by Mick Norman
‘Sorry. Anyway, must go and have a piss before it starts. Don’t like working on a full stomach. See you later, Modesty.’
‘Mick! What about after?’
‘What you mean? Like, if you get to be my old lady. We’ll have to see. Afterwards. See you.’
‘Relax, Modesty. Your turn will come. When he has his initiation tomorrow. He lies down and has piss and puke and everything poured over him. Christening his colours. He has to just lie there and take everything. Like I say. That’ll be – your turn. Nobody can look cocky with a face full of shit.’
When Gerry had exercised his presidential right over the two girl prospects, he stood and watched, his arm round Brenda. She nudged him to attract his attention from the orgiastic scenes. ‘Gerry. You were right about Mick Moore. He really is a bit of a bastard.’
‘Yeah. Good isn’t it? Remember God looks out for bastards.’
Eleven – Stand Up, Stand Up, For … Who?
‘Sit down. Now, before we have this morning’s voluntary – a piece of Buxtehude – I have a serious matter to mention. Those of you unfortunate enough to read the popular paper called the ‘Daily Leader’ will have seen the absurd amount of publicity they have been giving to these motorcycle thugs who call themselves ‘Hell’s Angels’.
‘You will also have seen that a number of boys and girls from all over London appear to have been so stupidly infatuated by these leather-clad layabouts on their powerful bikes, that they have been taking time off from their useful lessons to droop around these drop-outs and beatniks. I may say that I was disgusted, yes, I use the word “disgusted” and that is what I mean, when a parent of one of the senior boys at this school rang, me up at my home last night to draw my attention to an item that she had been told was to appear in this morning’s edition of that paper. I ordered my house-keeper to purchase a copy for me and I was revolted to recognise that what the lady had told me was true.
‘Here, blazoned all over the front page, is indeed a picture of a boy from our fifth form. My only relief is that I cannot imagine that any person who was not personally acquainted with the boy in question would recognise him as a member of this school. But, that is not the point! The mere fact that the paper has not seen fit to go the whole hog and … Stop that laughing! I’m not aware that this is a case for amusement. That the paper did not print his full name or address. That is not the point.
‘It is my intention to punish this boy as severely as possible. He will learn at my hands a lesson that he will not quickly forget. I will not punish him so much for playing truant, as for dragging this school down into the gutter. By his foolish and inconsiderate action he has not only lowered himself in the eyes of the world; he has lowered me, he has lowered you, all of you, he has lowered this school and everyone who has, or has had, any connection with it.
‘Let us look at this youth, this wretched individual, who was so stupid as to imagine that these hardened hooligans might, consider taking him among their numbers. Michael Moore of Five Gamma Upper. It can be no surprise to many of you that this is the boy’s name. Stand up Michael Moore and let us all look on the face of stupidity.’
‘Moore! Stand up! Come now, is it your intention to add cowardice to idiocy? Where is he? Can he be absent again?
‘Moore! Stop talking! Balderstone; if you have anything relevant to contribute, I suggest you say it to me … He has what? Nonsense! He cannot! They … if you are not telling me the truth, I promise you that you will have occasion to regret it. Will you all stop shouting out. Who is Moore’s housemaster? Very well, Mr. Leeds. I will see you at my study, and you too, Balderstone, immediately after prayers. We will get to the bottom of all this.
‘Now, Professor Grant, perhaps you would care to take us to a more real world with the Buxtehude Voluntary. Silence!’
Twelve – You Get The Picture? Yes, We See
The forecourt of the ‘Daily Leader’ was crowded at eleven o’clock on Tuesday, 18th June. Most of both rival chapters were there, in their best colours. Choppers were parked under the gaze of armed security guards. Mamas and old ladies chattered together on one side, away from the Ghouls. Gerry and his principal lieutenants stood at the front, alongside Evel and the leading brothers. Television, radio and video reporters came to the edge of actual brawling for places with good viewpoints. Mike cables coiled everywhere, ready to pick up any word.
