by Mick Norman
Both teams started out from Marble Arch at mid-day.
The starter was the assistant features editor of the ‘Daily Leader’. Both Melvyn Molineux and Valentine Bergen were waiting at the finish to acclaim the winners.
There had been rumours of fighting and bad trouble amongst the Last Heroes over their course of action.
One of the lesser brothers of the Ghouls’ chapter, named Barron, had vanished during the previous night and had not been found.
The clue was ‘Rossetti on one wall, Turner on another and Constable on a third.’
When the Last Heroes arrived at the start, their numbers were sadly depleted and most of those there wore bandages and plasters. Of Gerry’s team of six, plus reserves, only five appeared to be fit.
Evel Winter had been given the answer to the last clue and had rewarded the giver with a session of sado-masochistic, homosexual activity until late the previous night.
None of Gerry’s team knew the answer to the last clue and were relying on a miracle to help them to victory.
The naked body of an unidentified male had been recovered from the River Lee near Ware by local police at eleven-thirty on that Saturday morning. Hands were missing and the face had been flayed of all skin with a sharp Finnish flensing knife.
The Ghouls had a full team of six –the same as their original team.
Hardly any of the Last Heroes had even bothered to turn out to watch.
Melvyn Molineux had reassured Valentine Bergen that nothing could now go wrong.
The team for the Last Heroes and Wolves consisted of only five members. Gerry, Brenda, Gwyn, Bardd and Kafka.
At the last minute Gerry made a special appeal direct to Molineux to be able to draft in another member of the chapter to make up his numbers.
Suspecting a trick, Molineux had refused point-blank.
The starting flag dropped on what was obviously an uneven contest.
Those are your clues. Most of those facts are true. All of them seem to be true. The flag has just dropped. What happens next?
Marble Arch at mid-day on that Saturday was hotter than the hobs of Hell. There was a gigantic crowd of onlookers and the viewers at home outnumbered those for the Cup Final a few weeks earlier. The tarmac was bubbling and soft and sellers of soft drinks were making vast profits, charging more than a pound a bottle for watered-down cokes.
The faded denims of the five Last Heroes contrasted dully with the rainbow jackets of the Ghouls. All six of Evel’s team had gone to town with heavily-permed hair and sequin-splashed faces. All but Shelob wore swept-wing shades against the dazzling sun.
As the flag dropped, the heavy chromed and enamelled hogs edged forwards through the dense mass of onlookers. The few Last Heroes there gave a weak cheer for their chapter, but the biggest roar from the crowd was for the Ghouls. Looking like a show-biz circus, they had many supporters in the crowd, some wearing the silks and satins and many of them riding similar bikes. Which didn’t make it any easier for the Last Heroes.
They had to try and keep track of six Ghouls with just five of them. Try and follow and hope to cover any break that might come. Shadow against all the odds and hope for a chance that might tip them off where the last clue would lead, and then beat that Ghoul back to the offices of the ‘Leader’ with the winning copy of the paper.
Bikes streamed past them down Oxford Street, towards Oxford Circus. To Gerry’s surprise, the six Ghouls kept together at first, and rode slowly, waving to the street-lining throngs and laughing and singing. The one thing worse than a bad loser is a bad winner. And that’s what Evel was. He even throttled right back to walking pace and eased alongside Gerry.
‘Don’t wait for us, dearie. You just go right ahead and roar off and win if you want to. We’re only here for the glory of competition. You don’t have to wait for us. Anyway, in another mile or so we’re all going to split up and since there’s six of us and five of you, one of us won’t have anyone to dodge and that one will ride softly ahead, collect the paper and win. I’m looking forward to seeing you all bum those poopie jackets of yours. Byesie-bye.’
As he rode forward again, Gwyn collected a lot of jeers from the crowd by spitting accurately into Evel’s face, leaving him with a trail of spittle over his sunglasses onto his makeup.
The race that had turned into a triumphant procession moved across Oxford Circus and finally reached the Tottenham Court Road junction. There the Ghouls suddenly accelerated away from the Last Heroes, breaking away like falling leaves, a star-burst of colour for the helicopter following the race for the BBC sports team.
