by Mick Norman
One of the smallest Angels, Rat, had knocked against one of the old-fashioned hurricane lamps that flickered windily under the arched roof. It had fallen off its packing-case pedestal and, to save it from exploding, Rat had been forced to catch it. The lamp was almost red-hot, and the rest of the Angels cheered at the sight of the little, wizened figure capering and cursing like some bedemoned juggler.
Finally, he put it down safely and attention drifted back to Vincent.
‘Why?’ Vincent believed in economy.
‘Because we think society’s fucked up. And, we don’t want any of it anymore.’
A boot pointed at Brenda. ‘Is that tart your mama?’
Her reaction was sadly predictable. ‘I am not ...’
Slightly to his own surprise, it was Gerry’s hand that hit her across the side of the head, sending her staggering.
‘For the last time. Keep your bloody mouth closed.’ Then, to Vincent: ‘Yes, she’s my girl.’
‘All right. You think society’s fucked up, so you come to us. I don’t get it. You think we’re some kind of alternative salvation or something? It’s us who are trying our best to fuck it up even more. You know what, mate? I reckon you’re a liar. I reckon that you’re just another fucking creepy reporter. You know what happened to the last fucking journalist who tried to sneak in here. He kept talking about going on a “bum-up man”. So we gave him a special bum-up. We got him pissed out of his tiny little mind then we poured a can of petrol over him and ...’
‘Lit his bleeding touch-paper and retired immediately,’ bellowed Dylan, to everyone’s delight.
‘Yeah. He kept running round in circles, screaming and pulling at his clothes. His hair went first all over his head. He got most of the flames out and then he sort of fainted and fell over. He wasn’t dead so I got a funnel and put it in his mouth and poured some more petrol down it and then dropped a match into his mouth. It was fucking great. His whole chest sort of exploded.’ Vincent licked his mouth at the thought of how good it had been. ‘That was the last one. I think you’re one as well and (pointing at Brenda) I reckon that that lippy cocksucker is another. But I’ll be fair. We’ll take a democratic chapter vote on it’ He stood up. ‘Members of the Last Heroes Motorcycle Chapter, affiliated to the late and great Angels Chapter of Oakland in California. I ask you what you think of these two. Do we let them join?’
The tone of the replies left Gerald and Brenda in no doubt as to their future – or, lack of it. Right from the very start of their enterprise, Gerald had suspected that this moment would come. He took one step forward and shouted over the jeering and the obscenities.
‘Listen. Fucking listen. What have you got to lose? I’d be a right fucking imbecile if I expected you to believe us. But think – just stop shouting and fucking listen – just think for a minute. Think what you can all gain by having us in.’
For the first time, Vincent smiled a little. ‘All right. Tell us exactly what we can gain by not killing you, or, at the best, just throwing both of you out.’
Gerry put his arm round Brenda’s shoulders. ‘First, there’s her. A girl’s always useful, right? Well, I don’t hear any of you actually disagreeing with that. And, she looks like a straight. So, she has at least two important uses. Then me. If you wanted to throw me out or kill me, you’d almost certainly be able to do it, because there’s so many of you. But, you wouldn’t find it that easy, and some of you would die first.’ He ignored the cat-calls that rose around him. ‘I shouldn’t laugh. First, most of you are drunk, stoned or hopelessly out of condition. I’m none of those. Second; I know more about death than any of you, and I’ve killed more people than all of you put together. And they were mostly aware that I was trying to kill them. Not like some poor blind bastard trying to get home late at night.’
The shouting had died down but Terry’s voice rasped into the quiet. ‘It’s all fucking talk, Vincent. Make that little bastard prove what he’s saying. Let me kick the crap out of him, then see if he still wants to join us.’
Vincent moved until he was nearly touching Gerry, who could smell rancid wine on his breath. He grinned at him.
‘He’s right, mate. Tiny Terry here is so right. Before we can even think about the great honour of being asked to join the Last Heroes, you are going to have to prove yourself. And your ... girl. Our test’s easy for her. All she has to do is pull a train for anyone who wants her.’
