by Mick Norman
All but two of the Manchester Angels surrendered. One ran for the shrubs that clung to the soft sandy edges of the beach, and dived in with his shotgun in his hand. From there he held the Wolves and Last Heroes off for two hours until he had only two shells left.
By now, first light was nibbling at the blackness, and the watching Angels saw a remarkable sight. After the crack of the gun had kept them low, they heard muttering, as though Kirk was talking to himself. Then, there was the double bang of both barrels being fired. But, it sounded more muffled than it had. They saw the body of Kirk rise vertically in the air, as though a mighty hand had thrown him, then it flopped down again into the grass.
By putting the barrels in his mouth, he had muffled the bangs. But, the power of the charges had lifted him clear of the ground, ripping the back of his head off in whitened splinters of bone. So, he boldly went where no man had gone before.
That left one. The psychotic Spock. He got to one of the boats and managed to paddle it away.
By dawn he was back at their deserted camp, breaking the news to the mamas and old ladies that the Star Trekkers were finished. Before this could really penetrate, he was astride his Norton, eyes staring insanely at the pale eastern sky, roaring off southwards. On a lone run.
By nine he was already near Shrewsbury, his face a mask of dust and sweat. His lips moved incessantly, and tiny bubbles of spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth.
By midday he was getting near his destination.
Just after one thirty, he reached it.
Behind him, at the village of Porth-y-Nant, in the valley of Nant Gwrtheyrn, the carnage was cleaned up. As many of the bodies as possible were retrieved from the sea, but some had drifted away during the night, and some had sunk, to reappear days later, miles along the coast, with all the soft flesh gone from their faces and bodies.
Gwyn and Monk held a last hasty meeting. They had sent the remnants of the Star Trekkers off on foot. Barefoot. With their colours shredded from their backs. The village was cleared up, with the help of the returned mamas and old ladies, and they all prepared for a hasty farewell and exit.
Amid all the bustle, Gwyn and Monk snatched a few quick words.
‘Come down and see us when things get quieter, Gwyn. In a few months.’
The albino grinned. ‘I will, boy, don’t you worry. Hey, but what about Gerry? Almost forgot him in all the excitement. What about him?’
‘We’ll find him. But, he’s probably turned up by now, and he’s roaring up here on his way. Keep in touch, mate.’
‘Right. And you.’ Monk walked to his hog, where Modesty sat waiting for him.
Gwyn shouted above the revving of the engines: ‘Hey, Monk. Thanks for coming.’
Monk grinned back. ‘Thanks a lot for having us. Take care now.’
And they were gone.
At Shrewsbury, Monk shouted for the others to carry on back to their turf without him. Didn’t give them time to ask where he was going or why. Didn’t even say when he’d be along after them.
He rode on, with Modesty clinging to the back of his colours, through Shropshire lanes. After a couple of miles, she asked, her lips pressed close to his ear, shouting above the slipstream: ‘Where are we going?’
He shouted back. One word: ‘Away.’
Fifteen – And Handed Out Strongly
‘The Country’s Conscience’ – the weekly social leader in the Sunday paper,
The Clarion. Sunday, May –, 198–
Well, it’s happened again. I wonder as I read the news tapes how much longer we are going to have to put up with these desperate animals. The self-styled ‘apostles of the open road’ with their filthy habits and depraved rules and regulations.
I’m sure that many of you, like me, made extra checks on your locks and bolts when you read about the shocking outbursts of killing and woundings that took place in different parts of the country last week.
I know North Wales well, and I love its people. I love their quietness and their respect for the summer visitors. Most of the Welsh love the English, as a horse loves its hay, and I mean no disrespect by that. What, you may ask, have, these soft-spoken folk done to deserve this mass slaughter on their doorsteps? It is not an easy question to answer.