And, they were away. Sunk in defeat, the Last Heroes didn’t even make any effort to try and catch them, they just rode on, a tight-knit formation of five, back towards the offices of the all-powerful “Daily Leader”.
In the luxurious penthouse office suite of the boss of the ‘Leader’, the champagne was already flowing. One or two carefully chosen young ladies were in attendance, and the photographers were testing light. This was to be an exclusive. The winner taking the paper from the hands of Melvyn Molineux and passing it ceremonially to Valentine Bergen. For, in case any of you missed the liberally-sprinkled clues, the three painters referred to in the fifth challenge question all had pictures, even though they were only reproductions, hanging in his office. One by each painter.
Watching the progress on his video-viewer, Valentine called Molineux over to him. ‘You don’t think any of them will give it away do you?’
‘No chance V.B., no chance. I did it all verbally. Evel got it all from my own lips.’ Melvyn smiled to himself at his own private joke. Very private.
One of the girls squeaked as she looked out of the double-glazed window. ‘One of those lovely bike-boys has just stopped down there. In a lime-green jacket.’
Bergen clicked on his speak-phone and rattled into it: ‘When that Ghoul fellow arrives show him straight in. No hanging around.’
Conversation in the suite languished, as they waited for the winner. Cameras were raised and Molineux held out the marked paper, stretching his smile as far it would reach over his cosmetically-straightened teeth.
The muted hiss of the private lift up to that exalted floor and then the office door slid open. In walked the representative of the top chapter. Bulbs flashed and he paused for a moment, putting his hand up to his eyes, even though he was wearing a large pair of butterfly wing, diamante shades.
Down below, the throb of more powerful hogs arriving. Both winners and losers.
Up above, Molineux, Bergen and the Ghoul. The only three that matter. The first two in their tropical lightweight suits and thin suede ties. Almost identical. Cast from the same company mould. One older and one thinner. The Ghoul in a bouffant upswept hair-do, bright-green jacket, silver platform-soled boots and darker green denim jeans. Sequins decorating both cheek-bones and crazy patterns of eye makeup starring and circling what could be seen of the eyes. A mouth that was a swollen cupid’s bow of Scarlet Flame. Hands in tight black leather gloves.
Molineux placing the two copies of the marked papers, one bearing the letters for the Heroes and the other for the Ghouls.
‘Very well done, er, I don’t think I know which one you are. Frankly, you all look very much the same. Anyway. Well done. There’s the paper you’ve been racing for. All you have to do is hand it to Mr. Bergen there.’
Valentine Bergen beamed hugely and bellowed out: ‘Jolly well done, young man,’ while secretly thinking: ‘What a nauseating little poof!’ He took the paper and the cameras clicked. A T.V. camera also recorded the historic moment for millions of eager viewers.
There was a moment when Molineux spotted a slight mistake and turned it into a joke. ‘Look out there. You’ve picked out the wrong copy of the paper. That’s the one for the Heroes. The losers. This is the one you should have given to Mr Bergen.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Mick Moore, also known as Monk.
What happened during the next half hour or so is still so con
fused and contradictory that it’s impossible to get a truly clear picture. All that can be done is to try and piece together the fragmentary memories and observations of a number of people who were involved.
After Monk had clinched that shatteringly unexpected win for the Last Heroes, there were a few moments when Molineux tried to salvage something from the wreckage of his plans. He accused Monk of cheating.
‘You can fucking talk. We know you leaked at least two of the answers to the Ghouls, because you were sucking off Evel Winter. We didn’t cheat. Nothing in the rules to say that anyone had to wear any special colours, is there? I didn’t start before the flag dropped and I was at Marble Arch on time. Our chapter only seemed to have five members in the challenge at the end, but I was there. Nobody cheated but you bastards. Now you pay the price.’
It was at this moment that the video producer finally decided that things had gone far enough and pulled the plugs. For the millions watching and listening, the rest was silence. Until their news programmes later.
