Fallen Angels Vol 1

by Mick Norman

  Time passed. Listen inside your head and hear it moving away from you. Think back. Three minutes isn’t long. But it’s long enough to think. Each man in the room, alone with his thoughts.

  Creep into the black cave inside Priest’s head. Listen at the corner of his mind to the dark, unspeakable thoughts that lurk there. Thoughts of blood, rending flesh and cutting. Bodies, open to his hands. Girls, begging for him to take them. Orgasms, fire-crackering across the skies. The soft neck of Reginald Pinner, cartilage cracking between his fingers. The artery pumping blood to Pinner’s brain. Slowly cutting off that flow. Death. Death. Death. Death.

  There is no need to enter the mind of poor Mr. Pinner. His thoughts are there, writ large across his perspiring face. Fear. Lack of comprehension. These monsters have got his baby. Will hurt her. Unless he helps them. But, twenty thousand pounds! There is that much in the bank. How? How? Can he stop them? Angela! Poor Reggie! Maybe they’ll kill us anyway. Oh, God. Holy Mary, blessed are thou among women. Please. Just don’t let them hurt me. To see them hanging. Eyes protruding and tongues swelling from their tortured mouths. Or whipping them. The lash drawing neat strips of flesh from their bloody backs. Maybe they’d even let me do it

  Reginald Pinner is only a short step away from total breakdown. Something Gerry hasn’t reckoned on, for all his clever planning. Just one step. Near to both the cradle of insanity and the grave of violent action.

  Gerry sits and waits. Calm. Certain that his careful planning and training are bearing fruit. It will be a triumph that will establish him beyond all doubt as the pretender to the throne of Vincent. It will make he and Brenda secure. It will give him the step up ready to challenge Vincent as soon as he shows any sign of weakness.

  Only five months, and already he was nearly the leader. The ‘Last Heroes’ was now strong and unified. They’d cut away the dead wood and dropped some of the superfluous girls. Di had done her own bit to reducing the numbers by killing herself only two days after Gerry had snuffed out her old man. Tiny Terry. Gerry remembered how revolted he had been when he had seen the corpse. Di had been on heroin for too long and had chosen a massive overdose as her way out. She had retched up most of her last meal and choked on her own rancid vomit, fouling herself as she died. To Gerry’s surprise, it had been Brenda who had volunteered to clean up the pathetic corpse. They had buried her in the woods, alongside the huge grave of Terry.

  Gerry grimaced as he remembered the smell of the body. – The odour brought back the memory of his own initiation into the ‘Last Heroes’.

  He’d turned up for the meeting wearing a new Levi jacket and jeans. On his back was embroidered the spotless emblem of the chapter. Everybody had got drunk on cheap white wine and beer. Several of the men had been dropping acid and joints were being freely handed round.

  Vincent calling above the shouting and the songs, bellowing for everyone to gather round. Then lying on the filthy floor while the men of the chapter gathered round him. The mamas and old ladies standing round the walls, giggling excitedly at what everyone knew was going to happen. The baptism of an Angel was a carefully cherished ritual. The new member had to prove he was prepared to subjugate himself to the needs and desires of the majority.

  ‘Quiet. Quiet, everybody! Shut your bleeding gobs! We are all here to welcome and initiate a new member to the chapter of the Hell’s Angels, known as the “Last Heroes”, affiliated by special charter dated 1971 to the great chapter of the West Coast of America, Oakland, California. Our new member has the given citizen’s name of Gerry. Henceforth he shall be known by his brotherly name of “Wolf”. Because he’s always alone.’

  ‘Not always!’ That was Brenda interrupting from the back. Gerry watched her face as the climax of the initiation grew nearer. It was alight with a strange, almost sexual heat, as though she was savouring the humiliation to come. Relishing the fact that Gerry was going to suffer just a little of the sort of embarrassment that she had undergone only a week or so ago.

  Since the gang-bang at her expense, Gerry had noticed the way she had changed. Hardened.

  Ignoring the interruption, Vincent went on, fingering the place on his head where he had once had an ear, and now had only a red piece of gristle. ‘Come on Wolf. Lie down and take your medicine like a man.’

