by Mick Norman
Gerry, who had been drinking heavily ready to play his part, stepped up first and took the honours as president. He unzipped his trousers and urinated over the prospect’s back, shoulders and legs, reserving a little for the last to spray into Shelob’s hair. Kafka came next and showed great class by putting his fingers down his throat and flashing a nauseous mixture of partly-digested food all over his friend’s colours, christening them in righteous Angels’ fashion.
The rest of the brothers followed, Gwyn emptying a large slop bucket of excrement over the prostrate figure. Shelob won a lot of praise for not moving a muscle, or saying anything as he was drenched in the filthy, stinking mixture. Once all the brothers had finished, it was the turn of the old ladies and the mamas. But, first it was Brenda, Holly and Lady.
Gerry had seen them whispering on one side, as they waited for their turn, and he guessed that Shelob was likely to pay a price for the insults that he had thrown at them. Sure enough, Brenda went first. She stepped up to Shelob, as he lay in the pool of excrement and vomit. And dug the toe of her boot into his ribs.
‘Not like that, brother,’ she said, unzipping her worn jeans. ‘We ladies may be the weaker sex, like our president says, but we do like to see what we’re doing. So, over on your back. Now.’
Shelob, his hair still rank with the proceeds of the initiation, his colours still showing damp patches – he would, of course, never wash them – led the front-guard of the run. By unanimous consent, he had been allowed to put up his wings from the Ghouls, and not show the class necessary to win them over again. He had all three: red, black and brown.
His bike was one of the big old Nortons, throttling up with a heavy roar that battered at the ears. The two other brothers who rode with him were Kafka on a six-fifty Yamaha and Ogof on a Bultaco-Metralla. Leading the way through the roads of the borders, heading east and southwards, towards London.
The rest of the pack were strung out about five miles behind, led by Gerry and Brenda, with Gwyn, his hair streaming like a mane of snow, screaming a Welsh folk-song at the cold Spring air. After them came the rest of the chapter, on an assortment of hogs. Gerry’s chopper was the big Electra Glide, with Brenda on the Super Glide. Both Harleys were chopped of their extras, and both could get easily up to the hundred mark.
Back along the Lleyn, up into Snowdonia, then slowly through the Marches, towards Shrewsbury. Over the death trap of Watling Street, through Weston-under-Lizard and Ivetsey Bank, until they reached the busy M6. Even the drivers of the heavy articulated wagons moved over when the Angels ran past. Most brothers carried lengths of polished chain, either round their waists or in special holsters snug against the tanks. Ready to snap off mirrors, shatter screens, or whip the flesh from the body of any driver stupid enough to anger them.
There were no outdated ideas of chivalry or fair-play among the Angels. Pick a fight with one of them and you pick a fight with all of them. As many poor bastards had found to their cost.
Picking up speed, and moving along with their heads free, the front-guard neared the service station where they had agreed to make a stop for fuel and food. The Watford Gap, just south of where the quiet M45 snaked in.
The three bikes peeled off on to the service area car park, and rolled gently to a stop near the toilets, in a place marked ‘No Parking’. An elderly attendant came hobbling across, his voice raised in a querulous whine, which died away to a resentful mutter when he saw who the riders were.
‘Anything wrong, uncle?’ asked Kafka politely, but the old man turned away without any further fuss.
Shelob and Kafka paused a minute by their machines, making slight adjustments to the highly-tuned hogs. Ogof was in a hurry to get at the food and went leaping away towards the high, open bridge.
‘That Welsh git’ll have raving gut-rot if he stuffs any of this stuff down him too fast. Still, serve him right, eh: Finished Shelob? Come on and ... what the fuck? Come on!!!’
Above the rumble of the motorway traffic, Kafka’s battle-trained ears had caught the faint sound of a cry. That meant aggro. That meant trouble.
Ogof had found the trouble, without even noticing it. He had run up the steep stairs of the bridge, and turned the angle at the top, to find himself barging into the middle of a crowd of more than a dozen Skulls.
