by Mick Norman
In fiction, he would have made it, perhaps getting injured on the way. But, he would definitely have taken some of them with him.
So much for fiction. The skull with the ear-ring merely moved his aim and pulled the other trigger. The shot caught Kafka in the centre of the chest and smashed him against the wall like the hand of a berserk giant. Blood spouted from his mouth and his eyes closed with the shock and the pain.
The skull calmly put the gun back in the holster under the smart Crombie and beckoned to his mates. They were off the bridge and back in their transits in seconds, and away down the clear southwards lane off the motorway.
Ogof? He’s dead as well. How? Bookie Wyatt – the man with the ear-ring, called Bookie because he once worked for three days in a bookshop – had bent down as he walked past the injured Angel and carefully slit his throat with a short knife – a throwing knife – he always carried.
The tangle of vehicles grew thicker as Gerry neared the service area, and he was forced to slow to a weaving crawl. The thick, oily smoke obscured the bridge, and the clear road beyond, and he was too late to even see the bright yellow vans rocket away.
Up on the bridge, Kafka lay still, trying to hold what was left of his chest together with crossed arms. Waiting for Gerry to arrive, so that he could tell him who it was that had done this to him. He was conscious of the smoke, and of the sparse rays of the sun piercing the gloom, lighting up the furrows in the concrete.
He rested his cheek against the rough stone, feeling it cool and slightly damp. Getting tired, he closed his eyes, and thought back into the past. Of the friends he’d seen wiped out. One of them – the tall, satanic Priest – murdered by a brother on this stretch of motorway. He remembered back to his older brother, killed on the Brighton road, way back when they were rockers and not Angels.
Kafka was not in much pain. There seemed a large hole of numbness at the centre of his chest, and breathing wasn’t easy. A little blood still frothed to his mouth as he breathed in shallow bursts. It made it taste like the dentist’s.
He knew he was dying, and he wasn’t sure that he minded. Kafka was old, an ancient by Angel standards, actually the wrong side of forty. Now, so many of his friends were dead, and the times had been a-changing for too long. If he’d have gone on, he’d have been a boring figure, constantly looking back to what he felt had been the good old days. But probably weren’t. A long time seemed to have passed, and someone was shaking him gently by the shoulder. He tried to open his eyes, but it took almost too much effort. Finally, he opened them and made out a small group of figures, standing and kneeling round him. The smoke must be getting thicker, or it was already dark.
Gerry had his arm round his shoulders, and Brenda was wiping the trail of spittle and blood from his face. Their faces were blank with shock and anger.
Kafka smiled softly at them. ‘Hello, Gerry. Brenda. Forgive me for not getting up to ...’ His voice faded away.
Gerry tugged at his arm. ‘Kafka. Who?’
The big man looked vaguely at him. ‘Who?’
‘Kafka. Come on brother. Stay with us just a bit longer. Who did this to you and Shelob and Ogof?’
A coughing fit racked the dying man. ‘Skulls. About a dozen of them. All tooled-up. One of them had an ear-ring. And a shotgun.’
There was no point in rushing off. If they’d gone, then they’d gone. But, there couldn’t be that many gangs of Skulls who got tooled-up with shooters. Nor many that had a leader who wore an ear-ring.
‘There’ll be time, mate. We’ll find them. Don’t worry about that.’
Again that gentle smile, sitting oddly on that ferociously-bearded face. ‘Gerry, burn me hog. Please.’
His eyes dry, Gerry nodded his assent. Angels shed no tears for one another.
Brenda whispered to him, ‘He’s going, love.’
Kafka peered painfully round at the growing circle. ‘Tell you one thing I always dreaded. Snuffing some time when I didn’t have me colours on. Still, this is all right. Isn’t it?’
His body suddenly jerked. ‘Christ! I wish it’d stop hurting.’
Even as he said it, it stopped and Kafka was dead.
