by Mick Norman
While she wiped herself with a paper tissue from the box on the desk, Monk walked round the room, looking at things.
‘Hey, the cunt does himself okay I nearly drowned in the fucking pile on this carpet. And look at those pictures. I know what that one is. It’s called “The Fighting Temeraire” by Turner. We had that at school. And that’s “The Hay Cart” by Constable. I don’t know what that one is behind his desk though. What is it?’
‘It’s a bird. I can’t read the title. It’s foreign. It says “A.s.t.a.r.t.e S.y.r.i.a.c.a. Funny title.’
‘Who’s it by?’
‘I can’t see … oh, yes, in the bottom right corner, in little red letters. “D. G. Rossetti 1887”.’
‘I thought he was a poet. Rossetti. Never mind. Hurry up. We’ve got to get down. We’re off in five minutes. Come on.’
After they left the office, it was quiet. The only clue to their presence was a small, dark stain on the thick white carpet. The office was quiet.
With its heavy mahogany desk.
And its William Morris wallpaper.
And its disguised cocktail cabinet.
And its three paintings on the walls.
Three paintings.
By Rossetti.
By Turner.
By Constable.
Thirteen – Do Not Pass Go – Go Directly To Jail
‘Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls and even babies. Welcome to this Afternoon Sport Special Today, and for the next four days, we will be covering for you, and you only, the most astounding sporting challenge in history. Sponsored by the daily newspaper, the “Leader”, the two top gangs of Hell’s Angels motorcycle outlaws are clashing to discover who are the top dogs with the top hogs – as their highly-tuned and custom-altered bikes are called.
‘The losers of this unusual challenge match have agreed to disband and never ride again as a mob. So, thanks to the “Leader” the streets will be a little bit safer for you and you and, yes, you. Tom Beck has explained the rules to you so all we have to do is wait and watch for the start.
‘First a betting flash. The Ghouls are three to one against and the Last Heroes are five to two against. Now, I’ll recap on the first clue – “One thousand yards between the wicked ladies and the wicked men. In that order.” We’ve all been asked by the organiser, and there he is, in the yellow houndstooth jacket, Melvyn Molineux, not to speculate on the answer to any of these clues. I’ll just say that I’ll be a bit surprised if we don’t see action in North London.
‘They are all lining up now. From the left we’ve got the Ghouls, with their exotic leader, Evel Winter in the black and white silk jacket. In the centre there is the leader of the Last Heroes, Gerry “Wolf” Vinson. Once suspected of playing a major part in a big bank robbery, he’s here today to lead his chapter, as the gangs are called. Next to him is Gerry’s young lady, Brenda and next to her is the startling figure of Gwyn. He’s Welsh, so there’s something for you all to cheer down there in Cardiff and Swansea. A tough character this, who may be a contender for an early bath.
‘Another betting flash. The Ghouls have shortened in to threes and the Last Heroes are out to five to two. In that small enclosure there are some of the reserves. Two of the Heroes’ substitutes look a bit sickly. The big man with the beard has a badly swollen nose and the other little man has a lot of blood round his head and neck. That could bear out rumours of some pre-challenge tension in the planning room of the Last Heroes.
‘And here’s the starter. The popular figure of the owner of the “Daily Leader”, Mr. Valentine Bergen. In his hand he’s got the starting flag bearing the words, I can’t quite make them out. They seem to … yes, oh, sorry viewers. They are a rather naughty advertising slogan for his paper. He’s up on the starting rostrum now. The engines are all started. No, one of the Ghouls has his hand up, it’s the one called “Vanya”, but he’s okay now. Just time for one last betting flash. The Ghouls have shortened still further to two to one and the Last Heroes are steady at five to two. Quite a lot of money going on the Ghouls in these last minutes.
‘Valentine Bergen raises the flag. The engine notes reach a crescendo. The flag drops. And, they’re off!
‘My God!!!’
Fourteen – As Dark As A Dungeon
All over Britain, and, indeed, Europe, millions of video and television viewers heard the astounded exclamation from ace commentator, Rick Austen. ‘My God!’ Not the sort of thing that good old John Snagge would ever have said. Not on the air anyway.
