Fallen Angels Vol 1

by Mick Norman

  Nobody saw it happen.

  Well, in fact, one person saw it happen. He was about sixteen years old and was standing directly behind Morry and Arthur. He wore tight faded jeans, white shirt with a ruffled front, an elegant embroidered waistcoat and black ankle boots with platform soles nearly four inches thick. His hair was cropped almost painfully short, his skull gleaming bone-white through the stubble. He had long curling sideboards. He saw Morry Gannon pee into a bottle and he saw Arthur Samuels roll the full bottle into the crowd. He had half a dozen mates with him. He told them about it.

  There were about eight minutes to go. First Division Arsenal, bidding for the Cup and League double were leading three-one against Third Division Manchester United. Once at the very top, the northern club had slumped badly during the mid-seventies having, at one time, to struggle to avoid relegation from the Third Division. The appointment three years ago of Bobby Charlton as manager had signalled the beginning of a revival. Now top of their Division with promotion a mere formality, they had fought through to the quarter-final of the F.A. Cup.

  There were six minutes to go and Manchester were on the attack. In the manager’s box Charlton leaped to his feet, sparse hair waving in the wind and urged his young team forward again.

  Happy now the pressure on his bladder had been relieved, Morry sportingly encouraged his team: ‘Kick the fucking poofs off the park!’ Then, as the veteran striker, Charlie George, slipped on the damp turf: ‘Jesus Christ all bleeding mighty!’

  A man could choose better words to have on his lips as he leaves this world for the doubtful values of the next.

  The long, thin blade of an eight-inch flick-knife had whispered out, slicing through his old raincoat (which let him down) and probing up between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side. The youth behind him – whose name was Charlie Marvell – stepped in closer and supported the corpse (for that’s what Morry had become so suddenly) pulling out the knife and passing it quickly back to one of his mates who immediately left with it.

  On the field, Manchester were mounting a last attack and the Arsenal defence was forced to give away a corner. Arthur spoke to Morry without turning his head: ‘Last chance, eh, Morry? Get this one clear and we’ve done it I said, nearly there. Morry. Hey!’

  ‘I think your mate’s come over all queer.’ That was Charlie, who coincided his words with letting go of Morry’s arm and letting the deceased slump to the floor. The body dropped to the terracing with the gentle ease that comes only to the very drunk or the dead.

  Unfortunately for Charlie, the late and not-yet-lamented fell on his face revealing the torn and bloody back of his coat. When people “come over all queer” in a football crowd they don’t usually have a gash in their back that’s poured out their life.

  Arthur was no fool and he knew a knifing when he saw one. Killings were too much of a feature of football matches for it to be a total shock, but you always thought it would happen to someone else. He saw the bizarre figure behind him and grabbed at him, shouting at the top of his voice.

  ‘You bastard. You’ve chivvied my mate.’

  Charlie was two steps higher up the terracing and that, combined with the platform soles to his boots put him at just the right height to swing at Arthur’s groin. But, as he lifted his foot his head exploded and he dropped to the steps. Unable to believe his luck, Arthur kicked him hard, three times, in the face, before a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  ‘That’s enough, mate. We don’t want you in court as well as him.’

  At that moment, a couple of uniformed policemen, one in his late thirties, the other about sixteen, burst in through the ring of goggling spectators.

  ‘All right. What’s going … Oh, sorry Sergeant. Didn’t know it was you. Saw the ripple in the crowd and came a’running. He dead?’ Pointing at Morry.

  ‘Unless he’s got an extra gallon of blood tucked away somewhere in his pocket, then he is.’

  Arthur found it all a bit much. He guessed the man who had saved him was one of the many plain-clothes detectives who patrolled football grounds in large numbers in the generally futile effort to stop crowd violence.

  ‘Er. Excuse me. But, what’ll happen to him?’ indicating the unmoving figure of Charlie Marvell.

