by Mick Norman
Like in all the best stories, Rupert finally got his break. It came on the sixth day of his labours. It was a typed note, in a plain envelope, delivered by hand, during the night. It was brief and very much to the point. It simply said: ‘We’ve checked and you may be straight. If you aren’t then we’ll kill you. If you are, leave your office NOW and walk into Soho. Go into Berwick Street. There’s a specialist bookshop there. Sells nothing but Science Fiction. Run by a bird called Mary Shelley – you know Shelley, like in “Frankenstein”. It’s called “Light She Was And Fleet Of Foot” – it’s a quote. Be there in ten minutes. We’ll be watching. Someone will approach you there.’
No point in hanging around. Rupert left his office in Wardour Street and cut through into Berwick Street. The market traders were just beginning to set up their stalls. There were fewer than in the old days since all retailing of foodstuffs had come under Government control. Most of them were either licensed to sell food at four per cent less than the approved prices or they sold oddments of household goods and clothes at a big discount. Inflation had meant the pound in people’s pockets was worth about seventeen per cent less each year. This had hit the old age pensioners particularly hard, and in an hour or so the street would be full of elderly people queuing and pushing to get a bit of scrag end meat at that pitiful four per cent discount. Four per cent! It was hardly worth bothering with.
The other difference that Rupert noticed – it was years since he’d been down Berwick Street – was the lack of cosmopolitan faces and accents that had made Soho a good place. Once. The Prime Minister’s repatriation policy had changed all that. It had also changed the country’s medical system. At a stroke he had depleted the medical staff of every hospital by fifty per cent England really wasn’t a good place for anyone to get sick in any more.
Rupert pushed along the pavement passed the frontage of what he remembered used to be a porn book shop. Since Longford and Mary Whitehouse both entered politics, their joint lobby had been almost totally effective in clearing literary filth from the streets. Sadly, sex crimes had rocketed. If one now wanted to purchase ‘adult’ reading, one had to write for a catalogue to one of the few firms that were allowed to advertise – discreetly – in the papers. The danger was that everyone knew that police intercepted mail and that put you on a list of known sex deviates. You couldn’t win.
Nearly there. That was the front now. ‘Light She Was And Fleet Of Foot’. He put his hand on the doorknob and paused. The seedy, balding figure peering in through the shop window. It was – the face turned to him and rheumy, vacant eyes looked through him – it wasn’t. Just for a moment Rupert thought he had recognised a leading screenplay writer of a few years ago. An author who’d produced a classic anti-police novel. A year or so after, he’d been busted – the whisper was that he’d been fitted by a jilted girl-friend – and his head had collided with a stone bannister as he was being led away for questioning. He’d never written again.
No, it couldn’t have been old Donn. He’d gone back to live in Ireland. In fact, Rupert was sure that someone had told him a month or so ago that he’d died. Jesus, thought Rupert, they were hard times. Like Ray Charles used to sing.
He wandered around the small shop, glancing at the ranks of paperbacks, picking up a book here and there, then putting it back. He guessed he was being watched. His eye was caught by a Frazetta poster on the wall. A hero, mighty of arm and keen of eye, fighting overwhelming odds against a horde of barbarians. Beautiful thigh muscles.
Rupert jumped as someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’
He moved aside to let the man pass. Gradually the shop filled up. Still no approach from the Angels. As it neared lunchtime, Rupert reluctantly began to think that the letter had been a con. ‘You’re Colt.’ It was a statement not a question. ‘You’re still interested in getting in touch with some people to help make a film. You’ve got money to spare. Get the tube ticket to Epping. Walk along the road towards the Forest. You’ll be watched all the way. Someone’ll pick you up there. Okay?’
Rupert nodded, feeling words to be somewhat superfluous. As he left the shop and forced his way towards Tottenham Court Road Tube Station, he felt nothing so much as relief. Although he knew the reputation of the Angels, he also knew that they rarely hurt people out of simple malice. Stupidity, lust or ignorance, yes. But not often sheer vindictiveness. If he played his cards right, he’d get that two nights with Donn. He licked his soft, pink lips with expectation.
