by Mick Norman
There was no way round it. Israel had been flashing his automatic around, like he could hardly wait for a chance to use it. If he didn’t drink, then they’d know he’d been faking.
And the shit would hit the fan in the biggest way possible.
So, as fast as he could, he drank, draining the glass. As he handed her the empty glass, he looked up at her, wondering whether there might be any touch of kindness or compassion in her.
She was hardly paying attention, and the glass fell to the floor, where it rolled across the carpet. Her voice breaking with anger, she slapped him hard across the face, knocking him backwards over the bed.
‘You stupid little bastard. Thank Christ I won’t see you again after tomorrow until I see you in the dock, collecting forty years without remission.’ She looked down at him, as he struggled to get up. ‘Maybe I’ll chain you up properly for the night. One round your neck, so you can’t even sit down. Teach you one last lesson. Then you can think about me upstairs in bed with Israel. Not that you can think about anything with that inside you.’
He waited, ready to try and kill her if she tried to do what she threatened. But, from upstairs came the bull’s bellow of Israel Penn, shouting for her to hurry up. Picking up the glass, she spun on her heel and walked out. He heard the key grate in the lock, then her footsteps going upstairs. The slamming of her bedroom door, then silence.
The marks of her fingers burned on his cheek.
Apart from the muffled noise of voices, the big house was quiet. Already the drug in the orange would be passing through into his stomach. He didn’t have much time at all.
He dropped to his knees in the corner of the room farthest away from the door, and put his hands to his mouth. If she’d chained him at all, there would have been no way he could have saved himself. He jammed his fingers into his mouth, probing at the back of his throat. He gagged, but kept his fingers there. He gagged again, and his mouth filled with saliva. Breathing hard with the strain of what he was doing, he spat it out, trying again. He felt his stomach muscles heaving, telling him he was progressing. At last, with a great gush, his throat and mouth filled with vomit. Head down, he retched and gasped, bringing it all back home. His supper was fairly digested by now, but he brought it up. He was relieved, in the pale fight of the moon, to see a flood of liquid. In the time he’d taken, the drug would have had no chance to get into his system.
Still he thrust his fingers down his throat, heaving and straining until he was only bringing up thin bile. It was done. He’d managed stage one.
The chain broke at eighteen minutes past one. By half-past, he had wrapped the tinkling ends up in rags torn off his sheets. The noises from upstairs had ceased nearly an hour ago. That left the bars to the window.
During supper, it hadn’t been difficult to pocket a fork, keeping it down the front of his Levis. Now, working steadily away, he managed to chip the concrete away from the bottoms of two of the bars. Exerting all his strength, he forced them apart, leaving a gap just wide enough for him to wriggle through.
The tearing noise as the bars gave under his pressure made him grit his teeth, and he waited in the darkness for a moment. But, all was as silent as a sealed tomb.
The garden was pitch-black. The moon had been obscured by heavy cloud. That was to his advantage. Gerry was a skilled and cautious tracker, and his time in the jungle warfare section of the army had left him with few equals at this sort of game.
He ran, lightly, over the lawn, keeping to the deeper shadows at the edges, slipping into the shrubbery like a ghost of vengeance. He’d noticed the guard patrols in his first couple of nights, before the scopolamine took its toll. He guessed there were four, patrolling in linked pairs.
Among the trees, he paused as he heard the church clock in the distant village strike the hour. Silently, he counted the strokes. One. Two. Three. Christ, time was passing much too fast! It would be dawn in less than three hours.
As it turned out, the patrols were easy. He could hear them coming a long way off, chatting amiably about the cricket season, and the controversial appointment of a Pakistani-born West Indian as the new captain of the national side.
After they’d lumbered past, making more noise than mating elephants, he struck quickly across the country. In less than a quarter of an hour, he was there.
The white gate had a strict notice on it. It said, in bold black letters: ‘Keep Out. No Admittance. Keep Out’.
