by Mick Norman
‘Wait here Fatso, till we get our hogs.’
‘We’ll be waitin’.’
By the time the Last Heroes had revved their choppers from inside the theatre and down into the car park, word had got around the city, and a hundred people lined the walls. Hundreds more were flocking in from surrounding streets. A lot of local teenies, all ready for the action of the night were there, urging on the local boys. The papers had carried stories of the Angels’ security operation, and the girls knew what to expect.
Gerry throttled back, sitting easily back on the seat, hands drooping on the ape-hanger bars. The sun was just breaking through, and the chrome on the hogs glittered with a watery light.
A police siren came vibrating unevenly from a street nearby, and a white Jaguar came scattering through the crowd, braking in a shower of gravel between the two chapters. Out leaped the dynamic figure of Assistant Chief Constable Penn.
‘Blimey, Israel! Do you always have to roar up like the bloody masked avenger?’
Unsmiling at Hanger John’s greeting, Penn went straight up to Gerry, and the two muttered together for a few seconds. At first, the fuzz shook his head, but Gerry’s earnestness convinced him of whatever it was they were discussing.
‘Have yer sold us all up the Clyde, then? Yer fuckin’ grass, Vinson!’
Bond’s words were stilled as Penn strode back to his waiting car and, with the same scattering of gravel, roared away. After a minute’s delay, the rest of the police cars also withdrew, leaving the park to the Angels. And their spectators.
‘Right, Fatso. The blue meanies have all packed their tents and faded away from the scene. Like the old morning dew. Just you nutters and us. Come on, Fatso, the ball’s bouncing in your half. How d’you want to play it?’
Wee Georgie heeled his heavy machine – a Harley like Gerry’s, but with a lot of the original trim on – forward. The Electra Glide was painted in a flake enamel – orange. The rear wheel boxes had been stripped, but all the array of lights and horns on the weighty front remained.
‘An all-out fight?’
‘What a crude fellow you are, Bond. You do lack any kind of imagination.’
‘All right, smartie. Just what the fuck do yer suggest? A university debate?’
‘No, Fatso. Your top three against my top three. That’s me, Monk here, and Gwyn. Each pairing to agree their own terms. How about that?’
Oily wheels clicked inside the fat man’s skull. He’d hoped for a simple battle, so that he could call on his reserves as soon as fighting started and wipe the Last Heroes clean off the park. Now, Gerry had got in first.
‘Of course, you chubby old fart, if you’re afraid of losing?’ Having planted his barb, Monk turned to Gwyn to give it a tug. ‘I heard these Scotch bastards didn’t have any class.’
The sergeant-at-arms of the Blues – Bond’s right-hand man – was another fat man, Robbie White. Known as ‘Redeye’, because he permanently suffered from conjunctivitis, he came from one of the toughest estates in that tough city. And, he thought he could beat any skinny English sod.
‘Oh, really! Come on Georgie. You can take that little one. I’ll knock the crap out of big-mouth there. And, Wormie’ll beat that white-faced streak o’ rubbish. Come on! Nobody talks about us not having class!’
Faced with that kind of talk, a president has little choice on a course of action. A small thought crept out of the slush in Bond’s mind and he wondered just how it was that he wasn’t doing what he’d intended. But, he shook his head and washed it back below the surface.
So, it was agreed. While the other brothers formed an arena, mainly to hold the crowd – getting up towards a thousand now – back, rather than to keep the combatants in.
First off were Wormie, a silent Scot, and Gwyn, the white. They were to race across the park, up a ramp, then get up a steep spiral concrete staircase, once round the top and back. It was a course that the Blues knew well, and were confident of winning.
Gerry, Monk and Gwyn got together for a quick word, but Gwyn shrugged off any advice. ‘Leave him to me, boyo. The poor sod won’t know what hits him.’
On the shout, Wormie thrust his heavier machine into the lead and was fifty yards ahead as he started the wheelie that would help to get him up the stairs. The Blues were already crying: ‘Easy,’ as he appeared on the block on top, before Gwyn reached the bottom of the flight.
Then, both riders vanished into the concrete stairwell.
