by Mick Norman
He reached the line about “The dead in shrouds behind me touch their minds with splintered fingers,” and he stopped singing. There had been so many dead. Friends, enemies, brothers and sisters. It had been a long and bloody road since he first joined the Angels. His face set in hard lines, and he lay back on the springy turf , watching the clouds chase each other across the sky. A falcon stooped over his head, a tiny dot against the blue. He let his mind wander back.
So many dead.
He remembered bodies splashed along a motorway, leaving a trail of blood and loops of intestine. Bodies torn apart by bullets and by the blast of shotguns. Men crying with pain and the fear of death. Men who faced death with a grin, or with resignation.
And, not only men. Gerry wandered deeper into rooms at the back of his memory that he normally kept closed – even to himself. At the end of the rock concert, there had been the one death that had touched him more closely than any other.
The shot had hit her in the chest, crushing her ribs in and demolishing most of her lungs. The blood loss was colossal, and he had been amazed that she should still be breathing. Her eyes had been open, and she had twice tried to speak. He remembered how he had leaned over her, wiping the blood away that had filled her mouth.
By putting his head down, close to her mouth, he was able to catch the whisper of sound, painfully torn from her ruined chest
He could even remember her last words. Always would.
‘Hold ... me ... love ... I... always ... loved... you.’
He felt his face wet, and lifted a hand to wipe away the tear. There had always been Brenda – right from the start. Now, even she was gone.
With all the rest.
Vincent, blasted down in an abandoned quarry, the victim of his own anger and hatred. Priest, snuffed on his last run, the most righteous brother of them all. Legs, Moron, Crasher, Dylan, Tiny Terry. Wiped out.
Gafr, the mad, stoned Welsh brother, from the Wolves’ chapter, beheaded on a weaving run. With a song on his lips: ‘Ffarwel fy annwyl gariad’, Fare thee well, my own true love.
Draig killed in the fight against the Ghouls. The silk and satin Angels, most of whom perished in the cataclysm in the London offices of the Daily Leader. Evel, Vanya, Rohan – all dead.
Shelob, Kafka – oldest of the brothers – and Ogof, blasted off the world by Skulls. The Laurel Canyon chapter, all murdered in the savage aftermath of the rock concert. Rick Padrino and Cassady.
Gerry sat up and looked over the hillside. Far below him, a tiny speck in the solitude, he could see the sun bouncing off the bald head of a stout man, pushing a loaded bicycle up the steep path.
Idly, he watched him, not really seeing him, letting his thoughts wander away. Away from the dead to the living.
In the last few months, the chapter had gone underground again. All that was left of the Last Heroes was a handful of hard core, full patch brothers.
One of them, the indestructible Rat, had been along there before Gerry even appeared on the scene, and would maybe be around after he’d gone. Cochise and his massively built old lady, Forty. Gerry grinned slightly as he remembered the suggestion from Rat that if she got any bigger, they’d have to rechristen her Fifty. Dick the Hat, Riddler and Hanger John. Fine brothers, that you could depend on in a fight. All capable of showing the sort of class that would blow the minds of any straight citizens unfortunate to be around.
And, there was Monk, and his lovely old lady, Modesty. Monk – or Mick Moore as he used to be called. Gerry knew that the day was coming, when Monk would split from them. He kept talking about settling down, and one day the talk would stop, and there’d be another gap in the run.
The man with the bike was closer. As Gerry watched him, he stopped to wipe sweat from his head. Then, leaning forward against the handlebars, he pressed on towards where Gerry sat.
The Wolves still held the fastnesses of the Lleyn Peninsula. That desolate wilderness that became a crowded holiday area as summer wore on, then became a depopulated ghost land, where only the old now lived.
Gerry had been up to see them once, but there had been a subtle tension between Gwyri and himself. Once, the red-eyed albino had ridden with Gerry, but he was the president of his own chapter now. They had sniffed suspiciously at each other, like two stiff-legged old wolves.
