by Mick Norman
Deck-chairs fell and overturned, trapping fingers. Picnic baskets toppled and feet trampled fish-paste and soya sandwiches into a mess with sodden coffee and cheap orange squash. Children quivered with a mixture of fear and excitement and were snatched up by fathers. Aged grandmas discovered a new lease of life as they fled for the exits.
On stage, the Happy Valley songsters faltered in their jokey ditty; the pianist, deafened by his own fortissimo, plunged on alone for eight bars. It’s all very well for old troupers to say that the show must always go on. They never had to deal with concentrated interference from a chapter of the Hell’s Angels.
The bikes reared and snarled through the crowd. Three of the Welsh brothers trapped a teenage girl in a whirling circle of bikes, riding like Indians around a beleaguered wagon train, cutting ever closer until the girl collapsed in a sobbing lump on the grass. All the trivia of a holiday, clothes and food and paperback books were gouged into the dirt by the spinning wheels. Kafka ploughed straight for the bandstand, where the frightened stage-manager was making an attempt – inexorably doomed to failure – to calm the crowd. Since he was holding the microphone with fear-whitened fingers and screaming in a panicky falsetto: ‘Don’t panic! Don’t panic! Don’t panic!’ it’s not surprising that people panicked all the more.
Kafka broadsided to a halt in a shower of grass and dirt and, even before his rear wheel had stopped spinning, had thrown the man from the stage and ripped the microphone from his hands. The amplifiers boomed in protest as Kafka bellowed obscenities and curses at the fleeing mob.
Within a couple of minutes, the area was almost completely clear. Two of the Wolves were busily engaged in kicking the writhing body of a middle-aged Manchester grocer who had thought he could use his experience as warden of a boys’ club to quieten them. In the middle of a bed of “Sweet Williams”, Madge had been caught by Rat and three of the Wolves. She was screaming hysterically and trying to beat them off with a torn sun-shade. They were almost crying with laughter at her efforts. Every now and then, Rat would sidle in and cut a bit more of her dress away with his knife. Already she resembled a hula dancer, her skirt ribboning out as she turned. Her stockings were in shreds and there were trickles of blood on her heavy, veined thighs, where Rat had been accidentally careless with his chiv. Although nobody could have ever have convinced her of the fact, Madge was less unlucky that she might have been. Although Harold had fled the field in considerable disarray, she was in no immediate danger. The Angels had other things to do and there wasn’t time for any kind of gang-bang.
A couple of children, eleven-year-olds, were about the only people not to go into a frenzy of fear at the appearance of the Angels. With one astride the tank, and the other hanging on behind, Ogof was riding them round the Valley, spinning through the shattered flower beds. Apart from the sound of the powerful engines, the only noise was blaring over the sound system. Accompanied by the wailing harmonica of Bardd, Kafka was pouring his soul into one of the latest pop/folk hits. Composed by a teenage boy, it had been an underground hit a year ago. Now it had become respectable.
‘Blood on the road,
And a white heron flying.
Blood on the road,
And the grey mist rising.
All alone
All alone
All alone.’
Kafka was giving it all the soul he could and was winding his voice up to spring into the second verse when Gerry held up his hand and shouted for quiet. The bikes slithered to a halt and the engines softened. The brothers kicking casually at super-hero stopped and wiped blood from their toe-caps on a torn paper table-cloth. The man lay still, hands grabbing at his savaged groin. Madge was allowed the dignity of a slow faint. The children were put gently down by Ogof. The song stopped and the chapter waited for its president.
‘Listen. Pigs!’
Sure enough, over the bike noise, riding above the endless whispering of the sullen Welsh sea, they could hear the whining of the switchback police sirens, somewhere in the town below, coming their way.
‘Gwyn, get them moving. Kafka wait with me. We’ve got to let them get close enough to think they have a chance of getting to us. Move.’ The last word had a crack of command behind it.
