by Mick Norman
As usual, Mick Moore was with him, just behind the side curtain. Putting his mouth to his ear, Gerry shouted: ‘Go and find Penn! Quick as you can! Tell him to stand by with everything he’s got! Tell him some people are carrying guns! Tell him I said that I thought this one is really going to blow! Quick! Then get back here; I’m going to need you!!’
The set went on, and Gerry waited anxiously for Monk’s return. As soon as he got back he made straight for Gerry and told him the news. ‘Penn’s tied up with rioting outside. He says to try and stop it. He can’t get to you for at least ten minutes. And, he said ‘Good luck”.’
‘Fucking funny, Israel.’
Two more songs went by, and the tension still boiled up, until it seemed impossible that it could go higher. The hall reverberated to the battering of the guitars, with the amps full-up. Screams and moans tore at the ears, destroying all thought. It truly was like a scene from a medieval hell.
Central Heating reached the end of the song, and Freddie came forward to the mike. Sweat streamed down his naked chest, and his trousers gaped open at the front. His hair was tangled into greasy string over his eyes, hiding the light in them.
Before going on, he’d taken a shot of synthesised psilocybin – which is harder to say than shoot – and the effects were just getting to him. Historians believe that it was eating hallucinogenic mushrooms, such as psilocybin and fly agaric that gave the Vikings their strange berserk savagery.
Now, things were moving inside his head – things that he hardly knew about. His eyes dilated, and specks of froth hung at the corners of his mouth. There was only one song to go. And, Freddie Dolan swung on up to the mike to announce it.
‘Thanks. Thanks. All of you. One number then we have to split from you. It’s a newie, and it’s dedicated to the brothers who’ve looked after us on this tour. They’re my friends, whatever some of you may think of them. This one is for the Hell’s Angels. ‘Grey Turns Green’.’
Immediately, from the bunch of Skulls near the front, the chant started to go up: ‘Murderers! Cowards! Queers! Killers! Killers! Killers!’ It built up to a crescendo of noise, inflaming the teenies to explosive pitch.
Freddie and the, rest of Central Heating ploughed into the new song, but they’d only got one verse through, when the drug freaked the top of Freddie’s mind and he tripped out completely. The Vikings used to strip off their clothes when the fighting madness hit them, and Freddie did the same. He clawed at his trousers, leaving bloody furrows on his white skin from his own nails. The clothes scattered to the stage floor, and he stood there totally naked. His eyes rolled back into his skull and he wailed in a thin, high, penetrating voice: ‘I want you all. Now. Come and take me. Please!’
The last word was drawn out to a grinding falsetto scream, rasping like a saw on the edge of a sheet of plate glass. It was all the catalyst and invitation that the little girls needed.
In an unstoppable many-headed throng, they poured out of their seats towards the stage. The American Angels saw the futility of trying to check it and all climbed on the front of the stage. Central Heating’s driving sound wavered and stopped, the amplifiers hissing into silence. Matt and Jim fled to the back, but Hal dropped his axe and went to try and help Freddie who stood stock-still, arms at his sides, vulnerable in his nakedness, waiting for the mob to devour him.
From the moment the first wave broke against the high front of the stage, things became impossibly confused. All that can be done is to select odd incidents and try to report them.
Many of the girls had managed to smuggle in knives, and these were licking out of their hands as they ran. Two of the Americans were too slow in making the stage and they were dropped and trampled in seconds. The others tried to hold the front of the stage, kicking at the crowd. Several of the brothers also had knives and they slashed fruitlessly at the fists and hands that threatened them. Blood sprayed everywhere from cuts, but there were too many.
Cassady was one of the brothers who had a gun, and he emptied it into the air, hoping it would cool things. But, the moment the last shot was fired, fingers clawed him to the edge of the stage, and he was pulled to the floor. The last thing he saw were the forest of legs and feet, in chunky fashion shoes, milling about him before he was kicked to death.
Hal Marx failed to reach Freddie, being checked by one girl who’d come round the side. He saw her coming, and saw the slim-bladed kitchen knife she held in her hand. Yet, he did nothing to stop her or to protect himself.
