by Mick Norman
One of the Ghouls stepped forward angrily, but Evel was just as much in control as Gerry and reached out and squeezed the cheek of his errant brother between finger and thumb. The Ghoul yelped at the pain. Evel held him steadily, until he suddenly let go, leaving a white, pinched weal across the man’s face.
‘Careful Evel. You might make the poor wee fellow’s mascara run.’ That was Kafka.
‘Quiet. We won’t do anything to upset these silken folk or our steadfast defenders of public safety. We’re not here for that.’
‘In that case, Vinson. What are you here for?’
Yet again, Gerry ignored the querulous interruptions of Melvyn Molineux. ‘Evel. I read in that little man’s paper that you reckon that the Ghouls are the top chapter.’
‘Yeah. I always believe what I read in the papers. Especially when it happens to be the truth.’
‘I would venture that a statement like that could be called … what was it old Churchill said?’
Kafka answered: ‘He called a man a liar by saying he’d used a terminological inexactitude.’
‘Thanks, Kafka. Yes, Evel. I reckon that Molineux is a liar. And that anyone who believes him is either stupid or a liar as well. That’s what we’ve come all the way down here for. Nobody likes liars.’
‘Now just a fucking—’
‘Shut up Melvyn. This is between him and me. All right, big bad wolf. What are you and your gang of smellies going to do to prove that you’re the best? You want one big crash-bang brawl, or would you dig something a bit more subtle?’
‘Subtle from you means tricky. What have you and your creepy mate got arranged?’
‘We haven’t got anything arranged. The “Daily Leader” would never lend its name to anything that wasn’t absolutely clean and above-board.’
‘Clean! You couldn’t even guess at what the word means. What do you suggest, then, Winter?’
The police had relaxed as the talk went on. While people were talking there wasn’t that much danger that violence would suddenly spew out. Although the chat was insulting and somewhat provocative, it wasn’t anything that they could move on. Not by a long way. So, they relaxed and waited.
The ladies and gentlemen of the press were also relaxing after the burst of tension caused by the appearance of Gwyn. Led by one or two of the braver ones – with a bravery that owed much to the alcohol laid on by the exhibition sponsors – they began to push forward to hear the exchanges.
All this movement meant that there were gaps in the room, areas where a small man might creep and brew up evil and mischief. A small man, like – for instance – Rat. Barely five feet tall in his stinking socks, Rat was one of the longest established of Hell’s Angels in Britain. He had been a member of the Last Heroes during all their dark underground days, long before Gerry even appeared on the scene. At least twice he had attempted to help the ex-president, the late and little lamented Vincent, to kill Gerry. Distrusted by many of the Wolves and hated by Brenda, Rat was still a useful weapon in the armoury of the chapter.
However, because of his Satanic sense of unpleasant humour and his anarchic love of violence, there were times when he was something of a liability. Like now.
Sneaking gently through the fringes of the crush, Rat was barely noticeable. Only the smell of his colours gave warning of his presence. By the time your nose had registered the miasma of his passing, and your eyes had sought the source of the odour, he had moved on.
As the journalists gathered round, forcing the police into a useless, huddled mass, the two leaders of the Hell’s Angels chapters were pushed almost eye-ball to eye-ball. At the rear of the Ghouls, hidden by the Palladian column, a hand came round a corner, spidered softly towards the back pocket of one of the beautiful satin jackets and poured some liquid in to the pocket, splashing more over the side and back. The hand disappeared and then eased round again, holding a small cigarette lighter. A flick of the thumb and the high-octane fuel burst into flame. A scuttling dash and Rat was well over the other side of the room before the unfortunate Ghoul even noticed that he was well ablaze.
In fact it was a blonde lady journalist from a popular daily who first saw the fire and screamed a warning. Instant panic! The Last Heroes and Wolves gathered round Gerry to face the unknown threat. The reporters fled for the doors and balcony. The police milled uselessly around and the Ghouls tried to help their stricken brother. He ripped off the blazing coat and heaved it across the room. It knocked over an early Warhol silk-screen, which flamed down on to the table of plaster casts, breaking many of the most famous phalluses in show-biz history.
