by Mick Norman
Only when he had finished helping Priest out with the bags of money did Gerry bother to look at the prostrate figure.
‘Shall I waste him, Gerry?’ asked Priest eagerly.
‘No. Just lay the silly bastard out for a bit. Give him a fair bit of boot to remind him how bloody stupid he was.’ He thought privately to himself that he should also try and remember about estimating how people behaved when there was nowhere left for them to run to – not even inside their own heads.
He dabbed at the splash of blood on the back of his neck with a grubby handkerchief. As the boots started to swing, he perched himself on the edge of the desk and whistled softly to himself, counterpointing the thuds with the theme song from an old Gene Kelly musical.
Priest neared the end of his rites. The steel toe-caps probed and sank in here and there, wandering almost lovingly about the body of Reginald Pinner. The crying and the moaning had stopped and the only sounds in the plush office were Gerry’s whistling and Priest’s heavy breathing, interrupted by the occasional crack of bone or cartilage.
‘Enough. I don’t want him wiped out all the way. Right then, my brother. Let’s go.’ He tipped an imaginary sombrero to Reggie – or what was left of him. ‘Adios amigo. You lost, you always lose.’
One on the back of each bike they rode sedately across the car park, through Holloway, Finsbury Park and away to the north.
The room they had left behind them was quiet at last. The wind from the open window fluttered the leaves of the memo pad on the desk. A thread of bright blood crept silently across the olive-green carpet – a rather pleasing colour combination for those with an eye for it. Follow the blood back along its slow-flowing course, and you came to Reginald Pinner’s mouth. Not quite what it used to be. In fact, the whole face has taken on a different appearance.
The nose is pulped and pushed sideways towards the right eye. Both eyes have vanished behind mounds of puffy, purpled flesh. The skin across the forehead is scuffed and swollen. The lips are cut and there are less teeth in the mouth than there were first thing this morning. His cracked dental plate lies on the carpet under the desk. Only a fluttering of the vein under the left ear reveals that he is still alive. He groans and coughs, once. More blood come from his mouth and ears.
Startling in the silence. The buzz of the intercom. Repeated twice. A click. Miss Nolan’s voice. Nervous. Worried at having to interrupt her boss. ‘Mr. Pinner. Mr. Pinner. I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but your eleven-thirty customer is waiting . . . Mr. Pinner ... Excuse me, sir. Can you hear me ... Mr. Pinner ... Mr. Pinner ...’
A fly alights on the carpet and dips a foot elegantly into the pool of darkening blood.
‘Mr. Pinner.’
Six – Bike Gang Thugs Mug Bank Manager
— Rape Daughter!
The condition of Bank Manager, Reginald Pinner, mugged and brutally beaten by a gang of thugs calling themselves ‘The Last Heroes’ is still grave in the Royal Northern Hospital, Holloway tonight. He has severe facial injuries and extensive bruising to the body and lower abdomen. Doctors suspect he has broken ribs and possible breaks to arm and fingers. A statement will be issued later tonight.
In the same hospital, in an adjoining ward, is Mister Pinner’s daughter, sixteen-year-old Angela. She is known to be in a state of severe shock after being found wandering in Epping Forest, naked except for jumper and shoes. It is believed that she had been sexually assaulted by other members of the same gang who attacked her father and stole forty-five thousand pounds from his bank – The United Merchant Bank in Holloway Road.
No trace has yet been found of the animals who carried out this carefully-planned and skilfully-executed raid. Police believe they may be members of an illegal motorcycle gang hiding out somewhere in East Hertfordshire. If so, they are the mob led by Vincent – that’s all the name anyone knows him by – the one-eared king of the pack of human rats.
The ‘Leader’ has always prided itself on its civic awareness and responsibilities to society. We do not shirk to condemn this latest outrage by the motorcycle hoodlums who have made our streets dangerous for decent folk. The ‘Leader’ backs Home Secretary, George Hayes, in his drive on these scum and we are proud to publicise – exclusively – his latest comments on the Holloway Bank Raid.