On the way to Epping he hadn’t actually seen anyone watching him. If he had been observed, then it was bloody well organised. Almost with military thoroughness. He’d just begun to enter the fringes of the Forest when a plain van pulled up alongside him and he climbed in through the open door. A black-gloved hand round his neck pulled him into the back and he was expertly and silently searched.
‘He’s clean, Gerry. Not even a spotter bug.’
Rupert blessed his intuition that had made him neglect his usual precaution of having a radio bug in the collar of his jacket. ‘Gerry’ – that was the name of the Angel who had led the attack on the Bank. The one with the black gloves must be the one called ‘Priest’. Unbeckoned and unexpected, a tiny serpent of fear crept out of a corridor at the back of Rupert’s mind and hissed a warning. It was noted. Rupert actually felt fear. It wasn’t just a game ending with a kiss and makeup with Donn. These men weren’t playing.
He was forced to lie face-down in the back of the Van while it twisted and. turned through country lanes. After what he estimated as around forty minutes the van bumped over a very rough piece of land and stopped. A rag was tied round his head and he was led into a building. The rag was pulled roughly off his eyes.
‘Welcome Mr. Colt, to the headquarters of the Last Heroes Chapter of the Hell’s Angels, affiliated by special charter to the Chapter of Hell’s Angels of Oakland, California. We know why you’re here. I’m Vincent, President of this Chapter. That’s Wolf, the one who planned getting you here and who favours helping you. I don’t. And it’s what I say that goes. So, try and convince me. If you don’t, I’ll have both your knees broken and have you dumped back in Epping Forest.’
‘Thank you, Vincent. I must say I was beginning to doubt that you even existed. Anyway, my company want to make a film based on a young man, played by Tarquin Wells.’ Someone interrupted with the cry of ‘Poof’, delivered in a high falsetto.
‘Don’t knock it, dear, if you haven’t tried it,’ retorted Rupert, in his best camp voice, getting something of a laugh. ‘Where was I? Yes. Tarquin joins the Hell’s Angels and tries to take them over. He falls in love with one of the women, what do you call them? Mamas? She’s the girlfriend of the leader of the ... chapter. She’s played by Nancy Thompson. They all take off into the hills for a run and there’s a battle between Tarquin and the leader. Tarquin wins and leads the chapter back to ... well, off on a run.’
Rupert felt it better not to mention at this stage that the whitewash ending would have Tarquin queening it back to London to lead his ‘men’ to accept an amnesty offered by a kind Government.
‘Where do we come in?’ The question came from Gerry, leaning against a wall, with his arm round Brenda.
‘We, that is the director, Donn Simon – you’ve probably heard of him ...’ he paused waiting for some sign of recognition that didn’t come. ‘We thought it would be rather nice if we had real motorcycle outlaws to play the parts of the Hell’s Angels. And you lads, er … men, seem to be about the only Hell’s Angels around. We’d pay you and feed you on location, of course.’
‘Where’s location?’
‘Mainly in the Midlands. Round Birmingham. Donn wants a concrete setting to give it a kind of inherent plasticity. We’d pay each man and woman ten pounds a day plus food.’
‘Make it twenty, and I reckon you might have a deal.’
‘Just a fucking minute, Wolf. I don’t care if he makes it fifty pounds a day, I still don’t like it and I’m not prepared to
agree to it.’
‘With the greatest of respect,’ said Gerry, sarcastically, ‘the very first time we met you told me that all decision were taken democratically. How about putting this to the vote. Apart from anything else, it’ll give you and your men a chance to show how fucking brave you are by going up to Birmingham on a run. Unless you’re all fucking chicken.’
Gerry hugged himself inside with glee. ‘I’ve got him,’ he whispered to Brenda. ‘Like he got me. Up against it. Back to the wall. Look at them all, licking their lips at the thought of all the money they can make. They want bread they can spend now. That hot bank money’s untouchable. Vincent knows that. We’ve got him.’
Vincent saw the tunnel he had driven himself into and tried to find a way out of it. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if it was twenty pounds, but he only said ten.’
