The start was given with a manual signal or an improvised flag. When the arm came down, the engines roared at the same time.

Although they were clandestine, the rules were clear. No sabotage or direct interference was allowed. If someone intentionally caused an accident, they were permanently banned from the circuit. Weapons were not tolerated either. The goal was to race and win money, not to create a bigger conflict. If the police appeared, no one argued: the motorcycles scattered in different directions and the spot was empty within seconds.

At strategic points there were people keeping watch. They warned with lights or signals if they detected patrols. Others patrolled the perimeter on secondary motorcycles to ensure the route was clear. Everything worked with speed and coordination.

The atmosphere was closed, almost hermetic. Mechanics checking screws at the last minute, riders adjusting their gloves, bettors counting bills under the yellowish light of a streetlamp. Portable radios spitting out music, smoke floating in the cold air, and engines idling, vibrating against the asphalt. Money changed hands as fast as the motorcycles crossed the finish line. And in that environment, reputation was worth almost as much as cash.

It was a Saturday, eight o'clock at night. The air in Kreuzberg was charged with smoke and gasoline. The motorcycles were already beginning to gather on the industrial esplanade near the tracks, and the murmur of bets mixed with the dry sound of engines being tested one after another.

Enid Drakewood arrived with a black helmet under her arm and a fitted leather jacket. She was not a spectator. That night she was going to race.

She crossed the group without stopping and headed directly into an improvised office inside an old warehouse. It was a small room with a metal table, two chairs, and a hanging lamp. Behind the desk was the head of the bets, a man of about forty with a notebook, a cigarette, and several bundles of German marks perfectly arranged.

He looked up when she entered.

—So you're the new one —he said as he closed the notebook—. Are you here to race or just to watch?

—I'm here to race.

The man observed her for a few seconds, evaluating.

—If you win, you take 3,000 marks. Plus the usual percentage of the pot, which tends to be around 1,500.

Enid did not sit down. She left the helmet on the table calmly.

—That's little.

The man let out a short laugh.

—For someone who has never raced here, it's more than fair.

—Not for me.

The silence lasted a few seconds. From outside, the roar of an engine accelerating could be heard.

—4,000 marks fixed —he said finally—. And the percentage of the pot.

Enid shook her head slightly.

—6,000 fixed. And the full percentage that corresponds to the winner.

The man rested his cigarette in the ashtray.

—No one starts at 6,000.

—Then find someone else to fill the grid.

She took the helmet, ready to leave. He raised his hand.

—Wait. 5,000 fixed. Plus 60% of the pot.

Enid looked at him without changing her expression.

—6,500 fixed. And 70% of the pot.

The man studied her more attentively. She did not seem nervous.

—6,000 fixed. 70% of the pot. And if you quit before the second lap, you get nothing.

—If I quit, it's because my motorcycle stops working, not because I give up.

—We'll see about that.

There was a moment of silence.

—6,000 marks fixed —he repeated—. Plus 70% of the total pot. Deal closed.

Enid extended her hand.

—Deal.

The man shook her hand firmly and wrote her name in the notebook. Outside, the noise of the engines increased. The race was about to begin.

Minutes later, the participants were already lined up on the asphalt. The motorcycles formed an irregular row under the light of an industrial spotlight that flickered intermittently. The smell of fuel was more intense now. The organizers walked among the machines checking numbers and confirming final bets.