‘I have been told be the police officers heading the investigation, the full terrifying story of gang brutality. The whole tale raises the question of whether our society will allow gangs of well-trained thugs to take over our country so that decent people are frightened to go out of their front doors. So that an honest man cannot do his job without risk to life and limb. So that a young and innocent girl cannot go to and from school without being vilely assaulted.
‘There can only be one answer. An emphatic “No”. This decision on my part will, I promise, be reflected in the sentences that will be passed on those guilty of these crimes when they are apprehended. And, have no doubt, they will be caught We will teach them a lesson, so that those who are minded to follow the examples of these thugs will know the risks they run.’ Fine words from a fine politician. Let us all take them to heart and help, through our local vigilante groups, to stamp out this foul cancer at the heart of our society.
Tony Pitt – The Leader.
April 7th, 197-
Seven – The Order Is Rapidly Fading
‘I don’t care if you are the fucking President. That was my run on the bank and you agreed to play it my way. My way didn’t mean you and half the chapter screwing the kid.’
‘Watch it, Wolf.’
‘Watch it, Wolf.’ mimicked Gerry. ‘It’s no bloody good. You’re still living in the past when it was all colours and runs and tangling with the law or the skinheads. The days of Little Larry and Chopper are gone, Vincent. I know it. You ought to know it’
‘You want to drop everything and turn us into a bleeding army unit.’ That was Dylan.
‘No. I want to keep the old customs but they’ve got to be brought up to date. We’re Underground Angels now. Really out of sight. No crap about being the “One Per Cent”. We’re a lot less than that now and we’ve got to alter our methods or we’ll go to the wall. You,’ pointing to one of the oldest of the Angels standing round, ‘Atlas. You’ve been an Angel longer than any of us. How many chapters when you started blowing minds?’
The tall figure of Atlas thought long. A chance meeting between his head and a policeman’s stave three years ago had slowed what little wits he’d ever had.
‘Well, there was The Wanderers, The Vagrants, The Nomads, The Iron Crosses, The Coffin Cheaters ...’
‘Okay, Atlas. I don’t want you to name them all. But I can tell you. Five years ago there were still around sixty chapters in this country. Now, how many?’
‘Four.’ said Vincent.
‘Wrong. Five. Us, The Jokers in Birmingham, The Martyrs in Manchester and The Blues from Glasgow. The fifth one is the mob from North Wales. The Wolves.’
‘The Wolves! They don’t even exist. They’re some old folk story. Hell’s Angels riding down from the mountains, wrapped in a handful of mist and a tattered sheepskin. You ought to be at home with a bunch of loonies like that. You ought to sod off and join them, if you think they really exist. You’re pushing me to try and make President of this chapter – don’t look like that. I know it and everyone here knows it. If you really want to be a President, go and lead the Welsh mob. You’ve got the right name for it. You could be “Wolf” of the Wolves!’
‘Don’t laugh, mate. I know they exist.’
‘How?’ spat back Vincent, suspicious that some kind of political manoeuvre was going on behind his back.
‘I just know. That’s all. One day, in a week or so I’d like to take a few of the brothers up in the vans to have a scout round up there and renew, or rather, make contact with the Wolves.’
‘No. I give the orders. Wait a minute. You know, Wolf, apart from that bank raid, that could be the best idea you’ve had yet. We’ll go up to Wales all rig
ht. But we go up mob-handed. All of us. Mamas, old ladies, colours flying. Blowing the minds of all the straights.’
‘A run.’ That was a gasp of almost holy wonder from Dylan, eyes open wide in amazement at the thought. ‘We haven’t had a real run, oh, since ... I can’t remember. But not for bleeding months.’
There was a silence in the vaulted room for a couple of heartbeats as the Angels gave various thoughts to the magic ritual that was being contemplated. A run.
Bursting over a city hillside like a ripple of thunder. Throttles revving hard, hair streaming in the wind, booted old ladies clinging to the shoulders of stinking denims, screeching abuse at the citizens, hands easy on the ape-hanger bars, chrome gleaming in a summer sun that beat through your hair. Coke firing through your veins, lifting your mind. Laughter just because it was damned good to be alive and with the brothers. Jesus Christ, but on that kind of day a man could really feel like a king. Like a fucking king!
