Fallen Angels Vol 1

by Mick Norman

  ‘I’m the eldest. I just wanted to get it over with.’

  ‘No poppet. You wait till last.’

  So it went. One after another the Skulls swam to the side of the baths, where they were met by a number of Ghouls. In the recesses of the building, deep in the concrete bunkers of the changing rooms, bones were splintered with heavy hammers. From in the pool you could only hear the muffled screams and shouts. The rest was very quiet. Evel had sent Rohan to switch off most of the lights in case a wandering pair of policemen came in to see who the late-night swimmers were.

  Time passed. The Ghouls were good at their work and all but Charlie were efficiently dealt with in under twenty minutes and packed off to heal and ponder on their sins. In the black pool, Charlie got colder and colder. None of the Ghouls talked at all. Every now and then one of them would click his way up the tiled side and mutter something to another. Finally, they were all gone and just Charlie was left.

  Unnoticed in the darkness, Charlie had been edging slowly towards the deep end and now, knowing that there wasn’t anything else he could do, he made a dash for the diving board. He just made it ahead of Rohan and scuttled up to the haven of the top board. Twelve metres high. The Ghouls started up after him, but hesitated when it became obvious that Charlie was in a strong position. He could kick anyone off who came up first.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now I have to come up and get you down myself. It’ll be quite exciting. Have you read “Treasure Island”? No, I don’t suppose you have. Well, this naughty little cabin boy is being chased by this great beefy sailor called Israel Hands. Now Hands is on deck when he sees the boy climbing up the mast. So he climbs up after him. Just like I’m climbing up after you how. The boy gets to the top and finds there’s nowhere else left to run. Like you’ve just found. Then Israel Hands gets just below him, like this and he pulls out a knife, like this and he throws the knife …’

  Charlie didn’t wait for the rest of the rattling yarn. He ran along the board and dived – or, half-fell – into the pool with a scream of fear that bounced around the girders of the roof and echoed and splintered in the hollow prison. As soon as he surfaced he swam desperately to the side. At the moment he jumped, the other remaining lights went off and the pool was totally dark. He reached the side and swarmed out. He stood up.

  A hand touched his shivering arm. ‘Marvell. You’re a real comic.’

  It was nearly ten when the one-armed attendant came round and found himself alone. He staggered out and put on the lights that blazed around the pool. The Ghouls had gone. He didn’t even know who had hit him – he’d been clubbed down from behind – but he had heard snatches of talk and could still smell the heavy perfume they all affected. But, he wasn’t a fool. When the police came, he said he heard and saw nothing.

  The fuzz dragged what was left of Charlie Marvell out of the pool and threw a piece of tarpaulin over it. The green, chlorine-heavy water was blotched and clouded with blood. It billowed out from where the corpse had been thrown. The pool had to be drained and refilled twice before all the taint of death was gone.

  Apart from immediate family and a few Skull friends – some of them still on crutches – there were only two or three outsiders at Charlie’s state-subsidised cremation. It was a Saturday afternoon, but Arthur Samuels gave up his afternoon’s television wrestling to come along. Thomas Mayhew closed his newsagents shop for the afternoon and also came along. As the greasy smoke billowed out of the chimney, a sign that it was all over, ex-Sergeant Mayhew stood out by the ornamental goldfish pond and took deep breaths of the air. He coughed once as some of the smoke crept into his lungs, but it didn’t bother him at all. In fact, as he walked out of the crematorium gates into the afternoon sun, Mayhew was actually laughing.

  Laughing.

  Seven – I’m Talking, Yes Indeed!

  An Interview With Evel Winter

  From The British Rock Magazine ‘Telescopic Knife’

  June 198-

  TELESCOPIC KNIFE: Over the last year or so, Evel, you and your chapter of Hell’s Angels – the Ghouls – have been getting a great deal of publicity from the media. That more or less dates from the change of government at the last Election and the legalisation of youth movements, such as Skulls and bikers. What we’d like to know is where were the Ghouls before then?