  ‘That’s Charlie Marvell. He’s been arrested three times, not counting today, and charged with murder on each occasion. Every time, he get off. I would bet anything you like that he hasn’t got a knife on him. It’ll be out of the ground by now in the pocket of one of his mates or in the bag of one of his scrubbers.’ He kicked the recumbent youth casually in the groin. ‘There’s fuck all we can do about it. Once upon a time we could have got him down the station and given him the treatment. Now, with these bleeding-heart liberals running things, he’ll get off. Is the stretcher coming?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. I radioed for it.’

  ‘Well done lad. I don’t think I know this one, do I Tom?’

  ‘No sergeant. First time out for young Andrews here. Andrews, this is detective-sergeant Warren.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. Excuse me, sir.’ He sidled nearer to the detective, away from the ashen figure of Arthur who had now sat down and was just beginning to think how he could possibly break the news to Morry’s wife. Widow.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering.’

  ‘Come on lad. Don’t stand there like that. You look as though you’re trying to make your mind up whether or not to risk a fart.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant. It’s just that I wondered if there might not be a knife down at the nick that we could fit to this “skull”. If he’s as bad as you say.’

  ‘Once, maybe. Now, I’m not saying “Yes”. I’m just saying “Maybe”. Not now; not even for a murdering bastard like this skull here. Not even for Charlie Marvell. In the days of good old George Hayes we could have done it. Not now. Things have changed, son. The law’s for the protection of thugs and killers. Look at that poor old sod, down there. Crying because he won’t have anyone to go to Highbury with any more. Marvell’ll get off without blinking. The only thing is, oh, here’s the stretcher, the only thing is, that one day he’ll come up against a bigger animal. And you know what? When they push him up the crematorium chimney I’ll be there taking big deep breaths of the smoke and laughing. Yes, laughing.’

  Police-constable Andrews walked away from the station that night with the older policeman, Tom Mayhew. Andrews had been unable to eat much of his soya-sausage and chips and Mayhew had finished it off for him. As they walked together through the grey streets, Mayhew answered the young man’s questions about George Hayes, about the Skulls and about the radical change in public thinking.

  How, about a year ago, there had been a General Election, when the reactionary Home Secretary, George Hayes, and the Government he typified, had been narrowly ousted from office by a Labour/Union coalition. Throughout the country there had been a new spirit of freedom and some of the fringe youth movements that had previously been outlawed were now reasonably acceptable. The Hell’s Angels motorcycle gangs had spawned afresh and the working class, football crazy youths had gone back to their roots and formed a counter movement.

  ‘And that’s the Skulls?’

  ‘Yes. Mix in the old skinheads of the late sixties and add a dash of “Clockwork Orange”. Work in a bizarre dress sense, odd rules and season well with incredible viciousness. That’s your Skulls.’

  ‘But, Mr. Mayhew—’

  ‘I keep telling you. Tom!’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Tom. But, I still don’t see what really made things change. I read history for my special entrance to the force and our teacher said that all great movements had one tiny root. What was the root that made the whole country sweep in favour of freedom?’

  ‘Remember Gerry and the Last Heroes? Course you do. Every kid must remember them. Well, I suppose it must be about a year ago now. When we tried to finally wipe them out and a hell of a lot of people got killed, Angels and coppers. Well, peo
ple had had about enough. It was too much. Too brutal. Too savage. So, like the pendulum swept the other way. And this is what we’ve got. Murder on a Saturday afternoon and a maniac killer who’s got away with it before and will get away with it this time. Makes me want to bloody throw up. Makes me want to get out of the force.’

  They walked in silence for a block.

  ‘Tom? What happened to the Last Heroes? A lot of papers said they were all killed. Were they?’

  ‘No. Most of them were. But the rest rode through the night and joined up with a group of Welsh Angels. They never found Vincent, the bloke who used to lead them, but our Special Branch know that Gerry and his tart are still up there somewhere. Every now and again a gang of bike outlaws pull some caper and it’s always got his finger-prints on the job. No. He’s still alive. I reckon that one day he’ll move back South. Maybe soon. Then you’d better duck.’