While the big albino led most of the Angels away, round the Great Orme’s Head, Gerry and Kafka wheeled slowly down the hill from the Happy Valley area until they had passed the pier. Nobody tried to stop them. It was too nice a day for suicide. Only when they heard the sirens nearly on top of them did they make their move.
Up on the steep Ty-Gwyn Road, then along the tramway and up towards the exclusive Great Orme Hotel with its unequalled views over the headland.
Behind them, the police cars screamed in pursuit. Seeing that their quarries were escaping them, they stopped. Seeing this, Gerry and Kafka stopped and turned back, cutting across and sharply down, through to the Invalids Walk, through Tyn Y Coed Road. Then, waving casually to the police cars which were jammed together as they tried to turn, they were back on the Marine Drive and heading steeply up and round the Great Orme. Behind them, they watched the cars take up the pursuit again.
‘Not too fast,’ screamed Gerry to Kafka. ‘Keep them thinking they’ve got a chance. The longer they think that, the better for Brenda and the girls.
Not very far from Llandudno station are quite a few shops. Among them is a jeweller’s and antique shop run by Lemuel Stacey. Not a very big shop, but with a surprisingly high turnover. None of your cheap tat; Lemuel is very choosy about what he buys and what he pays. Generally speaking, he paid as little as possible and sold as dear as he could. Good business, did I hear someone say? Is it good business to pay a retainer to girls working on most of the North Wales papers to keep him informed the moment some bereaved person rang in to place a “Death” announcement in the personal columns.
Lemuel would leap into his sports car – a flashy model but painted in a discreet black – and speed round to the house of mourning. He would assume his most unctuous air and flash his expensively crowned teeth as he oozed compassion from every sweaty pore. He would tender his deepest sympathy to the widow, or widower or children and lead the conversation easily round to the “touchy subject of funeral costs. From there it’s only one short step to a delicate enquiry as to whether he might be allowed to help out at this difficult time by relieving their financial worries by the charitable disposal of any odd bits of furniture, or bric-a-brac.
When one is still in the shock of feeling death’s wings flutter in the rooms of one’s house, then one is not prepared to deal with someone as cunning and vile as Lemuel Stacey. Those who knew of his activities hated him, but the visitors loved his little shop and his worldly air of knowledge. It was very rare for anyone to buy anything from Lemuel without coming away feeling he had a real bargain. It was even rarer for anyone actually to get such a bargain.
Because he paid his way into the right circles, Lemuel had been accepted into various organisations. He had, even, recently been proposed for the pending vacancy at the local citizens magistrates’ court. Two or three other things that you should know about him. He was a usurous money-lender who specialised in married women who had fallen behind with the rent or had squandered their house-keeping at streamline Bingo (Stingo). This leads to item two. He had a great fancy for watching little girls dance for him, without any clothes on. Naturally, it’s not that easy to find acquiescent little girls, but, if their mums are in debt to you and you threaten to reveal all to a husband. Well … Lemuel had built up a truly remarkable collection of amazing pictures – that he took and developed himself. The third fact, that he once revealed to an especially nubile young maiden, was that he didn’t trust banks and kept a great deal of money on his premises.
Now you know more-or-less everything of any relevance about Lemuel Stacey. Physically he was rather fat with a face so plump and pale and moist, that you automatically had to take a second look to make sure you hadn’t actually seen traces of mould in the wrinkle
s.
Even in the quiet street where he kept his shop, Lemuel had heard the noise of sirens. He had been about to walk out to see what was happening when his shop door sprang open with a savage tinkling of its glass chimes. In walked three girls. Too old, was the instant assessment from Lemuel. And, too dirty! Filthy leather jackets, muddy boots and greasy hair. The biggest of the three came straight to the counter and straight to the point.
‘Money, Lemuel. Now, in these bags.’
The bags were canvas, with long leather handles. Not that it mattered to Lemuel, but they were nearly identical to those used by Gerry and Priest in the Holloway Bank job. Lemuel was the wrong end of the counter to his police alarm button, but he wasn’t in the least worried. Three girls. They might look tough, but he reckoned he could handle them. Lady had slipped the catch on the door behind them and pulled down the blind. Holly moved alongside Brenda, the end of the counter where that button was neatly inset under the walnut trim.