  Trying to take it all in good part and show some class, Gerry flopped to the floor and lay spread-eagled on the dirt. Vincent leaned down over him and whispered in his ear: ‘You know something? I’m really going to enjoy this. It might just show you who the President is. Don’t try with me what you did with poor old Terry. I’m not stupid like he was. Try anything with me and I’ll kill you. Just like that. Play your cards right and you’ll be a good number two.’ In the act of standing up, Vincent dropped his knee for a moment on to Gerry’s face, cracking a hard blow to his nose.

  No point in retaliating. Not here and not now. But, one day!

  The only good thing was that it hadn’t taken very long. Vincent had exercised his privilege as President and had begun the initiation of the colours himself. Standing to one side he had unzipped himself and directed a jet of urine all over the new jacket and jeans. With whoops of glee, the other Angels had followed his lead. Gerry was soon soaked in it. Vincent had been none too careful with his aim and had ‘accidentally’ sprayed him in the face. Then there was shouting at the back and Rat staggered in to the circle with a large plastic bucket.

  With a cheer from the other Angels, Rat lifted the bucket high over his head and emptied its noxious contents all over the prostrate Gerry. The stench made him retch and he came close to mixing his own vomit with the sickening mixture of dung and urine that soaked him.

  Amidst more cheering, Dylan managed to show a deal of class by lumbering over to the mob and pushing his finger down his throat to flash all over him. It added the odour of stale drink and puke to the other smells. Two Angels grabbed him by the feet and rolled him in the mess, making sure that his originals were well and truly sodden. It was over and he hadn’t thrown up himself. He had managed to show real class.

  He was about to get up and take the congratulations of the others when he saw another pair of black leather boots push into the circle. A voice said: ‘Well, what about us old ladies. Why shouldn’t we get a go as well?’

  Christ, it was Brenda!

  There was a sudden hush, broken by Vincent’s sneer. ‘Yes, why not? It’ll make a change and it’s only fair. Give them a go too. You can start, Brenda.’

  ‘She’s been waiting for this. To get back at me for leaving her to pull a train on that first night.’ Memories rushed in. Brenda looking down on him with a strange smile on her lips. Legs astride him. Hands reaching for her zip. Smiling down. Then. No!

  The harsh sound of the intercom broke into the thoughts of all three. Gerry looked at his watch. It was exactly half past ten. Dylan had learned well.

  It buzzed again.

  ‘Come on. Answer the damned thing, Reggie. We don’t want Miss Nolan getting her knickers in a tangle do we?’

  Pinner picked up the intercom phone and nervously cleared his throat before answering. ‘Yes, Miss Nolan. What is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Pinner. But it’s your daughter, Angela.’

  ‘Very well. Put her on.’

  ‘Yes Mr. Pinner. Er, one thing sir. She … well, she sounds a bit troubled. Sort of hysterical.’

  ‘Miss Nolan, the state of my daughter’s health is really no concern of yours. Kindly put her through.’

  The intercom went dead and the ivory Trim phone on the other corner of the desk gave a muted chirp. Looking first to Gerry for approval. Pinner picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello, Angela. This is Daddy, darling. What’s wrong? Where are you? ... Darling. Darling ... Please don’t cry, dear ... Angela …’

  The phone was taken from his hand by Gerry and the receiver rest depressed. Reginald put his head in his hands and sat silent. Waiting for whatever these animals might have to say or do next
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br />   ‘Now, Reggie. Now you believe us. Don’t you? I said, “Don’t you?” Come on Reggie, don’t just nod. I want to hear you admit to me that you know what’s going on and what’s going to happen. Now. You do believe we have your daughter, Angela?’

  ‘Yes,’ brokenly. ‘Yes I do. But, I don’t know what you want from me. It must be money. But, how? Just tell me, and then let my little girl go.’

  ‘One more little word, Reggie. What do you say when you want someone to do something for you? There’s a little word that polite people use. I’d like to hear you say it’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Mr. Vinson.’

  ‘Please, Mr. Vinson.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Reginald Pinner did something that he hadn’t done since he left his expensive public school some thirty years ago. He put his hands over his eyes and he cried.