What happened, looked at overall, was relatively simple. The Ghouls arrived at the offices of the ‘Leader’ expecting victory and finding only a bitter defeat. At the same moment, the five Last Heroes also arrived in the forecourt. Large screens round the building had been showing live pix of what had happened inside, so everyone knew. All the Ghouls and all of the Last Heroes fought as they tried to get inside the building and reach the penthouse floor. Battler spread throughout the whole office block and small fires were started on several floors. The staff tried to flee and only got mixed up in the carnage. There were the fights between Ghouls and Heroes – and the security trying to beat the hell out of both.
Cochise, Holly, Lady, Brenda, Modesty, Forty and Geneth trapped three of the Ghouls in a corner near a lift shaft. A flash of knives and the three Ghouls were down and bleeding. Boots went in and the screaming stopped. The Last Heroes moved on, though Lady and Holly stayed behind for a minute collecting three unusual souvenirs with their sharp little knives. Finnish knives.
On another floor, Draig fought a brutal battle with two of the Ghouls, Rohan and Vanya. They beat him unconscious and ripped off his colours. They ran for the nearest lift and slammed the double doors shut. Doors made up of diagonal bars on both outside and inside, with gaps between. Draig pulled himself to his feet and staggered after them, blood pouring from his mouth. Seeing him coming, Vanya held the denim jacket temptingly in the air, dangling it at him. Dazed by blows to his head, Draig pushed his hands through the double doors to try and grab his beloved colours back. At that moment, Rohan pushed the button that took the lift plunging downwards.
The gates acted like a guillotine and, after a judder of protest from the mechanism, both hands were nearly severed at the wrist, soaking the Ghouls in the spray of blood. As the lift dropped from sight, Gwyn came charging along the corridor, brought by the yells from Draig. He found the big man sitting against the wall, stupidly watching his life’s blood stream from his arms.
The albino dropped to his knees and held the dying man’s head to his chest. Draig whispered: ‘Vanya and Rohan. Got my colours.’
‘Don’t worry, boyo. They won’t keep them.’
Life faded from the brother’s eyes, and he even smiled at the end. ‘On the wing of the gull and in the eye of the west wind, I ride always towards the sun.’ And, so he died.
The penthouse room had cleared quickly of press and television as soon as Molineux had tried to grab the copy of the paper from Monk, and Bergen had come to his assistance. As they chased him round the large office, Monk was seen to be pulling out a knife from the back of his jeans.
That was the last anyone saw of either Bergen or Molineux alive. Many of the bodies were so badly burned that identification was impossible, so no one can know what happened during their last moments on earth. Monk knew, but he wouldn’t talk. Once, when he was spaced far out of his skull, Modesty took a chance and asked him. All he did was smile a beatific smile and murmured: ‘Sliced them lean and streaky. Like the pigs they were. Sliced them.’
Gwyn picked up Kafka and the two of them went hunting for Vanya and Rohan. Despite a minor diversion when two security guards tried to hold them up with sawn-off shotguns, they pressed on. The guards made the elementary mistake of expecting Hell’s Angels to behave like ordinary folk. Most people would, at least, have paused when challenged. Not Gwyn and Kafka. They launched themselves at the men and took them both crashing into a side office. There was a scuffle and the sound of blows in the office, then Gwyn and Kafka walked out, each carrying a sawn-off shotgun.
Rohan and Vanya were with Shelob, trying to find a way up the back stairs to where all the action was going on. Between the tenth and eleventh floor, they found the way – blocked by piles of burning furniture. As they turned round to run back down, they froze. Like two dread avenging angels, there were Kafka and the blazing eyes of the white-haired Gwyn.
Gwyn spoke: ‘Three rats in a trap. Draig said two Ghouls had cut off his hands. Vanya and Rohan. He didn’t mention Shelob. So, you keep very still, close your eyes and don’t even breath. You might live. You two, come here.’