Gerry felt Brenda shiver beside him. The popular press had left no detail unstated in the gory facts about the Angels and they both knew only too well what it meant to pull an Angel train. The only miniscule shred of comfort that Gerry could find in him for Brenda was that most of the Heroes were too drunk or spaced out to be able to perform.
Vincent continued: ‘As for you, I think Terry’s got a good idea. If you really reckon yourself that much, you can take him on. If, and I mean if, you can beat him, then we might even be prepared to have you in.’
This last was delivered with such heavy sarcasm that Gerald realised what he had suspected about Tiny Terry from their first meeting, that the big man must be good. Must be very good.
‘Do I just have to beat him, or do I have to knock him out, or what?’
Tiny Terry came forward and put one large hand on Gerald’s shoulder. ‘If you beat me mate, then you’ll know that you’ve beaten me. Because you’ll still be alive.’
Gerry studiedly ignored him and spoke again to Vincent. ‘I thought you ran this mob. Do you make the decisions or does this fat, smelly poof?’
Terry’s hand dropped swiftly from his shoulder.
‘This thick thug thinks he can beat me. He probably reckons that the smell from his breath will be enough to knock me over. I asked you a question, Vincent, and I haven’t heard an answer from you. How far do I have to go to beat him?’
Vincent looked at Terry. ‘Well. You heard him. How far does he have to go to prove that he’s beaten you?’
‘All the fucking way. You won’t have to worry about throwing him out afterwards, ’cos there isn’t going to be anything to fucking well throw. And (poking Gerry between the shoulder blades) I’m going to have second go at your tart and I’m going to screw the bleeding backside off her.’
Gerald finally turned to face the big Angel. ‘You stupid mother; you won’t be in any condition to screw yourself. Anyway; I reckon it’s all talk with a big queer like you.’
Terry grabbed him but Vincent intervened. ‘Wait Let’s do it properly. Everyone clear back and give them some room. You aren’t the only one with a bit of learning, mate. This is like a duel so we do it under proper duel rules. Tiny Terry here is what the call the challenged party. Right?’
‘Right,’ grinned Terry.
‘So, he has the choice of weapons. Right?’
‘Okay.’ agreed Gerald, wondering why Vincent found all this so amusing.
‘Terry. What weapons are you going to use?’
The ever-erudite Dylan interrupted him. ‘It ought to be pistols for two and breakfast for one.’
‘I don’t care about that, you silly fucker. We haven’t got any bleeding pistols.’
‘I’ll take him with what I’ve got. Just me belt and me knife.’
Gerald looked at the big man’s belt It was the highly-polished drive chain from a motorcycle. The knife that Terry produced from the back of his Levis was an ex-officer’s Nazi bayonet. It had a black bone handle, hooked at the end like a polished eagle’s beak. The blade was about ten inches long, sharply pointed but with a cutting edge on just one side.
He turned back to face Vincent ‘Who’s going to lend me a chain and a knife then?’
‘Oh dear. Haven’t you got one of your own, then?’
‘No, I fucking haven’t.’
‘Well, that’s your hard fucking luck then, isn’t it?’
Brenda had been pulled to one side by Dylan but she pushed him away and tried to get to Vincent. ‘But it’s not fair.’
‘It’s not supposed to be fuc
king fair, love,’ said Dylan, ‘If he’s as good as he says he is it shouldn’t make all that much difference. If he’s not then it’s going to teach him to keep his fucking mouth shut innit?’
‘It seems perfectly fair to me,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s up to Terry to choose what weapons he wants and our friend here, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Gerald, and that’s Brenda.’
‘Our friend, Gerald, should abide by his choice. Terry said that he would “take him with what he’d got”. So Gerald, here must also fight with what he’s got. Right, enough of the chat. Let’s get on with it. You ready, Terry? Good. Gerald? Off you go then lads. I want a clean fight, no hitting on the break, no mauling.’
Vincent was still talking when Terry made his first swipe with the chain. Luckily, Gerald had been expecting it.
He’d had a lot of training in unarmed combat, and the moves instantly started coming without any conscious prompting.
