‘What are you going to do, Gerry? I mean, it’s a straight challenge, really. That creepy reporter is just being a mouthpiece for the Ghouls. Isn’t he? What do you reckon?’
A hundred and fifty feet below the ruined village of Nant Gwrtheym, where the Last Heroes and Wolves had their permanent headquarters, in the north-west extremity of North Wales, is a long shingle beach, where seals sometimes come and cormorants wheel and dip. The village is more or less inaccessible to any but the fit and nerveless, so few walk that beach. That warm June evening, there were only two pairs of boots stirring the pebbles. Gerry and Brenda.
‘Yeah. But, what you’ve got to remember is that he’s a journalist. What he’s got to do is help to sell his shitty paper. So, what’s news? Youth cults. Like Skulls. Like Hell’s Angels. Every now and again, a paper will decide it’s time it took a high moral tone and it’ll have a go at something. It might be porn or rents or books or vacuum cleaners. At the moment slimy Molineux is making capital out of Evel Winter and his poofs. What he wants is for us to go down to London and have a massive run with killing and class all over the place. Then he can purse his chubby lips and ‘Tut, tut’ all day long about how shocking it all was. And, you see Brenda, it’ll all be his fault. Bastard!’
Gerry punctuated his words by picking up smooth, sea-polished stones and shying them at a boulder, lazing half in the rolling water. He turned away from the beach and walked up to where there had once been a plant for breaking rock down into gravel fragments. There was still a huge waste tip of gravel, pouring down nearly to the shore. He kicked out a hollow and sat down, lying back and closing his eyes.
Pushing the hair off her forehead, Brenda lay down beside him. They were a good half-mile from the rest of the chapter. Long miles from anyone else. The air was very warm. Gerry was pleasantly high on hash and was happy to lie still and listen to the murmuring sea. Brenda was also high, but had a more, pressing need. Her fingers rustled through the gravel, climbed up the side of Gerry’s denim jacket, and edged down, across his flat stomach.
It was only when he realised that she was intent on tugging down the zip on his jeans that Gerry came to life. He put his hand over hers to help her. Once the zip was down, there was only the copper button that held the trousers together. With a bit of struggling, that soon gave way. Arching his back, Gerry let Brenda pull the jeans off, his pants coming with them. He groaned as the gravel pricked at his naked flesh and got quickly up to move on to patch of soft sand at the top of the beach. Brenda scrambled down near him, taking off her own jeans and pants before lying down. Gerry lazily reached out and caressed her breasts, smiling as he felt the nipples harden beneath his fingers. He rolled on top of her, his other hand probing lower down her body. She moaned softly and nuzzled her mouth into his neck as his fingers moved and vibrated inside her.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Come on. Now.’
The sand shifted about them and the sea crept slowly closer. Their coupling was soft and gentle. For two such tough animals, Gerry and Brenda were capable of surprising gentleness towards each other. But, they were both also capable of dreadful violence against any person who threatened either of them.
Satiated, Gerry lapsed again into a quiet calm, eyes closed, the lower part of his body covered with a fine coating of golden sand. Brenda idly eased her hand over his chest, stroking down towards his thighs. Just at the top of his genitals, where the dark tendrils of hair curled up towards his stomach, she felt the puckered skin of an old scar. Not so old. He stirred as she touched him, and her mind went back a year to the moment when Gerry had finally made his move to challenge for the presidency of what was still just the Wolves.
After the quarry massacre, the whole country had been searching for them, and the Wolves had been-happy to shelter their brothers from the South. Just as long as they toed the line and didn’t try to cross it. But, Gerry was never one to follow anybody’s rules. He waited. Planned. He only had a small handful of brothers and sisters and the Wolves were a hard and well-organised chapter. In those days all chapters had to be well-organised with the police harassing them whenever and wherever possible. Tudor, their ex-president, had been a tough leader.
The rules that govern the lives of Hell’s Angels are simple. There is no Boy Scout concept of honour. No Marques of Queensberry to oversee their brawls and make sure they fought fair. If any citizen, or outsider, started any trouble with an Angel he would be promptly stomped by any or all of the chapter within yelling distance. There was loyalty to each other and to the chapter. An outsider who wanted to join any chapter became a prospect and would have to show a deal of class – blow the minds of the straights – to be accepted. Once in, there was no reason why he shouldn’t try and challenge for the top man’s job. This system generally meant that the top man was the toughest. He had to be.
When Gerry had joined the Last Heroes, he had first to make himself accepted by the majority of the chapter; then he could challenge the president – the legendary Vincent – for the presidency. He had fought and killed him, thanks to Brenda’s help and despite an attempt by Rat to ensure that Vincent won. But, he was the president of a chapter that scarcely existed.