Six – They’ll Pinch Themselves and Squeal
An extract from the proceedings of the special Coroner’s Court convened to examine the deaths at the Watford Gap Service Station, on February 26th, 198–
Coroner: But, Chief Inspector, I am not entirely concerned with those unfortunates who died as a direct result of the road accidents. It seems to me, from the medical evidence we have had presented here, and from the mass of evidence we have heard from your own officers, that these deaths are not particularly mysterious. Would I not be right in saying that these people – with certain exceptions that I will come to in a moment – that these people died because they were driving too fast and were, therefore, unable to cope with the unexpected events?
Chief Inspector Simmons: You would be correct in saying that, sir. But, there were others who do not fall strictly in that category.
Coroner: I am aware of that. Indeed, I thought I had made that clear in my question. Having disposed of that, I would like to come to specifics. For instance, have your inquiries yet ascertained how the head – and only the head – of the young man named, let me see, Stokes; Desmond Stokes, came to be in the crashed car F, driven by the man … Hall?
Chief Inspector Simmons: Yes, sir. We have a witness, a schoolteacher named Angela Shire, who was present for much of the fighting on the bridge, though she was only semi-conscious for some of the time. She says that one of the motorcycle gang, we are not clear which, picked up one of the Skulls, pardon me, sir, one of the other group of young men, and threw him over the bridge on to the motorway. His falling body struck the Hall’s car, F, and we believe his severed head, amputated by the fall, came as a consequence to be in the Hall’s car. We found what was left of the rest of his body nearer to the bridge.
Coroner: Apart from the youth’s hand. I cannot be sure without referring back to my notes, but I recollect that one of the hands was not found.
Chief Inspector Simmons: That is correct, sir.
Coroner: How about the corpses that were found on the bridge? What evidence do you have on how they received the injuries we have heard about?
Chief Inspector Simmons: The left, sir.
Coroner: What?
Chief Inspector Simmons: I said, the left, sir.
Coroner: The left what?
Chief Inspector Simmons: The left hand, sir. That the youth Stokes lost. Or, that we didn’t find.
Coroner: Chief Inspector; we have finished dealing with the affair of the missing hand some minutes ago. I would be more than grateful if you would lend a little more of your attention to the matters we are now examining. Chief Inspector Simmons: Very sorry, sir.
Coroner: Very well. Now, I asked you how the young men who died on the bridge itself came to their ends?
Chief Inspector Simmons: Three of the young men with cropped hair, known as Skulls, with an unknown number of their friends, were engaged in conflict with three members of the motorcycle gang known as the Last Heroes. The three Skulls – Griffiths, Morgan and Howell – suffered injuries during this brawl from which they all subsequently died.
Coroner: Can you form any opinion, bearing in mind the weight of the medical evidence, as to whether these wounds were inflicted by weapons, or by fists?
Chief Inspector Simmons: Although some of the wounds were extremely savage, I nevertheless came to the conclusion that they had been made without any extraneous implement being used.
Coroner: The most disturbing feature of this disaster seems to me to be the use of firearms by at least one of the main protagonists. What can you tell us about that?
Chief Inspector Simmons: We know that one of the Skulls was carrying a sawn-off shotgun of the calibre mentioned in the pathologist’s report. It seems that the Hell’s Angels attacked the other gang, causing the injuries we have seen. In self-defence, one of
them, quite wrongly, but, perhaps understandably, chose to use a gun to protect his life and the lives of his friends.
Coroner: Quite. Very wrongly. Do we yet know the names of the three motorcycle hoodlums who were slain?
Chief Inspector Simmons: No, sir. The one with the throat injury was Welsh, and the other two were English members of their gang. Beyond the names Ogof, Sheila and Kaftan, we have no more information.
Coroner: Thank you, Chief Inspector. I am sure I speak for all decent members of society, when I say how unfortunate it is that so many upright citizens died as a result of this gang fight. We can only hope that there will be no repercussions of this. Oh, one last question. Did you manage to find how that one motor cycle caught fire, so far from the scene of the other accidents?
Chief Inspector Simmons: Well, sir; all I would like to say at this stage is that our enquiries are proceeding, and that we expect arrests very shortly. My belief is that it was some kind of ritual. Sort of purging by fire. Obscene ceremony I reckon it.
Coroner: Thank you.
Chief Inspector Simmons: Course; it might have been a stray spark.
