by Mick Norman
Gerry had spotted the glint of steel in Tudor’s right hand and was ready for it. What he wasn’t ready for was the tiny knife in the left hand. Tudor feinted with the long blade in the right arm and, as Gerry countered it, he lunged in with the small knife. The blade wasn’t more than two inches long and it had been concealed totally in the palm of the Welshman’s hand. Hilt gripped firmly between thumb and fingers, it made a deadly weapon.
Seeing it at the last second, Gerry turned sideways to try and parry it, knowing before he began to move that he was going to be too late. Even so, the speed of his reflex was enough to save the femoral artery in the thigh that had been Tudor’s target. Ducking slightly as he pivoted, he felt the knife cut into his lower stomach, just above his groin. The pain made him gasp, and he felt the blood oozing, held back by his tight jeans. He wrenched free and broke away, back to the cliff edge. Tudor faced him, about ten feet away and watched. A knife in each hand he smiled confidently at the unarmed and wounded Gerry. ‘Come on, boyo. Just one step back and we’ll get you all in the picture.’
Without even glancing behind him, Gerry was sickeningly aware of the void that waited behind him. It seemed very still. Far, far below there was the sea, smashing itself into spume on the rocks. He could hear gulls screaming all around. He was even able to hear the buzz of laughter from the party of Angels, just the other side of the headland. Despite the warmth of the blood, Gerry felt cold. The sun lacked warmth. Once before he had miscalculated and a bank manager had attacked him to try and save his money, though he risked the life of his daughter. But that had been nothing. This was different. Tudor was better than he’d reckoned. And he had two blades. And Gerry had nowhere to move.
One other sound. Slight Like the rustle of a small lizard as it moves comfortably on a sun-warmed rock. Behind Tudor. To the left. Don’t! Don’t look at it! Whatever it is.
‘Well, Wolf. The Wolves will miss you. But, I won’t. I’ll have the friendly Brenda to keep me happy. She’ll soon forget you. They all do. Fucking scrubbers. All the same. Now. Goodbye Wolf.’
Gerry tensed himself ready for the last desperate try. A try he knew wouldn’t work, but a try he had to make. Then, a quiet voice. Close. From the left.
‘Afternoon, all.’ It was Rat.
Unable to believe the evidence of his eyes and his ears, Tudor turned and gaped at the gnome-like apparition, sprung from the rocks like one of the old Pictish folk. Something out of a fairy story – or a nightmare.
Brenda had picked up the details from Gerry up to this moment, but she had walked over herself, worried by his absence. Climbing near the top she had come on the tableau, frozen forever in crystal. Facing her, back to the drop, Gerry. Also facing her, jaw gaping, a knife held loose in each hand, Tudor. Back to her, a tiny, filthy figure who could only be Rat. It was obvious that Rat had only just made his presence felt, his sneaking approach covered by the sea noise and the crying gulls. Rat wasn’t armed in any way. He was just standing there, with his arms folded across his shrunken chest.
She had watched Gerry take two quick steps that brought him right up behind the paralysed Tudor. He grabbed him by the collar of his colours with both hands and then dropped backwards, tugging the leader of the Wolves over with him. Brenda’s hands twisted nervously as she saw both men, apparently, about to plummet to their doom. But, as Gerry fell, he tucked his knees up so that he was able to push his feet into the small of Tudor’s back. One violent shove and the president spent the last four seconds of his reign accelerating at a speed of approximately thirty-two feet per second per second.
If he hadn’t been moving so fast, the fact that he hit the rocks feet first might have been a good thing. But, he was going so fast that it really made no difference at all. Carpals and both tibias and fibulas were compressed and smashed. The knee joints collapsed and the long bone of the thigh, the femur, was impacted into the pelvic girdle. The leg bones were shattered so drastically, that they were actually forced up into the rib cage. Bones devastated the intestines and the heart burst. Any other damage – and there was awful injuries to the head – was irrelevant as Tudor was clinically dead before the impact was even over. In less than one half of one second the presidency passed from him to Gerry Vinson, sometimes known as ‘Wolf’.
