‘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 right. 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-thirds 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.’
More laughter. Rat was not notable for his bravery or his fighting ability. His peculiar contribution to the Angels was his skill with underhand weapons – the booby-trap, or the knife in the back. He would not forget the insult. Gerry wondered why Brenda was taking so much on herself. She had come to stand by him and leaned close to whisper, her voice covered by shouting and joking at Rat’s expense.
‘Vincent wants to kill you. This is his chance. I’ve got to break the mood. Play along.’
Gerry squeezed her arm.
Vincent moved forward to face Brenda. His face was more like that of an animal, a creature thwarted of his prey, making one last effort to secure his kill. ‘Well, Wolf? Hiding behind this tart’s skirts again. She reckons you’re as good as any of us. Now you’ve got a great chance to try and prove it to all of us. Are you really that good?’
Again Gerry’s body tensed ready for violent action. His back was against a wall, in every sense of the word. On either side of him he could sense Priest and Cochise moving into position to guard his flanks.
‘All right, Wolf. Show this crowd of freaks how good you are. Even with odds like these.’
‘Get her out of the way, Wolf, so she doesn’t get hurt. If anything happens to you, and I only want this to be a bit of a friendly rumble, like — but if anything should happen to you. Then I’ll take care of Brenda, here myself. I promise you that I’ll look upon that as a labour of love.’
‘Come near me with that diseased body of yours, and I’ll cut it off. Gerry’s ten times the man you are. There isn’t anything you’ve done that he hasn’t done. Not a ... Oh. No, nothing.’ Vincent leaped like a panther on to her hesitation. ‘Why did you stop then? What did you just think of?’
Gerry had got to know the new, harder Brenda quite well, and he guessed that the hesitation had been a deliberate move on her part to postpone the rumble. The only thing he couldn’t figure was, what exactly had she thought of? He remembered the initiation and shuddered inside. He knew that she would never forgive him for her own nightmare initiation ceremony when she had been laid by every Angel in the chapter, more than once by some. Whatever she’d thought up to try and save his life, he guessed it wouldn’t necessarily be pleasant for him. Still, he thought resignedly, life was life.
At Vincent’s question, she had stood dumb, as though regretting what she had nearly said. She shook her head. ‘Nothing. I wasn’t going to say anything.’
‘Yes, she was. Come on tart, out with it. You just thought of something that Vincent has done that Gerry hasn’t. What was it?’
Good old Dylan, thought Brenda. She had known she could rely on him to leap in. Ever since Gerry had snuffed out Tiny Terry, Dylan had been worrying at him, like a terrier at the heels of a bear, waiting for him to slip. He thought this was it ‘It’s nothing. Honestly. It’s just that Gerry ... Well, he’s never had the chance to ... Sod it I’m sorry, Gerry. I didn’t mean ...’
‘What?!?’ The cry came from half a dozen eager throats. Sensing something between Wolf and his old lady. Something more than between Wolf and Vincent.
‘Come on, Brenda.’ The quiet command came from Vincent. ‘You’ve gone so far. You may as well go all the way. What hasn’t he done?’
‘It ... it’s just his wings. He hasn’t got any wings.’
‘Yeah! She’s right! Let him do it now!’
‘Later.’ That was Vincent, suddenly seeing his moment sliding from him. But, there was no holding the brothers when that kind of suggestion had been made. Gerry would have to show class straight away. He swallowed hard to try and hide his disappointment. He shouted to make himself heard. Might as well try and make the best of it. ‘All right, brothers. Wolf here is going to show us some real class and earn himself his red wings.’
A great burst of cheering followed this. Drowned by it, Vincent spoke directly to Gerry and Brenda. ‘Fucking clever. Both of you. This time the luck’s with you. Don’t try and ride it too far – or too fast.’
Dylan had leaped to the middle of the room. ‘Come on now, all of you lovely ladies. Which of you is going to oblige Wolf, here, and help him to his wings. Which of you’ve got the flags out?’
‘I have.’
‘You, have? Hey, that’d be fine. Wouldn’t it, Vincent? Brenda here’s going to oblige Wolf herself.’
‘Very nice too. As long as it’s genuine.’
‘Don’t worry, Vincent, it is. In fact, there’s bound to be enough for you.’
‘I’ve got my wings, sweetheart I don’t need to show that sort of class any more. Come on, then, Wolf, let’s see you get at it.’
Gerry stood still, thunderstruck by the weird turn that events had taken. Brenda had saved him. That was true. But, he was going to have a price.
As the remainder of the Angels and their women made themselves comfortable round the walls, his mind raced ahead to the ritual he was going to involve himself in. He shuddered, despite himself, and breathed in to try and clear his head. He spat on the dirty floor, relieving his mouth of the thin bile that had risen to it. He hoped to God that he didn’t throw up. That would finish him.
Vincent ushered Brenda, with a superb send-up of a doddering old verger, to a battered armchair, and helped her to sit in it.
Looking back on it later, Gerry found that he could not remember it in any kind of sequence. Just a series of random and disconnected images.
He’d read about earning wings in several of the great Hell’s Angels’ novels and magazines. It was one of the ways that a brother could show class to the rest of his chapter. A way to blow the minds of the righteous citizens. There had been an interview with an American Angel in an old magazine. He’d talked about winning wings, but the magazine had taken the safe way out and described it as “a singularly unpleasant sexual act, the details of which are too revolting to describe here.”
The Angel had gone on to describe one of the finest examples of class he’d ever seen. It had been a West Coast brother called ‘Smackey Jack’. A waitress in a hamburger joint had been rude about his appearance so he’d simply vaulted over the counter and knocked her out. While she was still unconscious, he’d pulled out five of her teeth with a rusty pair of pliers he always carried with him. Then he’d screwed her. Now, that was real class!
But, he’d showed class, and he now wore his red wings proudly on the breast of his colours. They’d been hard earned!
Brenda’s face, proud and arrogant ... the cheering ... his knees grating on the filthy floor ... her Levis round her ankles, and her black pants ... nearer her ... noise muted as his ears were covered ... prickling at his mouth ... tongue ... salt... sticky ... pressure on his head ... juddering ... over ... more cheering ... class ... Brenda, satisfied with a double victory. Class!
After, before he’d even wiped his face, Vincent coming to him. Having to counter with greater class. That was what it was all about being President. Taking him by the shoulders and pulling him close. Kissing him, thrusting his tongue deep into his mouth. Both mouths slobbered. Horror piled on horror. The ritual, then the kiss.
Worst. Something that he would never ever admit to any person, as long as he lived. During the kiss, in the moment of closeness to Vincent, he had felt a stirring in his groin. A swelling of pleasure.
He had enjoyed it!