by Mick Norman
‘I’ve read it, but I can’t remember what it means. Please tell me.’
He grinned. Whenever he could, he took the chance to shock her. ‘It means that she had to get fucked by every one of the brothers who was capable of action. As many times as they wanted. In any way they wanted. You’d have been amazed to see how many orifices in the female form can be quite accommodating.’
He paused, waiting for the inevitable question. There had once been a popular lady journalist who had interviewed him for her magazine, and had been similarly intrigued. After he had told her, she had come back with him to the turf, and she had there been, persuaded to take part. The article had been a mind-blaster.
‘Er, Gerry. How many did she ...?’ She let the question tail off.
‘How many fucked her? In one way and another, she managed about thirty in an hour.’
Angie’s voice hardly stirred the shadows. ‘My God! The poor girl.’
Gerry sighed, as soft as a razor-cut. ‘No. You don’t get it Angie. She enjoyed it. In the end. You know the record’s nearly double that.’
The first days, when he was just a prospect, and the way he rose to full-patch status. Finally challenging the president, Vincent, for the leadership. And getting it.
It was here that Angela first encountered the trouble that she and Israel had expected. Although he’d given names quite happily in the first few days, detailing school and army – she’d checked he’d told the truth with the aid of a few calls – he now started using different names for characters, hardly bothering to conceal his ruse from her.
After half an hour of this, she reached forward and stopped the tape. Silence flooded in. He grinned at her.
‘What’s the matter, Angie? It can’t be time for our coffee break already.’
‘Why are you lying to me?’ The chill in the voice took him aback, with its surprising depth of venom. ‘Why are you changing names all the time, and dates?’
‘I wouldn’t rat on mates. That wasn’t part of the deal. Just to tell you about me. What difference do names make?’
‘Israel gave you his word that nothing would happen to you or to anyone you named. Now, come on.’ Again, she pressed the switch to set the spools revolving.
But Gerry was adamant. Not under any circumstances would he give real names or times and places of events. There were far too many skeletons buried here and there that he didn’t want to see unburied. Too many bodies that the police would love to hear about.
Angela threatened him, even saying she would put him back in the handcuffs, and ring Israel up to collect him and charge him with the wilful murder of the motorist. Nothing worked. He simply refused.
‘Look, Angie. I’ll tell you all about these “seminal” events that you think are so important, but I won’t rat on a mate. I’m sorry, but that’s that.’
And, that was that.
They did no more taping that morning. Over lunch, she tried to convince him to change his mind. But, he could tell that she had accepted his decision, and she was just going through the motions.
They had iced orange juice for starters – or, rather he did, she didn’t join him. Roast lamb with fresh mint sauce and green beans. Summer pudding for afters. She even allowed him a glass of wine with her.
Then, saying she felt tired, she locked him up for an hour and a half. He used the time working at the chain with a small penknife he’d lifted from her desk. Although the blade was wearing thin, so was the chain. After a bit, he felt surprisingly tired, and he slept for an hour.
When he woke, his door was open, and he could hear Angie singing to herself as she worked in her room. Feeling decidedly wobbly – probably the wine after a lay-off for a few days – he joined her and they spent the afternoon taping.
The words flowed faster than he could remember before, and she was obviously happy. The trouble of the morning, that he could only vaguely remember, seemed to have passed away like the morning dew.
He talked about the mass slayings in the quarry north of Birmingham, when large numbers of police and Angels were killed. Although he tried hard to avoid names, it somehow seemed that some slipped out.
‘What happened to the small American? The one you called Rupert Colt? Did you ever see him again?’
He was surprised at her interest in little Rupert, with his gay life and his taste for purple shirts, that they used to joke about.
‘He ran the pop tour that we were security for. Israel could tell you all about that. Rupert skipped at the end. Said he was going to change his name and run a little farm somewhere. Hey! I think he said it was near Shropshire.’
‘What was his new name going to be?’
‘Don’t know. Rupert Colt. Like the gun. Nice guy. A really nice guy.’
The afternoon sped by, and Gerry fell asleep at about six in the evening. Unusually, they had no night session, and he didn’t wake till ten the next morning: Angie was sitting on his bed with a glass of orange juice and a plate that almost groaned under the weight of the mixed grill it carried.
‘Gosh, you must have been knackered last night. I had to put you to bed.’
‘Sorry about that. Christ, have I got a fucking headache! You got any aspirins?’
‘Yes. Of course. Come on though, drink this orange. Then, eat your breakfast, and we’ll make a start in an hour or so. Give you time to feel a bit better. Then, as a treat, I thought we might go for a ride in the car this afternoon, if you like.’
‘What, just you and me?’
‘Yes. Israel phoned while you were out last night, and the Yorkshire business I told you about looks as though it’s going to drag on for another week. He sends his love, incidentally.’
Although he laughed, Gerry was just wide awake enough to spot that she wasn’t easy about Israel. Why, he wondered.
But, she side-tracked him by continuing about their afternoon jaunt. ‘You must give me your parole, Gerry.’
‘Course.’