What he saw was an angel-faced child of sixteen, with long blonde hair waving softly about her untouched-face. By some freak of fashion taste, she was dressed exactly like a schoolgirl of the fifties. She wore neat little patent leather shoes, with white ankle socks. Her blue pleated skirt floated about her firm thighs, revealing a glimpse of her cotton pants. Her silk blouse was drawn tight about her budding breasts.
She was a vision from the dreams of lust, and Hal found himself paralysed by her. He even put his hands out in a vague gesture of welcome. The blade of the knife slipped between his hands and sank into his stomach. The force of the blow through his flesh flung him on his back, and the girl fell on top of him.
He tried to rise, tried to push her weight off him, but the effort was too much. But, the girl failed to get the souvenir she wanted. Other teenies came yelling over and the knives clashed and sparked off each other in Hal Marx’s body. In all the action, the souvenir got so cut about that nobody finished up with more than one little piece.
In an attempt to save some of his brothers, Rick Padrino finally drew his own gun and fired into the press of struggling bodies. Five bullets ripped into the crowd, but it was like trying to slay the Hydra. Kill one and twenty more grabbed at you. Rick was about to fire again, when the heavy charge from a sawn-off shotgun nearly tore him in half. He was so thin that many of the pellets gouged their way clean through him, and hit the expensive amplification equipment behind him. Sparks flew from shorted wires.
The noise of the shotgun hardly penetrated the keening of the girls, and only those nearest to the man who fired were aware of it. Leading his band of Skulls, the gunman jumped up through the gap left by Padrino’s torn corpse and headed for the side of the stage. His gold ear-ring swung madly from his tightly-cropped skull.
Gerry, with his eye for tactical strategy that had saved him several times in the past, realised that there was no point in waiting around to die. The Americans were overwhelmed and only two seemed to be still on their feet. Mouthing his orders, he managed to get Monk to shepherd all the Last Heroes towards the emergency exit door, designed to be locked from the other side, and made of heavy steel. The first girls were only just getting a hold on the stage and were making for the dazed figure of Freddie Dolan.
‘Hold the door for me!’ Gerry shouted as he sprinted round the back of the amps and got to Dolan. As he was trying to drag him to safety, the eight Skulls made their appearance. A feral grin split the face of Bookie Wyatt, as he recognised the leader of the Last Heroes. His lips tugged back over his rotting teeth as he aimed the twelve bore, its barrels gaping hugely at Gerry.
Dolan had watched the happening with a vague, distant interest, until he saw the gun. His jaw dropped open, and a mangled shriek burst out, as he launched himself at the slight figure of the skull. Contemptuously, Bookie Wyatt smashed the sawn-off shotgun to the side of Dolan’s head, cracking his face open, and sending him staggering towards the amplifiers. Before anyone could move, the superstar made contact with the bared wires hanging loose at the front. His body arced forward, his arms flapping uncontrollably against other live connections. His eyes opened wide, staring unseeing into the slaughterhouse on the stage. Smoke gushed from his skin, where the electric current scorched and seared it.
Finally, his own weight dragged him down the amplifiers, breaking the contacts. Freddie Dolan slumped face-down on the stage, his limbs spastically twitching. A dark thread of blood trickled from his mouth.
His death took only a se
cond.
Gerry stood there and watched his own killer stepping lightly towards him, the gun unwavering. He poised himself on the balls of his feet, ready for a desperate leap if any half-chance came.
Wyatt stopped, maybe twenty feet away, and smiled. A very unpleasant smile. It vanished as he was hit from behind by Brenda.
She had waited to see if Gerry managed to rescue Freddie Dolan. They all knew about the skull leader with the gold ear-ring, and she ran through the narrow corridor behind the stage, until she emerged behind the drums to the left of the stage. There wasn’t much space, but she took a few steps and jumped.
As she took-off, a trailing wire caught at her ankle and she half-leaped, half-fell against the skull leader. It was enough to throw him off-balance, but not enough to make him fall or drop the gun. Gerry had been ready, and he didn’t miss the chance.
