by Mick Norman
Kafka got to the paper first, expecting to find it on the floor, while the Ghouls wasted seconds looking for their contact. He was cowering behind the doors, safely behind the two office workers. Kafka threw a lovely pass to Brenda who flashed away, down a twisting and unsavoury narrow corridor that led out through white tiles right on to Holborn. A couple of heavy iron gates that were normally left open, swung shut as Cochise and Draig threw their weights against it. Eighteen inches of heavy-duty chain and one large padlock, and the bolt hole was firmly blocked against all and any pursuers.
The five brothers held the other exit for long enough to give Brenda an unassailable lead. As Valentine Bergen took the paper from her, he smiled with his mouth and then turned to look at Molineux. The smile remained there, glazed in place, but the eyes were blazing with barely-contained anger. Despite the warmth of the day, Melvyn Molineux couldn’t restrain a small shudder. One more win and it was all over for the Ghouls. And for him.
Back at Barnard’s Inn, the car park was pitted and torn up by the violence of the fight. Gouts of blood showed vivid red against the dull tarmac. The two workers stuck their respective heads found the doors.
‘Never like this in Oldham, William?’
‘True, very true.’
The day before last of the five day challenge. Friday 21st of June. Clue Number 4. ‘First the Marsh in 1882. Then Northumberland Park in 1885. Now at the corner of Park and Worcester.’
While it was being read out by the Editor of the “Daily Leader” and recorded by the swelling team of video and TV reporters and cameramen, Melvyn Molineux had wandered along to where the two teams stood by their hogs, waiting and listening. After Bergan had read it out once, and while the buzz from the crowd was abating Before the second reading for the video boys who’d missed it first time around, he sidled alongside Evel Winter. ‘Difficult, eh? Sorry I can’t help you. Wouldn’t be fair though, would it? Incidentally, are any of your boys football supporters?’
Evel Winter covered his surprise at the odd question. ‘A couple, why?’
‘Which teams?’
‘I don’t know, duckie. I think Howl and Alice used to go up to Arsenal. And Ore still creeps up to Tottenham. He thinks I don’t know. Stupid chumsie.’
‘Ore is that very tall, thin man, who wears orange? One of your reserves? If I were you, Evel. I’d pick him instead of one of the others. He’s got a special knowledge that might … might, be useful this one. Have a look at your map when you get into your room.’
‘What the fucking hell are you pissing on … Oh! Tottenham Hotspurs.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ An agonised whisper from Molineux. ‘Don’t tell them all.’
‘Thanks sweetie. Come round tonight again, about ten, and ask for me.’
Molineux actually simpered. ‘Evel, I don’t think I can stand it again. My back is still raw from Wednesday night.’
Evel turned away from him, to lead his team into the huge office building. Over his shoulder, he said: ‘Take your choice. But, I was going to wear my snakeskin boots, tonight. With the buckles.’
Waiting their turn to enter the office, Gerry and his brothers watched the exchange with interest. Monk commented to anyone interested: ‘What did that little creep say to that big creep. Look at Molineux. He looks like a cat that’s got the cream. He’s licking his fucking lips. And grinning like a bloody cat. Bastard!’
Fourth time unlucky for the Last Heroes and Wolves. Not all of their combined brain power, nor a chance stroke of luck could solve that clue. Blank-faced they walked out to the start. Gerry’s last minute instructions – facing defeat – were the best he could do. ‘Sit tight and watch them. We’ve got to let them make the play this time.’
Remembering what had happened when the Heroes had made a change in their team – the way it had given a clue to him – Evel decided against bringing in the towering Ore. He stuck with the same six, having first made sure that two of the roads that bordered the Tottenham ground were indeed Park Lane and Worcester Road. He didn’t give a damn where their first two grounds had been.
As he, in turn, led out his five brothers, he looked at the Heroes, and, with special care, at their reserves and their mamas and old ladies in the crowd. The previous three times, he’d noticed their enthusiasm – all times when events had proved that they had been confident that they had the right answers to the clues. This time – dismal faces and silence. No cheering of their chapter. It could be put on but, it didn’t seem it. No, you could never get those stupid cunts that followed them, their women, to act as convincingly as that. They really didn’t know.
