by Mick Norman
‘The Wolves are going back to their lair. Eh?’
‘That’s right, Gerry. I’m sorry it all has to end like this. More of a whimper than a bang, as my old sports teacher used to say. Still, when we’ve driven off the filth up there, you must come and see us again.’
They both knew that the amalgamation was over. That it had worked for a time, but all things must pass. From the next moment, they would still be brothers, but they would be leading different chapters. And, Gwyn would have the stronger. Gerry would need to open the doors to new members. The reputation of the Last Heroes was so strong that there would be a flood of motorbike tearaways from all over the place wanting to join.
‘I’ve been thinking about after the concert tomorrow, Gwyn. You know, there’s not going to be much left.’
‘Well, it’s picking up the pieces again, then. Isn’t it? It won’t take that long.’
Gerry stood up, looking at his watch. ‘Time you were moving. There’s not that much light time left.’
So, the Wolves mounted their hogs, collected their old ladies, and said their good-byes. And, one after the other, fists clenched in salute, they rode out of the car park, heading for the South London Motorway and then the north and west.
Last to leave was Gwyn. Like Roman senators, he and Gerry clasped wrists. ‘Remember the song that Gafr was singing when he wiped-out? ‘Farwel fy annwyl gariad’. Fare well my own true love. Duw, Gerry, I’ll miss you.’ Then the black glove twisted on the throttle and the power surged. The back wheel whined and spun on the concrete, spitting shards of gravel. And he was gone. Back to his hills and falling water.
The rest of the Angels walked inside, out of the cooling afternoon. Gerry waited on, until the high note of the engines had faded completely away. Then he shuddered, as though someone had walked over his grave, and he too went in to the warm.
Fourteen – It Really Was Such A Night
An Extract from the Confidential Report of Assistant, Chief Constable Israel Penn
to the Home Secretary
Subject: The Music Concert at the South-East London Concert Hall.
Dated: March 6th, 198–
It must be born in mind that the previous appearances on this tour – at Birmingham, Glasgow, Liverpool, Cardiff and Leicester – have been comparatively free of major disturbances. There have been only two fatalities. The first, at Birmingham, was caused by a teenie falling on to a knife that she should certainly not have been carrying. The second, at Cardiff, was caused by a middle-aged woman falling to her death when she attempted to scale the side of the theatre to get near the dressing-room of the group known as ‘Foolsgold’. She had borrowed climbing gear from her husband – a scaffolder with previous convictions for breaking’ and entering, who is currently doing a four year stretch in Walton – and had rigged it inexpertly. When it slipped, she plunged seventy feet to her death.
There have been many cases that required brief hospitalisation of some sort – mainly for shock or bruising. In total, the number of casualties have been less than one quarter of my original prediction. Also, injuries to my men have been less than half my predicted figure.
Although I was opposed to the use of motorcycle hoodlums as an ad hoc security force, it must be said that my fears had proved groundless. Until last night.
My understanding of the situation is that a number of the English/Welsh members of the gang had to leave on unspecified business. My belief is that it concerned trouble back in Wales, and I have already passed on a recommendation to the head of Mercia C.I.D. to that effect.
Whatever the reason, a number of American gang members were used last night, and they proved less than adequate. My belief is that they remained unconvinced, despite the strongest warnings from Vinson and myself, of the true dangers of letting any popular music crowd get at all out of hand.
Fortunately, the so-called Last Heroes gang members were there in adequate strength to aid the Americans. But, it proved a close-run thing.
In fighting on the stage near the end of the act of the group called ‘Central Heating’, three of the Americans received serious knife wounds, from which two of them subsequently died. Four girls were also badly wounded in the fracas, but all are expected to recover.
I am forced to admit that the wounding resulted from the weapons that numbers of the girls and women had managed to smuggle in. At my express insistence, none of the Hell’s Angels carried any weapons.