So, what amazing incident had prompted the outburst? The owner of the “Daily Leader”, Valentine Bergen, had dropped the starting flag for the beginning of the first of the five legs of the challenge between the Ghouls and the Last Heroes and Wolves.
Led by Evel Winter, the Ghouls roared out of the forecourt of the ‘Leader’ office block. The draw had given them the slightly favoured outside place, and they were first into the road, through the narrow opening. Last of them was the fat Shelob, who skidded in the entrance and blocked it off for the following Heroes. There was instant chaos, and it was this mess of bikes and riders that had caused Rick Austen to lose his customary cool.
Cochise rushed from the crowd with his pendulous old lady, Forty, and quickly dragged the fallen Ghoul and his hog from the entrance, laying him out cold in the process. The rest of the Heroes also came running to help and all the six were soon off and rolling again. But, it had taken more than two minutes and the Ghouls had a lead that seemed almost unassailable. And, they knew that part of North London as their hunting ground, so they had very much the advantage.
Leaving behind them a mass of police struggling to keep the two chapters apart after that incident, the Heroes sped up Chancery Lane. At the top they split, Gwyn and Monk turning right to head for Kings Cross and Caledonian Road. The others went left to go via Camden Town.
It would be dull to simply recount the chase that went on through North London. The Ghouls had the dual advantage of knowing the district and of having cheated a lead of a couple of minutes. Although the Last Heroes pushed their hogs to the limit, and a bit beyond it, they couldn’t close the gap. When Evel rocketed into the small courtyard in front of the red brick castle of Holloway Jail, they were still a full minute ahead. By cutting round through Middleton Grove and back on to the Caledonian Road, they were able to steal another couple of hundred yards.
The copy of the “Daily Leader” – marked with the large red letters ‘Last Heroes’ – clenched between his teeth, Monk blazed after the Ghouls. At his elbow, sometimes screaming some fearful Welsh curse at an unwary passer-by, was the silver vampire of Gwyn. As they eased to a stop in the elevated yard at the front of Pentonville’s dull facade, Gwyn reached out and snatched the marked copy of the second paper from the hands of the ‘Leader’s’ man on the spot. Then, wheels kicking dust, it was full belt down the Caledonian Road back to the finish.
Realising that they were going to be too late, anyway, Gerry and the two Last Heroes had not bothered to go all the way to Holloway and had cut through, hoping to be able to do something to stop the Ghouls before they could get back. They could hear the sound of the Ghouls’ choppers, whining away from them before they even got to Caledonian Road. Just as they burst out of a side road, they glimpsed Monk and Gwyn burning up the asphalt as they fled in pursuit.
Gerry waved Brenda alongside him. ‘We’ve fucking had this one, love! Those two’ll never close up on the Ghouls. From the noise, they’re a good half-mile ahead. And, it’s only about a mile to go. We’ll have to do a bloody sight better on the next clue. What the …?’
Had you forgotten Kafka? Admit it. Be honest. You thought he was with Gerry? Look a bit back and you’ll see ‘Gerry and the two Last Heroes’. That’s Gerry, Brenda and Bardd. Not Kafka. After the shambles at the start he had not gone far with the main group. Seeing the futility of a stern chase with little hope of victory. Gerry, for once, had failed. He knew the latest brother, young Monk, was good and that the
mad white-haired Gwyn would ride through Hell for his brothers. But, none of them could do the impossible. But, he might.
Kafka was one of the oldest of the Angels – and the one with the most tricks. Apart from Gerry himself, he was probably the only one with any grasp of what could be called strategy. As he rode slowly through the back streets off York Way, his mind was working furiously. Some kind of ambush seemed the only logical chance. But where? And he had to stop all five of the Ghouls. He didn’t know who would have the precious papers, and he couldn’t risk stopping the wrong one. Not far from the public baths, and on the opposite side of the road is Carnegie Street. The visibility is none too good down there, and that was where Kafka went.