Against that kind of romanticism, that emotional thrill, Gerry didn’t’ have much chance. It was Brenda’s voice that broke into the spell.
‘I remember the last time there was a full run. I saw it on television. Down in South London. Don’t you remember, Vincent? A blind boy. You killed him. Just because he got in your way. Blind!’
Brenda’s cold voice had blotted out the dream for many of the Angels, more effectively than any argument of Gerry’s could ever have done. Gerry saw the moment was there for a challenge, and he took it.
‘It’d be crazy to even think of going on a run now. The whole country’ll be crawling with coppers and those bastard vigilantes backed by the Hayes Code. I say we ought to wait for a bit, then it might just be possible. But, it would really need a fantastic amount of planning to make it safe.’
‘Jesus. Not more of your boring bloody planning!’
‘You talk too much, Dylan. Planning brought us that twenty thousand pounds, didn’t it? If I were you – thank Christ I’m not – but if I were, I’d keep my mouth shut. Dig?’
‘Thanks, Priest. It’s oaky. People like you, Dylan. You make me want to push your teeth right out the back of your neck. Better still. I could let “Priest” have you. Shut up. It’s always the men with biggest mouths that have the smallest minds. Listen. What we’ve got on our side are speed, mobility and fear.’
‘And it is written that the greatest of those is fear.’ The speaker was Kafka – one of the oldest of the Angels. A mild faced brother, with thinning hair and round, plastic-rimmed spectacles. Anyone confusing mildness for weakness were corrected with the help of an open razor that nestled in a leather pouch at the back of his collar. A trick he’d picked up from one of the classic western heroes of the late sixties. He had a reputation for being something of a intellectual. He was. Then again, compared to most of the ‘Last Heroes’, Andy Pandy would have seemed a mental giant. True, Kafka. Once the bloke in the bank knew who we were, he was ready to do anything for us. That’s what fear did.’
‘Including trying to cut your throat.’
‘Right, Vincent That’s exactly my point about planning. That’s what makes it safe. Everything went well apart from that. And apart from you and half the chapter breaking our agreement by having it away with the daughter. But I got a bit careless and that’s what happened. It was only a small operation aimed really at just one man – the manager. Just think – all of you – how many things could go wrong if we put on a run. Maybe it would work, but only if we planned it right’ The silence was broken this time by Vincent ‘No. We’re the Last Heroes and we don’t take shit from anybody. We’re strong enough to show some class whenever we like.’
His response brought a quick and angry retort from Gerry, almost a straight challenge. ‘In that case. Take any stupid bastard who agrees with you and go and have a fucking run. See how many of you manage to get back here.’
It wasn’t almost a straight challenge. It was a direct confrontation, and it was Vincent who had to find a way of backing down. He tugged at what remained of his left ear and thought fast
‘One thing, and only one thing stops me. It’s true what you say about the fuzz being all over the place at the moment. So we will wait. But not for long.’
‘How long?’
‘That’s my decision. Don’t keep pushing. When I give the word, we’ll go on a run. For real. Just like the old times. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’
‘Death or glory. Is that it?’
‘The runs used to be good. Once.’ It was the slow quiet voice of Kafka. ‘But that wasn’t why I joined. I came to the Last Heroes because I was sick of society. I was sick of what life had become. I was sick of the standards that had come to be important. One thing made my mind up for me.’
‘For Christ’s sake. Not your mother again!’
‘No. Wait a minute. I haven’t heard this before. Go on brother.’
Kafka smiled at Gerry. ‘Like Vincent says. It was my mother. She wrote a letter to a paper and that made me suddenly realise what a rotten state things were in. And I decided to opt out. All the way out.’
‘What the hell was the letter about?’
‘The Queen. Mainly about the Queen. It was her Silver Wedding, or something like that, and this paper asked all its readers to send in their memories of the twenty-five years of Royal love. This is what my Mum sent in. And they published it’
Kafka reached into the top pocket of his colours and pulled out a faded newspaper cutting, sealed and protected by a clear plastic wallet.