A lightning word along the line and then plump Valentine Bergen was again mounting the rostrum, ready to wave them away. Engines revved up, blue smoke billowed protestingly from exhausts and eyes turned to the flag.
It dropped.
Bergen lifted it again. And dropped it again. The crowd gasped and then began to shout.
None of the twelve Angels had moved. The Last Heroes and Wolves had been watching the Ghouls for the first move, looking for a clue from their plans that might help them. But, Evel had second-guessed them. He chose to wait for them. Seeing that his guess had been right, Evel shouted across at the bitter-faced Gerry. ‘Give up then. We all know where it is. I’ll even tell you exactly what our plans are. We’re going to leave at two minute intervals. Alone. In ones. It doesn’t matter if you send one of your smelly chummies after each of us. I know, and so do you, that you can’t all reckon on sticking with all of us. One of us will shuffle off our stinking tail, and then, when we’re absolutely safe, not before, the one who’s got clear will ride gently down to … wherever it is, collect the paper and there we are. Tough as old cheese. Rotten tough cheddar.’
And, that’s exactly what happened. One at a time, the Ghouls set off. Gerry tried to pair them with what he considered to be one of his team of roughly equal talent. But, he knew he was on a loser. One by one they rode off, the roar of their engines fading away in the afternoon heat until they were no more than the drone of a wandering bee. Finally, it was Evel and Gerry.
It worked out like Gerry knew it had to. It took one of the Ghouls nearly twenty minutes to shake off his tail, but once one of them had, it was over. An easy ride up to Tottenham, the marked copy of the paper in an inside pocket of a bright silk jacket, and they were level at two each.
Which brother (or sister) was it that let the others down? Who lost the Ghoul they were supposed to be following? That doesn’t seem a fair question. It could have been any one of them that was unlucky to be blocked off at a crucial junction. No, it isn’t fair. To blame anyone. They all agreed afterwards, that it was just one of those things. But, tomorrow, that was a different thing.
Before they left the ‘Leader’s’ offices that afternoon, both chapters were called to a surprise meeting in one of the top floor conference rooms, just along the corridor from the penthouse suite of Valentine Bergen. Melvyn Molineux presided and the large room was packed with other reporters. He clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. ‘This extra meeting will come as something of a surprise to all of you. The owner of the “Daily Leader”, Mr. Bergen, has agreed with me that we should have a slight change in the rules for the last leg of the challenge. He has had to leave immediately for Cowes where he is competing in a power-boat race later this afternoon, but he will be here for the final at mid-day tomorrow.
‘Since the result depends totally on the last leg, and since we both feel that the last clue is somewhat more difficult than the others, we have agreed to give you the clue now, so that you can ponder on it over-night. There will be no eleven o’clock meeting tomorrow. Everyone will assemble at Marble Arch at twelve precisely for the off. Right. Any questions? All right, then. Here’s the last clue. It’s very short. ‘‘Rossetti on one wall, Turner on another, and Constable on a third.” Gerry and Evel, here are your copies of the clues. Good luck, and may the worst chapter lose.’
In the privacy of their room,
the Last Heroes were far from happy. The Ghouls had, for once, not bothered to have a meeting on the premises and had ridden straight off to their club house by the canal in Camden Town. Quite rightly, that had been interpreted by Gerry as a sign that they felt they didn’t need a formal meeting. Which could mean that they had already given up. Or, it could mean that they thought they didn’t need a meeting. Because it was all fixed up. Or, just fixed!
‘Anybody got any ideas? I’ll read it out once more, for all the good that’ll do. ‘‘Rossetti on one wall, Turner on another and Constable on a third.” Kafka?’
‘Sorry, Gerry. We’re agreed that they’re painters. So, it must be an Art Gallery or collection. That’s as far as I can go.’