The Last Heroes and Wolves were silent, and, after a brief attempt to stir up some whispered aggro, so were the Ghouls. Neither chapter had picked their six riders for the challenge, each president waiting till the last minute, when they would have been given the first clue, and they would have some kind of idea as to what was likely to happen. At Gerry’s request, they had each been allocated a room to which they could retire to discuss the first clue and select their teams. They had just one hour to go till the off.
Valentine Bergen, plump, South African-born owner and Editor of the ‘Leader’ came down to the rostrum that had been specially built for the occasion. He tapped and huffed a few times into the array of microphones, before wallowing into his prepared speech.
It would be as boring to repeat the whole of that turgid piece of prose as it was to listen to it. Imagine, a meal for the rest of your life that consisted of simply warm mashed potato, with lumps (like the best traditional school dinners) and warm semolina to follow – also with lumps. Nothing else ever to eat and only warm, flat water to drink. That was what Bergen’s speech was like.
It was padded out with mouth-filling platitudes and tedious expressions like ‘public good’, ‘pernicious violence’, ‘horrifying implications’, ‘disgust and dismay’ and ‘the “Leader” has always been the first to show how much it cares.’ It was only when the slow handclap from the crowd, led by Kafka, became deafening and made it impossible for the recordists to pick out what he was saying, that Bergen finally gave up. He called Melvyn Molineux to the podium to give out the first clue.
‘Thank you, sir, for that warming speech of introduction. Yes, we care, here at the good old “Leader” (the paper had only been going for a little over three years) we care about all of you. And we care about these fine young men here. To avoid any violence that may cause harm to the innocent bystander, these boys have agreed to follow the sensible course suggested by the “Leader” and settle their differences by way of a sporting challenge. There will be five clues – one each day – that will take them to different spots in and around London. From each place they will have to bring back a marked copy of the “Daily Leader” to me or to Mr. Bergen on these steps.
‘There will be six from each team and they will start on their colourful motorcycles in just fifty minutes from now. And, quiet, and here is the first clue. A copy of it will be given to each team leader. The first clue is this: “One thousand yards between the wicked ladies and the wicked men. In that order.” I’ll repeat that once more: “One thousand yards between the wicked ladies and the wicked men. In that order.” Right lads. Away you go to your rooms to pick your teams. See you back here in three-quarters of an hour.’
The meeting for the Ghouls took only a very brief time. Evel read out the copy of the clue and gave them the answer without any hesitation. Almost as though he had known the question beforehand. Which is absurd, because that would mean that Melvyn Molineux had cheated and given the answers away to the Ghouls before they even started. Absurd! Actually, he’d only given them the first one, to get them off to a flying start.
The six from the Ghouls consisted of Evel Winter himself, with his number two, Rohan. The other four were Vanya, the fat Shelob, Alice and Howl. All were men. All were well into their twenties. All wore the silks and satins of the chapter, Winter in a new outfit of which half was white and half black. He had ordered it because he thought that it would look good for the television cameras.
When he won.
All was not so well or so smooth in the Last Heroes and Wolves’ room.
‘Shut your fucking mouth you stupid Wels
h bastard.’
‘I don’t care if you are the fucking president. There are more of us Wolves and there should be at least four of us in the six.’
The argument between Gerry and a section of the Wolves, led by Ogof, had devoured ten of the precious fifty minutes. Gerry, feeling the time dribbling fast away had to make a quick’ decision.
‘Ogof. Come here a minute. Do you reckon you could climb out through that window over there, if you had to?’
The muscular Welsh Angel turned his head to look at the window that Gerry had pointed at, leaving his chin facing away from the shorter president. The punch that hit him on the angle of the jaw travelled not more than two feet but it had all the weight of Gerry’s body behind it. Plus a lot of experience. Plus a roll of coins that Gerry had been fingering in his pocket. Ogof rose on to the tips of his toes and slumped straight to the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
‘Sorry, brother,’ muttered Gerry. He turned to face the rest of the chapter, noting as he did that Kafka and Mick Moore had already moved in to cover his back. The only ones of the other brothers to do so. ‘That was necessary. We just don’t have the time to brawl and argue among ourselves. I’ll tell you who I think should come, and then we’ll hear if there are any major arguments. I’ll lead. Gwyn comes along as my second-in-command, then Kafka, Bardd, Draig and … (there was a long pause) … and Mick Moore to make up the six.’