The tension had eased, once Gerry had made it clear the old days were over for him. The firelight had glinted on the red eyes of Gwyn, ruby pools in that shocking face of wind-washed bone, and they had got drunk together. When they parted, Gwyn had told him to see them again. But, maybe there are things you can never go back to.
Now, it was time to stop looking back and keep on looking forward. To decide what road he would take. Above him, the hawk dived at a pigeon, but the slower bird side-slipped at the last minute, and the claws hissed harmlessly by.
Time to move on. Shropshire fell within the control of Assistant Chief Constable Israel Pitman Penn, a long-time enemy of the Angels. It wouldn’t be a good idea to get caught on his patch. Not without a bit of support. The rest of the chapter were safe down in their headquarters in Hertfordshire, while their president went on this solo run, to get his head together.
The man with the bike was right up close to him now. To his amusement, Gerry noticed that the bike was one of the old sit-up-and-beg type of ladies’ machine, with no crossbar. The saddle and handlebars were draped with all manner of bags and containers. The top of a head of celery peeked out of one, and a chicken’s feet out of another.
The stout man, heavily built around the shoulders and with a deep chest that told of an athletic past, grinned at him as he came level, and shouted out a greeting.
‘Good day to you! Lovely day to be alive, isn’t it?’
Then he stopped, staring hard at Gerry. The Angel gazed back at him, wondering whether there was going to be any aggro. The way the tramp was screwing him could mean trouble. Although he was obviously getting on, he still looked as though he knew how to handle himself.
In fact, there was something familiar about him. Where the hell had he seen that squat physique before?
Wait a minute!
At the same time, recognition dawned on the man’s face.
‘I thought I knew you. Yes, of course. Two nine eight, three seven four two five. Vinson. Gerald.’
‘Jesus Christ! It’s Sergeant Newman!’
To Gerry and to the Last Heroes, Sergeant Newman had become an almost mythical figure. During Gerry’s brief and lethal army career, Newman had been an enormous influence on him. Apart from anything else, he had ben his combat instructor, and it had been Newman who had taught him all the tricks that had made him the efficient killing machine he had finally become.
All of that had been years ago. Now, here was old Newsman, face as brown as a berry, his hairpiece – or ‘dead rat’ as they’d called it – discarded, pushing an old bike across a hill in the middle of Shropshire.
It was bloody unnerving. It was like meeting Count Dracula and finding he’d turned into a benevolent old Sunday School Teacher.
‘Sergeant, what the hell are you doing up here? Don’t tell me you quit the Army?’
Newman let his loaded bike drop to the spring bracken and let himself down easily beside Gerry. Before he spoke, he let his eyes roam unhurriedly over the Angel’s body, taking in the biceps, the flat ridges of stomach muscle, and the general muscle tone.
Grudgingly, he spoke. ‘You’ve looked after yourself, Vinson. You looked like a killer then and you still look like a killer. I’ve read about you, in the papers. Massacring coppers in Birmingham a couple of years ago. Blowing up a paper’s offices and then running guard duty on a load of poof pop singers. You get around, son.’
It was impossible to tell from the neutral tone of Newman’s voice if he was being disapproving or not. He picked up a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth. For a few moments there was silence. Then, he went on.
‘I always knew you’d do something like that. I’v
e never seen you as the office type. I reckoned you’d either end up with a bit of power, or you’d end up dead. Well, you’ve got your bit of power, and you must have come bloody close to buying it a few times.’
Gerry nodded. ‘Yeah. I reckon. But, come on, what about you?’
‘Me? Well, a year or so back, I was just getting ready to sign on for another seven in the mob. It would have been my last round. Retirement after that. I had a spot of leave owing to me, so I took a small tent and went camping. Just on my own. All over the place. Saw lots of things. I … what’s the expression you lot use? Got my mind all in.’
Gerry laughed. ‘Got your head together.’
‘Right, son. Dead right. Basically, it seemed to me that I was working my arse into an early grave shouting my lungs out at a bunch of no-hopers. So, I just never went back. Simple as that. I get by doing a few odd jobs. No problem. Find a nice quiet erie in winter and that’s that. I’m my own man, son.’