  Charles Edwyn Marvell was charged with the wilful murder of Maurice Solomon Gannon. He was formally acquitted without the police offering any evidence.

  Arthur Samuels stopped going to football matches. He stayed at home instead, and watched the wrestling.

  Thomas Mayhew resigned from the Metropolitan Police Force about a month later and opened a small newsagents.

  Rachel Gannon, the evening of the cremation of her husband, went quietly from her flat, walked quietly to a nearby canal and quietly drowned herself.

  In the third minute of injury time, Manchester United scored again. The final score was three-two.

  Two – Another Happy Valley Sunday

  ‘It’s mild winter climate and warm summers make Llandudno one of the most favoured of North Wales’ resorts. Much loved by the labouring and middle classes of the Midlands and the North of England, it has something to offer for everyone. No matter how unusual your tastes, Llandudno will have something to offer you.’

  In the hills behind Conway, a raggle-taggle band of men and women were preparing to spend half an hour in Llandudno. About twenty men and three young women lay around on the springy turf, listening to some last words from a slim-built man of average height. In a crowd, wearing straight clothes, you would probably not have given him a second glance. Unless you got up close and looked into his eyes. His name was Gerald Vinson and he was thirty years old. He was known either as Gerry or as Wolf to his brothers and sisters.

  More than any other person, he had probably been responsible for the change of Government at the last General Election. He was the leader of one of the most powerful chapters of Hell’s Angels in Britain. After the massacre in a quarry north of Birmingham a year or so ago, he had fought and beaten the then leader of the Last Heroes, Vincent, assuming the Presidency of the chapter (or, what was left of it) and uniting it with the shadowy Welsh chapter, the Wolves.

  Now, they were legal again and could go on runs more or less when they liked. The police still bore bitter grudges against them and looked for any chance to get back at them. But, with Gerry’s cunning and leadership, the Last Heroes and Wolves had kept out of trouble. Every now and again they would ride out from their secret hideout and blow the minds of any straight citizens they encountered. But, money was always short. So, they were going to try and get some to keep them going for a while.

  Of the old Last Heroes chapter, Gerry had only five brothers left. Kafka, one of the oldest of the Angels; Cochise, with his mysterious old lady, Forty; Riddler and Dick the Hat and the tiny Rat. Rat had been the right-hand man of Vincent and had played a part in at least two attempts on Gerry’s life. But he was a virtuous brother with peculiar skills that Gerry found useful at times. Rat knew when to step carefully. He was particularly hated by Brenda.

  In an intensely male-dominated society of motorcycle outlaws, Brenda was unique. A year or so younger than Gerry she had unusual physical strength and agility. On top of that she was completely ruthless when it came to getting what she wanted. These qualities made her feared even among the hardest men. In every way, she was closer to Gerry than anyone else.

  Apart from Forty, there were only two of the old ladies left from a year ago. They were the couple who had taken a bike between them after the slaughter — Lady and Holly. When the Heroes had incorporated with the Wolves, there had been attempts to take them over as old ladies by brothers of the Welsh chapter. The take-overs had all failed and the Dyke Duo, as they were called (but never to their faces), had an unusual position. They were no man’s old ladies but they had no intention of ever being dropped to the insultingly low position of mamas.

  One of the brothers had tried to force Holly to plate him after a heavy drinking session, but he had not succeeded. His failure had been a dramatic object lesson to the others that, at least as far as Holly and Lady were concerned, female liberation was a force not to be ignored.

  By punching her repeatedly in the face he had succeeded in knocking her into semi-unconsciousness. He locked his fingers in her hair and pulled her to her knees in front of him. With his other hand he unzipped himself ready. Blood trickling from her nose, Holly allowed him to force her mouth open and begin the bestial act.

  He tugged her head backwards and forwards, trying to make her participate. In the dungeon-dark cavern of her mouth, Holly simply closed her teeth. Hard. Bit hard. Although he screamed and wrenched at her hair, Holly held on like a steel-trap. Blood filled her mouth but still she bit until he fainted from the pain. Then she let go, got up, and walked away from him without even looking back. The ring of Angels who had watched the horrific incident let her pass.