From the moment that the Wolves first accepted them into their chapter, Gerry had been waiting and watching. He had waited for the right moment, and it hadn’t been that long in coming. Tudor was tough and tricky, but he lacked the depths of cunning that had made Vincent such a dangerous opponent. After only a couple of months, Gerry had been able to persuade a number of the Wolves – including the paranoid albino, Gwyn – that he might make a better president than Tudor. After that, it was just a matter of picking the moment
Beside her, Gerry had just dropped off to sleep and snored quietly. Brenda sat up and pulled on her pants. The sun had nearly vanished behind Anglesey and the air was growing a little chill. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her knees, looking at the dull sea. She tracked her finger idly through the circus sand and thought back to the moment when Gerry had challenged Tudor.
It had been a clear day, and one of the old ladies – Mochyn it was – suggested that they take a few of the straight bikes and go have a picnic. The straight bikes, unchopped, were for this kind of occasion and it was a nice day, so a few of them rolled along. About half of them were Wolves, including Tudor and Gwyn, and the rest were Last Heroes, including Gerry, Rat and Brenda. Rather than run, they had just tooled along back roads, heading westwards, until they were in the most desolate part of the Lelyn Peninsula, near Aberdaron. Just before they reached the village, Tudor turned off to the right and they speeded up along perilous, narrow, twisting lanes that led in on themselves and then doubled back again. Every now and then, Gerry could see the sea below them on the left and he shouted across to Gwyn to find out where they were going.
‘Mynydd Mawr – the end of the world. Right up on the cliffs. Take care Wolf. It can be, you know, very dangerous up there.’
Brenda remembered that Gerry had nodded his understanding and thanks at the albino. Had seen the red flash from his hooded eyes. Through tiny villages and large churches. Down and then up again. Through a gate and up a strange concrete road to a lookout hut. Whitewashed and locked. They had all dismounted and the men had stood in a line, sheltered from the strong wind and pissed, far down into brown heather. The mamas and old ladies had been a little more discreet and gone behind the rocks.
At that time of the day and season of the year there was nobody else up there. Across the choppy sound they could see the scattered buildings of Bardsey Island itself. Twenty thousand saints buried over there, boyo,’ was what Bardd had bellowed at Rat. He’d looked unimpressed and had got a laugh by shouting back: ‘All I hope mate, is that they were all fucking dead!’
It had been almost like a proper picnic. Just for a few minutes!
They’d all sat around and eaten chocolate cake and drunk coffee from vacuum flasks. Several of the brothers lit joints and relaxed on the supremely springy turf. The cliff sheltered them from the worst of the wind and they could lie back and watch gulls wheeling and screaming against the clouds.
Kafka shouted across to Bardd, without even turning his head: ‘Hey, would you like to be able to swirl around up there? Free as birds? Eh?’
Bardd inhaled deeply, and let the smoke trickle out from the corner of his mouth. ‘Remember what Bobby said, Kafka? Do you reckon those birds are free from the chains of the skyways?’
‘Fuck you and your bloody Celtic mysticism, Bardd. One blast from a scatter-gun and you’d be picking your free birds off the granite there. Not even Jonathan Livingstone Seagull himself would fly away from me. Anyway, Wolf, come for a walk over there. I’ve got a few things to talk about.’
Tudor walked away from the group without even looking back, certain that Gerry would follow him. As Gerry got up and followed him, he caught the whisper from Gwyn: ‘Step lightly.’
The two men, Tudor taller and thinner, hair prematurely grey and Gerry shorter and stocky. Heavily-muscled. Both had their hair on to their shoulders, Tudor’s curling and Gerry’s straighter. They had originally worn ordinary denim jackets for the ride out to the headland, but these had been discarded and both wore their originals. Tudor’s colours were the distinctive white wolf’s head, while Gerry’s were the death’s-head that had been the emblem of the Last Heroes.
Tudor stopped at the highest point of the cliff and waited for Gerry to come alongside him. Gerry felt his stomach muscles flutter with anticipation. This wasn’t any casual chat. This could be the big one. It was a perfect place. Tudor pointed down over the edge. ‘You know, there used to be a little church down there. Right by the sea. There’s supposed to be a spring of fresh water down there. It’s covered up at high tide, like now. But, if you look, you can just see where it comes out. Look! Down there, by that big jagged rock with the white splash.’
Most people in that situation, suspecting a threat to their lives would have been watching for the push over the towering crags. And, they would have been dead. Gerry had been enormously influenced by his old unarmed combat instructor in the Army, at the time of the Irish troubles. Sergeant Newman was as tough and inflexible as the parade ground at Aldershot. Middle-aged, well under average height, and with a stomach that preceded him into a room by several inches, his only concession to personal vanity was a wig of quite unique awfulness that covered an egg-shell pate. The troops referred to it as ‘the dead rat’ but only behind his back. One trooper who was overheard jesting about the wig suffered greatly for a couple of days, taking some nasty upsets on the obstacle course and finally losing most of his teeth when the butt of the sergeant’s rifle caught him in the mouth during a demonstration of bayonet fighting.
Newman urged his pupils, of whom Gerry was one of the best, never to bother with that crap about ‘watching his eyes’. Nobody who’s worth a monkey’s as a fighting man will give away anything by movement of his eyes. And, Tudor, like most presidents of a Hell’s Angels chapter, was far from inadequate when it came to a rough-house.
