by Mick Norman
At about ten-thirty the next morning, the Angels resumed their run back to Nant Gwrtheyrn. Convoying along the winding mountain roads, they ignored defiance at any motorist they met. Gwyn, spaced out on mescaline, led the Wolves in a complex arabesque, weaving their bikes in and out of each other, taking it in turns to lead.
In a village, high in the hills, a small school was at play. Hearing the noise of the run nearing them, the children ran to the railings and hung there, shouting and screaming at the circus of riders. Their middle-aged teacher came running from the corner of the playground, trying to bustle her tiny brood back into the school, but she was too late.
Many of the Angels played up to the obvious adulation, riding hands high on the ape-hanger bars, or sitting way back on the raked seats, laughing and waving.
Dick the Hat, less zonked than most of the others, spotted the lorry backing out of the turning with its load of sheet metal, and shouted a frantic warning. A warning that all but one of the brothers heard and noted. Gafr, the goat, rode alone in a mandrax dream and the cry of warning was no more than the, cry of the east wind off the mountains where he ran.
Goronwy Williams, licensed haulier, hardly heard the bike roar over the struggling whine of his old Foden truck. He had backed right across the road and was hacking round on full lock with a narrow gap at the rear of the lorry, made even smaller by the protruding edges of sheet metal – his load for the extension to the Ogwen Rescue Hut. Some of the brothers, including Dick the Hat, Gerry, Gwyn and – even – Brenda, put their hogs at the gap and squeezed through. Some, less stoned, throttled back and waited for the lorry to complete the manoeuvre.
Not Gafr; a folk song on his lips: ‘Ffarwel fy annwyl garaid’. Fatalistically appropriate. ‘Fare thee well, my own true love.’ He saw the gap, ever narrowing as Goronwy edged back again. Didn’t see the edge-on steel plate – narrow-gauge – as it flicked at the corner of his eyes. Aimed for the shrinking gap. Like a hawk between the clashing peaks of a glass mountain.
The Angels were past the lorry before Goronwy even saw them. He clamped on the aged brakes and leaned out of his cab to watch. Not to spit or curse. He’d been there too long and knew too much. He just watched. As Gafr went past there wasn’t even a judder. Too clean and too sharp. Just one last motorcycle and one last rider. Speeding crazily from hedge to hedge. ‘Duw!’ From Goronwy. For Gafr’s Norton still had a rider that held it to its path. Legs that clamped tight round the frame. Hands that gripped the throttle open. But, no head!
Gafr’s head bounded into the ditch on the right of the road. Blood jetted high from the severed neck, fountaining as the heart still beat. Forced it out, gradually slowing. Pumping less. The bright spout speckling the dusty road. Until the motors all failed and the hands relaxed and the bike crashed. The strings were all cut.
The teacher fainted. The children laughed, without any understanding of the suddenness of death. Goronwy sat very, very still, only his lips moving as he muttered over and over again: ‘No head. He had no bloody head. No bloody head!’ Those Angels who had gone past stopped and looked back. Those Angels who had waited pulled slowly round the back of the lorry, carefully avoiding the dripping edge of the razor-steel.
Then-on. No point in stopping. No miracle of modern surgery could help Gafr. Lady stopped their bike and Holly picked up the blood-splashed Norton and mounted it. The engine was still ticking over and she had no trouble. Well, there was no point in wasting a perfectly good bike.
As they ran on towards the sea and Nant Gwrtheyrn, Gwyn eased alongside Gerry and shouted over the machine roar: ‘Shame about poor old Gafr, eh? Still. Real fine way to go. Like that. Showing real class, eh?’
Gerry turned his head and looked across at the grinning albino. ‘It’s always a toss-up, Gwyn. Heads he lost!’
An old woman, squatting behind a hedge heard the high, wild laughter and, peering through the leaves, saw the white face and red eyes, gaping red mouth. She heard the laugh again. And crossed herself. And crossed herself again. It pays not to take any chances, when one sees the Devil riding free.
Three – Ghouls Rush In
Yes, my friends. There’s only room at the top for one. And that one just has to be the best. The toughest. The biggest. Every one else better step aside. A lot of folks didn’t and we all know what happened to them. Room at the top for just one. For the best.