They chatted for a couple of hours about the bad old days, and Gerry filled Newman in on some of the things that had happened since he left the forces. Time wore on. The Angel found it easy to persuade Newman to share a joint with him. And then another.
‘I want to be in Woolaston by dark, so I’d better be moving.’
‘All right, I want to get on the way back to our base. It’s been, you know, really good to see you again. I’m glad things are going the way you want.’
Both men stood up. Faced each other. Gerry was the taller by three or four inches. Awkwardly, he held out his hand, and Newman took it, grasping it firmly. Gerry noticed that his ex-sergeant still kept up his karate training. There were no nails on the hand, and the edges of the palm were as hard and unbending as a chunk of oak. Gerry would have backed himself in a fight against most men. But, against Newman? Maybe. Maybe not.
He mounted the Electra Glide, feeling the leather of the seat warm through his jeans. The engine barked into life on the second attempt, and he throttled back, until it just ticked over. Now that he was leaving, it seemed hard to find any words.
‘Look after yourself, Sergeant. I’ll maybe see you again. Bye.’
He began to move slowly away. Leaning on his overloaded pushbike, Newman watched him go. Suddenly, he shouted to him. ‘Gerry! Always look out for your back!’
The Angel waved a hand to show he had heard, then revved the powerful machine up. The front wheel lifted for a few yards, then he pressed it down and sped away. South and westwards, towards the sun. Over the top of the Mynd.
He didn’t look back.
Funny, he thought, after all that remembering the old days, to run across old Newman. A gentleman of the road. Old Newman of all people. Doing his own thing. Man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. But, he never expected to find the immaculate instructor ending up a tramp.
It surely was a day for coincidences.
More than he knew.
Gerry rolled slowly and carefully down the very steep southerly end of the Port Way, by the hamlet of Asterton. Then he rode to Plowden, turning sharp left on to the A489 towards Ludlow. Although the afternoon was wearing on, the sun was still warm.
Just through Cheney Longville, up on the right, there’s the remains of an old Tumulus. A minor road comes on to the main road from the right. The remains of an old Roman thoroughfare.
Gerry was roaring along, the wind stinging his eyes, when a car pulled out of the side road, straight in front of him. He braked sharply, feeling his hog swerve, the back wheel snaking viciously. He yelled out a single word of insult, and thrust two fingers at the departing driver’s rear mirror. In return, he got only his gesture repeated.
That was enough. He slewed the chopped bike round and shrieked off in pursuit. Neatly stashed away alongside the tank was a length of highly-polished drive chain, and he snapped it off and let it dangle low in his left hand. Gradually, he closed the gap, oblivious to all other traffic.
The driver saw him coming and tried to accelerate away. But, nippy though his sports car was, it couldn’t take the tight country corners the way the chopper could. Gerry stoked it right up, riding to the limit, and even a little beyond it. On one sharp left hand twisting corner, he sent up a shower of sparks from his foot rest. But, the gap was closing. He was within thirty yards, and he could see the driver – a young man in a bright check jacket – casting frightened glances in his mirror.
Twenty yards. The driver tried to snake to throw him off, but Gerry was in the catbird seat, and he could control the action. Already, he felt the Warm glow of action spreading through his guts. This bastard had cut him up badly, and he was going to have to pay the price. It had been a long time since Gerry had been able to have some solo action. Too long, maybe.
He was delighted that the sports car was nearly new, with gleaming yellow paint.
Ten yards.
Five. Then, he was within reach. Somewhere behind him, Gerry was vaguely aware of another car, tyres screeching in protest, as it rode with them. But, that was for later. If anyone else wanted to get in the action, then that was going to be all right with Gerry. Tangle with the Angels, and you mess with the inside of your own nightmares.
He dropped the one end of the chain, letting it swing free alongside his left leg. The rear bumper of the car was only a foot or so from his front wheel.
Now!
With a crack, the chain swung over and down, ripping a dent of bare metal through the new bodywork. And again. And a third time. The boot was beginning to look as though someone had been jumping on it in studded boots.