Kafka breathed a quiet prayer to whatever gods he might have worshipped – possibly the blessed Harley-Davidson, or the sainted Terry the Tramp – when he saw what was standing at the end of the street, just round the corner from Caledonian Road. A big barrow, loaded to the gunwales with fruit and vegetables. Surrounded by a small crowd of afternoon shoppers and with a big West Indian doing good trade.
Kafka rolled softly to a stop alongside the barrow, enjoying as he always did, the confusion and panic his appearance created.
The crowd melted away like the morning dew and he was left magically alone with the owner of the barrow.
‘Thanks a lot, man. You really did me a fucking good turn there. Springing out of the floor like a fucking pantomime demon. Do me another good turn and fuck off. Then I can sell some of me stock. Anyway, you’re one of those Hell’s Angels in the race, ain’t you? Jesus! Sweet Jesus. What do you want?’
‘Your barrow, mate. Sorry about this, but I don’t have the time to do anything else. Hear those bikes? Yeah, well, they belong to a gang of bastards called the Ghouls, and I want to give them a surprise. Now piss off.’
The West Indian didn’t move. ‘That’s okay, man. But who pays for all this?’
‘Don’t worry. The Daily Leader’ll pay. If they don’t, I’ll pay for it. You got my word. Now, piss off.’
‘Right on, man.’
Kafka dropped off his denim jacket with the deaths-head blazoned across the back and heaved at the heavy barrow to get it moving. To his surprise, the owner came and helped him.
‘Know something? I know those bastard Ghouls. They ride around here like they was the Ku Klux Klan or something. You aiming to bust them up with my barrow? Then you are surely welcome. Let’s go. They’re nearly here.’
Packed and bunched together, the triumphant Ghouls tore up the road to get back to the finish and claim the first victory. Dim and far behind them they could hear the petulant whine of the leading Hero—Gwyn. Too far back to present any kind of threat. Evel, both copies of the paper stuffed down his harlequin jacket, raised both gloved hands from the ape hanger bars on his bright Harley and screamed his joy at the amazed shoppers and spectators.
Timed to the most split of seconds, the heavy barrow lurched out of the side-road, angled round and overturned, just as the Ghouls came up to the corner at over forty miles an hour. The owner and Kafka leaped for their lives as Evel hit the barrow full on, cartwheeling over the bars to skid into a pile of oranges and aubergines. The fruit burst under his weight and carried him into the gutter on a tide of pulp and peel. His new jacket tore from shoulder to shoulder and the papers were shredded from his grasp. The rest of the chapter had no chance of avoiding his fate. Bunched as they were, they tried to find a way through the shambles of fruit, but there just wasn’t the time for them. One hog slipped over a pile of hard nuts while another Angel was badly-bruised when he came down on a pile of very knobbly King Edwards.
The chapter was demolished in that moment and hogs and riders were scattered all round the road and pavement. The watching crowd, many of them local coloured people with no love for the perverted Ghouls, cheered their enemies’ downfall.
Kafka gave his helper a quick pat on the back, then he was up on to his own hog and away round the loop at the top of Carnegie Street and gently back through Farringdon Road to the ‘Leader’.
He had seen enough in those cataclysmic moments to know that the first part of the challenge was theirs. Gunning down the hill, Gwyn and Monk had plenty of time to see the chaos at the junction and steer a safe course through the fruit and vegetables on the road, round the fallen bikes and past the Ghouls who were just staggering to their feet. Those who could still stagger!
Gerry, Brenda and Bardd came down the hill seconds later and found it difficult to believe their eyes. Victory had been plucked by what appeared a miracle out of the very maw of defeat. They slowed down, as the other two had done and Gerry found time to shout at the torn and beslobbered Evel: ‘You shouldn’t be over-confident! Wasting time like that doing your shopping.’
A whoop from Bardd and the three rode off towards Gray’s Inn Road singing away to Bardd’s mouth-harp; ‘Blood on the road and a white heron flying ...’
The Last Heroes and Wolves won the first leg of the challenge by a full five minutes. That night they celebrated, but the cheers and the drinks and the offers from the mamas were all for the conquering hero, Kafka.
Evel had to reckon on wearing his second-best suit for the second leg the next day. He was very unhappy about the first result and he and his team spent a lot of time talking together. Planning together. Repairing their hogs together. Then, they all went to bed. Yes.
