Fallen Angels Vol 1

by Mick Norman

  Vincent pointing at the lorry in front. Priest shook his head, not clear what his President wanted of him. Willing to try anything. Then they were level with the back of the trailer. Vincent easing him in towards it, Priest, still not guessing what was to happen. A hand raised, a flick at his ape-hangers, skidding in towards the lorry. Still time to save it. The bite of a chain in his rear spokes. The Dunstall wheeling and pitching. One good eye open in horror. No last thoughts of beauty or repentance. Just naked, blind, red, bloody, rage. Priest died as he had lived for much of his life. With his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl of hate for all the world. Black.

  It was an unwritten rule of a run that nobody stopped if anyone flaked off or got snuffed. There was enough light for everyone to see that Priest had no chance. To strike a bitumen road with your bare head from a height of about twenty feet and at a speed of something like ninety miles per hour means that you are dead. Instantly. Blackly.

  One thing that Vincent and his lieutenant hadn’t reckoned on was quite how light it was. It was just light enough for Kafka, riding at four in the phalanx, to see the winking of the chain in Dylan’s hand. No way of involving Vincent. But Dylan ... Kafka edged up behind Dylan at number three and waited.

  Waited till Junction 19. The turn-off for the Midlands. For Birmingham. It was there that Sanders had prepared his best trap. The whole of the M1 was closed off and nearly three hundred police were there or thereabouts. Not only was the M1 itself closed, but the turn onto the M6 was also barricaded by cars and lorries. Behind the Angels came a solid block of police vehicles, the leading ones only a few miles behind. Ahead roamed a helicopter, with a mixed crew of police and television reporters. The media had been very swift to the scene, with a little prompting from the lads in blue, anxious that the honest citizens shouldn’t miss anything of this crucial confrontation with the riders of the night. So confident was Sanders of the success of his plan that he had persuaded George Hayes’ department to allow the news reporting to go out live. An almost unique event in days of careful ‘editing’ of all news items. What he hadn’t done was taken into account the careful planning that had characterised the Holloway job, and reckon that the mind that had planned that might also have a contingency plan of its own.

  As they rocketed up to the turning, Vincent saw the trap, and realised that it was almost exactly how Gerry had said it would be. So, having no other alternative, he raised his right hand in the agreed signal. Apart from simple strategy, Gerry had a great gift for lateral thinking. What he had reckoned on, and what Sanders had forgotten, was that every road has two ways.

  The pack swerved across the gap in the central reservation, up onto the feeder road from the north and round behind the police trap onto the M6 on the wrong side of the road.

  Millions of early morning viewers saw the police stand frozen as the Last Heroes swept past them, passed their careful block, leaving behind a scene of total confusion as drivers ran for their vehicles, only to find them trapped in the web of lorries and cars. It was fully two minutes before reason re-established itself and the T.V. picture was blanked off with a bland apology about a ‘technical hitch’. The Angels were through and riding free. The local police chief, for all his intelligence, was about to be replaced.

  Full dawn now. Time for the first of the vans to begin moving. Driven by Brenda, with Gerry and a couple of mamas in the back, huddled round the shrouded, magical shape of Gerry’s big Harley. Their route was to be the old, quiet A5, right up to near Shrewsbury. Round the town, then sneak back to their meeting-place from the north-west through Wolverhampton and Walsall.

  ‘That was King Cliff with his new reggae-rock version of “Peace In The Valley”. Well, brothers and sisters-seems there’s not too much of the old peace in England’s green and pleasant valleys this warm morning. The latest on the cycle drive currently being run by the ‘Last Heroes’ Hell’s Angels gang seems to show that the last may soon be the past. We’ll all cross our fingers, brothers and sisters – I can see a couple of fingers uncrossed down in Bournemouth – and we’ll all hope for the best And, of course, for the endest of the worstest!’

  ‘Latest we have. Here it is. Off the shoulder and straight to you. The gang that has already been responsible for the deaths of several people – including eight policemen – narrowly and luckily avoided a trap set for them. That was at the junction of the M-for-Motorway One and the M-for-Motorway Six, so drivers, I should steer clear of that junction for the next hour or so. Four of the animals are already dead on the highway, and the remainder of the depleted mob are still heading for Birmingham.’