Hands held hopelessly, palm outwards, in front of their bodies, the two Ghouls climbed down to the landing below. As they stood there, side-by-side, both Last Heroes fired simultaneously. The pellets sprayed out in a double star pattern, ripping first through the thin silk jackets, tearing through the belts of the trousers, slashing through skin, then muscle, then intestines, then bone, then more muscle and skin and finally exiting through the flapping backs of the jackets, splattering blood and guts in a dreadful action painting all over the white stucco wall. The two bodies were lifted off their feet by the force of the double hammer blows and flung back against the wall together to lie in a tangled, undignified heap of mewing flesh.
On the roof was a huge tank, holding five thousand gallons of fuel oil, for the central heating. Telephoto lenses on cameras had picked out some activity on the roof, spilling out of the offices on to the patio. A figure in a lime-green jacket dashed out, doubled up, and vanished. Security men were seen chasing an elusive figure, small and difficult to spot, that wheeled and dodged, until it vanished as well. The security men went back to the centre stairwell and walked away, leaving the heavy door open.
On to that deserted roof, insulated from the noise of battle below, came the figure of Evel Winter. He looked round desperately for support and found none. He ran out into the middle of the concrete desert and turned to face the door. Out of it came Gerry. For the final confrontation.
It was blazingly hot up there, under a blue, cloudless sky. Far, far away below them, in the dusty streets of Holborn, an occasional woman screamed, and police and fire sirens howled. But, on the open expanse it was quiet.
‘This is it, Evel.’
‘Yes. Yes. I reckon that I have to agree with you there little Gerry. Look over there, at those little pin-points of light. Cameras. We’re on viddy. Now, let’s not disappoint all those watchers. Load of ghouls, if you’ll excuse the expression.’
All the time he’d been talking, Evel had been backing away, towards the edge of the roof. A low concrete wall over a death-drop. Gerry felt a fluttering in his mind, a memory unexpectedly unlocked. For the second time in his life he was on top of a cliff with the president of a rival chapter. A man who aimed to kill him.
The white satin suit looked tired and smudged. Round the eyes the makeup had run, leaving stains over the high cheekbones.
As Gerry walked closer to him, the Ghoul climbed on the parapet wall. He turned one last time and half-smiled at the leader of the Last Heroes and Wolves. ‘You’d like to smash me to a bleeding pulp wouldn’t you? Sorry, but I’ll let you into a secret. I don’t like pain. There comes a point when you’ve done everything you can. Life seems empty and dull. There’s nothing left. You’ll come to it, as I have. I hoped this challenge might lead to something a bit new. But, we lost. We cheated, you know?’
Gerry nodded a
nd stopped where he was, feeling almost pity.
‘Yeah. That little pervert, Molineux used to come round and I’d kick him about a bit, then let him blow me. We knew most of the clues. But, we still lost.’ He looked outwards, across the canyons of the City, to where the sun blazed off the gold of St Pauls. ‘One kick left, Gerry. Flying. Byesie-bye.’
Gerry didn’t move. Didn’t go to the edge to see the spinning figure plummet to the pavement. Didn’t need to. Didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was get back to the sea and the mountains, where the air was cleaner. Feet dragging in the molten dust, he walked to the door.
From behind two of the air vents on the roof came two figures. A long-haired Ghoul in a lime-green jacket, and a tiny, rat-like Angel. They met together and talked briefly. Then, the Ghoul went off down the stairs after Gerry. Rat, for it was he, connected the thick hosepipe to the fuel supply tank and dragged it to the top of the central stairs.
Walking down the stairs, towards the street, Gerry heard clicking heels behind him. He turned and saw a Ghoul running down towards him. He flexed his fingers and waited.
‘Gerry, it’s me. It all worked. Great. Fucking great. Oh, it was so good. Just like you said. And then old Evel doing his “look no hands” stunt. Listen, Rat’s on the roof, and he and I have a great plan to finish off the Ghouls. All …’
Gerry interrupted him. ‘I don’t want to know, Monk. Suddenly I feel bloody tired of death. I’m going to collect all the brothers and sisters and get out of here. Back to Wales. Before the police pull us all in. If we go now, we can get away. I’m fucking tired.’
Monk looked at him in surprise. ‘All right, then; get them all away and Rat and I’ll try to catch you up. See you.’ With a wave of the hand, he was gone.