According to most reports, as many as thirty young people perished in a fight between several gangs of thugs. These young men, mostly from Manchester – a city that I know well and love – chose to live their lives in this mindless way, ending them in as futile a manner as it is possible to imagine. They never walked hand in hand with their young women through fields of summer green. They never walked along sandy beaches, dreaming of the family they would raise. No, they walked in darkness, knives and guns their only loves. And, so they perished, by that same violence by which they lived.
I for one can shed no tears.
And what of the folk in the quiet hamlet in Hertfordshire, who had their afternoon peace ripped apart by the violent explosion? Are they not entitled to protection?’ I am a firm supporter of the police in their vigilant and ceaseless battle against the forces of evil and corruption. But, I wonder why they did nothing to stop this slaughter. Perhaps they were too busy harrying parking offenders, as I myself was harried only last Thursday. Priorities should be examined with greater care by the senior officers.
We learn that a camp of these Hell’s Angels was devastated and most of the occupants killed when a tank of petrol – did they have a licence for storing that sort of quantity, I wonder? – exploded. One of the few survivors, a teenage girl, claimed that it had been a member of a rival gang who had caused the blaze. A man who thought it clever to mutilate his own ears and name himself after a television programme of years ago. It is some relief to know that this ‘Spock’, as he called himself, was among the dead.
I have attacked these hooligans in the past, and I shall, doubtless, have to attack them again in the future. I cannot allow my function as the ‘Country’s Conscience’ to falter or waver.
Perhaps the days will come again when a man can take his family out into God’s green country, at the end of a week’s honest toil, without having to look over his shoulder for the looming spectre of Gerry Vinson and his self-styled Last Heroes. Gradually, my friends in the police tell me, his gang has been eroded, and this last blow to his headquarters may prove the last nail in their coffin.
As all my regular readers tell me so often, they appreciate the cool Impersonal way that I make my points and put my grievances. The reason for this is simple. I feel that I am putting your grievances, and that is why I remain cool.
But, I will relax that dispassionate calm when I think about the Hell’s Angels. If they are finally buried, I will go and dance on the grave. And, I feel that I will be doing that for all of you.
Next week I’ll be looking at the softies who bend over backwards to help unmarried mothers. I’ll be asking why they can’t help themselves.
Until then; so long my old Chinas.
Sixteen – You Ask Why I Don’t Live Here
Assistant Chief Constable Israel Pitman Penn was due back from the north that evening. His case had been neatly wrapped up, and he couldn’t wait to get back and see how things were going.
Angela was satisfied. The last three days had seen Gerry unwittingly pour out to her all the innermost secrets of the Angels. The killings, accidental and deliberate. Where they got dope and guns from. Friends in straight jobs who would help out now and again, when they were in trouble. The pile of tapes stood several inches high, each tape loaded with names. Enough to break the back of the Angels in Britain from here to eternity.
All supplied by Gerry Vinson.
She had kept him in a semi-twilight sleep state since their afternoon out, knowing that he would start to suspect what was happening if she once took him off the truth drug. Each morning she gave him the large glass of orange juice with a second helping at lunch, and a third to get him to sleep.
Exhausted by the shattering effect the drug was having on hi
s mind and body, Gerry had collapsed and she had put him to bed, locking him securely in. Allowing herself the luxury of a drink with lunch. Lying on her bed, relaxing, idly letting her fingers feather down to touch herself. Literally hugging herself with pleasure at how well things were going.
There’d be another, session later, maybe after Israel came back, so that he could see for himself what she’d done to the big, strong, villain, Gerry Vinson. He was almost literally eating out of her hand. Maybe one, or two at the outside, more days, then Israel could have Vinson and the tapes, and she would begin to work on her thesis. The book that would bring the name of Angela Wells out of the shadows into the glare of the spotlight. The book that would make her.
Grinning at the sheer beauty of that thought, she reached over and poured another drink. Opened the small drawer at the side of the bed. Took something out, and turned it on. The soft hum filled the room, and she slipped away into another world. The sun crept round.