This time she laughed, and it had the ring of genuine amusement. ‘You must really think I’m naïve, Gerry. After all you’ve said and told me over the last few days, you must realise that you’re one of the most amoral men in the world. You’d swear anything that was in your interest. Still, I partly believe you. You can’t get at the bike in the garage, and I think I’ll put on the belt and cuffs. Just in case. It’s a deal. To get some fresh air?’
He nodded. It was peculiar, but he was feeling the effects of being stuffed up in the house. He needed to get away.
The morning fled by, and Gerry was amazed when the tape ended and she decided to break for lunch. There had been so much on the tape, that he couldn’t remember what was new and what was recapping over old material. He was actually beginning to enjoy talking about the good old days and remembering the names of all the old brothers. She had been particularly amused by the tale of the bank robbery they’d pulled in Holloway, and she got him to repeat some of the funnier details. And some of the not so funny ones.
After a lunch of cold chicken and salad, he stood passively by while she fastened on the belt and cuffs. With them on, it would be impossible to drive a car or ride a bike, and walking was hard enough in the leg-chains. So, he still had to play along with her.
She brought her car – a nippy little two-door saloon in cerise – round to the side door, so that he could hobble in without attracting the attention of any of the watching police. She packed some tea, and a bottle of what she claimed was a very good wine.
He took it out in the back of the car as they hurtled dangerously round the lane, and read the label. It said “Gewürztraminer 1971”. Not that it meant much to him. It was white and chilled, beads of moisture clinging to the sides of the bottle. It seemed ideal on a hot, sweltering day. Maybe it would clear the fuzziness from his head.
This time, there was no blindfold, which was an oversight on her part. They passed a sign that said ‘To The Goggin’.
‘What the fuck is a Goggin?’ he asked, amazed at the name. �
�It sounds like a bloody dinosaur.’
‘It’s a hill. You shouldn’t really have seen that. I forgot the blindfold. Still, now things are going so well, I don’t suppose it’ll do that much harm. You can’t really get away, and we’ll be finished in another week at this rate. Then it’ll be all over.’
There was a finality about that last phrase that he didn’t like. ‘What happens when it’s all over, Angie?’
‘We’ll see.’
And that was all she could be persuaded to say. They drove for about another two and a half miles, he calculated, through some of the most beautiful lanes he’d ever seen.
Tall trees towered over them, the branches meeting high above, cutting out the light with a cool green filter. The lane narrowed, and there were no houses to be seen.
At one point, they saw a huge figure of a man, standing alone at the side of the roadway, watching them. He was so enormous, and the lane so narrow, that Angie had to slow right down to a crawl to edge past him. The man wore a long, grey raincoat, almost down to his ankles, and his hair was long and uncombed. Gerry stared at the giant’s face – for he stood near to seven feet – as they passed, and was horrified by the blank gaze that met his eyes.
The face was heavy and brutish, with flickering animal cunning in the tiny eyes. Very pale blue eyes. A dribble of mucus ran from the flattened nose, and the mouth dropped swinishly open.
He felt a prickle of fear raise the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Angie accelerated fast as soon as they were past.
‘Fucking Christ! Did you see that?’
Her voice, when she answered, wasn’t as much under control as she wished. ‘Gerry, this is a very, very old part of the country. You have to live here for at least three generations before they begin to accept you. Odd things go on. Even rumours of fertility rites, and intermarrying and sun kings ruling for a year.’
A mile or so farther on, they reached their destination. She pulled off the lane, which was now almost non-existent with a belt of grass running down its centre. Then bumped down a grassy slope, hidden from the roadway, and finally stopped in front of a tumbledown, half-timbered cottage.
Gerry scrambled awkwardly out and stretched his legs and shoulders, glorying in the freshness of the air, and the chuckling of a nearby brook. Angela got out of the car, carefully locking the doors, and unpacked the hamper from the back, spreading a white cloth on the springy turf. She beckoned him to sit down beside her.
Clumsily, he did so.
Her eyes confused, she looked at him. ‘For God’s sake! This is silly. Please give me your word not to try and escape today, and I’ll unlock you from the belt.’
‘All right. Cross my heart and hope to die. I give you my word as the President of the Last Heroes chapter of the Hell’s Angels motorcycle outlaws, incorporated by charter to the great chapter of Oakland, California. Honest.’
‘All right.’
The meal was good. Light and right for the occasion. The wine was excellent. Cool, with a tang of fruit to it that he’d never encountered before. Afterwards, while she lay back sleepily in the shade of the ruined house, he walked down and idly threw small sticks in the stream, watching the sticklebacks dart and flash in the shallows. Back through the trees, he could just see Angela, stretched out, apparently asleep. He looked around, weighing up his chances. He decided not to try it. Not because of his promise – that weighed less than dandelion down. Simply because he didn’t fancy his chances. Not with the leg-irons on, and he hadn’t scraped them thin enough yet to snap.
So, he walked back. Angela raised her head and smiled at him. She was a little drunk. He had noticed she didn’t wear a bra during their first session, a habit she still had. Her cotton blouse was almost opaque in the strong sun, and her short skirt had ridden up high over her thighs. She looked very attractive, and he told her so.
‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ she laughed.