That’s why the Ghouls rush in where all the other Angels fear to tread. And that includes the mythical Gerry and his equally non-existent band of Last Heroes. Or, should that be “Last Zeroes”? Looking like the inside of one of your worst nightmares, the Ghouls are the end. The ultimate. The very scariest.
Unique among outlaw gangs, they emphasise their topness by not messing around with women. At all. No mamas. No old ladies. Just each other and their hogs. And their president. No grey little nobody like Gerry Vinson. No dwarf on an ego-trip like Man Ritt of the Bloody Dead. But a big, big man like Evel Winter.
Shiny satin instead of blue denim. Eye-shadow and sequins instead of beards and filth. A soft voice that turneth on fear. A few years ago, brave men or fools would have called the Ghouls a camp of queers. Now, here and now, there isn’t anyone left who’s that brave – or that stupid.
Watch it you Angels. Evel Winters says that he’s the best and that the Ghouls are the best. He’s been saying that for weeks now and no one seems ready to contradict him. A few least no ordinary Skulls tried to beat them down, a few skulls got broken. At least no ordinary citizens for hurt. And that’s always been the concern of the “Leader”. Protect the ordinary, strengthen the faint-hearted, aid the afflicted.
Are you reading this, Gerry Vinson? If you can read! Evel says that you and your gang are yellow. Why don’t you come creeping out of those Welsh hills and let us know what you’ve got to say. Come on. Come On.net
Melvyn Molineux – ‘Daily Leader’. June 5th, 198–
Lawyer’s Comments:
Valentine: I think that your M.M. has really gone a bit far this time. He seems to be inciting warfare between two gangs of Hell’s Angels as well as libelling two of them. I must admit that I would doubt if either of them is likely to begin an action against the ‘Leader’, but do remember that the ‘Daily Leader’ ;is in the business of selling newspapers and not winning law suits.
I only hope that this character, Gerry doesn’t take M.M. at his word and come riding down to London breathing fire and vengeance. I suppose it might help to sell a few more copies, though. I just hope M.M. has some hefty life insurance.
I’d let it go through with some reservations. In any future articles on this subject I’d try and tone down the hectoring note of sensationalism a bit
Krepy, Shirer, Durst, Kyle and Moorehead.
Four – Silhouetted By The Sea
‘What are you going to do, Gerry? I mean, it’s a straight challenge, really. That creepy reporter is just being a mouthpiece for the Ghouls. Isn’t he? What do you reckon?’
A hundred and fifty feet below the ruined village of Nant Gwrtheym, where the Last Heroes and Wolves had their permanent headquarters, in the north-west extremity of North Wales, is a long shingle beach, where seals sometimes come and cormorants wheel and dip. The village is more or less inaccessible to any but the fit and nerveless, so few walk that beach. That warm June evening, there were only two pairs of boots stirring the pebbles. Gerry and Brenda.
‘Yeah. But, what you’ve got to remember is that he’s a journalist. What he’s got to do is help to sell his shitty paper. So, what’s news? Youth cults. Like Skulls. Like Hell’s Angels. Every now and again, a paper will decide it’s time it took a high moral tone and it’ll have a go at something. It might be porn or rents or books or vacuum cleaners. At the moment slimy Molineux is making capital out of Evel Winter and his poofs. What he wants is for us to go down to London and have a massive run with killing and class all over the place. Then he can purse his chubby lips and ‘Tut, tut’ all day long about how shocking it all was. And, you
see Brenda, it’ll all be his fault. Bastard!’
Gerry punctuated his words by picking up smooth, sea-polished stones and shying them at a boulder, lazing half in the rolling water. He turned away from the beach and walked up to where there had once been a plant for breaking rock down into gravel fragments. There was still a huge waste tip of gravel, pouring down nearly to the shore. He kicked out a hollow and sat down, lying back and closing his eyes.
Pushing the hair off her forehead, Brenda lay down beside him. They were a good half-mile from the rest of the chapter. Long miles from anyone else. The air was very warm. Gerry was pleasantly high on hash and was happy to lie still and listen to the murmuring sea. Brenda was also high, but had a more, pressing need. Her fingers rustled through the gravel, climbed up the side of Gerry’s denim jacket, and edged down, across his flat stomach.