‘How about the rest of you? Gwyn, Bardd, Draig, Rat, Cochise?’
The shaken heads gave the answer. The two options that most of them were agreed on were either the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, or the Tate Gallery, though they all realised that there were a hell of a lot of other places it could be.
‘Brenda, how about you? And Monk? Hey, where the hell is Monk? I haven’t seen him since the end of the last leg. He looked fantastically pissed off then. Anyone seen him?’
‘I saw him going off with Modesty. They probably think they’ve got time for a quick screw up in Bergen’s office now he’s away for the afternoon. Monk said that soft carpet was the best floor he’d ever screwed on.’
‘He shouldn’t just have fucked off like that.’
‘Yeah, but he probably sodded off before creepy Molineux made his announcement. He’ll meet us back at headquarters.’
‘Well, he needn’t fucking bother! If he reckons that he prefers a bit of cunt to coming and helping out, then he can just fuck right off!’
Gerry tried to pour a little oil on the troubled waters. ‘If he didn’t know, then we can’t honestly blame him. Let’s think of something to do, instead of sitting round on our arses and moaning at each other. What can we do that’s positive? I know; it’s still early. We can split up and go in pairs to all the main picture galleries and museums. The rules don’t say that we have to rely on just the six. Get everybody mobilised, Gwyn. Mammas, old ladies. Everyone. Kafka, ring up the tourist people and get a list of all the places that might have these pictures. Come on! Let’s get weaving!’
It had been a hot afternoon, with an even hotter day forecast for the following day. As the Angels lay around on the old lawn at the back of the ruined mansion that they had adopted for their own, there was no conversation. Cochise nuzzled on the vast breasts of Forty, his old lady. Rat whittled away on a piece of ash wood he had ripped off a tree in the grounds, carving a reproduction of his own penis. The others brothers and sisters of the chapter lounged about, idly brushing away the flies that gathered as evening grew near.
The six (or, rather, five) competitors, plus a few of the more senior brothers were huddled together passing around a couple of joints. Despair sat wordless on each man’s shoulder. Despite frantic efforts by everyone during the afternoon, when every gallery of every size and location – Brenda had even managed to get as far as Windsor – had been covered, the score sheet was blank. Dozens of Rossettis, cart loads of Constables and tons of Turners. But, nowhere were they all in the same room. Not even at the biggest galleries. Holly had found a Turner and a Rossetti in the same place. But, not all three.
‘So, we’re buggered. I’d bet any money you like that Molineux has leaked the answer to Evel Winter. I’d also bet that we’d never get the answer whatever we did. They’ll have been laughing as we tore our arses all round London. I reckon it’s a trick. What’s that?’
The low hum of talk stopped. In the distance, far and low, they could just hear the sound of a hog, coming closer. Near the overgrown road to the big house. Getting nearer. Then braking to a halt, spattering gravel over the group on the grass. It was Monk, with Modesty hugging his back.
‘Greeting oh my droogs. Welcome am I my brothers. What’s wrong? Thou all look as though thou hast received a mighty kick in the yarbles?’
Gerry walked across to the grinning Monk. ‘Where the fuck have you been all this afternoon? Screwing?’
‘Yes my beloved pee. Giving young Modesty the old in-out with gusto. Not all afternoon. We went to a Classic this p.m. to viddy a screening of the mighty Clocky O. Wondrous still, my brothers.’ Seeing that Gerry was not amused by his chat, Monk became more serious. ‘Christ, Gerry, that bastard Bergen doesn’t half do himself proud. We had it three times in about an hour on that smashing office carpet of his. Oh, I forgot. None of you lot have been in there, have you. Fucking enormous place. Very Design Centre, with lovely furniture and nice picky-wicks on the wall. So, what’s wrong?’
Gerry told him what had happened that afternoon. About the clue and the way they had combed London and the whole South-East of England trying to find the answer. Without success.
