by Mick Norman
Over their meal, Penn had seemed under strain, as though the effort of being civilised with Gerry was almost more than he could stand. The Hell’s Angels sometimes attract some right maniacs, and Gerry had seen this kind of tension before.
Way back, in the early days of the Last Heroes, there’d been a brother called Mad Mark. And, he had been. He’d had an old lady with breasts like wrinkled prunes, called, what was her name, Drooper? That was it.
Mad Mark had showed the same kind of odd behaviour as Penn. There had always been a suppressed lunacy about him. He was one brother that nobody crossed. Even big men like Kafka and Cochise would shuffle uneasily when they found themselves fixed by his glittering eye.
One day, he’d cracked. They found Drooper with her throat slit so savagely that the bones showed through the red lips of torn flesh. Nobody ever found out what it was that made him crack. In fact, nobody ever found Mad Mark, either. Well, they found bits of him. As he’d crashed away from the camp, he’d cut at himself with the bowie knife he always carried. They found four fingers and an ear at intervals along the path that led to the pool of quicksand. That was all.
And, Israel Pitman Penn was showing the same sort of underlying tension.
He realised that Miss Wells was looking at him, a patient smile on her well-bred face. Waiting for him to go on.
‘Sorry, Miss Wells. I was thinking about something. Where was I?’
‘You were going to tell me what you thought of our little plan to help you. And hundreds like you.’
‘Yes. I stay here for a few days—’
‘Or as long as is necessary,’ she interrupted him.
‘Right. And, I answer all your questions as honestly as possible and I tell you everything you want to know about me and about the Angels. But, I’m allowed to change names in case I incriminate anyone else.’
She looked pleased, as though a lapdog had just managed to roll over and play dead for the first time.
‘And,’ he went on, ‘Mr. Penn will promise to forget all about the … the killing. And, he promises not to take any action against me for anything else in the past that I might reveal while we’re talking. Is that about it?’
Again she nodded and smiled at him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she actually applauded him for being a good boy.
‘That’s it exactly, Gerry. I can see we’re going to get on really splendidly.’
‘But, one thing I still don’t honestly understand.’
‘What’s that?’
‘How are you going to keep me here? Remember, Miss Wells, that Mr. Penn promised the cuffs could come off soon.’
The voice behind them made both of them jump. Neither of them had heard Penn come in.
‘Easy as winking, Vinson. I’ve been on the blower to my County H.Q. while you and Angie were having your little tête-à-tête. Everything’s organised. In fact, you can have the cuffs off in about an hour.’
Angela got up to make a pot of coffee, and Gerry was left alone with the policeman. Penn walked round the room then sat down opposite him.
‘Want to know what’s going to happen here? I’ve locked your machine up in the garage. Double Chubb locks on all the doors. No windows. Safe in there. This house is isolated. Nothing else for a couple of miles in any direction. Told my boys Miss Wells had been getting threatening letters and phone calls. Funnily enough, I said they were from you lot; Bit of a joke, eh Gerry? So, there’ll be special patrols all round this place. Night and day. Armed too. Shoot on sight merchants. Anyone round here who looks vaguely like a motorcycle man’ll find his brains splattered all over the landscape.’
Gerry looked up, wondering how to pick his words to avoid angering the man. But, desperately wanting any, information he could get.
‘But, what if I hurt Miss Wells? While you’re away. What’s to protect her?’
‘Nobody, Gerry, my boy.’ He was becoming distinctly … amiable. Since before the meal he’d been knocking back cut glass tumblers full of brandy. Inevitably, they were having their effect. ‘But, I’ve thought about that. In the garage there’s a steel belt that I’ll lock round your waist There’s a pair of cuffs attached by bits of chain. Give you a reasonable amount of freedom. Feed yourself, wipe your arse, that sort of thing. But, very limiting in a barney. Angie’s a black belt judo and karate. Very good she is. And, there’s a set of steel leg-irons as well. You can hobble around like a tart in a tantrum, but that’s about all. No running or riding a bike.’
The Angel said what he thought. ‘Clever.’