It was only when he realised that she was intent on tugging down the zip on his jeans that Gerry came to life. He put his hand over hers to help her. Once the zip was down, there was only the copper button that held the trousers together. With a bit of struggling, that soon gave way. Arching his back, Gerry let Brenda pull the jeans off, his pants coming with them. He groaned as the gravel pricked at his naked flesh and got quickly up to move on to patch of soft sand at the top of the beach. Brenda scrambled down near him, taking off her own jeans and pants before lying down. Gerry lazily reached out and caressed her breasts, smiling as he felt the nipples harden beneath his fingers. He rolled on top of her, his other hand probing lower down her body. She moaned softly and nuzzled her mouth into his neck as his fingers moved and vibrated inside her.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Come on. Now.’
The sand shifted about them and the sea crept slowly closer. Their coupling was soft and gentle. For two such tough animals, Gerry and Brenda were capable of surprising gentleness towards each other. But, they were both also capable of dreadful violence against any person who threatened either of them.
Satiated, Gerry lapsed again into a quiet calm, eyes closed, the lower part of his body covered with a fine coating of golden sand. Brenda idly eased her hand over his chest, stroking down towards his thighs. Just at the top of his genitals, where the dark tendrils of hair curled up towards his stomach, she felt the puckered skin of an old scar. Not so old. He stirred as she touched him, and her mind went back a year to the moment when Gerry had finally made his move to challenge for the presidency of what was still just the Wolves.
After the quarry massacre, the whole country had been searching for them, and the Wolves had been-happy to shelter their brothers from the South. Just as long as they toed the line and didn’t try to cross it. But, Gerry was never one to follow anybody’s rules. He waited. Planned. He only had a small handful of brothers and sisters and the Wolves were a hard and well-organised chapter. In those days all chapters had to be well-organised with the police harassing them whenever and wherever possible. Tudor, their ex-president, had been a tough leader.
The rules that govern the lives of Hell’s Angels are simple. There is no Boy Scout concept of honour. No Marques of Queensberry to oversee their brawls and make sure they fought fair. If any citizen, or outsider, started any trouble with an Angel he would be promptly stomped by any or all of the chapter within yelling distance. There was loyalty to each other and to the chapter. An outsider who wanted to join any chapter became a prospect and would have to show a deal of class – blow the minds of the straights – to be accepted. Once in, there was no reason why he shouldn’t try and challenge for the top man’s job. This system generally meant that the top man was the toughest. He had to be.
When Gerry had joined the Last Heroes, he had first to make himself accepted by the majority of the chapter; then he could challenge the president – the legendary Vincent – for the presidency. He had fought and killed him, thanks to Brenda’s help and despite an attempt by Rat to ensure that Vincent won. But, he was the president of a chapter that scarcely existed.
From the moment that the Wolves first accepted them into their chapter, Gerry had been waiting and watching. He had waited for the right moment, and it hadn’t been that long in coming. Tudor was tough and tricky, but he lacked the depths of cunning that had made Vincent such a dangerous opponent. After only a couple of months, Gerry had been able to persuade a number of the Wolves – including the paranoid albino, Gwyn – that he might make a better president than Tudor. After that, it was just a matter of picking the moment
Beside her, Gerry had just dropped off to sleep and snored quietly. Brenda sat up and pulled on her pants. The sun had nearly vanished behind Anglesey and the air was growing a little chill. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her knees, looking at the dull sea. She tracked her finger idly through the circus sand and thought back to the moment when Gerry had challenged Tudor.
It had been a clear day, and one of the old ladies – Mochyn it was – suggested that they take a few of the straight bikes and go have a picnic. The straight bikes, unchopped, were for this kind of occasion and it was a nice day, so a few of them rolled along. About half of them were Wolves, including Tudor and Gwyn, and the rest were Last Heroes, including Gerry, Rat and Brenda. Rather than run, they had just tooled along back roads, heading westwards, until they were in the most desolate part of the Lelyn Peninsula, near Aberdaron. Just before they reached the village, Tudor turned off to the right and they speeded up along perilous, narrow, twisting lanes that led in on themselves and then doubled back again. Every now and then, Gerry could see the sea below them on the left and he shouted across to Gwyn to find out where they were going.