Fortunately, Penn of the Yard was a man of action and he proved his reputation by leaping at the spreading fire and beating it into submission with a leather and brass mobile. A quick-thinking constable, hampered by a flowing cotton kaftan, earned himself a commendation by slashing open a vermilion plastic water-bed that had been waiting for the group-grope on a small platform. A couple of hundred gallons of warm water soon extinguished the flames and reduced the danger to a smoking heap of rubble.
Wheeling quickly round, Penn spotted a more immediate danger. The two chapters of Angels were facing each other, ready for one more spark to set off a battle.
Banging his truncheon on a ringing Hepworth sculpture, he bellowed for attention. ‘Hold it! Everybody stay exactly where they are. One movement and my men will move in and all my men will come running from outside. I warn you. One word in the wrong place and I … I will personally guarantee that every single one of your prize motorbikes will be pounded into scrap metal. The Council of Civil bleeding Liberties can protest all they like afterwards. It’ll be too late then. Right?’
It was the threat to their hogs that really kept the Ghouls and Last Heroes and Wolves apart. But, it was a tenuous and desperately uneasy peace. Fragile as a spun-crystal ball. Aching in a void that shrieks to be violently filled. They stood and faced each other, stiff-legged and bristling.
‘Not here, then?’
‘Right.’
‘Where, and when?’
‘Somewhere away from this army of fucking piggie-wiggies.’
‘Wait a minute. Wait. Listen. Wait. Listen to me. I’ve got an idea. Wait.’
Evel Winter turned to look stonily at the capering figure of Melvyn Molineux. He had promised the Ghouls that he would set it up for them so that they would have the chance to grind the Last Heroes into the shit. He’d said that they wouldn’t dare start any kind of fight with the place packed with police. But, the Ghouls had lost face. The incident of the burning jacket would be splashed over most of the daily papers the next morning. Since Molineux hadn’t delivered what he promised, it would have to be settled with knives and chains and fists and hogs. In the grand old manner.
Molineux gabbled his plan. His careful plan. ‘A sort of duel. That’s it. The losers agree to disband and publicly burn their colours and their jackets with the badges and things.’
Gerry turned from the door, interested. ‘What sort of duel? You mean pistols at dawn? Or lances on our Harleys?’
‘He means a sort of trial by combat. That way he’ll get rid of all of us. Or have us busted for disturbing the peace.’
‘No. No. No. Not like that. More a sort of competition rather than a duel. I’ll draw up a list of clues giving places that you have to go to and things you have to find there. The team from each chapter that does it fastest and gets them all right will be the winners.’
Cochise made one of his rare public utterances: ‘When I was a kid I used to go on car rally things like that with my brother, Nigel. He’d put on his deer-stalker hat, his super suede jacket and we’d roar off in his M.G. sports car. We never won though ’cos he was so frigging thick.’
‘I think it might be funsie and save you Heroes from getting badly hurt.’
‘Good. Well, Gerry, what do you think? Evel has agreed on behalf of the Ghouls. Are you going to come in or are you too scared to risk it? Maybe you lot are only good at stealing and grand
ma-bashing.’
‘Why you dirty …’
‘Cool it, Dick. He’s just trying to get us rattled. I’ll tell you what. We’ll talk it over and I’ll ring you at your office tonight at nine o’clock. If we agree, then I’ll want a proper meeting to get the rules straightened out. Just so that nobody has any doubts what’s happening. Okay?’
‘Yes, that’s very fair, Gerry. What do you think, Evel? Will you agree to that?’
The sound of sirens drawing nearer heralded the arrival of the Fire Brigade and drowned the answer from the president of the Ghouls. But, everyone saw the nod. Brenda saw more, and pushed forward to whisper in Gerry’s ear.
‘Watch it, lover. I smell a rat, or, two rats. One a little reporter who wants a scoop for his paper and another who’s the. president of a crowd of sodding queers and who might go along with any plan that gave him die chance to carry on with his boasting about being the number one. I reckon they intend fixing it between them.’