  ‘So, get ready vigilante brothers and sisters. Arise and sharpen up those knives. While you’re all doing just that, here’s some good music for you. It’s the best from the best. A rave from the grave. A zoom from the tomb. A blast from the past. It’s the late and very great Eddie Cochran with the magic of “Dark Lonely Street”. Suss you soon!’

  Come on, up and away with the police helicopter. Ahead of the run. Up to what used to be called ‘Spaghetti Junction’. There were so many slaughterhouse crashes there it got renamed ‘Intestine Corner’. So it goes.

  Scurrying through side streets, black dots of people, all heading for the motorway. Mainly women. Not young, hair swept up in curlers. A few men, drab clothes. Some women in dressing-gowns and lime-green, fluffy bedroom slippers. Occasionally a flash of weak sunlight off something metal held in the hand or tucked in the belt. Up and onto the road. Hundreds. Waiting.

  Waiting for the Last Heroes. Winging nearer. Three minutes away. The distant early warning of the powerful engines. Police sirens whining at their heels. Containing them but not yet catching them. Closer.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ! Look at that!’ Vincent, screaming high against the noise of their passing. Hands wrenching back on throttles, brakes biting, rear wheels wavering as they slow from one hundred, to fifty, to ten, to ... a stop.

  ‘We’ve got to go through them. They’ll cut us to bits if we wait!’

  ‘Yeah. And the fuzz are coming!’

  ‘Vincent! Fucking do something!’

  Confrontation. The crowd of Vigilantes, waiting, moving, one, two, a few at a time, forwards. Nearer. Wanting blood. Angels’.

  Vincent sat there, straddling his hog. Frozen, It was like nothing he had ever encountered. If it had been police, or other Angels, or blacks. But, this was a crowd of honest citizens, mainly women. Holding fucking great knives and axes.

  Vincent froze.

  The police were nearly on them. The mob was nearly on them. All the Angels were looking at Vincent or at the slowly approaching Vigilantes. Nobody was watching Kafka. He was right behind Dylan. Just behind him. Close up. Nobody was watching. Dylan wasn’t worried. He figured he’d get away, whatever happened. Like Bobby Zimmerman sang: about how everyone thinks they are going to be the only survivor after the war. The grey, slimy cogs inside Dylan’s head hardly moved. He wasn’t worried.

  Kafka thought about Priest, snuffed out on the highway. Murdered by a chain. By Dylan. And he moved. Bent down, hooked his arm under Dylan’s left leg and heaved him up and off his chopper, pushed the bike on top of him. Simultaneously screamed out: ‘Let’s go! Let’s fucking go!’

  Revved up, straight at the crowd, yelling and cursing. Vincent following him without looking back. The others seeing the gap, driving for it, not looking back.

  The women opened out as the bikes roared at them, let them through. Closed up, encircled the bike lying on its side. Stood, ringing the fallen Angel. Dylan, struggling to his feet, leaving his hog. Looking round him.

  Police stopping, beyond the circle. Seeing, but not interfering. No way round, and others had held their chance. Got clean away, sneaking all into their meeting place. And the vans. All made it. All but one.

  Dylan.

  He didn’t try and run. He didn’t try and fight. He just stood there as they tore him down. As the knives flashed and the nails tore, he died. Quickly. The pain was no
t long.

  Although he died quickly, the mob were not easily satisfied. His head was hacked from his shoulders and passed gleefully from hand to hand. His clothes were ripped to shreds. Some women dipped pieces of his jacket in his blood and took them away. One elderly women, dressing-gown and hair still in tight curlers, got the biggest cheer when she went and sliced his genitals from the white flesh of his stomach, holding them high over her head.

  Violence breeds violence.

  All the Last Heroes made their rendezvous. All but one.

  Dylan.

  Twelve – Report of police informer, Leslie Eubin,

  a.k.a. Les the Ruin, a.k.a. Ruin

  I wasn’t able to get too close to them or find out much of their plans. But, I guessed roughly were they might be heading and I kept watch up there. I saw a lot of vans up in the North Birmingham area, close to the Great Barr turn-off from the Motorway.