‘Mynydd Mawr – the end of the world. Right up on the cliffs. Take care Wolf. It can be, you know, very dangerous up there.’
Brenda remembered that Gerry had nodded his understanding and thanks at the albino. Had seen the red flash from his hooded eyes. Through tiny villages and large churches. Down and then up again. Through a gate and up a strange concrete road to a lookout hut. Whitewashed and locked. They had all dismounted and the men had stood in a line, sheltered from the strong wind and pissed, far down into brown heather. The mamas and old ladies had been a little more discreet and gone behind the rocks.
At that time of the day and season of the year there was nobody else up there. Across the choppy sound they could see the scattered buildings of Bardsey Island itself. Twenty thousand saints buried over there, boyo,’ was what Bardd had bellowed at Rat. He’d looked unimpressed and had got a laugh by shouting back: ‘All I hope mate, is that they were all fucking dead!’
It had been almost like a proper picnic. Just for a few minutes!
They’d all sat around and eaten chocolate cake and drunk coffee from vacuum flasks. Several of the brothers lit joints and relaxed on the supremely springy turf. The cliff sheltered them from the worst of the wind and they could lie back and watch gulls wheeling and screaming against the clouds.
Kafka shouted across to Bardd, without even turning his head: ‘Hey, would you like to be able to swirl around up there? Free as birds? Eh?’
Bardd inhaled deeply, and let the smoke trickle out from the corner of his mouth. ‘Remember what Bobby said, Kafka? Do you reckon those birds are free from the chains of the skyways?’
‘Fuck you and your bloody Celtic mysticism, Bardd. One blast from a scatter-gun and you’d be picking your free birds off the granite there. Not even Jonathan Livingstone Seagull himself would fly away from me. Anyway, Wolf, come for a walk over there. I’ve got a few things to talk about.’
Tudor walked away from the group without even looking back, certain that Gerry would follow him. As Gerry got up and followed him, he caught the whisper from Gwyn: ‘Step lightly.’
The two men, Tudor taller and thinner, hair prematurely grey and Gerry shorter and stocky. Heavily-muscled. Both had their hair on to their shoulders, Tudor’s curling and Gerry’s straighter. They had originally worn ordinary denim jackets for the ride out to the headland, but these had been discarded and both wore the
ir originals. Tudor’s colours were the distinctive white wolf’s head, while Gerry’s were the death’s-head that had been the emblem of the Last Heroes.
Tudor stopped at the highest point of the cliff and waited for Gerry to come alongside him. Gerry felt his stomach muscles flutter with anticipation. This wasn’t any casual chat. This could be the big one. It was a perfect place. Tudor pointed down over the edge. ‘You know, there used to be a little church down there. Right by the sea. There’s supposed to be a spring of fresh water down there. It’s covered up at high tide, like now. But, if you look, you can just see where it comes out. Look! Down there, by that big jagged rock with the white splash.’
Most people in that situation, suspecting a threat to their lives would have been watching for the push over the towering crags. And, they would have been dead. Gerry had been enormously influenced by his old unarmed combat instructor in the Army, at the time of the Irish troubles. Sergeant Newman was as tough and inflexible as the parade ground at Aldershot. Middle-aged, well under average height, and with a stomach that preceded him into a room by several inches, his only concession to personal vanity was a wig of quite unique awfulness that covered an egg-shell pate. The troops referred to it as ‘the dead rat’ but only behind his back. One trooper who was overheard jesting about the wig suffered greatly for a couple of days, taking some nasty upsets on the obstacle course and finally losing most of his teeth when the butt of the sergeant’s rifle caught him in the mouth during a demonstration of bayonet fighting.
Newman urged his pupils, of whom Gerry was one of the best, never to bother with that crap about ‘watching his eyes’. Nobody who’s worth a monkey’s as a fighting man will give away anything by movement of his eyes. And, Tudor, like most presidents of a Hell’s Angels chapter, was far from inadequate when it came to a rough-house.