One of the newspapers today carried an extremely inflammatory article about the American Angels and about the violence that happened last night. They make little mention of the fact that it was the motorcycle boys who died. I fear that this might inflame the ‘middies’ and the ‘teenies’ to worse excesses on the last night of the tour this evening.
I am reliably informed that a number of the London gangs of ‘Skulls’ have obtained tickets for this last show and may be there in some numbers. Since they are the traditional enemies of the motorcycle gangs – a rivalry that goes back to the days of the ‘Mods’ and ‘Rockers’ in the nineteen-fifties – the dangers that may result from tonight’s concert must be obvious.
Therefore I regret that I must request the Home Secretary to use his powers to order that this final concert shall be cancelled. I can arrange for a sufficient force to be made available to ensure no breach of public order if this is done.
At the very least, I would ask that the Public Order Act should be amended so that I can place enough uniformed men inside the hall to check any trouble. Unless this is done, I am not prepared to take the responsibility for any causalities that may result.
Israel Penn, Assistant Chief Constable,
Birmingham.
Home Secretary’s Recommendation:
Is this man losing his grip? I will not interfere in the simple and healthy pleasures of the young, merely to please some alarmist old woman. No. Recommendations rejected. Please send me this officer’s record.
Fifteen – And Bid Farewell And Not Give A Damn
The big new concert hall in the centre of London, where the old Covent Garden fruit market used to stand, had been designed by a Czech architect – the winner of an international competition – and held four thousand people. Shaped like a huge shell it had proved a great success with pop concerts. This hadn’t been its original function, but the acoustics meant that anything much under a full-blooded scream was inaudible near the back.
Tickets were fetching absurd money on the underground market, but there were still buyers. The police, under the control of the bitter and angry Penn, had sealed off many of the surrounding streets, and only those lucky few with tickets were allowed through. At least that would keep the area immediately around the hall clear, and give Penn a chance to have a reserve force of men close outside for the trouble that both he and Gerry expected. The hall held a helicopter launch pad, and a shuttle service had been arranged to get first the stars and then the Angels away.
That was the idea.
After a cursory frisking by police men and women, the middies and teenies, with a sprinkling of Skulls, screamed their way into the hall. The doors were opened at seven on the dot – just thirty minutes before the show was due to start. Anyone who hadn’t made it by then was simply too late, and the doors were locked. There were a few exceptions, but it was generally only the powerful who got in after the show had begun. There had been a famous fracas when a titled lady, supposedly still happily married to her Minister husband, had turned up drunk with a transvestite pop star and had threatened to get the show closed if they didn’t let her in. She didn’t get in and the show went on.
The warnings had been printed and distributed as usual, but they were losing that edge of fear that they had once instilled. Last night had shown that the Angel heavies could be almost ignored. Certainly they could be hurt and even killed.
The deaths had badly upset the Laurel Canyon brothers and Freddie Dolan, who was on a guilt kick, claiming with some justification – that he had been responsib
le for the killings. Gerry had tried to talk to the American brothers, but they had withdrawn into themselves, arranging for the bodies of the wiped-out to lie in a morgue until they could find the time for a true Angel burial.
All Rick had said was: ‘Stay cool, Gerry. It won’t happen tomorrow.’ When pressed to find out why he knew it wouldn’t happen again, he clammed up. The meeting over planning had been so brief as to be almost useless, and it had been left again to Gerry and Penn to produce any plan that might work.
The problem here was simply one of numbers. In the favour of the Angels was the narrowness of the stage, which gave a smaller frontage for any direct attack. In fact, it’s worth noting that the stage was so narrow that a full symphony orchestra couldn’t even get on it. Another reason why the owners were so glad to have pop concerts there!
For this last gig, Gerry decided that there would be little point in scattering his tiny forces through the audience. The element of surprise would not be there, and they would swiftly be overwhelmed. So, it had to be one line across the front – which would be Rick and the Laurel Canyon brothers – and the rest of the Last Heroes at the sides of the stage and in the wings ready to come to their aid if a serious charge developed.