Gerry had spotted the glint of steel in Tudor’s right hand and was ready for it. What he wasn’t ready for was the tiny knife in the left hand. Tudor feinted with the long blade in the right arm and, as Gerry countered it, he lunged in with the small knife. The blade wasn’t more than two inches long and it had been concealed totally in the palm of the Welshman’s hand. Hilt gripped firmly between thumb and fingers, it made a deadly weapon.
Seeing it at the last second, Gerry turned sideways to try and parry it, knowing before he began to move that he was going to be too late. Even so, the speed of his reflex was enough to save the femoral artery in the thigh that had been Tudor’s target. Ducking slightly as he pivoted, he felt the knife cut into his lower stomach, just above his groin. The pain made him gasp, and he felt the blood oozing, held back by his tight jeans. He wrenched free and broke away, back to the cliff edge. Tudor faced him, about ten feet away and watched. A knife in each hand he smiled confidently at the unarmed and wounded Gerry. ‘Come on, boyo. Just one step back and we’ll get you all in the picture.’
Without even glancing behind him, Gerry was sickeningly aware of the void that waited behind him. It seemed very still. Far, far below there was the sea, smashing itself into spume on the rocks. He could hear gulls screaming all around. He was even able to hear the buzz of laughter from the party of Angels, just the other side of the headland. Despite the warmth of the blood, Gerry felt cold. The sun lacked warmth. Once before he had miscalculated and a bank manager had attacked him to try and save his money, though he risked the life of his daughter. But that had been nothing. This was different. Tudor was better than he’d reckoned. And he had two blades. And Gerry had nowhere to move.
One other sound. Slight Like the rustle of a small lizard as it moves comfortably on a sun-warmed rock. Behind Tudor. To the left. Don’t! Don’t look at it! Whatever it is.
‘Well, Wolf. The Wolves will miss you. But, I won’t. I’ll have the friendly Brenda to keep me happy. She’ll soon forget you. They all do. Fucking scrubbers. All the same. Now. Goodbye Wolf.’
Gerry tensed himself ready for the last desperate try. A try he knew wouldn’t work, but a try he had to make. Then, a quiet voice. Close. From the left.
‘Afternoon, all.’ It was Rat.
Unable to believe the evidence of his eyes and his ears, Tudor turned and gaped at the gnome-like apparition, sprung from the rocks like one of the old Pictish folk. Something out of a fairy story – or a nightmare.
Brenda had picked up the details from Gerry up to this moment, but she had walked over herself, worried by his absence. Climbing near the top she had come on the tableau, frozen forever in crystal. Facing her, back to the drop, Gerry. Also facing her, jaw gaping, a knife held loose in each hand, Tudor. Back to her, a tiny, filthy figure who could only be Rat. It was obvious that Rat had only just made his presence felt, his sneaking approach covered by the sea noise and the crying gulls. Rat wasn’t armed in any way. He was just standing there, with his arms folded across his shrunken chest.
She had watched Gerry take two quick steps that brought him right up behind the paralysed Tudor. He grabbed him by the collar of his colours with both hands and then dropped backwards, tugging the leader of the Wolves over with him. Brenda’s hands twisted nervously as she saw both men, apparently, about to plummet to their doom. But, as Gerry fell, he tucked his knees up so that he was able to push his feet into the small of Tudor’s back. One violent shove and the president spent the last four seconds of his reign accelerating at a speed of approximately thirty-two feet per second per second.
If he hadn’t been moving so fast, the fact that he hit the rocks feet first might have been a good thing. But, he was going so fast that it really made no difference at all. Carpals and both tibias and fibulas were compressed and smashed. The knee joints collapsed and the long bone of the thigh, the femur, was impacted into the pelvic girdle. The leg bones were shattered so drastically, that they were actually forced up into the rib cage. Bones devastated the intestines and the heart burst. Any other damage – and there was awful injuries to the head – was irrelevant as Tudor was clinically dead before the impact was even over. In less than one half of one second the presidency passed from him to Gerry Vinson, sometimes known as ‘Wolf’.
The sea disposed quickly of the human wreckage and Gerry went back to the others to tell them some of what had happened. But Rat’s part in the affair wasn’t mentioned. It would have been downright bad class to have needed help in winning. Gerry thanked Rat. But, Rat had his own motives. Rather a president he knew than a Welshman he could barely understand.
Back on the quiet beach night was moving in. Gerry woke up to find Brenda’s hands still wandering over his body. He smiled vaguely up at her. ‘Another?’
She nodded and rolled on top of him, taking the initiative. As she guided him into her, she was about to ask him again about the newspaper article. But, Gerry spoke first: ‘You know love. I reckon it’s time we went back down to London. Sort out the Ghouls and the clever Mr. Molineux. Show them the Wolves and Last Heroes are the top. Always were, Always will . . . Ouch! Watch what you’re doing with your nails!’
Three days later, they all set off for London. On a full run.