The bookmakers were unhappy and the overnight odds came down to evens on both chapters.
Melvyn Molineux was incredibly angry that night. He had a painful conference with V.B. that gave him a sleepless night. Alone.
The newspapers were full of the race and, though some queried the possible danger to the lookers-on, most entered the spirit of the competition and built up interest for the next day. They gave so much space to the first leg in the evening papers that there was scarcely any other news. The next morning, the papers were even worse. In fact, the death in a fire of nine people in a terraced house near Havelock Street, not far from Caledonian Road gave nobody pause. Obviously those blacks with their paraffin heaters. One of the men who died – with his wife and two of his three children – was the owner of that famous fruit and vegetable barrow. It’s a funny oil heater that starts a fire just inside the front door, right below the letterbox.
Evel Winter may have lost the race, but he wasn’t prepared to be a good loser.
He had a long arm.
None of the Last Heroes—not even Kafka—ever heard about the fire.
‘Go!’
‘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.’
They were racing off on the second leg and this time the edge was with the Last Heroes. No interference at the beginning, and, though they didn’t know it, no help for the Ghouls. That had been an absolute condition of the previous night’s meeting with Valentine Bergen. Molineux knew his boss well enough to know just how far to mush. And, he had pushed enough. He had leaked the answer to the first clue to the Ghouls, and they had still lost. He dared not leak the second answer. His big hope had been that neither chapter would solve it in the one hour that they were allowed before the clue became public and they were off to follow it up.
Had he been in the Ghouls’ room he would have been happy, for they had little idea. ‘Of course it’s a murdered tart you silly bastards! Yes, Rohan; it probably is what you said. But, we still don’t know fucking where. And old creepie-weepie smelly Melvyn ain’t helping this time. We’ll just to have to try and follow them. If they know. Let’s hope they don’t then this one will be cancelled. Fingers crossed chummies.’
The scene in the conference room of the Last Heroes was somewhat different. Only the six chosen plus the three nominated reserves were allowed to discuss the clue. And the reserves – despite a certain coolness in some quarters – included the ubiquitous and generally despicable Rat.
> When Gerry read the clue out again to them, there was a long silence. Gwyn broke it: ‘It’s obviously some kind of murder.’
Brenda had little to offer this time but weighed in with the thought that it might be the nude murders that had baffled police in the sixties, down near the Thames.
Gerry suddenly got to his feet, waving the paper with the clue. ‘Jack the Ripper. That’s what it is. I bet it’s about Jack the Ripper. The man who murdered all those tarts in Victorian England. Cut out their wombs and took away bits of their kidneys to eat.’
There was a murmur from Cochise, one of the other reserves at this information: ‘Christ! That’s real class! What a brother he’d have made.’
Gerry went on: ‘But, where the sodding hell is George Yard Buildings? Wasn’t it all done up the East End somewhere? God, if the Ghouls get this one they’ll walk it. We haven’t a chance.’
He looked round the circle of depressed faces. Brenda looking miserable. Gwyn and Bardd, gloomy in one corner. Cochise obviously missing his old lady. Kafka, poker-faced, but with nothing to contribute. Monk, looking puzzled and angry. Rat grinning away. Alongside him was ... Rat … grinning!!
‘What is so fucking funny, Rat? Share it with us.’
There was a pause before Rat spoke softly. ‘When the lady there, (pointing maliciously at Brenda) got the first clue, everyone said ‘Good old Brenda’ and she got a place in the six. Suppose I got this one. Just suppose. Now, if I did, then it would only be fair to let me come in as one of the reserves. The rules say that any reserve can be substituted at any time outside of the actual runs. If I came in, then I might insist that the lady drops out. And, I take her place.’
To his disappointment, Brenda concealed her true feelings and leaped into the vacuum left by his shock announcement. ‘If you do know, Rat. And you’re right. Then I will stand down and you can ride in my place. Because I haven’t any idea this time. Don’t grin too fast. Because, if you go and you’re wrong, you’ll learn to sleep lightly every night you stay with this chapter. My knife will make fucking sure of that.’