The sea disposed quickly of the human wreckage and Gerry went back to the others to tell them some of what had happened. But Rat’s part in the affair wasn’t mentioned. It would have been downright bad class to have needed help in winning. Gerry thanked Rat. But, Rat had his own motives. Rather a president he knew than a Welshman he could barely understand.
Back on the quiet beach night was moving in. Gerry woke up to find Brenda’s hands still wandering over his body. He smiled vaguely up at her. ‘Another?’
She nodded and rolled on top of him, taking the initiative. As she guided him into her, she was about to ask him again about the newspaper article. But, Gerry spoke first: ‘You know love. I reckon it’s time we went back down to London. Sort out the Ghouls and the clever Mr. Molineux. Show them the Wolves and Last Heroes are the top. Always were, Always will . . . Ouch! Watch what you’re doing with your nails!’
Three days later, they all set off for London. On a full run.
Five – Ride A Black Eagle
Lyrics copyright Ortyx Press, 197–
All alone, all alone, all alone.
Blood on the road,
And a white heron flying.
Blood on the road,
And a grey mist rising.
All alone,
All alone,
All alone.
Angels running, riding free.
Blood in the eyes.
And a grey goose winging.
Blood in the eyes,
And a red sun rising.
All alone,
All alone,
All alone.
I’m going to run and ride and die.
Blood in my brain.
And a black eagle stooping,
Blood in my brain,
And a dark river rising.
All alone,
All alone,
All alone.
Not alone, not alone, not alone.
Blood in my mind.
And a white hawk rising.
Blood in my mind,
And a free road waiting.
Not alone,
Not alone,
Not alone.
Six – Just Because We Get Around!
Charlie Marvell and his gang of Skulls had also read Melvyn Molineux’s article about the Ghouls. Like Gerry, Charlie wasn’t happy about any suggestion that his mob weren’t the best. He even wrote to the offices of the ‘Daily Leader’ to try and prove his point. But he got no reply. Melvyn wasn’t interested in an ordinary crowd of Skulls. They ceased being copy a year ago – like the skinheads of ten years ago. It was the Last Heroes that he wanted to provoke into an appearance.
So, Charlie and his mates never heard any more. So, they went looking for Evel Winter. The Ghouls had their turf in Camden Town so that was where the Skulls went. They piled into three old Transit vans they’d bought cheap, armed themselves with chains and pickaxe handles and cruised about. They had to stop for petrol and Charlie got a couple of gallons put in a can. ‘Never know when you might want to burn something.’
It was trad jazz night up at the Flag and Night Land. Over the last year and a half, the music of the late fifties had made a fantastic revival among the youth cults. Its heavy driving beat and repetitive rhythms made it good music to do the lay or the mad or the frout. The Flag, as it was known locally, was a small pub that had suddenly made it big when the landlord discovered that his dusty and scratched record collection would pull in young people and pack his pub. His wife had always been on at him to chuck out the old forty-fives. Now, booming through the biggest amplifier he had been able to find, the very best of Ball, Barber and Bilk lived again.
Five of the Ghouls had gone along that evening and had parked their prec
ious hogs outside. Wearing their bright satins and stack-heeled boots, with heavy facial makeup on, including lipstick and mascara – long, waved hair and no beards. All big men. No old ladies or mamas with them. That wasn’t their scene. At first, the Ghouls had been palled queer. They had replied to that charge with such terrifying and single-minded savagery that people turned quietly away from them if they ever saw them, and prayed that their eyes wouldn’t meet
Apart from the absence of sexual activity, the Ghouls were a very traditional Angels’ chapter. Evel Winter had actually known the great Terry the Tramp. He’d even ridden with him only a few days before he’d o.d’d. They wore colours in the form of sequin patterns on the back of their satin and silk jackets. Wings were carefully embroidered and were won for rather different achievements than those of more orthodox brothers. If possible they were even more appalling. Unless public fellation is to your tastes.
They concentrated on big hogs and looked after them with fanatical care. Anyone who touched their bikes was as good as dead. You only had to move near them to get stomped. Where most brothers favoured a lot of chrome, the Ghouls went in for bright enamels and tear-drop finishes.
It was five of those tangerine-coloured, streamline babies that Charlie Marvell and his skull mates saw outside the pub. ‘I knew that petrol would come in fucking useful. Come on lads. They always reckon their fucking bikes are red-hot. Let’s make ’em even hotter.