He sat down beside her, and lay back, watching the clouds chase each other whitely across the deep blue sky. He felt better, and the muzziness of the previous couple of days seemed to have worn off.
Without any warning, he felt a hand on his chest, undoing the front of his colours, baring his body to the sun. He froze, waiting to see what would happen. The fingers traced a path down his chest and stomach, only stopping when they reached the top of his Levis. Then, while he kept his eyes closed, the hand worked his zip silently down.
Only when he felt the fingers grasping at the swelling maleness did he open his eyes, and roll over on his side. Angie was watching him, her face flushed, lips parted. She smiled at him.
‘I think that this is the time and the place. Don’t you, Gerry?’
He wasn’t about to argue. The crushed grass beneath their bodies smelled heavy and sweet. As they thrashed their way to a climactic satisfaction, a flock of crows circled and cawed above them.
The fluttering of her stomach muscles told him that she was near the brink, and he quickened his thrusting. She moaned as he filled her with his strength.
After it was over, she walked alone to the stream and cleaned herself up. When she came back, she seemed different. Cooler, less friendly.
‘Come on, Gerry. Time we were moving back home again.’
As he sat in the car, and they started to roll through the quiet lanes, he asked her if there was anything wrong.
‘Wrong? No, nothing. Why, what makes you think something’s wrong?’
‘It’s just that you seem a bit distant. Wasn’t it any good for you?’
She laughed, but there was little humour in it. ‘Christ! What an ego-trip fucking is for you men.’
He was surprised to hear her swear like that. It was the first time since he’d met her that she’d used any kind of really strong language.
‘No, it was fine. I felt the earth move and all those other tired clichés they use. Is that what you wanted to know? So that you could get a big kick from having done a good job on me?’
He leaned forward in the back seat, so that his mouth was only inches from her ear. She was startled by this, and the car swerved, clipping the grassy bank.
‘Don’t do that! What’s wrong with you?’
‘Listen Miss Wells. Just because you get the hots to find out what it’s like to be screwed by a Hell’s Angel, then that’s your hang-up, not mine. Lots of women feel like that, and they expect to be raped and dragged screaming to submission. Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not my scene, baby. I like it, and I like my women to like it as well. No tart I’ve ever screwed at a bang really got much out of it.’
Angela drove in silence for the next mile or so. Finally, with a jerk, she pulled into the side of the road. She tugged savagely on the hand-brake, then sat back and looked at him in the mirror.
‘Gerry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, and you were right about what I wanted. I thought it might be a new thrill for you to take me, out there. I expected violence and rending lust. I didn’t get it. Instead I had a gentle and considerate lover. I was too stupid to realise that I ought to be grateful for that.’
There wasn’t anything that he could think of to say in reply. Instead, he touched her gently on the back of the neck. After a minute, she took off the handbrake, put her car in gear, and moved off.
They were nearly back, he calculated, coming in by a different route, when he saw the house the American lived in.
‘Isn’t that the farmhouse you can see from your place?’
She glanced to the right. ‘Yes. Yes it is. Mr. Remington’s place.’
‘Remington. Like the gun.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, Angie. Just thinking aloud.’
As they went past, they saw a little man riding a bike up the lane towards them.
Angela was preoccupied with squeezing by, and took hardly any notice of the cyclist. But, Gerry watched him, staring closely at him as he went past the car.
He was short, and plumpish, on the way to middle-age. He wore a; bright purple sh
irt. Not bothering to look at the occupants of the car, he rode steadily off.
‘Was that Mr. Remington?’ he asked.
‘What? I didn’t really notice.’ She peered in her mirror. ‘Yes. That looks like him. Why, do you think you might know him?’
‘No. No, I don’t think I know Mr. Remington at all.’ He turned round and watched the slight figure disappearing round a bend in the lane, near his house. The last thing he saw was the flash of the bright purple shirt.
After he’d been safely locked away for the night, Angela Wells made a long phone call to Yorkshire. Then she went to her room and spent a long time with her tape-recorder and her notes.
Gerry would have been less than flattered to hear what she had to say about the afternoon’s adventure.
‘I gave him the chance of some freedom, and he sadly abused that by trying to rape me. I managed to fight him off and calmed him down. But, it was an undeniably unpleasant experience and not one that I would like to have repeated. It typifies the attitude of this young man to other people and to property. It was perfectly clear that he saw it as his God-given right to have intercourse with me, and he seemed surprised at the strength of my resistance.’
She paused to take a sip of a very dry Martini. Then, she continued with her version of the events, until just after midnight.
It wasn’t until she was getting undressed for bed that she remembered a chore undone. Tutting irritably to herself, she went downstairs again to the kitchen. She opened the tall fridge that stood against the wall, and took out a large glass jug of orange juice from the middle shelf. She poured out a breakfast dose into a crystal beaker, and put the rest back in the fridge.
Holding it carefully, she carried the glass into her working-room, and through into a side-room. One that Gerry had never seen open.
Putting the glass of orange juice on the small table, she took a silver key from a ring in her pocket and unlocked a stripped pine cupboard. The cupboard was full of bottles and vials, all neatly labelled.