‘Money, dear lady? I’m afraid you are under some kind of false impression of my purpose in life. You pick out some item from my shop and I will tell you how much it costs and you give me that amount of money and I give you the item. Now money. No, I don’t think that I will give you any money. Even if I had any to give. Which I don’t.’
‘Because you are a fool, Mr. Stacey, I will explain it very briefly. I know you have a great deal of money in this building. It’s in a large, brass-bound trunk, locked up under your bed. The double keys are on a chain round your neck. Either you give us those keys and you will only be hurt a little, or you choose not to give us those keys and you will be hurt a lot. Please don’t think you have any chance of defeating us in a fight, Lemuel. If you try you will have cause to regret it. We can do things to you that will cause you to cry if you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror. Children will throw stones at you in the street and dogs will creep away from your shadow. The money please.’
Gerry’s old fighting instructor, Sergeant Newman, had impressed the value of clever talk in a tight situation. ‘Tell the gook what you plan to do to him. Particularly if he’s not used to violence. It’ll make him start thinking about it and he’ll lose his stomach for it. Just tellin’ ’im you’ll ’urt ’im ’orrible’s no good. Tell ’im exactly ’ow and where.’
That was good advice and Gerry had given it on to his chapter. But, when you’re a girl and you’re faced by a middle-aged man, he just will not believe it. Even the teeny riots of the early seventies, when security guards were burned alive or literally torn apart by little girls panting to see their idols, even those hadn’t changed centuries of conditioning. Whatever Brenda said to Stacey, he wasn’t capable of believing her. So …
Hanging a grin loosely in the middle of his mouth, Stacey reached across the counter and grabbed at Brenda. He hadn’t got much idea what he was going to do after that, but it seemed a good start. The only thing it was a good start to, was a bad ending!
Brenda brushed his hands away contemptuously and countered his feeble attack by taking firm hold of his ears, digging her nails cruelly into the back of them. Holly slipped round behind him. Her right hand knotted in Lemuel’s hair and tugged his head back. Brenda released his ears and smashed her right elbow viciously into his throat. The scream that had been on its way out of his mouth was stillborn and his hands went to his crushed neck. He had sagged at the knees with the speed and violence of the attack, Holly, perfectly positioned behind him, reached with her left hand between his legs, grabbed and twisted with all her strength.
A whisper of a scream barely bruised the air and Stacey fainted. Holly casually let him drop to the floor behind the counter.
‘Tie him up and gag him.’ Brenda didn’t look to see if Lady and Holly were doing what she had told them. She knew they would. Leaving them to their fun she went through the shop and up into Lemuel’s bedroom. Under the bed was the trunk, exactly as the little girl had described it. ‘Holly, get the keys and bring them here!’
The money was in the trunk, a lot of it. After they’d filled the bags, Brenda went through the rest of the contents. Literally hundreds of pictures of Lemuel’s little hobby, plus a carefully filed selection of promissory notes, mainly from women, with neat notes on each, giving details of the daughters of each family. Brenda piled all of them into the bottom of one of the sacks. ‘The dirty perverted bastard! The rotten little queer! You know, Holly, I think we ought to teach the fat swine a lesson before we go. Teach him about not touching little girls and blackmailing stupid women.’
When they had staggered back into the shop with the money, only a couple of minutes had passed, and Stacey was just beginning to come round. His chest heaved as he fought for breath and his eyes rolled as he tried to look up at the girls. Sweat dripped down his white face onto the dusty floor. Lady had been taught the art of tying people up by Gerry, who had learned it from the good Sergeant Newman. She was good at it. Like most experts, she really enjoyed doing it.
Lemuel’s ankles were crushed together with a length of thick cord. It ran up, pulling his feet behind him, and was tied in a slip knot round his pudgy neck. A last piece of rope was pulled tight round his upper arms, bringing his elbows back so that they actually touched. A length of filthy cotton waste was shoved in his mouth and tied in place. Any sudden movement and Lemuel was likely to strangle himself. Which was the idea.