Motorbikes are strangely vulnerable to fire. All the Skulls had to do was quickly unscrew the filler caps of the hogs, tip them over, pour over their own two gallons of petrol and throw on one lighted match.
The Bang! and the sheet of white flame brought half the pub running out, while the voice of Mister Acker Bilk (with his Paramount Jazz Band) blared out ‘The White Cliffs Of Dover’ and nobody paid any attention.
The five Ghouls were the first out of the door and brought up short at the sight of the carnage that had been their pride and joy. Across the car-park the gang of Skulls watched and jeered. They had safety in numbers. With the crowd of straights around and police obviously going to be on the scene in a minute or two, this was no place for a direct confrontation.
Cool being something of importance to the Ghouls, their leader showed no emotion as he walked towards the Skulls. His name was Rohan.
‘You’re Charlie Marvell. Aren’t you?’
‘Yeah. And you’re the big fairy off the top of the fucking Christmas tree.’
Bellowings of laughter from the other Skulls, Rohan showed no emotion at all. ‘They say you know how to kill people. That you specialise in old men and cripples.’
One of the Skulls made a move but Charlie grabbed him. ‘No! Not here and not now. You just better watch your mouth. Or I’ll shut it for you. Oh, I forgot. The only thing you like to shut your mouth is one of your mates’
Rohan interrupted him. ‘If you know how to kill. I hope you also know how to die. When Evel hears about this, he’ll hunt you down and kill you. And any diseased rat that runs with you. There won’t be anywhere to hide. We’ll find you.’
‘Yeah. When you do, then let me know. Can we give you queens a lift anywhere, now your bikes aren’t exactly roadworthy?’
The question hung unanswered as the revolving blue light of a patrol car appeared at the far side of the car park. Charlie and his mates piled into their vans and drove off. Although it had been a successful operation for the Skulls, Charlie wasn’t totally happy.
The Ghouls had been altogether too self-assured. As though he felt he had God on his side. Charlie had expected threats. But, angry threats. Not that calm, vicious threat. It had been too much like a promise.
A mate passed him a bottle of Southern Comfort, a drink common to most of the young, and he tried to laugh it all off. But, he had never tangled with the Ghouls before and he had an odd feeling. One he didn’t recognise.
It’s called ‘Fear’.
The Skulls believed that cleanliness was next to trendiness. Their jeans were always spotless and their ruffled shirts would have made a soap-powder manufacturer laugh all the way to the bio-chemical bank. The platform-soled boots were always highly-polished and their faces clean-shaven. They bathed as frequently as possible. An off-shoot of this was that most Skulls went swimming several nights a week. It was almost a hobby, like.
With the Highbury Skulls, you’ve got to realise that they weren’t all that bright. Charlie reckoned that the Ghouls might make some effort to get back at them for wrecking their hogs but he hadn’t carried that a logical step further and tried to guess where they would strike. He and his mates just carried on with the same routine – a routine that included Thursday night swimming at the new Bounds Green Baths. They’d drive up there, a half a dozen or so in their vans, have a few jars and then go along to the baths.
Evel hadn’t been pleased when he had heard from Rohan about the attack. So Rohan and four or five other Ghouls went straight by changing their bright clothes for some ordinary citizen’s gear and hung around watching for the Skulls. It only took a fortnight for the pattern to be clearly exposed.
‘Yes, dear, but which is the time he’s nearest to being alone?’
‘Thursday night, Evel. Some of the Skulls play billiards then, so there’s not more than six with Marvell when he goes up Bounds Green Baths.
‘All right, then. Next Thursday night will be teaching night, for smart Charlie. We’ll all put on our nicest clothes and teach the bastard a lesson he won’t even live to remember.’
Charlie and his mates got to the baths at about seven. There were never many people there on nights that the Skulls took over a baths, and tonight was no exception. There was a young mother teaching her two kids to swim, a couple of middle-aged men plodding through what they obviously considered a keep-fit exercise, and four or five girls. As soon as the Skulls came whooping out of the changing room the girls made for the side, followed by shrieked obscenities and coarse gestures.