Pivot off the right foot sideways and back. Quick look round the room. Nothing on the floor. In he comes again. Don’t watch his eyes. Load of balls. Sergeant Newman right as usual. If he’s good his eyes don’t give him away. Watch the whole body. Shoulders. His arm’s going back. Inside!
As Terry’s arm swept back for another swing with the chain, Gerald jumped inside the blow, parried the knife with his right hand and jabbed his left hand, stiff-fingered, for the Angel’s groin. But he had, been right in his guess. Terry was good. He half-turned his body so that his hip took most of the force of the bruising blow. As they broke apart again the whipping chain caught Gerald a glancing knock across the shoulders. Despite his success in avoiding Gerald’s first attack, there was a hint of concern in the eyes of the big man as they circled each other again. Around them, Gerald was very conscious of the screaming and yelling of the other Heroes.
Christ! He’s fast. Moving in again. Chain swinging like a figure eight both sides now. Knife held low. Point up. Waving it fast across his body. Trying to back me away from him into that corner. Too big for me. Can’t take someone like him close in on those terms. Slow him down a bit. Have a go at his legs. The knee joint is the most delicate piece of muscular engineering in the whole body.
A fight, a real fight, isn’t John Wayne crisp rights to the jaw, knock them through the bar-room window, come up best of friends with a small bruise on the left cheek. It’s being that vital half-second ahead in the thinking, which makes you that vital half-second ahead in acting. It’s letting your reflexes carry you through what you are doing now and then having the time to calculate what you are going to do next.
Gerry feinted left and then dived forwards and sideways. His hands hit the cement floor first, and he used them as levers to whip out his feet under the dropping knife. As Terry stumbled sideways away from him, Gerald’s striking foot hit him with enormous power just on the kneecap. The steel heel on his boot smashed the delicate joint, splintering the bottom of the femur, rupturing cartilage and displacing the patella – the tiny, crucial bone at the very centre of the knee. The big man toppled away screaming high and thin, like a gelded stallion.
Up. Quick. Move away and watch him. Felt right. Good solid crack. Like when you crush an apple. Should slow him down or even stop him. Watch the big sod. Thank Christ he’s stopped screaming. Looks like a bloody great stinking crab, scuttling around trying to get up. He’s not going to make it on that leg. Can almost see his knee dribbling apart. Please God! Don’t let him get up. That wouldn’t work twice. Thanks God.
Tiny Terry had abandoned his attempts to get back onto his feet and had pulled himself to the middle of the floor. He just sat there. A carnivore. Stricken. Waiting for what could be death. Still dangerous. In those few seconds, the Angel achieved – for the only time in his life – a moment of true nobility.
Gerald walked slowly round him, keeping about eight feet away. The Last Heroes were silent now, seeing their giant champion struck down by the smaller, quicker man. Only Brenda shouted now. ‘Kick his head in, Gerry! For me. Please.’ This time, no one tried to shut her up.
Terry swivelled round painfully, clutching his ruined knee, trying to face Gerald. The chain in his right hand scraped harshly on the floor. The knife was still steady in his left. The only other sound in the large room was the mumbled string of curses. ‘Come on. You fucker. You little bastard fucker. Oh bleeding Christ. You bastard cunt. Just come here. You fucker. Come on.’
The chain first. The wrist holding the chain. Faster. Round him. Indians round a wagon train. Keep circling. Make him dizzy. Faster. He can’t keep up. When he tries to swing that chain again he’ll fall. Watch his hand. Faster. Now.
As before, Gerry’s speed was too much for the Angel. Crippled, he had no chance of avoiding Gerry’s rush. He was in on the right foot He pivoted and swung his left toe into Terry’s wrist. The radius and ulna both cracked with the force of the blow and the chain snaked away across the floor, to finish near Vincent’s feet. Now, even Brenda was silent.
Only the knife now. Keep moving round him. Never take anything for granted, son. Once had a Nip with no arms try to tear out me jugular with his bleeding teeth. Watch them all the way. Must know he’s had it. Keep an eye on his hand with the knife. He’s only got one choice.