After the skinheads had their day in the early seventies, police and magistrates combined to stamp out hooliganism on the terraces at football and in the streets. But, the already falling gates – the slump after England’s pitiful failure to qualify for the seventy-four World Cup was never checked – dipped still more. George Hayes’ rule as Home Secretary ended and the way was clear for more liberal men and women to ease many of his restrictions. These made life easier for all youth movements; including, of course, the Angels and it sparked off attempts to get the young back to football.
A hectic publicity campaign followed with discos, girls, films, better spectating arrangements and the cult of the individual player being built up. Also, many of the old bestsellers about skinheads were re-issued. And, the Skulls were born.
Ogof barely had time to recognise what he was into. Young lads, mostly pale-faced with hair cropped so short that it gave their heads a curiously elongated look. They all wore faded and bleached jeans tight across the hips with white or pastel shirts. The most elegant had ruffled fronts to their shirts and sported embroidered waistcoats. Black high boots with metal-studded platform soles completed their get-ups. As it was still cold most of them wore either long jackets or the navy-blue ‘Crombie’ overcoats of their skinhead forebears.
They too were on their way south to the lights of London. First Division leaders West Bromwich Albion, the team they supported, were playing in a fifth-round replay against the third division leaders Crystal Palace, managed for the second time in ten years by Mai Allison.
They had parked their Transit vans in the park and eaten their fill of burgers and chips washed down with the cheap wine that had become their cult drink. Now on their way back to their wheels there was a bonus. Something to whet their appetites on before they got to the real battleground at the Whitehorse Lane end of Selhurst Park.
A real live Hell’s Angel.
Better than that. A real live alone Hell’s Angel.
Ogof was still running forwards when the first fist hit him. It was a straight right to the face cracking solidly on his cheek just under the eye. He was brought up short in his tracks by the force of the punch. He had just the time to get out one yell for help when they were all on to him.
No weapons were out – with a dozen to one there really wasn’t any need. A boot caught him in the groin, crushing and pitching him forward in retching agony. An elbow hit just behind the ear knocking him to the ground. Ogof managed with a superhuman effort to get to his knees but another battery of kicks smashed home in his kidneys and back, throwing him face-down on the dirty concrete.
Kafka and Shelob arrived at the top of the bridge steps at the moment that the final flurry of boots were thudding in. So many of the Skulls were eager to take advantage of the opportunity to get at their bitterest enemies that they were even kicking each other in the confined space.
Ogof had rolled into the street-fighter’s defence position, legs together and knees pulled up, with the elbows in tight over the ribs. Head tucked in and hands over the ears. The trouble with that is that it only provides minimal cover for a short time. In only a couple of seconds most of his fingers had been smashed with kicks and the stabbing metal-tipped heels were getting through to his neck, head and body. His life was saved by the appearance of Kafka and fat Shelob, bursting on to the scene like a couple of primitive demons of anarchic violence.
There had only been time for a flung sentence of tactics from Kafka. ‘Get ’em off and hold ’em till the others get here!’
That’s right, old brother. The rest of the pack are speeding nearer, second by second at seventy miles an hour. They can only be a scant minute away by now. Then, like the avenging ange
ls of doom, they would sweep in to the rescue, knocking the crap out of these vicious bastards.
Right!
No.
Wrong!
Pull up; up and away to the north. Look back over the miles of roadway, and you won’t see the run. Not for nearly ten miles.
An efficient highway patrol-man had heard the harsh note from one of the bikes – Dick the Hat’s Yamaha. He flagged them down and pointed out the offending silencer. All very friendly. Not like it had been once. The Angels played it straight – being good citizens. The cop kept his finger down on his radio, just in case.
They rigged up a silencer from a perforated can of peanuts, and then revved it up to show the boy in blue that all was well. A wave of the hand and they were off again.
But, minutes had been lost. And they were due to meet at the service station.
Gwyn yelling to Gerry: ‘That sod Ogof will have eaten the place as empty as a Tory Treasury.’
‘Right. And Shelob will have licked up all the bloody crumbs.’