Downstairs, Gerry woke up about five. The clock on the wall of his bedroom wasn’t all that reliable. He was surprised to see it was that late. Normally they had a long afternoon session. Maybe they’d had it, and he hadn’t noticed. He stood up, shaking his head to try and clear it. He’d collapsed just before lunch, and he’d had nothing. Not even the usual glass of orange juice.
Strangely, the muzziness seemed a little easier after his sleep. If only he could get his thoughts together, he reckoned he could work out what was wrong with him. But, concentration was out of the question.
Vaguely, he gazed down at the chain between his feet. Just visible, a nick on one of the links, was the silver cut he’d been making, trying to sever it. That had been ... how long ago? It seemed ages. Maybe it was only a few days. Maybe he ought to try.
But, it wasn’t easy to get through one of those steel chains. They had enormous strength. He grinned as he remembered, something one of the brothers had once done with a chain. It had been … who had it been? Cochise. That was who. He’d crept up behind a parked police car, attached one end, of a forty foot chain to the rear axle. The other end to a concrete post just behind the car.
Then, he’d gone out in front of the police car and shouted out they were a crowd of fucking queers. Then, waving two vertical fingers, he’d ridden slowly away.
The moment the police woke up to this insult, the driver slammed the car into gear, and stamped hard on the accelerator, intending to knock the crap out of the Angel. If necessary, ride him into the road in a smear of blood and guts.
When the chain snapped taut, it ripped the rear axle clear away from the chassis, and the car veered sideways in a shower of exploding sparks and ground splinters of torn metal.
In the silence of his lonely room, Gerry laughed out loud at the story. He remembered that Angela hadn’t seemed to think it was that amusing.
It was a hell of a good job he hadn’t mentioned the name of Cochise to Angela. Despite all her promises and those of Penn, it would be a temptation not to try and bust the big Angel.
‘Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!! Oh, fucking bloody bleeding sodding bastard!’
As suddenly as he exploded into blind rage, so he managed to bring himself under control. His anger was so intense that he actually rolled on the bed, biting on the pillow to stop himself screaming out again. The anger burst through his body, helping to push back the effects of the scopolamine.
Like someone switching on a powerful light inside his brain, he realised what Angela had been doing to him. He had given her the name of Cochise. And all the other brothers. Given her descriptions and places where they hung out. Who had done this and that and when. He’d given her enough on tape to bring in every Hell’s Angel he’d ever known. Not just the Last Heroes but some righteous brothers from other chapters. Notably the Wolves.
It took him a moment to fully regain his composure. Even then, he found his hands shaking at the extent of his treachery. Would Penn keep his word? Would he hell! That meant two things he needed to do. One was to get out, and the other was to destroy the tapes and all her notes.
First, there was an even greater urgency. To find out how she was drugging him, and stop her without her noticing. Unless he could do that, he’d be easy meat if he tried to escape.
What could it be? Not an injection. It was virtually impossible to give anyone the needle without them noticing, though he’d once O.D.ed a bent pusher without him knowing. That meant it had to be in food. Or drink. What the hell did he have that she didn’t?
Mind racing, because he could hear someone moving around upstairs, Gerry tried to think what he had to eat and drink at each meal. Something that maybe Angela didn’t touch.
The muzziness was easing with every minute that passed. What about breakfast?
Orange juice! Of course. The one thing he had three times each day, and Angela never had at all. Said it brought her out in spots. Right. That was the game they were playing. Now that he knew what the rules were, he’d be able to take a much bigger part in it.
The sound of someone fumbling at the lock, rattling the key. Angie pushed her head round the door, a lopsided grin barely pasted in place.
‘Hello, little Gerry. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was just catching up on a bit of sleep. How do you feel?’
He forced a dreamy, vague note into his voice, telling her he was all right.
‘Good. Izzie’ll be here in about an hour. Is there anything I can get you before he comes? I’d like to have a session with him sitting in. I think he’d be interested. How about a drink?’