The last gamble was almost pathetic in its predictability. The big man desperately threw the knife at his tormentor’s face. He was so badly injured that he could not balance and Gerry didn’t even have to move. The knife sparked off one of the roof pillars and fell to the floor. Slipping sideways, the Angel could only just hold himself upright with his uninjured hand. Sweat streamed through his beribboned beard as he looked up at Gerald.
‘Well, Terry. You still reckon you can kick the shit out of me. Do you?’
It was Vincent who replied. ‘You’ve proved your point. You don’t need to kill him.’
‘I know I don’t need to. But I’m still fucking going to. You really think he wouldn’t have done me if I’d given him a chance?’
Terry looked mutely at his President.
‘Like he said, Terry. You’d have done him. It’s the rules, innit? Anyway; I don’t really reckon that you’re all that much use to the Last Heroes now.’
Although callousness and indifference to suffering were a fundamental part of the Angel’s philosophy, such a bitter rejection caused a murmur round the still, vaulted room.
‘Okay. If you reckon you can kill him, do it. I still don’t reckon you’re going to find it all that easy. Go ahead.’
‘I was going to anyway. Not you or anyone would have stopped me.’
Without giving the least warning he spun round and kicked out for the third time. His toe caught Terry full under the base of his nose. His head started to snap back from the impact, but the boot was still moving faster. The gristle and bone near the top of the nose was crushed first and the splinters were forced back deep between the eyes until some of them reached the brain. Before the back of his head pulped into the floor, Terry was dying. The carnage to his central nervous system caused his body to thrash and jerk for some seconds, his fingers and feet moving convulsively. Then he lay still. His breath continued to rasp in his throat and blood gouted from his smashed nose while a darker thread inched from the corner of his mouth.
One last kick, aimed unhurriedly, got home just under and behind the left ear. There was a startlingly loud crack, the head rolled sideways, the eyes flicked open and stayed that way. The harsh breathing finally ceased.
The room was still. In the corner Di sobbed. The fight had relegated her from being the most secure of the gang’s mamas to just another old lady – collective property to be used and rejected at will.
Vincent clapped Gerald on the shoulder with a grudging admiration. ‘I never thought you could take him. Terry was always the second best of all of us in a rumble. It was him who killed those two coppers at the festival last year. If you can take someone like Terry then you can take pretty well anybody.’ The grip on the shoulder tightened. ‘With one or
two exceptions. Get me?’
Gerald nodded and turned to look for Brenda. His part had gone more or less as he had thought it might. He had guessed that he would be able to provoke one of the Angels into a fight, and win it as ruthlessly as he had done. He had also imagined that the initiation exercise for Brenda might have some kind of sexual nature to it. They had talked about it and he had tried to point out to her the sort of thing she would be expected to do. At the time, she had been so enthusiastic about joining Vincent and his gang that she had made very light of the possibility. Now, that possibility had become reality.
Before he could reach her to try and give her some kind of encouragement, he was pulled back by Vincent.
‘You did fucking well, mate. When we next go on a run well arrange for an initiation for you. You know what it involves don’t you? Good. Now it’s her turn. I go first and then you and then anyone else who want to. Then me again and so on.’
Gerald looked at Brenda. She pushed the hair back off her forehead and gave him a defiant if rather trembly, smile. He figured that she would probably be all right. If she wasn’t there wasn’t very much he could do about it. The least he could do for her forthcoming ordeal was to leave her alone. She had said before, when they had been discussing the sexual side of Angel’s life that she didn’t mind what they did to her as long as Gerry wasn’t there to see it. And, as long as he came back to her and she could still be his girl when the unthinkable initiation was over.
‘Listen, Vincent and all of you. Once you’ve all had a go for this initiation, no one touches her again, except me. She’s my mama. Anyone else tries anything and he’ll get what that fat bastard got.’
Vincent ignored this oblique challenge to his authority with a smile that made up in breadth what it lacked in sincerity. ‘If that’s the way you want it...? I just realised. We don’t know your full name.’
‘It’s Gerry. Nothing else. Just Gerry. She’s Brenda.’
‘Right, Gerry. I’m not going to introduce everyone. You get to know them quite – intimately – when you get your colours. Official. Time’s getting on. We better get started.’