  EVEL WINTER: Well, sweetie. We were around all right, but remember how tough the laws and the police were. It would have been like cutting our own throats to wear our colours.

  T.K.: You use the word ‘colours’. Do you really think that you can claim to be real Hell’s Angels when you wear these bright clothes and wear makeup? The original bikers wore filthy Levis and denim jackets soaked in excrement, urine and vomit. They rejoiced in being dirtier than anyone else and they used their clothes as one way of blowing the minds of ordinary people.

  E.W.: Yeah. But the point is that straights are really outraged the moment someone does something that is different. Some brothers like pukey gear, but we go the other way. We like sharp, clean threads. Lovely soft, caressing silks and satins. Smartness, love.

  T.K.: And the makeup?

  E.W.: Remember some of the pop bands a few years ago. All camping around with snakes and weird gear. It was just a cult for a bit. But, we reckon, why not?

  T.K.: One thing that surprises a lot of people is that you never seem to have anything to do with girls. No women ride with you. You’re never accused of gang-bangs.

  E.W.: So fucking what! Listen duckie, we get right pissed off when smart trendies try to make out we’re queer. A lot of people have had breakies in their legs for that kind of thing. Be careful or one night you won’t make it back to your Beacon Road flat.

  T.K.: How did you know where I live?

  E.W.: Because we’re careful. When you asked for this talkie, I got a few brothers to check you out. That walk back from Caledonian Road is quite lonely, isn’t it?

  T.K.: All right, Evel, you’ve made your point. Incidentally, can you tell us about your name. Where’s it come from?

  E.W.: There was a great wheelie man ten years back who actually jumped a hog right across the fucking Grand Canyon. Jet-propelled with a parachute. His name was Evel Knievel. Bloody maniac but the biggest class you’ve ever seen. Snuffed it finally trying to fly his Harley off the bridge at San Francisco. He made it okay but a police launch hit him when he came up and took his arm off. They tried to sew it back on but he died in the hospital. Shame. He used to wear the most lovely white leather suits. My old man took me to see him once. Super!

  T.K.: How about your clothes, Evel. Where do you get them from?

  E.W.: We all go to the same place. The satin comes from a gorgeous little man in Ladbroke Grove – ‘Fireclown’ his shop is called. The boots come from ‘A Load Of Cobblers’ in Camden Town. I get my makeup from the ‘Quaint Fairy’ range.

  T.K.: I must say that you certainly look a lot nicer than another Angel I interviewed a few years ago. His name was Vincent and he ran a chapter called the Last Heroes.

  E.W.: Yes, dear, and look what happened to him. The chapter hardly exists now. They’ve got a new pres called Gerry and they spend all their time chasing sheep up mountains in Scotland or somewhere equally silly. Like my friend Melvyn Molineux said; there’s only room at the top for one, and that’s us. We’re the top. Number One. Cream of the crop.

  T.K.: Thinking about Number One; what sort of music do you like? I understand that Traditional Jazz is quite popular with the Ghouls.

  E.W.: Yeah. Chris, Acker and Kenny. Lovely sounds. Drop out to that any time.

  T.K.: Any modern bands?

  E.W.: It’s all too noisy for my shellies. Makes the brain do the whirlies. I don’t mind Mealy Plum or Consumer Society. And Oldham Apollo. Nobody else.

  T.K.: One last question. If the Last Heroes ...

  E.W.: I’d prefer it if you called them by their right name.

  T.K.: What’s that?

  E.W.: The Last Zeroes.

&nb
sp; T.K.: All right. What will you do if they come down to London and challenge you to prove who’s the top?

  E.W.: Don’t worry about that. Put me and Gerry in a room together and you wouldn’t even need to open the door afterwards to let him out. The creepy little bastard would be able to crawl out under it.

  T.K.: Thanks a lot.