  The brother died from loss of blood. Gerry tried to stop the bleeding, but there wasn’t enough left to tourniquet.

  Apart from the remnants of the Last Heroes, there were several members of the Wolves chapter, led by their own vice-president, Draig. No old ladies along on this run, so Mochyn, Buwch and Geneth stayed with the other women in the village of Nant Gwrtheyrn. But Bardd was there, his harmonica tucked in the pocket of his denim coat. So was Cyllell, Mynydd, Ogof and the terrifying berserk albino, Gwyn.

  Their bikes were the usual mixture of Nortons and Triumphs, with an odd 650 Yamaha, a B.M.W. and Gerry’s own Harley. Their clothes were the usual Angels’ gear. The men with generally long hair— Cochise had plaited ribbons in his—and some with beards. Stinking Levis, rank with vomit, sweat and urine, colours flaring on the back. The skull of the Last Heroes and the snarling head of a wolf for the Welsh brothers.

  The old ladies uniformly in leather jackets and stained jeans. Long hair, tied loosely back. All of them wore boots, zipped motorbike boots for the men, ordinary leather for the old ladies.

  ‘All right, brothers and sisters. That’s it. Anybody got any last minute questions or anything they aren’t sure about? No? Right then. Ladies and gentlemen of the combined Last Heroes and Wolves Motorcycle Chapter, affiliated to the Oakland Chapter in California, I propose that we move. Let’s go!’

  Springs heaved, boots kicked at starts, engines coughed into life, throttles were savagely twisted. Tyres gouged up mighty divots of turf and they were gone. A long time after they had gone, the air smelled heavy with petrol. And evil.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you. That was “Elsinore Blues” — a little song that just goes to prove that you can never make an ’amlet without breaking a few eggs. Ouch! Did you, listen, did you hear about the Hell’s Angel who decided he was fed up of riding motorbikes all day—yes, missus, and all night. Very tender on the testimonials! So he thought he’d be converted into a skull. Went up to Oldham, round to the football ground. It was getting on for Spring. He could tell that easily. People were leaving their clogs off! No, listen. He went up to Oldham. Found the local gang of Skulls and said to their leader: “I want to be converted.” So they kicked him over the cross-bar! Thank you. Thank you. Now, would you welcome please the entire company in a song that has stopped many a show — “Where In Hades Is The Ladies In The Lords?” Thank you again!’

  The Happy Valley Concert Party was in full swing. In the mild, early June weat
her the banks around the small theatre were well covered with happy holidaymakers. Lounging either on the grass or in the striped deck-chairs, hundreds of contented families lay back enjoying the fun.

  ‘Happy Valley is situate on the side of the picturesque Great Orme, Llandudno’s most distinctive beauty feature. The pleasant sea breezes blowing from the bay make it a popular spot for relaxing after your luncheon. Convenient for public transport it is easily accessible for even the less adventurous walker. Holiday-makers of all ages will enjoy the highly-professional band of entertainers who perform there daily throughout the season. The well-tended grass and beds of flowering shrubs make this one of the most attractive theatre sites anywhere in the Principality. Happy Valley is full of hidden surprises. It’s a place where the unexpected is always just around the next corner.’

  ‘I do like it here, Madge. I really feel, you know, that I can relax up here. Fresh air, good entertainment, a nice hotel to go back to. The only thing I really regret is that I’m going to have to go back to work next Monday.’

  ‘Still, Harold, you’ve got another week in October to look forward to. I think … what on earth is that noise? It’s like some motorbikes. Very loud and …. Oh! Harold!’

  ‘My God!’

  Bursting into that sylvan scene of serene serendipity, came the Angels. Gerry and Gwyn appeared first, engines revving as they tore off the Marine Drive and up the slope into the big, natural amphitheatre. Bryn, stark white hair pouring over his shoulders, blood-red eyes gleaming from his pale face, bulging with the effort of wrestling the big Norton round the flower beds.