There was instant babel. Right from the start it was obvious that there was opposition from some of the older Angels to the selection of Mick Moore, but it was Brenda who first made herself heard.
‘Me. Me instead of Draig. I’m quicker than him on a hog. I’m brighter than he is when it comes to solving the clues. And, if it comes to that, I’m reasonably sure that I could take him in a fight.’
‘Silly cunt! You may have a bit more up top than me, but you haven’t solved the first clue have you?’
‘Yes.’
Gerry grabbed her by the arm. ‘Are you pissing about, just to try and get in the six?’
‘No. I know the answer to the first clue. Either I’m in or you can all take a flying fuck.’
‘Right. If you know it, tell us, and you’re in.’
‘One thousand yards between the wicked ladies and the wicked men. When I was in the young anarchists I once went on a demo up in North London to help some comrades who’d been busted. There were some girls in Holloway Jail and down the road there were some fellows in—’
‘… in Pentonville. I was there twice for G.B.H. in the early seventies. Before they really clamped down on us. Of course. They are about a thousand yards apart as well. Good girl.’
‘Thanks Kafka. So I’m in.’
Gerry paused for a moment before answering. His relationship with Brenda had always been an odd one. Most of the time he was the dominant partner – in everything – and that was the way it ought to be. But there were disconcerting times when the roles became inverted. There was the initiation and the time he was forced to win his red wings by … he felt the bile rise in his throat and skipped over that one. And she had helped to save his life on more than one occasion. But, would she stand up to what was going to be the toughest test the Angels had ever had to face? That one was answered for him when Draig, angered as he saw things going against him, lumbered forward and slapped Brenda hard across the face, making her nose bleed.
‘Can’t take real violence can you, you fucking bitch. Play around with your dyke friends, pretending you know how to fight. There’s stupid!’
Brenda wiped her hand across her mouth, looking down at the streak of blood on it. Without saying a word she walked towards Draig, who backed away from her a little, despite his bravado. His knees banged against a desk and he stopped. She came closer to him, until she was only an arm’s span away. Draig couldn’t make his mind up whether to assume a defensive posture and then look silly if she turned away, or not and then look even more stupid if she attacked him.
Indecision. The worst handicap for a fighter. Draig was a good fighter of proven ability in brawls and aggro on lots of occasion. But, he was up against an unknown quantity. A girl – shorter and weaker than him. He’d seen her playing about at combat with Gerry and with Lady and Holly. But that was play. He’d heard about her in the quarry, killing, violently, secretly, efficiently and silently. But, he hadn’t been there. So, he doubted what he hadn’t seen. And he waited.
Indecision.
Brenda again wiped her hand across her face, her left hand this time, and held it out wide of her body, in front of Draig. Unable to help himself, he looked down at the streak of blood. While he was looking at her left hand, she hit him with her right. A backhand chop, upwards with the outer edge of the palm striking unerringly at the base of the Welsh outlaw’s nose. The crack of bone showed that her aim had been exactly right. Both the big man’s hands flew up to hold his shattered nose, and Brenda kneed him hard, but not too hard in the groin.
Draig doubled up with a gasp, air whistling in his lungs as he fought not to vomit. Blood starred the mustard-yellow carpet in the executive suite. His fists now clutching his damaged manhood, Draig could do nothing when Brenda grabbed him by his long, greasy hair, lifted his head and then brought it down sharply, to meet her knee which was coming up sharply. There was a dull thunk, a wheezing groan from Draig and then he slumped unconscious at her feet, his head lolling on the carpet, blood bubbling noisily from his nose.
‘If I hadn’t pulled some of those blows – any of them, in fact, he (she stirred the recumbent figure with her foot) would have died. Violence is only for those who know what they’re doing. Now, anyone else think I shouldn’t go?’