Gerry parted the heavy green drapes and peered out at the crowd. The house lights were already dimmed and the noise was climaxing. He turned to Mick Moore at his elbow. ‘You know what that is out there? It’s a riot just waiting to happen.’
When the lights spotted clean out, and a single beam isolated a cone of brightness at the centre of the stage, the cheering and shouts were deafening. Gerry walked quietly into the centre of that noise and light, and the cheers became boos. Although he didn’t see it, Gerry heard the hiss of a missile pass close to his head, and he felt the dull thunk as it struck the stage.
He glanced behind him, and saw an ordinary dart quivering in the wood, driven in so deep that the shaft was sunk right in. From the angle of the dart, it looked as though it had been thrown from the balcony, or even from the upper balcony.
Something like that had been one of Gerry’s major fears, and it was damnably hard to check. But, he had a contingency plan, and he shouted the code word ‘Throwing’ to Riddler waiting in the wings, immediately, the house lights came on again, and the American brothers ran out to make a ring round the front of the stage, peering intently into the upper regions.
‘Anybody, anybody who’s standing up, gets jumped on hard! Any cunt who throws anything at this stage gets hit! .Hard! Right, this is the last concert in this present tour, and I don’t want it screwed up.’
‘Fucking get on with it, you big poof!!’ A man’s voice from somewhere near the front of the stalls. There were a crowd of Skulls down there.
‘First. Here’s ‘Foolsgold’!’
‘Thank you all for being just sweet. I’m only sorry we can’t get to meet every one of you. I can see a lot of ladies out there that I’d really like to meet on a lot more intimate terms.’
The slush from the leader of ‘Foolsgold’ – the lovable Jak Whiteson – was soaked up eagerly by the frustrated middies, eager for the fantasy chance to lose their grey identities in the sparkling world of the young boys with their lean bodies and the tight trousers.
It was too much for one woman, who leaped wetly from her seat and pounded down the centre aisle. That sparked off several more middies to make their run. From the side of the stage, Gerry got ready to go to the assistance of the Americans. But this time, there was no need. There was a confused melee in front of the stage, as bodies whirled and fell. There were a few screams and at least one pair of frilly knickers sailed through the air to land at the feet of the saturnine A1 Durer.
It was difficult for Gerry to see exactly what happened from where he was, but the lights flickered off some metal, and when the flurry had cleared, hone of the brothers seemed hurt. But, five women lay moaning on the carpet, staining it red. Two more didn’t moan. Or move.
Or breathe.
At Gerry’s instant order, the house lights were dimmed down, and Foolsgold did their last number – a waltz-tempo version of the Janis Joplin hit, ‘Down On Me’ – to a darkened and angry audience. The Last Heroes slipped to the front of the stalls and helped drag away the wounded women, as well as those who lay still.
With the fickleness of the big crowd, the middies and teenies forgot the dead and the dying in the excitement of that last song. When it ended, the Angels combined to hold back the rush that followed and there were no further problems. The women who mobbed the stage hardly noticed that their feet sank into the pile of a carpet made soggy with blood.
Somehow, in the caves and recesses of the huge theatre, Rick Padrino and his band of brothers managed to perform an impressive disappearing act during the intermission. Failing to find them, Gerry went looking for Rupert Colt Rupert found him first.
‘Rupert! What the fuck is going on tonight? The Americans are all tooled up with knives. And guns for all I know. What are you—?’ The words faded away as it suddenly penetrated that Rupert wasn’t taking a lot of notice of what he was saying. And, that he was wearing a heavy overcoat and carrying a black leather case. And, that he’d recently shaved off the bushy moustache he’d been sporting since they met at Nant Gwrtheyrn.
Rupert saw the question leaving Gerry’s eyes and moving to his lips and got in first. ‘I know what you’re going to ask my love, and I fear the answer is ‘Yes’. I’m buggering off. Rupert Colt takes a powder is the name of this particular game.’