  ‘Bloody hell, Gerry. Look at him. You said that you’d make him cry and you bloody well have. Vincent said you wouldn’t be able to pull it off. And, and you’re going to.’

  ‘Enough self-indulgence Mr. Pinner. You may take out your Irish linen handkerchief and blow your little nose and wipe your little eyes. There now, isn’t that better? Mr. Priest here is now going to take his camera out of his coat pocket and I will produce my notebook and pencil. Now you see before you two representatives of the marvellous local paper – the Highbury Advertiser – who have come to do a feature on ‘Money, what does it buy you?’ To help us, you, as the manager of a large local bank have agreed to let us take a few photographs of you seated behind a pile of cash – about twenty thousand pounds. Let’s just say that figure for the sake of argument.

  ‘Mr. Priest and I will then place the aforesaid money into large canvas sacks which we are wearing concealed about our persons and heave them through your nice window. A couple of our friends will, I trust, be outside with their motorbikes at the ready at precisely eleven-thirty. You will remain here. Priest will render you temporarily quiet until we are safely away. You can then ring the police or the vigilantes or any bugger you care to. Round about mid-day, and don’t move too far from this phone, we’ll ring you and tell you where you can pick up Angela. Yes, Reggie. Unharmed. Just as long as you play ball with us and don’t try and get clever and mess us about. Now, two final things. Don’t bother telling us that we won’t get away with it. We’ve all seen the tele-pix when right is triumphant. This is a chance for you to learn a bit of how the world really is. Because, we will, almost certainly, get away with it Secondly. Don’t raise any half-arsed, fucking stupid objections like there isn’t that much money in the bank or any crap like that. Understand?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I understand. I’ll do anything you want but please don’t harm my little girl. How should I get the money in here without any suspicion?’

  ‘Buzz frustrated Miss Nolan on your executive toy intercom and get her in here. Tell her who we are and why we’re here. Then get a couple of your clerks to bring the cash up here – in tens and twenties, nothing smaller. Then, when it’s all in here you tell them all to get out. Simple. Any problems?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Don’t think, Reggie. Unless you think about your Angela with the Angels. That Vincent, out of sight. He’s a bit of a nutter, actually. Isn’t he, Priest? Bound to take a fancy to your little girl. Very impatient. Didn’t even believe that this would work. Thought I’d fuck it up. If you want to prove him right and me wrong, Reggie. Just pick up your phone and get straight through to the police. They’ll catch us and beat us up and put us away for a long, long time. You could do all of Society a big favour, Reggie. Be a hero. Get a medal. Wear your medal every time you put flowers on your little girl’s grave. Get on with the call to Miss Nolan. Hurry up. Unless ... unless you fancy being a hero ... Good. Angela should be grateful. Not every little girl has a Daddy who turns down the chance of a medal from nice George Hayes and a pat on the back from the Prime Minister. God bless him and his flat vowels.’

  Gerry sat back in the chair and mentally crossed his fingers. It was on! His plan was right and he was going to pull it off and that would make him even stronger and it would weaken Vincent that crucial bit more and make his leadership a little more suspect. He had mocked the plan long and loudly. And now. It was going to work. Reginald was going to do as he was told. Miss Nolan had been bloody suspicious until Reggie had nearly bitten her head off. The two bespectacled lads in their neat, cheap suits had struggled in with the money and piled it on the desk. To keep them happy, Gerry had carefully taken their names down – ‘to make sure it’s spelled right in the paper’ – and Priest had used up a couple of flashes on their beaming idiotic faces, grinning away behind the mound of cash.

  Then they were out of the office and the door was shut. The little red light that meant ‘Do Not Disturb’ was flashing. He and Priest quickly unwrapped the bags from under their jackets and started stuffing the money in. Reginald sat and watched them, stealing surreptitious glances at his watch. By the time they had finished, it was just after twenty past eleven.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We sit and wait. If you’re very quiet, you might hear the bikes before we do. Listen. And, don’t fidget.’

  Ten minutes. Time for one short trip into the heads of the three men in that office. First, the dank cavern at the centre of Priest’s mind. Thoughts so dark that the imagination recoils as from some primitive, blasphemous evil. The one black silk glove rubs gently at his damaged eye. The bloody white and the creamy-yellow iris are vacant, far away. His other hand lies in his lap and he touches himself, softly, through the stained trousers. His gaze brushes across the face of Pinner and on to the photo of Angela on the desk. His long, reptilian tongue trickles from his mouth and laps at his cracked lips.