Brenda overhearing: ‘One day those fat bastards will bite off a bit too much for them to chew.’
Still seven miles away. Not even at the A5 junction yet. Six minutes away.
After the Carradine cult of the mid-seventies, Kafka had got very into Kung Fu, enjoying the mixture of lethal brawling and Oriental mysticism. Now, he launched himself at the gang of Skulls like a two-fifty pound bird of prey. Sad to say, at that moment, he forgot all the basic ideals of humility of Kung Fu, and merely wanted to knock the shit out of the scum.
He leaped head-high, feet-first, cracking into the mob. His right foot struck one of the kickers cleanly on the base of the head, snapping the neck like a dry branch. The Skulls scattered like chaff before a winnower, and the violent whirlpool about Ogof was stilled. The Angel lay still on the floor, only his head moving slightly, a thin mewing coming through the dark blood that ran from his pulped lips.
Kafka landed awkwardly, but still cleared the whole bunch and so had no problem about protecting his rear. Behind him, the bridge was clear of people, except for a middle-aged school-mistress who had slumped in a faint.
A fine rain began to fall, misting the fighters on the open bridge. The Skulls were just getting to their feet and readying their charge on Kafka, when Shelob – silent-footed for such a big man – took them from the rear. There was none of the subtlety of Kung Fu for Shelob. None of the ‘The brushing of the grasshopper’s wing can be more deadly than the thunder of the tiger’s claws.’ With Shelob, philosophy was always a simple matter. Get there first and kick the crap out of them before they do the same to you.
He dived with his meaty shoulders at the nearest of the Skulls, who was still off-balance from the savagery of Kafka’s attack. The thin boy was bashed sideways, tripping over his own boots, until his head hit the bridge wall with a sickening crack. Blood and brains stained the ridged concrete.
Two down and ten more to go. Kafka and Shelob faced the group of Skulls, ready for the next attack. A handful ran together at the Angels, two swinging rubber coshes. The melee was short and savage. Three of the Skulls withdrew, leaving two of their number stretched out on the bridge. One had a broken arm, and lay whimpering until a kick in the face from Kafka shut him up. Permanently. The second had received a stiff-fingered jab to the head that had crushed, his nose and impacted splinters of bone all through his face.
Shelob held a third in a bear-like grip, heaving him up off his feet. The skull screamed in panic, flailing helplessly at the big man. Blood ran from a deep cut in the Angel’s scalp, but he ignored it, shaking his head to keep his eyes clear.
Slowly: Very slowly. Shelob hefted the skull above his head.
‘No! Mother of God!!’
‘Is this the end of Rico?’ muttered Kafka irrelevantly.
The rest of the Skulls stood paralysed by this scene of potential and actual death. Except their leader – a short skinny man whose cropped hair showed signs of curliness – fumbled under his Crombie.
The rain had stopped as soon as it had begun and a watery sun glinted down on the motorway and on the bridge and on the bodies and the trickling blood. And on the gold earring worn by the leader of the Skulls. And on the double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun in his hands.
His voice was surprisingly quiet. ‘Put him down you gross fat bastard.’.
But it carried along the few yards of bridge above the motorway rumble. Above the faint far-off whine of a large number of highly-powered hogs.
Shelob looked at the smaller man and grinned contemptuously. ‘You want your mate put down. Right!’
With a heave of his powerful shoulders he swung the limp figure up and over the parapet of the bridge where it crashed down on to the road thirty feet below.
You know those plastic blocks – clear plastic – where you can freeze things for ever? Bits of watches or flowers. Trapped for eternity. That was what the scene was like on that bridge for a split second. Nobody moved.
On the road many things were happening. Roland Hall, his wife Ruth and their children Scott, Tracy and Tarquin were roaring up the middle lane at sixty-nine miles per hour. Maximum speed for their old Austin 1100. They had Trini Lopez blaring away on the stereo cassette. Ruth was just handing round a bag of jelly babies.
That was when the Skull dropped in on them.