Penn suddenly leaned across the table at him. ‘Sir. Clever sir.’ The venom was awesome.
‘Sir. Clever, sir.’
A room had been prepared for Gerry on the ground floor. As an extra precaution, bars had been set in the concrete and a special lock fixed on the door.
But, Gerry had been taken upstairs by the smirking Penn, and he’d seen the armed patrols. It wasn’t bull. He wasn’t about to go anywhere.
Angela had fixed the belt and chains on him, while Israel stood by toying with the Minim, twirling it round his index finger. There was a certain amount of play in the leg chains, enabling him to take small, mincing steps, but, as Penn had said, there wouldn’t be any running with them on.
Since he didn’t seem to be in any direct danger, Gerry decided he had nothing to lose by playing along with them. He knew damned well that Penn wasn’t bluffing about fitting him for the road accident. So, he’d keep the ball in play.
Penn and Angela went upstairs to their bedroom. Although he was exultant over his capture, Israel still couldn’t perform. It had been several weeks since he’d been able to get an erection. As was becoming usual, he had to satisfy Angie by other methods. She was as understanding with him as she ever was.
‘It’s probably excitement over that animal downstairs, Izzie. Once you realise we’ve got him, it’ll be all right again.’
She dropped off to sleep. Penn couldn’t sleep and walked down, pausing outside Gerry’s cell. Or, room. He had poured himself a last brandy, and clutched it in his left hand. His eyes flickered through the Judas window set in the door, watching the sleeping figure of the Hell’s Angel.
In the half-light of the hallway, the policeman’s lips drew back from his teeth in a strange, humourless smile. Still grinning, he began to squeeze the glass tighter.
Tighter.
And tighter.
When it splintered in his palm, he still smiled, looking vacantly at the leaping threads of red that broke from his flesh.
And he laughed, deep in his throat.
Gerry murmured in his sleep, disturbed by the sound.
Five – Drunk Man - Street Car - Foot Slip – There You Are
Youth Jailed On Driving Death Charge.
Twenty-three-year-old Marvin Simmons was sentenced today at Ludlow Magistrate’s Court to eight years in jail for causing the death of Derek Stokesley-Wyatt.
The defendant, a Birmingham record seller, who had four previous convictions for offences under the abuse of restricted drugs rulings, had pleaded ‘Not Guilty’. His story had been one of the most amazing ever tried in such a case, and it was its very absurdity that contributed to the correctly severe sentence passed by magistrate Sir Thomas David.
Intolerable Fantasy!
Simmons claimed that he had been returning to Birmingham after a festival at Glastonbury to celebrate the so-called ‘Ley-Day’ and was driving carefully along at thirty miles per hour. He saw the deceased pursued by a Hell’s Angel motorcyclist roaring towards him. The car skidded to a halt and the driver of it ran straight in front of his van. He said he had no chance to avoid him.
Phantoms Of A Drug-crazed Mind!
Not only did the guilty man claim to have seen a ghostly motorcyclist, but he also claimed that he also saw a man in a white Jaguar, a tall thin man, he said, pull up at the scene of the death and help the motorcyclist away.
Sir Thomas David remarked at this point whether or not the defendant was also g
oing to claim to have seen a coach and four, a headless hound and Anne Boleyn.
The sally was greeted with laughter in court.
Children In Custody.
The magistrates did not even need to retire to consider their verdict, so obvious was the man’s guilt and so absurd his attempted defence.
‘I will not bother to discuss the attempted defence. That the dead man was pursued to his death by twin spirits of doom. A black man on a motorcycle and a white man in a car. They were obviously the phantoms of a drug-crazed mind!’ said Sir Thomas David, just before passing sentence.
‘I dismiss this intolerable fantasy and will only comment that we would have been better minded towards some leniency if the defendant had pleaded guilty like a man.’
‘As it is, we are agreed that a salutary sentence is called for. In view of the man’s appalling record, we have decided to make something of an example of him, in fhe hope that other like-minded hooligans and anti-social elements will take note and avoid this area.’