Gerry turned to the film-man, standing fascinated by this blatant and naked power struggle. ‘I thought I heard you say twenty pounds each person plus free food and drink. Wasn’t that what I heard?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Twenty pounds. And free drink. I can probably lay on some pot, speed, coke, acid, whatever you like.’
‘There you are, Mr. President. I move officially that we put to the vote of all brothers here present that we accept the offer of this film man and co-operate with him on the making of his movie. When would you want us to start?’
‘We’re doing preliminary location searches this week. We should have the package ready to move in about six weeks.’
‘All right, brothers. Time for preparation for all those old-timers who want to join Vincent on his run in full colours. Time for those who want to come with me in the vans to make their own plans. Vincent, will you please put it to the vote?’
‘Yeah. Of course.’ Vincent tried to put a brave face on it, but he sensed defeat. ‘Those who want to take up this deal with the film company and work for them, raise your hands.’ Up went the hands of Gerry, Priest, Kafka, Cochise ... a moment more and up went the hands of Atlas, Moron, Dick the Hat, Riddler, Vinny and Harlequin. The hands continued to go up until there were only Vincent and Dylan, with a couple of other Angels, so stoned that they didn’t realise what was going on, unmoving.
‘Passed by a fair majority,’ admitted Vincent graciously.
‘Can we put it to the vote to see how many brothers will go on the run with you? That is, unless you’ve had second sensible thoughts about it and prefer to travel safely with me and my mates? If you do, we won’t mind. We won’t think you’ve chickened out.’
Rupert Colt was forgotten. This was the real one. Vincent put the question as Gerry had asked him, as he was bound to by their own set of rules. Dylan raised his hand at once, as did Rat and Mealy. They were followed by Crasher and Moron. Then a pause. Then up went the hand of Atlas. ‘Sorry, Wolf. But I really used to dig the old days when we all had good times on a run. It might be nice to do it again.’
A longer wait. Then one last-hand. Priest! He looked sideways at Gerry, his one good eye meeting Gerry’s with a hint of defiance. ‘It’s been a long time. It’s a bit like Atlas said. I used to like it on a run. My younger brother got snuffed on a run up in Birmingham. My eye got done on a run years back. We don’t get many chances now, so I figure, like, I might as well take this chance. You understand, don’t you? I mean it’s not personal. It won’t make things different. You know what I mean?’
‘Yeah. That’s all right, Priest. You go, mate. We’ll see you in Brum.”
That was it, then. Vincent lost the facedown, but he had the chance to make it up. If the run went well, and nearly half the chapter elected to go on it, his position would be strengthened. If the run went badly, Gerry would be able to face him with over half the brothers on his side.
Over the next few weeks, Gerry laid his plans with his mates for their trip to Birmingham in vans and cars. Hogs had to be stripped and serviced. Clothes cleaned to maintain their appearances as straights. Plans made and people trained. Gerry did it well. Brenda pulled the old ladies and mamas into line.
Vincent also made his plans. Part of them involved Dylan and the object of part of them involved – although he didn’t know it – Gerry’s own lieutenant, Priest.
On that sixth day, Rupert had laboured, so on the seventh and eighth he rested. Donn had set up the backing for the movie and secured agreement from Tarquin and Nancy. As he and Rupert lay together in his Fulham flat, Donn was content. So was Rupert.
‘Donn,’ came the muffled voice from under the bedclothes. ‘Hey. Don’t you know it’s rude to talk when you’ve got your mouth full? What is it?’
‘Those Hell’s Angels. I quite like one or two of them. There’s one thing I didn’t like though.’
‘What was that my pearl without price? Whisper it unto me love of my life, Oh fire of my loins.’
‘Promise you won’t laugh?’
‘Of course my little chickadee. My darling brood mare. My own Queen of the May.’
‘Ooh. You’re awful sometimes, Donn.’
‘Come on, for Christ’s sake. Part of me’s getting cold. What the fuck is it you don’t like about the Hell’s Angels?’
‘They all smell of poo-poo!’
Ten – Inter-Departmental Memo from
Cuttings and Research to Special Branch
Heading. Motorcycle Gangs.
Source. Cinema Trade Press.