He hit the bonnet of the car with his right arm which broke instantly with the impact. Next, as the arm crumpled, his head was smashed into and through the windscreen. The speed of the car coupled with its mass and momentum meant that the s]Skull’s neck was severed on the edge of the splintered screen.
Ruth Hall had time to scream as the severed head dropped in her lap, straight on the Iris Murdoch novel she’d been reading, splashing blood all over the bag of jelly babies.
Unfortunately there wasn’t time for anything except that one scream. Roland lost control of the car as the body hit it and it swerved inexorably sideways towards the apparent safety of the hard shoulder. In the way was a Continental juggernaut loaded with thirty tons of imitation dog turds.
So the Hall family went sailing into eternity buried beneath a mountain of ‘Naughty Fidos’. The lorry went into the crash barrier (which was only designed to take the impact of a heavy vehicle at a maximum of ten miles per hour) and bounced back into the three streams of traffic flooding northwards. It would be tedious to list the multiple pile-ups that followed with cars and lorries spread over all six lanes and both hard shoulders.
Everyone knows that drivers go too fast too close. So, when something cataclysmic happens, then everyone buys it at the same time.
The Last Heroes were now only a couple of miles from the service station. Still hitting better than eighty.
Up on the bridge, things were happening. The slim leader of the Skulls, the one with the golden ear-ring, watched his mate go over the bridge. Perhaps he never really believed that Shelob was going to do it.
Once it was done, the skull smiled, his lips whitening over his stained, rotting teeth. The shotgun was steady on the unmissable target of Shelob’s guts. His finger tightened on the trigger. Squeezed slowly.
The spring was released and the hammer sprang forward that crucial fraction of an inch, making contact with the percussion centre of the cartridge. The shot exploded out in a star pattern. Shelob was a dozen feet away, and he was a hell of a big man, but the impact lifted him clean off his feet, and threw him on his back. The slugs would have cut through a thinner man. As it was, they demolished his stomach and spread his intestines in shredded pulp throughout his lower body.
If you’re gut-shot by a powerful shotgun at short range, you don’t live long. The hole in the front was comparatively small, yet the blood gushed from it as though tired of occupying the same body for so long. Shelob scrabbled at the concrete with his fingers, trying to get up and rend the man who had killed him. But, it was too late.
He sighed and turned his face towards Kafka. His mouth opened and he tried to speak. But, hi
s brain failed him and he died. Mute.
The Skulls’ leader maintained his thin smile. ‘I always said these Angels had no guts.’
His friends laughed dutifully. The nervous laugh that so often follows a sudden shattering shock. Like seeing one of your mates thrown to his death off a motorway bridge. Or seeing a human being murdered with lead pellets in front of you.
Three-quarters of a mile back to the north, the Last Heroes had just run into the tailback from the massacre at Watford Gap. Gerry scented trouble and revved past the lines of stationary vehicles. Those brothers who could followed him.
Ahead, at least one of the crashed lorries had caught fire, and the screams of the trapped driver could be just heard above the other noise.
A large tanker carrying concentrated sulphuric acid had been dented and was spilling its load in a flood of fuming death towards the rest of the shambles. A vicar was making his way through the tangle of metal, getting in everyone’s path, when he walked straight into the stream of acid.
The soles of his shoes immediately began to dissolve but he felt no pain and walked deeper into the liquid. Only when his shoes had gone and his feet were beginning to burn did he suspect what was happening. He yelled out for help and tried to hop back, but his soles were burned through and he finally fell full-length. Nobody could get near enough to drag him out and he rolled and splashed for over a minute before dying.
Kafka saw his brother die and saw the skull laughing. There was another barrel left and, presumably another round to be fired. At times like that, you don’t weigh the odds and decide what seems the best course, of action. Kafka was hardly aware of the shouts and crashing going on below him on the motorway. Not even of the cloud of choking smoke that was billowing about from burning cars and lorries. All he was aware of was Shelob’s death. A yell began, deep in his chest, and he moved at the surviving Skulls, hands groping for necks to break and flesh to tear. Particularly, he wanted the leader.