Seven – So You Want to be a Rock and Roll Star?
‘Listen, man. I don’t give a fairy’s fuck what you think’s a good idea. I’m telling you that we don’t want any English kids playing round at being Hell’s Angels as the security for this tour. I want professionals!’
Rupert let the fat man’s tirade blow itself out, then tried yet again to explain the facts of stage security to him. ‘Albert. I understand your concern, sweetheart. Truly, I do. But will you just take a tiny peek at that list I had one of my girls drawn up for you to peruse. It’s every security organisation in the British Isles. It shows when I spoke to them and it gives the tone of their replies. None of them would even consider doing this tour. Not after what happened at the Sundance.’
Albert Donegan was not only the heaviest promoter of pop superstars, he was also the best. There was hardly a major name in the galaxy of magna-novas that wasn’t under his protection and paid dues accordingly. Now, Albert was cross with Rupert Colt, his hired publicist.
‘Okay, Rupert. How much did you offer them? Double it.’
A look of weariness and pain crossed Rupert’s face. ‘In the name of God, Albert, will you listen! How can you double nothing? I offered them twenty thou—’
‘Dollars?’
‘Dollars, schmollars. Pounds, Albert, pounds! They laughed. Times have moved on, sweetheart. The little girls who used to stir up the crap when the Osmonds or Cassidy came to this country were sweet babes of light, compared with some of these bitches. I tried to get Roscoe to take it on. He reminded me about the way he lost four dogs – Doberman Pinschers – when the bitches fed them acid. They all tripped out and he had to shoot them.’
‘Yeah, but we paid him. What about Lunt? He ran cover for us on a tour a year or so back.’
There was a hollow sound from Rupert, that might almost have been a laugh. ‘Yeah, Lunt. He reminded me about the last show – in Southampton. He hired eight of the toughest bastards he could find and gave them some special anti-riot truncheons. Fresh from Alabama. There was a lot of fuss in the Press when it leaked out about those truncheons. Remember how they were all found round the back of the theatre. The big tough guards. No clothes on. Tied up like turkeys. And, remember where those monsters had put those truncheons. No, forget about Lunt. Forget about Roscoe. And Blount. And Copland. And Biggs. All of them.’
‘Can’t we offer something to those old guys again?’
‘Jesus!! Our last insurance company’ll be paying off for centuries after the Sundance. No, Albert. I promise you on my knees that the Angels are our best bet. Our only bet. And, we’ll get some mileage out of them.’
Donegan tugged himself breathily to his elegantly shod feet and walked to the window of his suite. From behind the white lace curtains, he gazed unspeakingly across the snaking traffic, into the green depths of the park. Visibility was cut by the fine, cold rain that sheeted down from the west.
‘My God, Rupert. You know this fucking country better than I do. You’ve lived here. Does the sun ever shine?’
‘Sometimes. Round about the tenth of August to the twelfth. Miss it and that’s it for the year.’
The temperature in the room was over twenty-five, but Donegal still shivered. ‘I’ve seen some of the girls. Pale little, thin things. The record company laid them on for me, and you know me, Rupert, I never like to offend anyone, so I let them stay. It was like screwing with a xylophone. All bones.’ He drained his brandy glass and walked to the decanter for a chunky refill.
‘Your trouble, Albert, is that you wish they all could be California girls.’
Donegan missed the allusion and nodded seriously. ‘Damn right, Rupert. Did I tell you I’m not staying for this tour. Me for the Big Sur and a bit of sun.’
Rupert’s jaw dropped at the bombshell. ‘If you just fuck off, then who runs the show?’
Donegan grinned round his cigar. ‘You do, Rupert.’
‘And who carries the can back when the shit overflows on the table?’
‘You.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Now, now, Rupert. Don’t get your frilly nylon panties in a twist. I’m doubling your money.’
‘Double?’
‘Right.’
A long silence, while the computer that had replaced a brain in the head of Rupert Colt whirred and clicked. Finally, it came up with an answer.
‘Treble.’