Gerry turned to whisper back. ‘Maybe you’re right, but we haven’t got a lot of choice. His paper will blow this up into a big thing. Just think about the fucking class if we can pull it off. I reckon we could. With a bit of luck and a lot of planning. I’ll get us plenty of time for the planning and then we’ll go ahead. But, we’ll have a full chapter meeting out in Hertfordshire tonight. Relax.’
He turned back to Molineux and confirmed his agreement that he would ring later that night. Molineux could hardly hide his pleasure and the two groups of Angels started snarling threats at each other. Penn moved his men in between and asked the Last Heroes and Wolves to leave first.
They filed out, Gwyn remaining facing the room and leaving last. They pushed past the huddle of reporters hiding on the landing and were gone.
All but one. Rat sneaked back along the landing and stuck his head round the door, whistling to attract the attention of the Ghouls. When he saw that they were looking, he held up his cigarette lighter and flicked it on. Penn was hard put to hold back the angry Ghouls but, in a flash, Rat was gone. With a jaunty two-fingered salute.
Chief Superintendent Penn turned away towards Melvyn Molineux and mopped his brow. With a totally unconscious humour he said: ‘You know, Mr. Molineux. For a few moments it got quite warm there.’
Nine – Problems All Day Long
A highly confidential memorandum from Melvyn Molineux to his editor – Valentine Bergen – concerning the happenings of the afternoon and his plans for the competition. June 9th, 198-
Dear V.B.,
As I told you last night, the leader of the Last Heroes rang me to confirm that he had persuaded the other members of his gang that it would be wise to accept my challenge. So, the day after tomorrow they (not all, but a few selected senior members of the groups) will meet in our offices with Evel Winter and a few of his gang to discuss the rules. These will be, broadly as you and I discussed them the other day – subject to any minor amendment that Vinson may ask for.
I have just left Evel and I think I can say with some confidence that it is unlikely that his chapter will not win. I kept to our arrangement that we should not offer any help to them unless they were obviously losing. Evel Winter is quite happy with this arrangement as he has come to believe our publicity on his behalf and thinks that they really are the top gang in England. Perhaps they are. But having met Vinson, I am not now so confident as I once was about the outcome of this challenge.
However, if things look like going against our investment, I can arrange for a little ‘help’ for the Ghouls. Apart from anything else; I have no doubt that the last of the five clues that I have prepared is insoluble without help. I attach a list of these clues – we discussed them after our first meeting with Evel Winter, just after we arranged the contractual details of the Ghouls’ story.
If you have any recommendations to make, about these clues, I will arrange a talk with you for the 12th and we cam polish up the details. I think, V.B., that we are going to be on to one of the biggest winners in journalistic history. I have already had several inquiries from the commercial television networks for rights to the challenge. Plus a couple from the States and one from France. It has to be a big winner for the ‘Daily Leader’.
Melvyn Molineux – Senior Features Editor.
NO COPIES – FILE IMMEDIATELY
AFTER READING UNDER SECURITY LOCK
FOR V.B’s EYES ONLY
Five Suggested Clues
George Yard Buildings saw my death,
A whore was I, till my last breath.
Thirty-nine cuts bled me fast,
I was the first, but not the last.
2. Philip and Herbert shared a flat here. Though neither had any reason to expect great things, they never found themselves out of pocket
3. First the Marsh in 1882. Then Northumberland Park in 1885. Now at the corner of Park and Worcester.
4. One thousand yards between the wicked ladies and the wicked men. In that order.
5. Rossetti on one wall, Turner on another and Constable on the third.
Melvyn: I suggest making four into one as it is the easiest and we want the TY boys to have a spectacular race to start with. Then one becomes two and so on. I must make sure I don’t change any of the prints in my office before the final day. Apart from that – it’s all okay. We can appear as socially-conscious and still sell on the sensation aspect. Let’s hope that there are lots of clashes between the two mobs. Frankly, I wouldn’t be averse to a killing or two. If a few innocent people get hurt as well it’ll generate more interest and make us look even better as saviours of the public.