Now it was time to move up for the wing mirror and the windscreen.
But, the driver had taken enough. Cutting up punk kids on, low-powered bikes was one thing. A lot of fun after a night out with the boys, or after a boozy business lunch. But, this was way out of his league.
There was the warning flash of the red brake light, then he flung his car sideways in a spectacular skid. But, as police forces all over the country had discovered, you can’t beat a chopped hog for manoeuvrability. Gerry broadsided his bike, churning up a shower of loose gravel, cutting past the rearing car. By the time the driver had his pride and joy under control again, Gerry was sitting astride the hog, grinning wolfishly at him, the length of chain dangling menacingly.
With a hiccup of panic, he tried to crash into gear and get away from the demon of evil that had ridden his tail for so many miles. But, in his nervousness, he stalled it. Twice he tried to start it while it was still in gear, and it bucked and coughed like a spavined stallion. Still grinning, Gerry got off the big Harley, and walked slowly towards the car. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that a white Jaguar had pulled up on the left, and the driver was watching them through the windscreen. That must be the car that had followed him. But, he hadn’t broken the law, so he hadn’t got anything to worry about. Anyway, it wasn’t a marked car, so it couldn’t be the police.
While the driver, his mind blanked by panic, struggled to move, Gerry, reached him, and leaned on the bonnet, smiling pleasantly. Without altering that expression, he whipped the chain over and round, slicing the offside mirror off as neatly as a pair of bolt-cutters.
That was enough. His mouth hanging open, his eyes wide in terror, the car driver wrenched his door open and ran across the road.
Across the busy road.
Halfway across the busy road.
In his fear, he made no attempt to look both ways before crossing. Or, even look one way. When the hounds of hell bay at your heels, the Green Cross code all seems rather remote.
A yellow Transit van, its multiple-track stereo blaring out an old ‘New Riders of the Purple Sage’ song, its tousle-headed driver zonked from here to eternity, was bettering sixty along the road. The car driver – his name, by the way, was Derek Stokesley-Wyatt – never saw it. There was the flash of bright yellow at the edges of his seeing, then he felt the immense and agonising blow that tore his body apart and spread it over the tarmac.
The injuries were so
massive that he died instantly, his ribs crushed into splinters of bone that ripped his heart to bloody rags. The violence of the impact threw the corpse clean over the top of the van, smearing its bright paint with red streaks. Like a discarded and ragged doll, the earthly remains of Derek Stokesley-Wyatt splashed into the dusty hedgerow, landing in a cluster of golden toadflax that splattered up around him, covering his staring eyes. The rest of his body was soaked in dark blood.
As the van skidded to a halt, its sound system continued to tear at the afternoon air. Gerry walked over to the corpse the chain dangling forgotten in his hand. He’d wanted to beat the crap out of the bastard, to teach him some manners. But, he hadn’t meant death.
He looked down at the sprawled body. An image from a forgotten Bradbury story came to him. ‘Dark it is and golden-eyed,’ he muttered.
‘What’s that, son?’
The voice made him start. The van driver was vomiting quietly in the ditch a few yards away, and he had thought himself alone. He swung round to face the speaker.
It was the driver of the white Jaguar, and he held a small handgun, with a barrel that looked as big as all outdoors. The new police issue .357 Minim. After the assassination attempt on Princess Anne, some years back, when the bodyguard’s Walther had jammed, there had been a shake-up in police weaponry. The Minim was one of the results of that shake-up.
The driver was tall, and smartly dressed in a cream shirt and burgundy trousers. He held the gun with the ease of the professional, the barrel pointed casually at Gerry’s navel.
‘Hello, Israel.’ said Gerry wearily.
Of all the men he wanted to see at a moment like that, it was Assistant Chief Constable Israel Pitman Penn. He and Penn had crossed swords before, though the security of the rock concert had caused an uneasy truce between them. One of the results of that tour had been a severe reprimand for Penn, and the hint that promotion might have been jeopardised.