Fists and feet working, he attacked the Skulls, joined by Brenda. And by a small, scurrying Hell’s Angel whose knife flicked and darted like the eyes of a Rat.
Several of the Skulls were down; some still and some moaning and thrashing about like dying fish. One sat upright, muttering to himself, trying to stuff his intestines back into the slit made by Rat’s blade.
A cry, staccato and urgent, from the Skulls’ leader froze everyone. ‘Get away from the girl!’
The tableau was still, the screams and yells from the fighting mob behind them almost forgotten. Bookie Wyatt was happy, as his lean finger squeezed the light trigger.
Even as he fired, and the pellets starred out, Rat jumped at him to try and save Brenda. He was too late by a fraction of time, but he was in time to sink his knife straight into the skull’s right eye-socket, killing him instantly.
Riddler and Cochise led a charge from the safety door that scattered the remaining Skulls and sent them scampering for the protection of the crowd. Rat paused only to pull out his knife, wiping it on Bookie’s silk shirt front.
Gerry scooped Brenda up in his arms and walked slowly back, guarded by his brothers. The screeching mob of teenage harpies made no attempt to follow them, for there was death in the faces of the Angels. Even as they pulled and bolted the heavy steel door, the Last Heroes heard the crackling of small-arms’ fire, and a voice bursting out over the bedlam demanding quiet. It was the voice of Assistant Chief Constable Israel Penn.
He had arrived too late to save the lives of twelve of the American Angels. Of two of the members of Central Heating. Of six Skulls. Of eleven middle-aged women. And of over a hundred girls, mostly trampled to death in the hysterical charge.
He was also too late to save the life of Brenda.
Gerry had sent the rest of the brothers who remained, plus the mamas and old ladies, to get the hogs ready for a run out, as soon as things had quietened down a bit. Holly and Lady had disappeared as soon as the fracas started.
In the dark passageway, they could hear order being restored. Only Monk was left with Gerry. The single sound in that cramped space, was the painful bubbling as Brenda tried to breathe. To stay alive.
‘Push off, will you mate, and make sure everything’s ready. Tell them to head for the house in Hertfordshire as soon as they can. You go and lead them. I’ll come when I can.’ His voice was muffled, as he bent over his old lady, cradling her, holding her to him, feeling the life slipping away.
‘Will you be along?’
There was a flash of anger. ‘Mick. Do as you’re told and fuck off!’
There was a knocking at the door, and the sound of someone heaving against the bolts. ‘They’ll soon be round the other way, Gerry.’
‘Yeah.’ The voice was tired. ‘Yeah, you’d better go. now. Thanks, Mick, for staying. I’ll see you.’
Mick Moore dropped his hand to his president’s shoulder, then walked away, to lead the tatters of the chapter to a place of safety. The Last Heroes would, yet again, have to go underground.
Behind him, Gerry felt the first pangs of cramp biting into the muscles of his legs. He stretched a little, trying to ease his position. The body of Brenda seemed to be getting heavier.
The shot had hit her in the chest, crushing her ribs in and demolishing most of her lungs. The blood loss was colossal,’ and he was amazed that she should still be breathing. Her eyes were open, and she twice tried to speak. He leaned over her, wiping the blood away that filled her mouth.
Brenda’s lips trembled and she made a last attempt to lift herself. Gerry put his head down, until his ear was right by her mouth. The banging had stopped, but he could now hear footsteps away to his right, behind the stage.
In his ear, he could just catch the faintest whispering. Words, torn painfully from her ruined chest.
‘Sorry ... love ... should ... got … gun ... Looks ... like ... no ... more ... run ... I...’ A coughing fit hit her, and Gerry thought she’d gone. But, she tried one last time.
‘Hold ... me ... love ... I ... always ... loved you.’
Gerry still held her, even after the life had irrevocably left her. He was still there, kneeling awkwardly on the floor, when Assistant Chief Constable Penn strode in, a streak of blood across his cheek. He stopped at the sight, pausing uneasily in the doorway. Gerry looked up at him.