That figured, thought Gerry. Maybe he wouldn’t want many people coming round looking him up. Not Mr. Remington – like the gun – with his taste for purple shirts, and his desire for secrecy.
The gate was locked, and Gerry scrambled over, scratching his hand on a strip of barbed wire as he did so. There were no lights showing in the cottage. Gerry walked quietly round the path, breathing in the deep odour of honeysuckle that clustered round the side wall.
Near the back door was a tub of clean, fresh rain water, and he used the opportunity to wash some of the stale, brackish taste of vomit out of his mouth.
It wasn’t hard to guess which was the main bedroom, and he stopped and picked up a handful of earth from the edge of the neatly-trimmed border. He flicked it up at the bedroom window, hearing it rattle on the glass. He had to do it three times more, using slightly larger lumps of earth, before he got the reaction he wanted.
A bedside limp clicked on, and then the window inched open. A high-pitched American voice drifted across the garden, sounding like the sweetest music in the world to Gerry’s ears.
‘Who the fuck is that and what the fuck do you want?’
A blast from the past. Not Remington, like the gun, but Colt, like the gun. Purple nightshirt and all.
‘Hello, Rupert. It’s Gerry. I was just passing by, and I thought I’d drop in.’
Seventeen – That’s Strung A Knot In My Mind
Extract from a confidential memo from
Assistant Chief Constable I. P. Penn, t
o the Home Secretary, 198–
You will find attached to this introductory note a selection of data from a number of tapes made by Professor Angela Wells. They will incriminate many members of the outlawed motorcycle gangs, in many cases linking them with crimes going back several years. I will not mention any of these here, but I would just ask you to note that the suspicions of many of my fellow officers about me –I heard about these suspicions, all the whispering behind my back – are completely without foundation. I have produced in this document the most comprehensive and damning indictment against a criminal culture since the days of the big London gangs.
Miss Wells, who I know personally, is a socio-criminal psychiatrist of proven ability. I only hope that her growing relationship with me will not jeopardise her professional position. I know too well what it is to be the subject of a malicious witch-hunt. People you once thought were your friends conspiring in corners, imagining that one is losing hold of one’s sanity. Well, sir, with the greatest respect, I can only say that this will vindicate my single-minded devotion to duty that I hope has always characterised my attitude to the police force.
I found myself in the position of asking one of the leaders of these Hell’s Angels – indeed, I would venture to say that he is the leader of them all – to help her out with a project into the criminal motivation of violence. I feel sure that there will be jealousy over my coup, but I would ask you to believe that there was little luck in my choice. I had planned and schemed for years, giving up everything, to help bring these animals to justice.
Investigation might suggest that I bent the rules to try and entrap this man and his nefarious associates. I deny that. I deny that absolutely. He came with me of his own free will and he stayed of his own free will. Anyone who says otherwise is simply out to bring me down and help these creatures of night and death to escape. Well, you have my word that I will not let a single one rest until they are all safely behind bars for the longest sentence the law can possibly pass. I only hope some bleeding-heart liber
al judge doesn’t set them free with a smack on the bottom and a lecture on civics.
That is all I want to say. In a day I will have all the information I need to present you, and that will make certain folk – I name no names – laugh on the other side of their faces.
I remain, respectfully, Israel Pitman Penn.;
Comments of Detective Inspector Peter Gudgeon, Shropshire Constabulary.
This piece of paper was found in a charred briefcase that we believe was the possession of the Assistant Chief Constable. There was nothing else attached to it. Nor was there any sign of anything in the house that might have supported his strange fancies.
Unless there is any evidence still to come to light, I fear that I can only imagine that the Assistant Chief Constable might, as has been suggested, have been suffering from overwork.
I present a fuller report in the dossier on the incident.
Eighteen – Time Will Tell Just Who Fell and Who’s Been Left Behind
Over a hastily prepared mug of coffee, Rupert Colt and Gerry caught up with the main essentials of what had happened to both of them since the last meeting, backstage at the apocalyptic concert in London.