Wormie on the way down. Gwyn on the way up. Time seemed to hang around. Then, there was a splitting explosion and a blossom of black smoke and livid flame from the stairs. For long seconds, nobody moved.
Then, at the top of the steps, a figure rode into view. With dead-white hair streaming behind him like a banner of light. Round the top and then throttled to a stop at the head of the stairs. Barely visible through the smoke. Still, nobody had moved.
A voice, lilting across the car park to the ears of the listeners. ‘‘You Scotch sods ought to be grateful to me. You won’t have to worry about burying what’s left of him. I just discovered instant cremation.’
Choosing his moment to perfection, Monk asked Red-eye where they were going to race.
‘There’s no fuckin’ race. Get down off your chopper and fuckin’ fight!’
Bond made no move to interfere. When Gerry started to speak, he said: ‘Yer fuckin’ chicken now. What’s wrong wi’ a fight?’
‘Nothing, brother,’ replied Gerry quietly. ‘I just thought you might not want to have another full-patch member snuffed so soon after that one. A fight it is.’
Again that nagging thought that somehow he’d been manipulated crept back. But, he looked at the huge figure of Robbie White, compared to the slight, curly-headed Last Hero, and he felt much happier.
‘Rip his bollocks off, Robbie!’
Robbie had been reared in one of the toughest fighting schools anywhere in the world, and he could look after himself in any class of company. Fist or boot or bottle or razor. He was a fair hand with all of them.
And, as Mick Moore noted, the big man had all the scars to prove it. The one thing that Redeye didn’t have was much brain.
The two faced each other, Mick empty-handed. The Blue letting his hand creep round to the pouch at the back of his belt where he kept a honed-down chiv. Monk feinted an attack, making the bigger man move quickly back. But he still kept feeling for his blade. Which was stupid. It left him slightly off balance, moving back, and it left his right side virtually unprotected. Kafka hadn’t been the only Angel to get into Kung Fu. Well, was it said: ‘That the speed of the gad-fly, will always defeat the power of the water-buffalo.’
Springing off his left foot, he thrust out his right foot towards the big man’s knees. Monk hit him hard, the heel of his boot tearing into the delicate machinery of the knee joint. As he fell backwards, mouth open in agony, Redeye still managed to get the razor out and wave it desperately at the sliding figure of the Angel. But Monk was quick, elusive as an eel in a weed-fringed pond, and the blow missed. He rolled back to his feet, watching the struggles of the fat man to get up. Balancing awkwardly on his one good leg, the Scottish Angel tried to pivot and face his moving opponent. Holding the razor low, he weaved it from side to side, trying to cover himself against the next attack.
Horse stance to scorpion blow to tearing-rock kick with right foot. Against the weak knee. This time breaking the bones of the joint. The pain from a broken or dislocated knee is one of the most extreme known. Robbie dropped his razor and fell to his back, hands trying to hold the wrecked bones and cartilage together. And crying for help.
Monk looked at Gerry. ‘Do I out him?’
Gerry looked at Wee Georgie Bond, watching with horror and fear as his two top brothers were beaten.
‘Well, Fatso. Does he out him?’
On the dirt of the car park, the sergeant-at-arms of the Blues cried and rolled, clutching at himself. Mick Moore stood over him, waiting for the word. Thumbs up or down. It
didn’t make much difference to him. The fat man would have killed him if he’d had the chance.
While they waited for the answer, Gerry probed a little deeper. ‘Fatso. If he dies, then I’ll kill you. You’ve seen two of my best. I’m better than either. I’m even better than both.’ The Blue opened his mouth in disbelief. ‘You’re just going to say that can’t be true. You’ve got one way of finding out. I hope you feel lucky, Fatso.’
The crowd, mostly young girls, were impatient for more action and started to scream and yell at the delay. By his car, Penn watched patiently, a thin smile nearly making it on to his lips.
Bond’s eyes dropped, and Gerry knew he’d won. ‘Right, Fatso. Pick up that great piece of garbage off the mud there and move off. A lot of people here, and a few journalists around. So don’t bother claiming any class in this city. Not while we’re around.’