Charlie and his best mate, Wayne, started bombing the others off the top board, ignoring the shouts from the elderly bath attendant. ‘Fuck off you one-armed bastard.’ The Skulls didn’t let anything spoil their simple pleasures. Recognising that discretion was a lot better than getting his other arm broken, the attendant mumbled off to his own cubicle to have a quiet cup of tea.
The mother soon left with her crying children and the two men realised that there wasn’t much point in continuing their exercise with the Skulls splashing and yelling around. Once they had gone, the baths grew quieter. Light was fading outside and the shadows were spreading in from the corners of the roof until Charlie went and rousted out the attendant to switch on the lights.
They were in the middle of a relay race when all the lights suddenly went out. Outside it was dark, and the baths suddenly became an echoing cavern of blackness. ‘Put those bleeding lights on!’
Stuck out in the middle of the pool, Charlie and his mates were suddenly quiet. All the way round the baths they heard footsteps. Not the soft rubber shuffle of the attendant but harsh staccato steps. The sort of noise that a gang of men would make if they were wearing high-heeled boots. Someone, for instance, like about thirty of the odd Hell’s Angels chapter better known as the Ghouls. Led by … ‘Right, Strider. Put on the twinklies and let’s have a look and see how many fishes we’ve caught,’... Evel Winter.
The overhead light flickered on again. Looking round the pool, Charlie was chilled to see just how many of the Ghouls there were. Far too many to even think of starting anything. The lights bounced off the still water, causing strange highlights to whisper in the fold of the silk and satin jackets. Turquoise, blue, pink, orange, green and black. With Evel himself looking the weirdest in pure white satin trousers and top.
‘Rohan! Were these the ones?’
‘Yeah, Evel. And that tall one is the great Charlie Marvell himself. He led it. The others were all with him.’
‘You wouldn’t dare try anything here. There’s the lady on the desk and the atte
ndant and anyone else might come in for a swim.’
‘No. The lady goes home at eight-thirty when they stop admitting any new swimmers. It’s now eight-forty. And the poor crippled old attendant has met with a nasty accident. Must have fallen down, slipped in a patch of water probably. Don’t you worry about him, though. I’ve left a couple of the brothers to keep a careful and considerate eye on the poor old sod. Don’t worry about him, Charlie my little skull amigo. Worry about yourself and your friends.’
‘Blimey. I thought you could take a joke.’
‘Charlie. We all know that you’re nearly shitting yourself you’re so scared. But, don’t upset me by saying such fucking stupid things. Five top hogs wrecked. In public. That’s not a joke, duckie. That’s a declaration of open war. So here we are. Now shut up and listen. Which of you is the youngest?’
The Skulls looked at each other. Were they going to begin the beatings with the youngest, or were they going to let the youngest go? One of the black Skulls, Mayhew Sykes was the youngest of them; he had only just left school and was only fourteen and a half. ‘I am. Why?’
‘Cool it my ginchy friend. I want you to swim to the side and then go and get dressed. Two of my brothers will come with you to keep an eye on that lovely body of yours. Then, you can go. Weeeell. After they’ve had a wee private talkie with you about how naughty it is to tamper with big people’s bikes. Then you can go and tell all your other crop-head mates about how the Ghouls are the greatest. You dig?’
Mayhew nodded silently. At least they were going to let him go. Watched by the other Skulls, he turned away from them and swam slowly to the side, making ripples that licked at the edge of the pool, muttering and chuckling to themselves.
When he’d got out and been escorted down to the changing-rooms, Evel Winter spoke again to the rest of the Skulls. But, not to Charlie. ‘Unless something goes radically wrong, all of you will still be alive after you leave here. One at a time, beginning with the eldest, you will swim to the side and you will be taken to the changing-rooms. There you will each be severely beaten. Each of you will have a broken nose, both wrists shattered with a sledge-hammer and the right ankle smashed. After that, you will be taken individually out of London and dropped off at some distance from civilisation. There is no reason why you should not all live. You should be up and about in a week or so. There is no argument and no appeal. You were all fucking stupid and you now get to pay the price. And, all of you, remember not to mess around with the Angels again. Like that paper said: we’re the tops. Now, one at a time, beginning with the eldest. The rest of you stand quite still and quite quiet. Where are you going my flash Marvell?’