‘Yes please. I’d like a glass of orange.’
He watched her face, seeing that she didn’t bother to hide her amusement that this was what he wanted. Yes, that had to be it. The orange. Some kind of drug in it that had made him vomit up everything he knew.
After she brought it, she locked him in again and went upstairs to take a bath. Carefully, he poured the drink on to the carpet under the bed, where the shadow would hide the dampness until it was dry.
Then, he sat on the bed, thinking out what he would do. His plan had to be a good one. With Israel there, he wouldn’t have much room for error.
‘Ask him about the bank raid again. Where the money went. That’s what’d interest a few coppers around the place.’
There was a nervous tic right between the eyes that hadn’t been there when he went away to Yorkshire a week ago. His face looked thinner and more drawn, the eyes never still, flicking from face to face, stopping at the pile of tapes on the cabinet against the wall.
Angela looked at Gerry, pitching her voice low, so that he would feel secure, and wouldn’t want to fight against the influence of the drug that she imagined now had him in its grip.
‘Gerry, my love, can you tell me what happened to all the money you stole from that bank?’
He gazed at the table for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He knew he was going to have to act fast and soon. Everything he’d said in the past had been true, and Israel would have it all later that night, or by tomorrow at the latest.
‘We spent quite a lot on dope and booze and tools for the hogs. The rest we buried in our camp down south.’
‘Exactly where?’ asked Israel, sharply.
‘Underneath the petrol tank that held all our fuel. In a wooden box.’
There was a crash as the policeman banged his hand on the table.
‘Bloody damnation! That explosion at their camp that killed a lot of them was centred on that fuel tank. Some bastard from one of the other gangs got to it and blew it up!’
It took an enormous effort of will for Gerry not to show his shock at the news. The money wasn’t really buried there, but that didn’t matter. There’d been an explosion, and some of the brothers were dead. And, there’d been a rumble. He prayed that Israel would say more.
Fortunately, Angela had been so busy taping and keeping her copious notes together that she’d not bothered to watch the news or look at the papers for several days. She asked what had been happening, and Is
rael put her in the picture. The story he told – broadly accurate as it was – shattered Gerry. Deaths on the scale he was talking about meant big trouble. It meant a police purge bigger even than the one under Hayes. And, it meant that the police would need and use every single scrap of information they could against the brothers.
To his relief, Angela had been so thorough that there were only the most minimal gaps in the picture that Penn wanted filled in. By eleven that night, they were done, and Angela led him to his room, giving him his glass of orange juice.
They had become so used to his dullness and lack of interest in what was going on around him that they were speaking freely without worrying if he could understand or not. While she was getting him ready for bed, Penn had been talking about tomorrow.
‘I’ll get him to London in the morning. We needn’t get up too early. Plenty of time for a bit of relaxation first. But, with all these explosions, and the Home Secretary wetting himself, I don’t think we can wait any longer. I’ll take all the tapes and all the notes with me, and get them transcribed straight away. I’ll charge him with a few things to start with, then I’ll get as many men as possible out on the road, tracking down the rest of his bastard friends.’
And he laughed. Laughed until the tears ran down his thin cheeks. Laughed and kept on laughing, until Angela shook him by the arm and almost hit him. Then, spinning on his heel, he left the room.
Gerry sat apathetically, ignoring this bizarre cameo, the glass of drugged orange held tightly in his hands, hoping that she would leave so that he wouldn’t have to drink it. To risk slipping back into that half-world of living and partly-living would mean his own end, and the end of many of his closest and oldest friends. That was, if any of them had survived the slaughter in Wales and in Hertfordshire.
But, he was out of luck. Angie stood by the door, looking worriedly up the stairs after Israel, her mouth set in a tight, worried line. She turned round to face Gerry.
‘Drink up your orange. Otherwise you won’t grow up to be a big strong boy.’