Gerry smiled to himself at the silence. It had amused him to hear the sage words of advice of Sergeant Newman coming from the lips of an attractive girl. The old instructor would have considered it sacrilege. Girls was for screwing, and nothing else. Though Newman had once, when drunk at an NCO’s party, admitted that ‘the best fuck I ever had was a young Arab boy. Lovely arse, Vinson. Lovely.’ Then he’d passed out cold.
‘Right, then. Me, Brenda, Gwyn, Kafka, Bardd and young Mick Moore.’
‘Why that young punk? Why not one of the older brothers? The shit isn’t even dry on his colours, and he hasn’t even got a chapter name.’ The voice was like its owner – sly, sidling, not very loud, the sort of voice that lonely spinsters dread in a late-night anonymous phone call.
‘I can’t do anything about the shit, Rat, but we can give him a name. Right here and now. We should have done this at his initiation, but things got a bit chaotic there.’ He looked meaningfully at Modesty. ‘What’s the right sort of name for a bastard like you?’
Mick Moore looked a bit embarrassed. ‘When I was a bit younger. I ... I fancied going into a monastery.’
‘What? Be a fucking monk? Well, there’s your name. We once had a brother called “Priest” but he … well he snuffed on a run a year or so back. He got wiped out by a bastard who—’
‘What happened to the killer?’
It was Brenda who answered: ‘Kafka got him. Helped by a mob of housewives with carving knives.’
‘How about “Monk” then? Well, brothers. How about it? No objections, so meet our new brother of the Hell’s Angels chapter of the Last Heroes, affiliated with the Wolves. Monk. Now for Christ’s sake, let’s get on with this challenge.’
For the next ten minutes the six, plus about eight of the more senior brothers, discussed their tactics. They agreed that it would be bad planning to all go off in the same direction, so a diversion was agreed. Gerry, Brenda, Bardd, and Kafka would head west and try and link up near Camden Town. Monk and Gwyn would blast out direct as fast as they could straight for Holloway Jail. Kafka said that he would ignore Holloway and try to make himself useful somewhere near Pentonville.
There was still twenty minutes to the off, and Rat surprised everyone by offering to go and keep an eye on the hogs. ‘It’ll give me something to do.’ And he scut
tled to the door, his right hand firmly inside his jeans pocket. He was actually opening the door when Monk threw, with fearsome savagery and accuracy, a glass decanter of water.
It struck Rat square on the back of the head, and exploded, showering everyone near with water and splinters of glass. The little Angel crashed to the floor, a deep cut in his matted scalp.
‘Monk. You better have a fucking good reason for that. He was a little sod sometimes, but he was a classy brother. Real virtuous.’
Monk had gone over and rolled the still figure over. Avoiding the blood, he pushed his hand into the right-hand jeans’ pocket. Grinning triumphantly, he pulled out three small packets of sugar, wrapped in white paper. ‘I saw him take those and slip them in his pocket while we were having coffee at that caff this morning. But, he didn’t put any in his drink and I asked if he took sugar in his coffee or tea. Kafka knew him best and said he didn’t. Then he was suddenly all keen to keep an eye on our choppers. I wondered why, then I remembered the sugar. I don’t think he was after all of us. Just me. He thought he should have gone. Sugar in my tank would have fucked me up and he would have had my place for the rest of the challenge. Cheeky little cunt.’ He kicked him firmly in the ribs, just as an additional reminder, and walked out of the room.
‘Where are you going, Monk?’ shouted Gerry.
‘Don’t worry, Wolf. I’m going to have a quickie with Modesty. I always fancied having it away in a managing director’s office, and everyone’s out there waiting for the start Don’t worry, I won’t be late.’
‘Was I all right, Mick?’
Monk rolled off Modesty and pulled his jeans up over his thighs. He bent down and gave his old lady a friendly pat on the stomach, his fingers coming away moist with the evidence of their speedy but passionate love-making.
‘Yeah. Not bad. For a beginner! No, I’m only kidding. You’re great.’