  E.W.: Peace and love. Sweetheart

  Eight – The Happening

  Plastic Life – the new multi-media exhibition is due to open to the public tomorrow at the Gallery for Visual, Audial and Spatial Arts. A mixture of films, paintings, sculpture (kinetic and static) and happenings, it’s bound to excite a lot of interest among all of those with lively minds. It’s for anyone who has ever wondered how up is when and where is now.

  ‘What I don’t understand is what that gang of pansy thugs are here for?’

  ‘Well; the “Leader” is backing this, right? And Melvyn Molineux is currently pushing them as new cult figures, right? And the police think that the other gang of thugs, from up in Wales, are back in the South. The “Leader” has been deliberately building up this event and stressing that there will be this living slice of pop culture here at certain times. The Ghouls are high art now.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the “Leader” reckons that the Last Heroes won’t be able to resist this chance to have a public go at the Ghouls. I mean, just look around. The place is absolutely crawling with pigs.’

  ‘Either of you two seen Allen Ginsberg? He’s supposed to be chanting a mantra at four. I only want to know so that I can walk about somewhere else. A mantra chanter is high on my list of people I’d rather not spend a wet afternoon with. Whoops, pardon my syntax. Anyone seen Germaine?’

  ‘Over by the Rauschenberg, Clive. Talking to Joe D’Allesandro. Just beyond that purple pimple.’

  ‘Thanks sport. What is that excrescence in mood indigo?’

  ‘George’s new hat.’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Evel Winter, if I can drag him away from Alan.’

  ‘For God’s sake; when is that man going to give it up? At the moment he’s ahead of Mrs Dale and only a couple of years behind Samuel Pepys. He’s after old Parson Woodforde’s record. Saints preserve us.’

  ‘I bet he’s trained his son to carry on.’

  Most of the Ghouls were huddled together in a corner, unused to the lionising they were getting. Melvyn Molineux kept glancing at the door in a mixture of anticipation and worry. If the Last Heroes did show up, he didn’t know how things would pan out; and, if they didn’t, then he was going to be left with a damp squib of a non-story. Although there was a real risk of mass slaughter if there was a confrontation, that was a lot better than nothing at all. Bodies sold papers. The bloodier the better.

  His editor caught his eye and waved an impatient hand at him. Molineux sidled briskly across to him, his Campari swishing pinkly in his glass.

  ‘Mel, we’re spending a lot of money backing this arty-farty crap and I just hope that we get something to bloody show for it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing, V.B.; there are loads of other reporters from other papers covering this and that should help build up our story.’

  ‘Mel, I’m trying to be patient with you, but just tell me in nine short sentences exactly what the fuck this story is going to be if this other mob don’t show?’

  ‘I’ve got a friend in the police force, and they say that their informers are certain that the Last Heroes have moved to London. If they’re in London, then they’re bound to come along here. I’ve made sure ... listen!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bike engines, V.B.; bike engines! A lot of them. Jesus, they’ve come. Thank Christ.’

  The editor looked at him coolly. ‘I thought you were sure they were coming anyway. Why are you so relieved?’

  ‘Well, they might ... I wasn’t absolutely ... that is ... Look, they’re here aren’t they?’

  Clapping his hands, Molineux ran into the middle of the large room. Gradually, the talk died away. One last, lone voice quacked on for half a sentence: ‘... so she used the Alsatian and the melon.’

  ‘Thank you. You can probably hear from the noise outside that our uninvited but not unexpected guests are about to arrive. Evel, I’m relying on you to keep your men under control. If there’s any sign of trouble, then Chief Superintendent Penn has enough men here and outside to check any aggro.’

  The critics, hangers-on, freeloaders, reporters and other uninvolved persons, were hastily shepherded to the end of the saloon furthest away from the door. Just by the table bearing the exhibits from the Los Angeles casters in plaster.

  The police, in a heliotrope variety of unlikely disguises, ranged themselves in a loose circle round the main entrance. Inside the circle were all the Ghouls – about thirty, with a few more outside watching the hogs. Standing next to Evel Winter, and hugging himself with a mixture of pleasure and simple fear, was Melvyn Molineux.