  Pinner watches him with the awful fascination of a mouse, hypnotised by a boa constrictor. When the tall, dark man smiles, suddenly and absently, Pinner is almost sick. If he could wriggle through the darkness in the Angel’s mind, he would vomit with fear and loathing. All that fills his mind is fear. Dread of what these people will do to his daughter. What had the leader said? That he would get that tall animal to ‘make him temporarily quiet’. That meant pain. For him. His daughter would be all right, though. While he got hurt. She probably wouldn’t appreciate what sacrifice he was making for her. They would beat him up, hurt him. His bosses wouldn’t care about family pressures. It meant his career was virtually over. But nobody would realise he had done it for his daughter. She would never thank him. Just like her damned mother. Never cared. None of them.

  Alone, inside his own confused and self-pitying mind, Reginald Pinner began to cry again.

  Gerry waited placidly, conserving his nervous energy. It had been a big job, long in the planning and tedious at times. Some of the Angels, notably those that were strongest members of Vincent’s clique, had moaned and carped at the constant, military-style rehearsals. But, it was going to be so very beautiful. Soon, with the backing of some of them, like Priest, he could challenge the big man and then he was made. ‘The Last Heroes’ would be his own guerrilla army and the rest of society could go take a running fuck at itself. His mind slipped way back, before Ireland, before the Army, back to his Comprehensive School. Hot, summery afternoons, dozing at the back of the class. A bit from Shakespeare. Henry Four Part Two. Fat, corrupt Falstaff. He had a speech that was just how he felt when this was all over. Something like: Take any man’s horse for the laws of England are now at our command. Happy are they who have been my friends. And woe unto my Lord Chief Justice.

  Never mind any Justices. Every one had better look to themselves when he took over the chapter. And it was ‘when’ not ‘if’. This job was going to help him on the way up there to the real power. And Brenda. She had been getting close to Vincent. He hoped she wasn’t going to go so far in backing a loser. There was something about her. Despite the tenseness of the situation he felt himself s
well at the thought of her. Not long now!

  Far and high, the muted roar of powerful motorcycles. Straight, citizen’s machines, stolen just for this to play the part of honest hogs. After the job they would be chopped or discarded. Riding righteous through the heavy morning traffic, clogging North London’s arteries. Careful hand signals, into the car park at the rear of the United Merchant Bank. Stop by the third window along on the ground floor. The one that ‘Wolf’ Vinson had showed them on the plan.

  Gerry stood up and waved a hand through the window to the two Angels straddling their machines outside. He opened the window ready. ‘Chuck us the bags, Priest.’

  In that flush of success, he had forgotten yet another of Sergeant Newman’s pet sayings: ‘People who take chances when they don’t have to, lad, will end up either as heroes or as corpses. Generally as corpses.’ Reginald Pinner could have done with a benevolent deity to whisper that in his ear as well – only, of course, there isn’t one.

  Gerry took an unnecessary chance because he thought that Pinner was completely beaten and cowed, so he temporarily forgot about him. He thought that common sense and the awareness of the danger to his daughter would check him from the obvious stupidity of having a go. What Gerry had failed to take into account was the truly inspirational effects that money can sometimes have on people.

  When Reginald saw all his bank’s money, no! his money – twenty thousand pounds of it – about to vanish in the arms of a couple of sub-human monsters through his very own back window, then a door opened at the back of his mind and it revealed a room that he had never even suspected existed.

  Mewing softly, a shocking, unreal, unlikely sound, he rose to his feet and ran clumsily at Gerry, striking out at his back with his green onyx paperknife. Although he was cut on the neck by the attack, Gerry didn’t even turn round. He simply lashed back with his free hand, hard-edged cutting into the bank manager’s unprotected groin. Pinner fell, dropping the knife as his hands scrabbled at the more urgent need, to attempt to relieve the agony in his balls. He retched and moaned, feet kicking out ineffectually, mouth straining for air.