‘Why? And where?’
‘Because I’ve had enough. It’s the male menopause, baby. I’ve seen too much misery – does that sound corny? It shouldn’t. It’s one of the truest things I’ve ever said. If I don’t get out now, I’ll finish up as an old agent. Buttonholing big men at boring parties, with sticky fingers and promises of the sensation that’s going to make all our fortunes. I’m fed up of drinking too much and sleeping too little and popping too many pills. I know that I could be on smack within three months. And, I don’t want it. In fact, I’m thinking of making a real effort to stop the pills. When I get to ... to where I’m going, the air and work should help a lot.’
‘What are you going to do? Be a bloody farmer up in the Black Hills of Dakota.’
Rupert looked hurt. ‘I’m not joking, Gerry. I’m sorry, but I thought you might understand.’
Gerry regretted his joke immediately. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I was only taking the piss a bit. Honest. If you can get out, and you can make it work, then it’ll be the best thing you ever did. Really.’
‘Really? You think that? That I might be able to make it work?’
Despite all, Gerry truly liked the little man, and he put his arms on his shoulders and smiled at him. ‘Listen, man. If you want it to work, then it’s going to work. You really are going to drop right out of it?’
‘Yeah. Change my name. Keep off the telephone. Only let a very, very few of my friends – whoever they are – know where I’m going. And, never come back. I’ve got a bit of money put away. I’ve bought a homestead on the borders of Wales. I’ve done all I can for this tour, and I just don’t want to be around afterwards. So, I’m off. I was looking for you to say goodbye.’
Solemnly, almost formally, they pulled apart, and shook hands. The thought came to Gerry that yet another strand of his life had pulled loose. ‘Where exactly are you going?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘No. I want to make a few weeks there just on my own. See if I can. Then, if it works out, you’re going to be the first one I ask up to see me. Don’t worry about getting in touch. That’s the thing I’ve always been very good at.’
Somewhere below them, a bell was ringing insistently, signalling the end of the intermission. Gerry patted the little man on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Rupert. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’
He walked away down the corridor, and turned at the end to see Rupert wiping his nose. Or, maybe his eyes? The small figure waved to him, and the familiar husk
y voice came floating down to him. ‘Take care, now. Keep on trucking, baby.’
On the way to the stage, Gerry was stopped by Brenda. ‘Jesus, man, where’ve you been? You know those Americans are all tooled up. Three of those old women are dead. Penn is rushing around like a fart in a colander, threatening to come in with the Seventh Cavalry. And, I reckon that one or two of Padrino’s brothers have guns.’
‘Guns! Christ, that’s all we need.’
Brenda took him by the arm. ‘I saw Rupert. You know he’s splitting.’
‘Yes. That’s where I’ve been. There’s not going to be much left is there, after this? Anyway, I’ve got to go on stage and introduce Central Heating. Tell everyone to take extra care. This could really be the big one.’
Just as he was leaving, Brenda grabbed him and kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Gerry.’
‘There isn’t time. Not anymore.’
‘I just wanted to tell you that I, wasn’t going. With Lady and Holly. I’m staying with you.’
Gerry looked at her, hardly able to take the news in. Then, ignoring shouts from the stage for him to get on, he took her in his arms and returned her kiss. ‘See you after,’ was all he said.
Then he left to go and announce the last act of the last show. Central Heating.
It was a fantastic act. Freddie Dolan had never been better, and the three others – Jim, Hal and Matt – drove him up and on to new heights and new depths. They opened with a chanted song, about the power of the occult, then slipped easily into a thirty minute string of their hits and big album tracks.
The excitement communicated itself to the audience, and it seethed and bubbled, screamed and moaned. Another dart was thrown, and it hit one of the Laurel Canyon Angels in the shoulder. Padrino desperately held back two of the brothers who wanted to go into the audience, and Gerry could see for the first time that they were actually wearing hidden automatics.