As stated above, Marvin Simmons was sentenced to eight years preventive detention on the driving charge. A suspended sentence of two years for drug offences was also implemented.
Simmons ‘ wife was in court to hear the sentence, and she fainted when it was announced.
An appeal has been denied.
© Shropshire and West Midlands Gazette and Weekly Bulletin. May 2nd, 198—
Six – Listen Closely To Me
He heard them moving about upstairs for some time before he saw either of them. The first sight was of Penn as he unlocked the greased tumblers of the security lock on the bedroom. His left hand was bandaged.
But his face looked more normal, more at peace. Gerry wondered about the risk of asking about the bandage, or making a joke about Angela closing her legs on him. But, he thought better of it. And, he was probably right.
‘Morning Vinson. Sleep well?’
He stood up and stretched, feeling the sinews crack in his shoulders, still stiff from the hours in handcuffs. Penn still had the Minim 357, only it was now tucked back in the waistband of his neatly-tailored slacks.
It wouldn’t have been that hard, even allowing for the new steel restrictions on him, to take Penn and reach the gun. He had second thoughts. It would have been hard, but not impossible. Then, what? He’s in a house with a gun and two possible hostages, with the gardens and land around positively crawling with fuzz.
Gerry had woken early, and given a lot of thought to his predicament. Planning when you were in a tight corner meant you were on the way to getting out. Panic, or risk committing yourself to hasty action, and you were on the way to getting dead.
He mentally ticked off the points. Firstly, and maybe the most important, he reckoned that Israel Penn, Assistant Chief Constable, was well on the way round the bend. Maybe it was this bird, the lady shrink. She seemed an odd mixture. Nice some of the time and a bitch at others.
Gerry had served in Ireland at the time of the Paisley Riots and knew all about interrogation techniques. For a spell he’d been involved in it himself. He’d been a hard, ruthless soldier and his dedication to the problems of staying alive in ravaged Ulster hadn’t escaped the attention of his superiors.
They tried to get him to use this vicious streak to break other men. Suspected assassins, killers, bomb-makers and carriers. Men and women. Even children.
He’d given it a try. He’d always been prepared to give most things a try. But, after a few days he’d jacked it in and gone back to facing the Armalite snipers and the bullet from the passing car.
It wasn’t so much the physical side of it. That was as old as time, and twice as nasty. But, at least you knew where you were. If you got caught, you could always expect a boot in the bollocks or a cigarette stubbed out on your back. That was the way of the world.
But, since the Korean War, every armed country in the world had been working on more sophisticated methods of torture. No; that wasn’t the word to use. Not torture. It was called intensive interrogation. Made it sound better. Cleaner. And, in some ways it was cleaner. There was very little blood nowadays.
But, the end results were just as devastating. Even more permanent. The sensory deprivation. Being slung upside down in a webbing cradle, with your eyes and ears blocked. A rubber tube probing at your intestines that fed you a trickle of sweet pap at irregular intervals. Sometimes being lowered into tanks of liquid at body heat, wearing a mask that enabled you to breathe. Never knowing which way was up.
Music in your ears that played endlessly, sometimes increasing in volume beyond the pain level. Hallucinogenic drugs that sent you screaming into your own guts. No sleep. Too much sleep.
Of prisoners released after that sort of treatment, a terrifying twenty-three per cent attempted suicide more than once. And well over half ended up in permanent psychiatric care.
Gerry shuddered as he remembered some of it. The blank faces, and the dribbling, slack mouths.
That had been the top stuff. But, at the beginning, there’d simply been the old stick and carrot routine. Sometimes with two men and sometimes with only one. Start off by being a real hard bastard. Then, suddenly become Mr. Nice Guy. Or, call in your nice partner. The contrast is so great the prisoner becomes disorientated.
And, that’s what Gerry was. A prisoner. So, he’d play it very cool. Go all the way along with them, and then see what happened. Trouble was, he didn’t have many cards in his hand at all. Not even the physical freedom to play it. ‘Morning Mr. Penn, sir. Lovely morning.’