Date. May 15th 197– Reference. C/R 15/5/7X-SEJ
Comments
We feel this cutting should be of interest to you in the Special Branch because of the reference to the fact that the maker of the film alleges that he has employed, or has it as his intention to take into his employ, members of a group purporting to be outlaw motorcyclists. This claim, if substantiated, is contrary to the Home Secretary’s Act on the subject, Subsection Eighteen.
The cutting mentions a possible location for the making – or ‘shooting’ of the film. This is alleged to be in the vicinity of North Birmingham. We respectfully suggest that Number Six Patrol Force could liaise with any recognised vigilante group in the area.
We also believe that it is not totally beyond the realms of possibility that Number Six Patrol Force may have located a member of the self-styled ‘Jokers’ outlaw motorcycle gang in that area who would be prepared to inform police of any local activity.
Surveillance and tapping are, as a matter of course, being carried out on the offices of the director of the film, Mr. Donn Simon, and the home of his closest associate, Mr. Rupert Colt It is worth bearing in mind that Colt has a criminal record for offences against young male persons and is frequently on the Deviates’ List of the Social Offences Branch. Simon has several convictions for drugs.
It is obvious from the references in the attached cutting that the group of outlaws is certainly the ‘Last Heroes’ under their self-styled leader, ‘Vincent’ (no real name known). They probably include ‘Wolf’ (a.k.a. Gerry a.k.a. Gerald Vinson) and his associate ‘Priest’ (a.k.a. Mister Priest a.k.a. One Eye a.k.a. Christopher Harrington).
cc.S.B./N.P.F.6/S.O.B./LR.
Cinema Trade Press. May 14th 197– DONN PREPS BIKE QUICK FLICK.
Go-ahead director Donn Simon-remember his drag version of ‘The Long, The Short And The Tall’ – leaps aboard a dangerous carousel with his scheduled quickie. Starring Tarquin Wells and Nancy Thompson he has asst dir. Rupert Colt sussing out locs, in the North Midlands right now. Big pub. Gimmick to hype the youth audience is that Donn has lined up some real – count the scars – Hell’s Angels to give some real action to this exploitation film. Filming will be in secret to keep the heavy hand of the fuzz off some collars that ought to be felt. Donn claims members from killer club ‘Last Heroes’ helping out on cast list. It’ll probably rake in loot but it can’t help the movie industry. What ever happened to the family film?
Eleven – A Beginning —A Middle — An End
— In That Order
‘One has no great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something
direful in the sound.’
‘Emma’ – Jane Austen
During the weeks that they were preparing for the big run North to Birmingham, Gerry was busy. He had managed to get in touch with brothers of the exiled Jokers, the chapter that still existed in the Birmingham area. Whittled down by the fuzz to a mere handful, they held on by the skin of their teeth. Their kicks came from burning out a coloured family now and again and a quick rumble with the local skinheads.
What the Jokers didn’t know, and what Gerry didn’t know, and what you have to remember, is that there was an informer in the ranks of the Jokers. A spy for the fuzz. He was called ‘Les the Ruin’ – ‘Ruin’ for short. The local police chief was that rarest of animal, an intelligent copper. He had deliberately not hassled the Jokers, knowing he could pull them all in at any time he wished. They were more useful to him as a threat to the citizenry, a bogey-man to point out the dangers of a society without police. Also, he felt that one day he would be able to use his informer for a larger purpose.
Ruin had already left him messages to tell him that the London chapter was considering a run up to Birmingham. This was getting uncomfortably close to the constituency of the Prime Minister. ‘No mistakes, Mr. Sanders,’ that was what that bastard Hayes had said to him. He knew roughly where they were going to run, he knew roughly when. He didn’t yet know how many. Time was beginning to run out for the Jokers, for Mr. Sanders, and for others.
July 1st. A notice appeared in the Personal Column of the top people’s paper. ‘Henry VIII, Act Two, Scene One. Rupert says.’ It had been a suggestion from Kafka. In that scene from Shakespeare’s play, Buckingham makes the traditional speech just before his execution. During it he says: ‘Go with me, like good Angels, to my end’. Even the usually withdrawn Vincent had found that amusing.