‘Hello, Israel. I’m all alone, now.’
Sixteen – Grey Turns Green
By the late Freddie Dolan – of Central Heating.
© Ortyx Press, 198–
I opened up the window
And the sky climbed high inside me,
While the city blocks grew higher
And my lover slept unknowing.
The grey lay heavy on me.
The hands of friends are waiting
For my tears to fall upon them,
And I wake up from my darkness
With a flower at my table.
And the grey lay lighter on me.
My clothes brush me like strangers
On my brittle waking body,
And I must walk from my lover
And slide out to the highway,
Where the green is just appearing.
The dead in shrouds behind me
Touch their minds with splintered fingers
As I climb the purple mountains
While the air sings in my brain.
And the grey has turned to green.
Yes, the grey has turned to green.
This is for Alex R. Stuart and Peter Cave, who have also ridden this road.
One – Grey Turns Green
By the late Freddie Dolan – of Central Heating.
© Ortyx Press, 198—
I opened up the window
And the sky climbed high inside me,
While the city blocks grew higher
And my lover slept unknowing.
The grey lay heavy on me.
The hands of friends are waiting
For my tears to fall upon them,
And I wake up from my darkness
With a flower at my table.
And the grey lay lighter on me.
My clothes brush me like strangers
On my brittle waking body,
And I must walk from my lover
And slide out to the highway,
Where the green is just appearing.
The dead in shrouds behind me
Touch their minds with splintered fingers
As I climb the purple mountains
While the air sings in my brain.
And the grey has turned to green.
Yes, the grey has turned to green,
Yes, the grey has turned to green.
Two – A Time to be Reaping
The sun blinked a watery eye through the early summer haze. It was a quiet time among the green-muffled hills of Shropshire. Up on the slopes of the Long Mynd, sprawled like some gigantic sleeping monster above Church Stretton, a highly-powered motorcycle roared along the narrow road.
The rider was alone, in that grey-green world. Alone among the bracken, with only the sheep trotting away from the noise
of his passing, shying at the intrusion into their silence. Although Easter lay only a week or so back, the weather was warm, and the rider straddled his machine in short-sleeved denim jacket and faded jeans. His hair was long, blowing in the wind, streaming out behind him like a banner of protest.
If you could get close enough behind him, you would see that his jacket sported a colourful motif – a feral death’s head in white and crimson – with lettering beneath it. Worn by wind and sun and time, they still stood out starkly against the pale blue denim. ‘Last Heroes’ it said. The Last Heroes motorcycle gang of Hell’s Angels, affiliated by charter to the great chapter of Oakland, California. Their charter signed by the late and wonderful Sonny Barger himself.
Stretching back his shoulders, as though he was trying to shrug off some load, the rider throttled back the huge machine, and pulled slowly into the side of the road. All around him, the ground dropped sheerly away to shaded valleys, with dark pools at their centres. His hand pulled up on the brake, and the bike finally stopped. He kicked the rest down and got off, letting the powerful engine cough itself into silence.
Almost as a matter of habit he patted the tangerine-flake enamel petrol tank, with the silver words ‘Harley-Davidson Electra Glide’ glinting in the sunlight. Though, it’s doubtful if the makers would have been very pleased to see what had been done to their Rolls-Royce of motorbikes. All the heavy chrome trim had been stripped off, and the front forks raked back. Shorn of its surplus weight, it could easily reach over a hundred miles an hour, and was sufficiently manoeuvrable to shake off any official pursuer.
Humming to himself – the song written for the Angels by Freddie Dolan before he was electrocuted at a rock concert the previous year, ‘Grey Turns Green’ – he walked over to a clear patch of turf and sat down. He was conscious of the growing heat of the sun, and he slipped out of his colours and let them lie by his feet.
The man was Gerry ‘Wolf’ Vinson, president of the Last Heroes chapter. What was left of it. A presidency that he’d taken over from the previous leader – Vincent – about how long ago was it now? It seemed many years, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of years ago.