‘I keep it safe, so I can remember the sort of things my mother considered important. She died about a month after this was published. Listen.’ He didn’t look at the cutting once, simply holding it in his hand. ‘I used to work as a housemaid at a big house in Norfolk during the nineteen-fifties. One weekend we were all in a flutter below stairs because we’d heard that Her Majesty the Queen and Prince Philip were coming to stay for two days. You can imagine how excited we all were. The Fairy Princess and her Sailor Prince! I saw them arrive from an upstairs window and, my, didn’t she look radiant! The next morning, I’d got up early to clear out the living rooms and make them spick and span. I’d only just emptied out all the ashtrays and wiped them, when the Duke of Edinburgh walked in. I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was wearing an old dressing-gown and smoking. Ignoring me, he stubbed out his cigarette in one of the clean ashtrays. I wasn’t going to have that so I said: ‘ “Here, Sir, I’ve only just cleaned that.” He turned to me and said, straight-faced: “Well, you’ll just have to clean it again, won’t you?”
He paused for a moment before finishing off the letter. The rest of the Angels were all poised ready, knowing the last sentence almost as well as he did. They all shouted it together. ‘That was the most memorable moment of my entire life.’ The cheering and clapping subsided slowly after the well-known reading. Kafka looked up at both Gerry and Vincent. ‘If that was the most memorable moment of my mother’s entire life, and it really was, then something is wrong. I just don’t want any part of that kind of life. We deserve something better. Maybe not “better”. But at least something different. Both of you, remember that.’
The last sentence hung in the air, almost daring either man to pick up the threads of the argument again. It was Vincent who spoke first.
‘I still think we should have a run. A real run. Like the old times. All of us. Like Kafka says, we’re here to spit in the face of society. We can show them that their standards stink. How many of you agree?’
For the briefest second there was a hush – a moment that must have laid the first seeds of doubt, laid them lightly, in the mind of the President. Not everyone in the chapter was that confident in his leadership. Then Dylan raised his hand, followed by Rat and Mealy. Atlas shouted ‘Yes’ in his thick voice. Others followed – Moron, Riddler, Harlequin, Dick the Hat and Crasher. Soon, there were only a handful of Angels left with Gerry. There was Priest, Kafka, Cochise and Vinny, plus a couple of others. Vincent still had over two-thir
ds of the chapter on his side. Or, to look at it in another way, Vincent had lost the support of nearly one-third of the chapter. Before Gerry’s arrival, his authority had never been questioned. It wasn’t a good feeling. Maybe he could ...
‘Well, Wolf. You’ve been pushing all the time, all the way. This, brother, is where the pushing stops. We do things my way, or we don’t do them at all. You stand out and say in front of all the chapter that you realise that I’m the leader here and that you’ll do as I say. That includes going, on a run when I say.’
The situation was tense. With the small number of Angels on his side, Gerry knew he had no chance. Equally, if he once backed down publicly he’d have less chance to make a bid for the leadership at a later – and easier – moment. He’d just decided that he had to take up the chance and go down fighting, hoping that Vincent would have enough appreciation of his talents to just have him badly beaten and not snuffed. His muscles tensed and he began to crouch. A voice from the back of the crowd shattered the moment. A girl’s voice.
‘You’re crazy. Both of you. Vincent, you know that Gerry is ambitious. He wouldn’t be any use to you if he wasn’t.’
‘Or to you,’ came a bitchy voice from one of the mamas across the other side of the vaulted room.
‘True. Nor to me. I don’t want to go around with a deadbeat ex-greaser like some of the scrubbers around here. Know what I mean?’ The laugh that followed turned the atmosphere a touch easier. Brenda went on: ‘Gerry, Wolf, is just as good an Angel as any of you. If he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to go on a run just yet, then he’s got a bloody good reason. It’s not that he’s chicken.’
‘No?’ a mocking voice that sounded much like little Rat. ‘Remember Terry? He thought he was a big man. And he was. Bigger than you’ll ever be you piss quick little bastard. I could knock you clean through that window, never mind what Wolf could do to you.’