Penn nodded, pleased to see his prisoner so obedient. Yet, also disappointed at it. The thrill as he pounded the Angel’s face and body with his fists had been indescribable. Sending a warm glow powering through his body. He almost giggled at the memory, then held himself in check.
They breakfasted together, as a bizarre little family. Conversation was limited, with long silences between the crunching of the Sweetie-Bobbles and the sipping of coffee.
Penn finished his meal with an appreciative belch and went into the living-room to read the morning papers. Angela and Gerry remained behind. Nodding his head in the direction of the open door, Gerry whispered: ‘Excuse me, miss, but is he going to stay here all the time? While I’m talking, that is?’
She was reading The Times, and only gave him half her attention. ‘What? Oh, Israel. No, he won’t. He has to be back at work this morning by ten, and we’ll get down to things after he’s gone.’
At nine-thirty, Penn came in and checked the locks on Gerry’s manacles. Satisfied they were still secure, he pushed him back in the chair.
‘Listen, Vinson, and listen good. You play ball here, and things’ll be easy. Maybe you’ll even find some good out of it all. You step out of line and I’ll ... I’ll kill you. All right?’
Gerry watched his mouth working.
‘Yes, sir. I believe you. Have a good day.’
They sat together in the long work-room. Lined with bookshelves in natural wood, the lines of leather-bound volumes, interspersed with paperbacks. On one shelf, he noticed a well-worn set of the books of Cave and Stuart – the early chroniclers of the Angels.
Her desk was functional, with chromed steel legs and a black leather top. It held only a notebook and a tape recorder. The angular microphone pointed accusingly at Gerry as he sat opposite her, trying to get comfortable in an upright chair.
Angela had poured out a glass of vodka for herself. He had asked for a drink, but there was no Southern Comfort in the house. He’d settled for coffee, although she’d offered to get some in.
She switched on the tape recorder, and began muttering into it, trying to find the right sound balance, getting him to talk as well.
‘What should I say, miss?’
‘Anything you like, and you can drop the “miss” bit now that Israel isn’t here. You can call me Angela and I’ll call you Gerry. Is that okay with you? Good. Now, just say something so that I can get this set up.’
Gerry grinned at her. �
�All right. There was a young girl from the Azores, whose ...’
Her face had gone cold again. ‘Gerry. Don’t push it. And, for God’s sake try and sit still. What’s the matter, have you got threadworm or something?’
‘No! No, It’s just that it’s bloody impossible to sit still on this chair, wearing half the chains of the Tower of London.’
She looked at him more sympathetically. ‘They really are a bit much, aren’t they?’
Shuffling and wriggling, he made it look much more uncomfortable than it really was.
‘All right. If you promise to co-operate fully with me, then I’ll unlock the handcuffs. But, you must keep the leg-irons on. Is that a deal?’
Anything to make the chance of escape seem better was a deal. He wasn’t that big at keeping his word. Specially not when he was being forced into it.
What surprised him, as she unlocked the steel belt and the wrist bands, was that she hadn’t asked for a promise not to escape.
She must have read his mind.
‘You’re surprised I didn’t ask for your parole and your word of honour not to escape. Obviously you are. I’m slightly insulted by that. It means that you think I’m a fool. I’m not, Gerry, and you’d better believe that. I know that you could probably overpower me, and get out of the house. Probably, but not certainly. Israel told you I can look after myself. Then you’ve got to get past all the police out there, and you can’t get at your bike. Israel has the only key to the garage. There you are, is that better?’
‘Nice to be able to pick my nose again,’ he grinned.
After that, she became totally business-like. They spent the first hour or so on simple facts. Name, age, birth date and place, parent’s occupations and ages. The usual things that you get filling in forms everywhere.
Gerry told mostly truths, altering a few of the numbers and dates slightly. He was interested to see how thorough their checking system was. At the end of the hour, he pleaded a headache, and they broke for a couple of hours.
She locked him in his room, and he heard her on the phone for most of the time. When she released him again, her face didn’t betray any emotion. But, she was holding a gun. A twin to Penn’s automatic.