  The base is an old quarry, off the A34. There are about forty of the Last Heroes there, including their pres, Vincent and the brother who seems to be the real leader, that’s Gerry.

  I made contact with them, like you wanted, and got talking about their plans. They were all shaken up by the events of the run, with three of them killed. The names of the dead were Harlequin, Dylan (a big brother who was right-hand man of Vincent) and Priest. I think it was Priest who was a friend of Gerry’s and might have been the one who did that bank job.

  It seemed to me that there was quite a lot of tension between the two top brothers. Some of the others said that they were blaming each other for the two deaths of their lieutenants. I don’t know if that’s true or not. When I left them tonight there was a kind of truce there and they were all getting stoned together. If I was you, I’d keep an eye on the Gerry. He seems to have more cool than any of the others. His old lady, Brenda, is also quite dangerous. She seemed particularly suspicious of me.

  The film company are due to move into the quarry early tomorrow morning, and they aim to start shooting the film more or less straight away. I asked if I could stay with them, but there is always a lot of hassle when a member of a rival chapter is around and I was told to leave.

  I think that’s all I can do to help you. They won’t allow me back again. Can I have some bread for helping you out again? Let me know next time you want any help, though I am worried about them rumbling me as a snout.

  Get the money to me at the usual place. I’ll be there from three till four next Wednesday.

  Les.

  Note attached:

  From Assistant Chief Constable Stout to Head of Special Branch.

  This is a copy of a report from one of Sanders’ informers. He won’t have any use for him any more and it sounds to me as thought the informer has outlived his usefulness. Have him picked up at the usual place, I believe this is a record shop in Hunt Street, Birmingham. The report states when hell be there. Charge him with being a member of an illegal organisation and possession of drugs. I leave it to your discretion to decide what drug is to be found on his person. I suggest cocaine, since the magistrates have instructions to be particularly hard on this drug.

  Please send me your report as soon as possible. If you have any worries we can discuss them this afternoon at the meeting to organise our raid on the quarry.

  Thirteen – Landscape With Figures

  ‘Come on sweeties! Gerry, love, can you get your chums to go into their places. I really want to have things set up before God descends on us from his wee mountain.’

  The Angels had set up their makeshift camp the night before with practised inefficiency. Tents were spotted all over the deserted quarry, and cooking fires smouldered. Most of the Last Heroes had finished their breakfast – egg, bacon, pot and Southern Comfort, the Angels’ current favourite drink.

  Gerry drank the remainder of his black coffee down, feeling it burn out the lingering peach flavour of the booze. He patted Brenda on the shoulder and got up, answering the call from Rupert Colt.

  ‘It’s going to be a gay morning,’ he said, feeling the unexpected cut of his colours under his arms. He must have put on some spare weight. He’d have to watch it.

  ‘Okay, Rupert. I’ll get them moving. Do you want them to have any makeup or anything like that on, first?’

  ‘No, sweetie,’ squeaked Rupert. ‘They all look perfectly lovely as they are. Donn’ll just love them. So will Tarquin and Nancy.’

  ‘Yeah. When do we get to see the big name stars?’

  Rupert tapped Gerry playfully on the wrist with a small riding crop he had taken to carrying, ‘Patience, dear boy. Be patient. Donn said they’d get here some time around nine this morning. He’ll be here. So, wait Ooooh!’

  The squeak at the end came after he had again flicked Gerry on the arm with his little whip. Gerry turned on him and pulled it away from him. ‘Don’t fucking piss about with me, Rupert. I can see through your soft exterior and I can see what’s underneath. So, watch it. Right?’

  Rupert took back the crop with a small smile. ‘Right, Gerry. We dig each other. Right. I ... I thought, just for a moment there that you were going to take my whip and use it on me.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, baby. Another time, maybe.’

  There was a shout from Rat who was acting as look-out: ‘Car coming. Big black Jaguar. Chauffeur. Two fellows, I think, and one bird. Must be the film mob.’