‘Done. But, there may be one small problem. Freddie Dolan has his own contacts with the American Angels. We may have a little trouble there. But, I figure I can handle it. Tell you what, Rupert, baby, you get your man along here for breakfast at nine tomorrow, and I’ll get Freddie here as well. I promise you, there’ll be no hassle.’
‘No way! No way!’
The table in the hotel was laid with a full breakfast. A crystal jug of fresh orange juice, jostling a tureen of steaming porridge. Silver chafing dishes stood in military rows, with devilled kidneys, thick-cut ham, golden fried eggs, sliced tomatoes, kedgeree, smoked haddock, pork and beef sausages, crisp fried bread – even baked beans for those with more ordinary palates. Toast racks spiky with thick and thin slices of bread, and small dishes of farm butter and jars of assorted marmalades. Silver pots of boiling coffee stood untouched on warming plates.
Rupert had nibbled at a slice of slimming biscuit and poured himself a cup of black coffee, which he hadn’t even raised to his lips.
Albert Donegan had breakfasted on three Dexamyl capsules, three Ritalin, five Preludin and a handful of Dexedrines. Washed down with orange juice. ‘You get the Vitamin C this way,’ he explained.
Freddie Dolan had arrived late and refused to eat anything, worried about maintaining his lean and hungry look. All he had taken was a mixed assortment of Albert’s uppers.
Gerry had been there on time. The rest of the inner council of the Last Heroes were breakfasting downstairs some sixty floors below. The remainder of the chapter had gone back to their old headquarters in Hertfordshire – once a missionary training centre, and the war-time H.Q. of the Special Operations Executive. There they had found a colony of squatters moved in and well-established. There had been a few moments of tension, but an acceptable compromise had been reached.
The squatters had been pressured by a band of heavies controlled by Harry Hudson, and they were expecting another attack. In return for food and shared shelter, the Angels would give the unspeakable Mr. Hudson and his mob a nasty shock.
The prospect of some action cheered up the chapter, depressed by the sudden loss of three of their most popular members. Cochise had been promoted in Kafka’s place, and Deintydd had moved up through the Welsh echelons. Life went on.
There were two pressing problems on Gerry’s mind as he rocketed up in the lift that morning. One was the coming tour and what was going to be expected of him and his brothers. The other was how he could find
a band of Skulls led by a small man with a gold ear-ring. But, that would have to wait for a time.
Not too long, though.
Of the four of them in the hotel room, only Gerry had eaten anything resembling a normal meal. Fruit juice, porridge, at least one of everything from the chafing dishes, plus several slices of toast, thickly smeared with butter and lashings of marmalade. He was well into his third cup of coffee when Dolan burst in.
‘No way! No way!’
Donegan waved his hands placatingly. ‘Listen Freddie. Listen. I give you my solemn oath on my mother’s grave that I’ve been all through this with Rupert last night and there’s not a single alternative possibility that has any viability. No security firm will consider taking the job, so we have to fall back on amateurs. That means we have to make sure we have someone who’s prepared to stand in line against the animals who call themselves fans. Gerry, here, leads just about the toughest bunch of men available. Now, what do you say. Huh, Freddie, baby?’
The skinny singer sat still in a deep chintz armchair, picking his nose and listening intently to the tranny ear-phone he had plugged in. Donegan might just as well not have spoken. His head stopped nodding and he opened his eyes and looked up at his manager.
‘This bunch of pantie-waists couldn’t fart their way out of a wet paper bag. Let me bring Rick and the Laurel Canyon brothers over. Ten of them could handle it better than fifty of these fags.’
Anxiously, Rupert watched Gerry for some sign of movement. He just carried on drinking his coffee. Not until the quiet had stretched uncomfortably, did he bother to reply.
‘Dolan? How long has this chapter of yours been going?’
‘Nearly two years. Why?’
‘Because I know as well as you do that there wasn’t a Hell’s Angel left in the whole United States once Reagan got cracking on them. They didn’t just go underground. They fucking vanished. Now, the Last Heroes have been up and running for round about fifteen years, with a charter that was signed personally by Sonny Barger. Despite all the shit we had thrown at us by the last Government, we kept together and we kept on riding.’