‘And now we’re trying to think of some way of stopping the Ghouls. Cochise has suggested an all-out attack on them tonight. Frankly, I think that’s a shitty idea. Equally, I can’t come up with anything any better. So, that’s going to be what we’ve got to discuss. The only alternative is to try and pair with the Ghouls and just hope that we manage to get a break this time. Perhaps, we could all fake losing touch, and hope to trick them.’
‘That’s a long shot, Gerry.’
‘Right. But, what about you. You’ve had a whole afternoon of fucking and relaxation. Haven’t you got any ideas?’
‘You haven’t even told me what the clue is.’
‘Rossetti on one wall, Turner on another and Constable on a third. Don’t say it’s a picture gallery, because if you do I’ll personally kick you in the crotch.’
‘Rossetti, Turner, Constable. All in the same place. My God, Gerry. That’s absolutely impossible. What a cunt that Molineux is! What a cunt!!’
Seventeen – Some Is Winners And Some Is Losers
A Video News item dated Saturday 22nd June, 198–
Interviewer — Tom Melling.
‘Do you work at the “Leader”?’
A frightened girl, her face a lace-work of blood and cuts, cries hysterically, her shoulders shaking helplessly. She is unable to answer.
Melling moves through the crowd of weeping girls. ‘Is there anyone here who saw any of the people who started all this?’
A tall girl, her left eye a pool of oozing blood, her hair covered in dirt, and ash, nods at the question. ‘I was on the third floor when it started. I was with my friend …’ She breaks down, sobbing, unable to go on.
‘Was your friend killed? How did she die?’
The office girl chokes back her tears and tries to go on. ‘I think she must have been … been killed. When the ceiling fell, she was underneath. I saw her trapped on the floor, by her desk, with her … her hair on fire.’
‘I’m sorry to press you at a time like this, with so many of your young friends slaughtered around you, and so many more scarred for life, but people will want to know what happened. Can you tell me any more?’
‘No. No. No. Just leave me alone.’
Melling turns from the crying girl, with his most concerned look. ‘That poor girl, who may well have lost the sight of that eye, sums up this staggering tragedy. What went wrong? Perhaps you, sir, (bending down to a man lying on a stretcher, with a bloody blanket across the lower part of his body) could tell us what happened?
The man’s face is contorted with spasms of agony, but he manages to gasp out a reply. ‘I saw the leader of them come in. The winner. Then a lot arrived. Then there was screaming and then the fire and we tried to get the young girls out. Oh! Oh, God help me!’
‘Can you go on?’
‘No. That’s all. Just the fire. Ceilings falling, desks overturned, killings. Burnings.’
‘One last question, sir. How badly are you injured?’
‘I suppose I was lucky. I was on the stairs, near the bottom, when the worst explosion came. Part of the iron bannister caug
ht me across the legs, and they tell me they’re broken, but I can’t sit up to see. I know I can’t feel them. At least I’m alive. But, heaven help some of those poor girls.’
Melling looks down with revulsion at the lower part of the man’s body, where the blanket has fallen away. Without any attempt to lower his voice, he goes on. ‘As I can see only too clearly, this man has actually lost both legs, just above the knee. The final casualty total here is not known yet. Some informed sources speak of hundreds. Who knows what started it? Who can tell what really happened? Once again, the outsiders of society have been allowed to reap a terrible toll of death and maiming. These girls here (puts arms round two white-faced girls, standing waiting quietly for an ambulance) will pay their price for years to come. They both face hours of pain on operating tables; skin grafts to try and heal these dreadful facial scars. Learning to live when children in the street point fingers and laugh at their disfigurements. Knowing that many of their closest friends are dead in that mound of smoking rubble behind me. (Both girls begin to cry, quite uncontrollably.) That, is the result of a victory. But, these, these are the losers.
‘Tom Melling, Video News, London.’
Eighteen – The Sky’s Erupted, We Must Go Where It’s Quiet
Some facts are true and some facts are only alleged to be true. Some of the following facts are true and some are not. Guess which facts are accurate and piece them together, and you will have all the information you need to work out what is going to happen. But, remember, some of these facts are not facts at all.
The fast day of the challenge was Saturday 22nd June 198–