Then, the little American had told Gerry he was getting out. That the rat-race had finished for him and that he was going to get right away from it all. Change his name and live on a small farm in the country.
And he’d done all that. It had been even better than he’d hoped. He felt twenty years younger and he’d already stopped gorging himself on handfuls of uppers and downers.
At first, he obviously didn’t believe Gerry’s amazing story. Until he was told about the involvement of Israel Pitman Penn.
‘Right baby. Now I know it’s for real. That man was a psycho in the making if ever I saw one. The guy was bound to crack up sooner or later. Happens it’s sooner. And that’s the chick who lives over there? Well. I’ve seen her a few times around, but we just exchanged the usual pleasantries. You know. See how English I’ve become, Gerry. It’s great. But, what the hell are you going to do?’
Gerry shook his head wearily. ‘I just don’t know, Rupert. All I know is that I’ve got to get back to that house tonight, and stop them spilling it all.’
Rupert nodded. ‘I need someone to come and live in here and help out. It’s all a bit much for me. After you’ve finished over there, why not come and stay a bit. I’m a respectable fellow. There are places in this old place they’d never find you. I can even hide your hog.’
‘Rupert, you are a nice guy. A straight shooter, if you know what I mean. But, you don’t dig it. I’m going to have to wipe them. Probably both of them.’
There was a silence between them. Then, the shorter, older man got up and poured another coffee for himself.
‘Like I said. I need someone to come and live here and help me out with things. If you want to, then come on back.’
Gerry grinned. ‘Tell you what. If it breaks well, then I’ll split straight away and you won’t see me for a bit. Don’t worry, now I know where you are, I’ll find a way of getting to see you. If things don’t work out, and they may not – he’s got a shooter – then I’ll come back and ask you for a job. I feel a bit like that anyway, Rupert. It’s getting time for me to make my move before I get too old. Or too dead.’
Before he left, he cut off the ends of the chain, and borrowed a steel knife from Rupert’s kitchen. While he worked on the chain, Rupert brought him up to date on all the news there’d been in the papers and on the television about the killings in Wales and the explosion that had devastated the camp in Hertfordshire.
‘Looks like there’s nothing much for you to go back to, Gerry. Can’t be many left of the Angels now.’
For a time, he didn’t answer. The paper gave a list of dead, either by real name or by nickname. Allowing for the usual inaccuracies and exaggerations, it had been bad news day. Riddler had bought it, as had a lot of the women. Gerry didn’t know the names of most of them, and didn’t even want to. The report from Wales was more cheerful.
Nearly all the dead came from the Manchester area though two or three of the names of the Welsh brothers were familiar. It was easy for him to piece together what had happened. The threat of the attack from the Manchester Star Trekkers. Gwyn asking for help from the Last Heroes. The fight, led probably by Monk, with their violent victory. Someone, obviously one of the defeated chapter, getting back at them by blowing up their turf.
It was nearly light. Time for a move. Rupert turned off the lights in the cottage, and opened the back door. Gerry slipped through it, the knife tucked in his belt. As he reached the gate, he heard the low whisper from behind him. ‘I hope you come back and ask for that job, Gerry. Take care now.’
The moon still peeped fitfully from behind the clouds, throwing shadows among the trees. A fox loped in front of Gerry, only a few feet away, but he didn’t see or smell him. Remember, Gerry isn’t just good. He’s very good.
If a wily fox doesn’t see him, then the wandering police don’t have much chance. Sure enough, Gerry slips past and reaches the wall of the big house, just below the window from which he’d escaped. Silently, he clambered in, having a quick look round to make sure he hadn’t been spotted. Then, out again, and round the front.
It only took a moment to force a window. Then, he was safe, inside the enemies’ castle, ready to do battle and capture the papers. Wherever they were. He didn’t risk a light, cat-footing across a thick carpet. The hall was a valley of shadow, and he crossed it smoothly, entering Angela’s study. The door was unlocked.