There was no more talk. A couple of the Angels picked up their fallen comrade. The burning bike had been put out, but the smell of oil and blazing flesh still lingered sickly on the air. Riding quietly, with none of the bravado of their arrival, the Blues left the theatre car park.
The hordes of teenies, who had expected to see these English heavies stomped out of sight, booed and hissed their former heroes.
At the concert that night, there were no serious incidents. In Glasgow, at least, the lesson had been learned. Mess around with the Hell’s Angels, and you mess with the inside of your own nightmares.
Twelve – The Motor Cycle Black Madonna, Two Wheeled Gypsy Queen
An extract from an interview with Brenda,
from the magazine ‘Oral’, in March, 198–
Clive Parkes, for Oral: Nice of you to come along and talk to us, Brenda. Could you tell us what you full name is?
Brenda: No. (long pause.) You’re wasting your time if you try that draggy old technique of sitting back silently hoping that I’ll feel so embarrassed that I’ll blurt out some appalling truths. That went out long ago.
Clive Parkes: Fair enough. Just Brenda, then. Tell us why you became a Hell’s Angel.
Brenda: I used to be a member of the Young Anarchists, because I hated the restrictive negativism of the last Government. But, they didn’t seem to have any activist concepts, so I decided to opt out completely. I met this ex-soldier at the meetings and we found we thought the same kind of thoughts. So, we went along to the local chapter – one of the very last left in the country – the rest had been driven underground – down in Hertfordshire – and after the usual initiation ceremony, they accepted us.
Clive Parkes: The man would be Gerry Vinson, also known as Wolf, who became leader of the gang known as the Last Heroes.
Brenda: Chapter. Not gang. Yes.
Clive Parkes: Tell us about the initiation.
Brenda: It was much tougher in those days. Gerry had to fight a man – he killed him and I had to pull a train.
Clive Parkes: Pull a train?
Brenda: You must have done your research, so you must know what that means.
Clive Parkes: I believe it means to have intercourse with all the men in the ... chapter? (long pause) Tell us about your friendship with Gerry. How deep is it?
Brenda: I f**k with him and he f**ks with me. That’s all I’ll tell you about that.
Clive Parkes: Fair enough. You’re very outspoken for a lady. Are you very into the ideas of female liberation?
Brenda: I think that women should be allowed to be as liberated as they want to be. I don’t believe any doors should be shut to them, but they have to face the fact that men are likely to do better in certain areas of work.
Clive Parkes: Could you specify those areas?
Brenda: No.
Clive Parkes: We’ll come on to the way security is being handled on this current pop music tour in a moment, though it does seem as though the Hell’s Angels’ particular brand of barely controlled violence is working. First, I’d like to ask you a bit about the ethos of the Angels. The rules you live by. And, most importantly, whether you approve of some of the things that Hell’s Angels actually do.
Brenda: There are plenty of fine books about what we do. They’re all old – written in the early seventies, most of them, but you might still find a copy around of one of them. Some of the brothers have copies, but they look like the Dead Sea Scrolls. There are pages missing and what’s left is held together by tape and glue. Try and read anything by either Stuart, Cave or Norman. They all knew what it was all about.
Clive Parkes: But, they were writing about what one might call the good old days.
Brenda: You might. You might also call them the lazy, hazy days of summer. Things haven’t changed that much regarding what we do. You know. Runs, wings, colours, hogs, that sort of thing.
Clive Parkes: Would you like to say what you think about why Angels behave the way they do, and whether you approve of it?
Brenda: Second one first. I ride with the Angels. I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to. First one second. Why the f**k shouldn’t they do what they want? Life is brutally short, and there’s only one go at it. We don’t go for the old myths about helping somebody as we travel along life’s path or our living will have been in vain. It’s for now. Not tomorrow. But now.
Clive Parkes: That seems a very selfish attitude.
Brenda: Screw you with your expense account and your three divorces and your little probing, prying mind. Ninety per cent of what the media puts out about us isn’t true or is so slanted as to be unrecognizable from the truth. The other ten per cent is wildly exaggerated.
Clive Parkes: I think that perhaps we’d better agree to differ on that. I see the Angels as mindless parasites and.