‘Comfy, Mr. Stacey? How rude, not to answer a lady when she asks you a question. I think a boot in the ear might remind him of his manners. In fact, a boot in each ear. Together now! Good. Don’t wriggle too much, you’ll throttle yourself. Now, listen. We must be going, but I want you to know that we’ve got your money and your pictures. And all those nasty promissory notes. We’ll arrange that the word gets around that it’s all gone. Without the threat of your unpleasantness hanging over them, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few ladies of Llandudno took it into their heads to pay you a visit. So, I wouldn’t hang around here – if you’ll pardon the expression.’
Lady moved forwards and stood over the choking Stacey, pressing down with her foot on the taut rope. ‘I think he’s getting off too light. I know we’ve, not got much time, but I reckon he needs a lasting lesson. Otherwise he’ll just go off somewhere and start it all over again.’
Less than five minutes had passed since the three girls had entered the small shop. Brenda went upstairs to the flat and listened out of the window. In the distance, she could still hear the rumble of powerful motorbikes and the high-pitched sound of the police sirens, as Gerry and Kafka led the fuzz around the houses and stopped them worrying about a closed antique shop in the middle of the afternoon.
‘All right. But two minutes only. You can have one go each at him. Then we go.’
Holly hadn’t a lot of imagination. She took her knife and carved a word of four letters deep on Lemuel’s pale forehead. Most of the letters were easy, but the curve on the first one gave her some difficulty. Blood mixed in streaks with the sweat that ran in the dust. Stacey rolled sideways trying to avoid the knife, but the choking rope round his neck held him helpless.
Lady had found what she wanted on a table in the shop, priced at a reasonable seven pounds. ‘Brenda, keep him still.
‘I don’t want him rolling around.’
She knelt alongside the man and held his hands in her left hand. With her right hand, she delicately adjusted the heavy brass Victorian nut-crackers over the first joint of the little finger of his left hand. Then she began to squeeze.
The police lost Gerry and Kafka in the hills overlooking the River Conway, near the village of Eglwysbach. They met up with the other brothers at a hideout in the mountains above the quarries of Bethesda. About ten minutes after they got there, the crackle of two exhausts announced the arrival of the three girls.
Gerry and Brenda made love that night in the cave, expending their passion on top of over five thousand pounds. The rest of the chapter slept near them. What enthusiasm the local police had been able to raise would have
evaporated by the next day and they would be able to complete their run back to their base in reasonable safety.
When the first police detachment arrived at the Happy Valley area, they were appalled by the scene of devastation that met their eyes. The immaculate green turf was scarred and torn, while most of the flower-beds were totally demolished. The whole area was littered with overturned deck-chairs and scattered bottles, clothes, bags and enough food to feed a regiment. The stage was scarcely touched but the microphone was still switched on after the duet of Kafka and Bardd. It whistled and hummed to itself, occasionally giving a roar of rage that echoed around the Great Orme.
‘Duw! Look at that, man! In that deck-chair. There’s a body in it. Those sodding Angels! It’s an old man.’
At that moment, the body stirred. It was indeed an old man. With not a mark of violence on him anywhere. As his eyes opened, he gave a visible jump at the carnage around him. The police ran forward as he stood shakily upright and began to shout in a quavering voice: ‘What the ’ell’s been goin’ on here then? I just drop off to sleep for a couple of minutes and look what ’appens. Like the bloody war. What was it, an earthquake?’
‘No, dad. It was a gang of Hell’s Angels. But, don’t you worry, we’ll soon—’
The old man held up his hand to stop him. ‘Wait a minute, son. Wait on. I can’t hear you. I have a bit of trouble with me ears.’ Having plugged in his hearing-aid, he waited for the policeman to go on. ‘Come on, son. Tell me what I been missing having a bit of a kip. Eh? Eh?’