  The roaring of bike engines outside died away and there was a moment of silence. Chief Superintendent Penn used that moment to hiss a warning to the Ghouls: ‘Just one wrong move out of anybody and I’ll see you all away. Remember this isn’t my idea. If I can bust all of you then it’ll have been worthwhile. So, if you want to keep clean, keep in line. Otherwise I’ll have you.’

  Even as he was speaking, there was the sound of boots on the staircase and the door was thrown back. Even some of the more cynical journalists gasped at the spectre that strode in. Tall, over six feet, with flowing, fine, shoulder-length hair that was as white as Arctic snow. Flesh as pale as a rain-washed bone and eyes that stared and flamed with a fearsome red intensity.

  ‘I’m Gwyn. Let’s see. You’re Evel Winter and these pretty people must be the Ghouls. You lot ...’ a contemptuous wave of his gloved hand ‘...are obviously sworn officers of the law. And you, must be Mr. Molineux. The reporter who says that the Ghouls are the top chapter of Hell’s Angels and that the Last Heroes and Wolves are scared to come down to London to say anything different.’

  ‘Those are all reasonable assumptions, er, Gwyn. But, surely you haven’t come down here from your caves just on your own? We heard several other bikes. Where are all the rest of you?’

  Evel Winter brushed past the journalist. ‘What’s more to the point, whitey, where is Gerry? Is he hiding behind clowns now?’

  Gwyn smiled gently at the insults. ‘Now, now. Chief Superintendent Israel Pitman Penn there, lurking behind that strange mummer’s beard, won’t be pleased’ if he hears naughty provocative words. Right, sir?’

  Molineux was getting a touch concerned. His unctuous smile started to slip away from one corner of his mouth as he felt control edging from him. He’d wanted a grand violent entrance with instant slaughter. All he’s got was a shatteringly self-possessed albino in stinking blue denim, with a white wolf’s head blazing on the back. A man who brought an aura of bizarre death into that effete atmosphere. A man under control.

  What Melvyn didn’t know was that this scene had been very carefully rehearsed. Gerry had guessed that the art exhibition had been set up as the scene for a confrontation between the Ghouls and his own chapter. A few quiet words and a couple of pounds spent in the right pubs had revealed the plans laid by the police and the name of the senior officer involved. Gwyn had been chosen as the brother most likely to freeze the minds of some of the straight trendies there – a man who would not blow his cool under pressure or provocation. Gerry knew that Gwyn would say what he’d been told to, and that he could also trust him to play the chat by ear.

  Gerry had a suspicion – unfounded as it happened – that Molineux, and, even, the Ghouls, were all part of a police plan to trap the Last Heroes and Wolves. So, they waited while Gwyn sussed things out.

  While Molineux sweated, Gwyn suddenly turned and walked out, down to where the other brothers waited. He was followed by whispered insults from the Ghouls, and a mutter of ‘fucking cowards’ from Evel Winter.

  It only took a
minute for Gwyn to convince Gerry that things seemed to be on the level. Leaving a similar number of brothers to the Ghouls attending to the hogs, Gerry led his chapter up the baroque staircase and in to the ‘Plastic Life’ rooms.

  ‘Ah. You must be the elusive Gerry Vinson?’

  Gerry didn’t reply to the reporter. His brothers fanned out around him, Kafka, Riddler, Cochise and Dick the Hat stood in a half-circle while Brenda and Gwyn stood together, just behind him. Rat also came in the room with them and he was … actually, nobody really noticed his slinking, tiny figure and he melted somewhere round the back.

  Finally, Gerry let his eyes settle on Evel Winter. He looked up and down the satin figure of the president, taking in the heavy makeup, the sequins on each cheekbone. Seeing behind the trivia that made up the public image. Detecting the ruthless streak that made him the power he was. Seeing even beyond that to a psychosis that created a figure of quite unpredictable danger. At last, he smiled.

  ‘You wear soft clothes. You call yourself an Angel and yet you dress like a ponce. Like a queer. Like a girl. What sort of a brother are you?’