  It was.

  So they began. And, while the Angels and the film crew worked away in the quarry north of Birmingham, things were happening elsewhere. That day can be best seen as a series of short scenes with different players.

  EXTERIOR. QUARRY. MORNING.

  One of the black magic scenes was being shot, which involved a deal of nudity and a lot of alcohol being consumed. Nancy was spread-eagled on top of a makeshift altar while Tarquin played a priest, naked except for a long black robe, holding an enormous stiletto. The Last Heroes played themselves and lounged about in the background, indulging their, sexual appetites.

  Cochise was stoned out of his head, nibbling on the breast of his mama. Vincent lay on his back, being plated by one of the old ladies – ‘Split’ – drinking Vodka from a bottle and watching Gerry.

  Director Donn Simon stood on one side of the set, lining up the shot and talking to Rupert. Rupert was, in his turn, eagerly watching Tarquin, licking his pink lips as he caught odd glimpses of the star’s much-vaunted equipment, hardly concealed by the loose robe.

  As the sun rose higher, the red, sandy walls of the pit began to reflect the heat Gerry and Brenda found a little shaded area, behind the rusted ruins of one of the trucks that used to carry gravel. There, partly hidden from the others, away from the peeking lens of the camera, they made love.

  He unzipped her faded jeans and tugged them off over her ankles. Brenda wore no pants and her red/gold pubic hair glinted in the sunlight. Gerry quickly freed himself from his own Levis and pants and rolled close to her, his right hand caressing and rousing her. She took him in her hand and stroked and fondled him, until he was close to coming. He tried to roll on top of her, but she wasn’t ready yet. She locked her fingers in his thick hair and pulled his head down. Normally, he would have ho hesitation about pleasing her with his mouth, but the need was too urgent. He twisted her wrist, making her let go of him, and drove himself on top of her and into her. She gasped at the strength of his penetration, and then moaned as their rhythm began to build up near to a climax.

  Brenda’s nails clawed at the back of his colours at the peak of sex. Then it was over and he rolled off her and lay panting beside her.

  ‘You bastard! You know I like it best with your tongue. You bloody wait.’

  ‘Every now and again, when it suits me, and only when it suits me, I’ll do that for you. Otherwise, we do it the way I want and when I want. Remember, you may have more bloody brains than most of the other mamas, but the most useful part of your body is still that,’ leaving his hand on her moist thighs.

  During that long hot morning, the filming
continued.

  INTERIOR. ASSISTANT CHIEF CONSTABLE STOUT’S OFFICE. MIDDAY.

  ‘Jean! Could you just ring round to everybody on the list for this afternoon’s meeting. Make sure everyone’s coming. Oh, and can you ask Henderson to check my revolver and ammunition belt? Then you and I might just stroll round the corner to the Bull Ring Bistro for a nibble of lunch.’

  INTERIOR. DONN SIMON’S CAR. TWO P.M.

  ‘Donn, I’m a bit worried about the way things are going. Tarquin spends all his time making eyes at the Angela. Nancy does nothing but prick-tease them and play the super-star. And—’

  ‘Yes Rupert. What about me?’

  ‘You know me sweetie. I hate to criticise. Especially when it’s the guy who’s paying my cheque each month.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, you’re playing it wrong with these guys. You’ve let them have free access to the drink and to the dope. You try and push them around like they were nothings from Central Casting. Then you try and get them to show class and French kiss each other for the cameras. They know you can’t stand them—’

  ‘Fucking right, Rupert. But, please go on with your clever explanation of everything that I’m doing wrong. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.’

  The director’s sarcasm didn’t stop Rupert. He had heard some of the muttered comment from some of the outlaws and Gerry had taken him on one side to warn him that several of the Angels, led by Vincent, were already pissed-off with the ill-concealed contempt of some of the film people combined with the cynical exploitation.

  ‘For God’s sake, Donn. Don’t. I’m really serious. It’s dangerous to push these guys. Something could snap as easily as that.’

  ‘Rupert, my little love. The only thing that’s in danger of snapping round here is your knicker elastic. Now, let’s get on with it.’