Placing his feet as delicately as a cat, Gerry walked to the desk. In the top drawer, he had seen a small, pencil torch. By its light, he looked quickly round the room. The thick curtains were pulled shut, and he wondered whether to risk putting on the light. But, he decided the risk of the light being seen under the door was too great.
Using the torch, he looked through the desk drawers. Apart from paper and pencils, and the usual clips and rubbers, there was nothing of any importance or use to him. Abandoning that, he started on the bookshelves against the left-hand wall. Still nothing.
Then he remembered her smaller room, where she had occasionally gone. That was locked. But, it was an easily broken lock, on a door that opened inwards. By banging it regularly with his fist, near the lock, he was able to shift the screws in the wood.
Leaning on it, trying to muffle the crack as the screws tore loose, Gerry finally levered the heavy door open. A flash of the torch showed him what he’d come for. A neatly-stacked pile of tapes, resting on top of an equally neat heap of blue notebooks. All together in one place.
He made the instant decision to leave them till last. There was a more important chore to be executed, which was about the right word for it. He pulled the knife from his belt, holding it in front of him. Thumb pointing along the blade, ready for the upward cut of the expert. The most difficult blow to parry.
Back across the carpet, and into the silent hall, at the bottom of the rolling staircase. He hummed tunelessly between his teeth. ‘To market, to market to kill a fat pig.’
His foot was just on the bottom step, poised to take his weight, when all the lights came on. He froze for a second, and then movement was too late.
‘What a surprise. Come to murder us in our beds, have you?’ Standing at the top of the stairs, the Minim automatic in his hand, was Israel. Gerry noticed two things in that first flash of dazzling light. The gun carried a silencer. And, Israel had finally cracked. His eyes were wide and staring, and his left hand constantly plucked at his dressing-gown. He smiled vacantly as Gerry watched him.
‘Put the knife down on the floor, Vinson. Or I’ll shoot you down where you stand. A bullet in each knee, just for a start.’
There didn’t seem a wide range of alternatives. At that range, he wasn’t likely to miss. Mad or not. There was the faint tinkling of steel as he threw the knife down into the corner of the hall. The smile even broader, Penn walked carefully down to join hi
m.
‘In there.’ Waving the gun in the direction of the sittings room. ‘Move.’
‘Wait a minute. Israel, what are you doing?’
Both men glanced upwards. There, in a pale blue, very diaphanous short night-dress, was Angela Wells. In her hand, she held the twin gun to Israel, down to the same bulky silencer.
The policeman looked up at her. ‘He got out. I’m going to have to deal with him.’
‘Not here.’
‘Yes. It has to be. We can’t take the risk of having him running around or getting loose again. Don’t worry, it’ll look like he was trying to escape.’
Angela still didn’t move, obviously worried by this new development in their plans. Oddly, she seemed unaware of Israel’s mental condition, possibly because of the imminent threat that murder was going to be committed in her house within the next couple of minutes.
‘Go back to bed, Angela. Out of the way. I’ll come up when it’s over. I think I may be able to give you something after I’ve got rid of this offal.’ And he giggled again.
It was only then that she realised what had happened, and she began to walk down the stairs. His voice cracked out like a whip. ‘Get back to bed, or you may get hurt. Now!’
Reluctantly, she turned and went out of sight. Penn again waved the gun at Gerry, its barrel looking bigger than ever. Walking carefully, Gerry sat down in a large armchair, his back to a tall, ornate standard lamp.
‘This is where we have a long chat, and you snatch the opportunity to get my gun away, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe not. Goodbye.’
And he squeezed the trigger.
The silencer muffled the sound of the explosion, making it sound like a stifled cough. The .357 bullet actually went between Gerry’s arm and body, thumping into the upholstery with the force of a kick. He started to get up, when Israel dodged and fired again. The bullet scored a furrow of white wood off the top of an occasional table and hit Gerry, smashing into his chest, high up on the left-hand side.