Brenda: You know what that word means? Parasite? It’s someone who makes his living fawning around the tables of the rich, flattering their egos. Picking up the scraps that they discard. A toady is another word. Whatever else you say about the Angels, I reckon that you’re a lot more of a toady than any Angel that ever breathed.
Clive Parkes: Do you fear death?
Brenda: Subtle change of subject, laddie. Do I fear death? No. I believe that death is simply Nature’s way of telling you to slow down.
Thirteen – And The Corner Sign, Says It’s Closing Time
‘Listen, son. I honestly don’t care what you want. I know you Skulls. You come in places like this and you take all sorts of things and when you’re asked to pay for them, you just walk out. Safety in numbers.’
The thin boy, with his cropped, curly hair, stood unsmiling in the small cafe. His clothes were neat and expensive, with a pale green ruffled shirt under his coat. The boots gave him a specious height. The Greek proprietor of the greasy spoon sniffed disapprovingly at the strong scent of cologne that many of the top Skulls used.
‘Wait a minute, Mr. Cristinos. You saying that me and my mates are cowards? Is that it? Why don’t you try putting me out of your stinking place then. Just you against me. Come on. Let’s see you.’
The eatery owner weighed up his chances. He’d had trouble with the Skulls in the past, and here was an opportunity to get his own back on one of them. His sleeves were already rolled up high over his strong, hairy arms, but he made the necessary gesture of rolling them up still further.
The skull backed away from him, waving his hands placatingly at the vision of this juggernaut of wrath. Fumbling behind him, he opened the door and jumped backwards into the ill-lit, empty street. Cristinos followed him on to the pavement, letting his anger build in a flood of insult. He blinked across at the slight figure, screwing up his eyes to try and adjust them to the dark after the bright neon within. ‘You’re a coward, like I said. You talk pretty big when you come in with all your friends. Friends! A load of work-shy loafers and no-goods. Why don’t you wash out that stinking perfume, and take off that ear-ring and try behaving like a man instead of a poof.’
Finally, Bookie Wyatt had taken enough. The game was over and it was getting boring. ‘All right, uncle. Get inside and start serving us.’
The big Greek shrugged his shoulders with a mixture of bravado and new-born uncertainty. ‘Us! Where is this us?’
‘Behind you, uncle. The rest of my mates.’
Cristinos looked nervously behind him. Fearing that he might see a cluster of Skulls, waiting for him.
You know that there are times when you know you’ve made a fool of yourself and you wish that you could cut off your tongue. That was what the Greek felt. But he didn’t have to cut out his own tongue.
They did it for him.
‘So this is London, again. That’s the trouble with being on the road; you lose all track of where time is and your head starts to slip. Still, two more gigs and away for the sun.’
Rupert Colt got up to pour Freddie Dolan another coke. ‘You must admit, Freddie, that things haven’t gone too badly on this tour from the security angle. Apart from that spot of bother at Birmingham, when Gerry was still sort of feeling his way. Glasgow, was fine. Liverpool, Cardiff and Leicester all went quietly. Assistant Chief Constable Penn told me that his men had made far more arrests outside the theatres than from inside.’
Dolan crunched his ice-cube in his teeth. ‘Colt, I didn’t want these English Angels here as heavies when we started this tour, and I still don’t want them here now. Rick and his brothers arrived in town last night and they’re just catching up on some lost sleep. They’re going to be at the scene sometime after brunch to take over.’
‘Wait a minute, sweetheart. The term you want is not “Take over”. It’s “share.” That’s what we agreed and that’s what’s going to happen.’
‘No way that Rick would agree to that.’
Amazing himself even more than he amazed Freddie Dolan, Rupert slapped him hard across the mouth, starting a thin trickle of blood.
‘You jumped-up little prick! If it hadn’t been for Gerry and his chapter you and your lot of filth could have been chopped-up cats’ meat. Raw head and bloody bones on anyone of half-a-dozen stages. If Gerry and Rick want to get into a hassle situation, then I’ll back Gerry. I hired him and I’ll back him. Even if it means losing your precious company for the last two shows.’