Once it’s over and the Last Heroes have packed up, how do you feel about us having a go at this other crowd? Maybe we can try and rig something up with the police to fix a bust on them for drugs or blackmail or something. Bear it hi mind.
Valentine Bergen.
Ten – Across A Crowded Room
‘All right. Those are the rules. Nice and simple. Seven days to pick your teams of six and get ready. So, on Tuesday next, the cameras roll and away you all go at mid-day sharp. Remember to come here first at eleven to get the first clue. Then, one a day till the big last one on Saturday. Each chase starts on the forecourt outside apart from the last one. That runs from Marble Arch. Just to be different. Have any of you got any questions?’
Brenda spoke first. ‘Each clue will lead us to a specific place. At each place there will be a man with a copy of the ‘Leader’ for each chapter and all we have to do each day is find the place and the man, collect the copy of the paper and bring it back to the main doors here.’
‘Right. Absolutely right.’
‘Thanks. I wanted to be sure. And, each time we get the clue just one hour before the off at twelve.’
‘Yes. Evel, have your team any questions?’
‘Melvyn, about the money from the television—’
‘Shut up, Vanya. We’ve spent bloody hours arguing about that this morning. Drop it. It’s settled.’
Kafka disturbed his bulk from one of the Danish tubular steel and mustard canvas executive chairs that had been brought into the conference room at the ‘Leader’s’ offices near Fleet Street. He peered through the clouds of pot smoke and asked his question. ‘Can you tell us anything at all about these clues? What sort of subjects they’ll be – that sort of thing?’
‘Well now. I don’t think it would be at all fair to give too much away. They’ll be single clues to each place – not a great string of them. The first one is quite easy, the next two are a bit literary, the third one is … well, let’s just say it’s not literary, and the last one is a bit tricky.’
The room was edgy with tension. Security guards stood round the back of the room, but there had been no actual trouble. The Ghouls had a smug air of superiority but the Last Heroes and Wolves were far from happy. Though Gerry, backed by Brenda, Gwyn and Kafka, had finally convinced that they had to go through with the challenge, there was a strong feeling that the whole thing might be a fix and that
they were going to get crapped on from a great height. As Melvyn ran quickly through the rules, suspicion had been swelling nearer the surface. Gerry was relieved when Melvyn gathered up his papers and Evel led the Ghouls out the room. It had been agreed beforehand that the Ghouls would arrive first and leave first. Just to avoid jostling in the hallowed corridors of the paper.
As the Last Heroes filed out in turn, Gerry felt a hand gently on his arm. It was Gwyn who winked encouragingly at him. ‘Don’t look so glum, Wolf. We can beat those queer bastards without raising a sweat.’
Gerry turned to face the albino. ‘I think we can. Otherwise I’d never have agreed to it. But, I’m sure that fly little cunt Molineux has arranged some kind of fix with the Ghouls. It’s not just that we can win; it’s that we’ve got to.’
During the week before the challenge began, the ‘Daily Leader’ gave it saturation cover. Pictures of nubile, clean young ladies wearing unlikely combinations of leather and denim filled the centre pages. Articles on how to chop bikes, on the lore and language of Hell’s Angels, plans for the start, interviews with concerned sociologists and psychiatrists – the whole show.
One or two other chapters claimed they should be included in the challenge but they were cold-shouldered. One set of brothers from Windsor even ran up to London and roared round the paper’s offices carrying picket cards. Mynydd, Cochise, Draig and Rat happened to be riding round the area, trying to familiarise themselves with the roads, when they came across the demo.
Bearing in mind Gerry’s instructions to keep out of trouble until the challenge was over, they made their attack carefully. Since it had to be sneaky, it was a happy chance that Rat was along. He ‘arranged’ a couple of pints of oil, punctured the can and rode sedately through the other outlaws, muttering the most gross insults under his breath. Watching police saw only the small figure of a solitary Hell’s Angel, ride gently past. Then the Windsor chapter seemed to go crazy. They dropped their placards, revved up their engines and roared off after the single rider. Then, the craziness increased. They’d only gone a hundred yards, and were catching up on Rat, when they all skidded wildly across the road and fell in a tangled heap of cursing men and screaming machines.