Plastic Life – the new multi-media exhibition is due to open to the public tomorrow at the Gallery for Visual, Audial and Spatial Arts. A mixture of films, paintings, sculpture (kinetic and static) and happenings, it’s bound to excite a lot of interest among all of those with lively minds. It’s for anyone who has ever wondered how up is when and where is now.
‘What I don’t understand is what that gang of pansy thugs are here for?’
‘Well; the “Leader” is backing this, right? And Melvyn Molineux is currently pushing them as new cult figures, right? And the police think that the other gang of thugs, from up in Wales, are back in the South. The “Leader” has been deliberately building up this event and stressing that there will be this living slice of pop culture here at certain times. The Ghouls are high art now.’
‘So?’
‘So the “Leader” reckons that the Last Heroes won’t be able to resist this chance to have a public go at the Ghouls. I mean, just look around. The place is absolutely crawling with pigs.’
‘Either of you two seen Allen Ginsberg? He’s supposed to be chanting a mantra at four. I only want to know so that I can walk about somewhere else. A mantra chanter is high on my list of people I’d rather not spend a wet afternoon with. Whoops, pardon my syntax. Anyone seen Germaine?’
‘Over by the Rauschenberg, Clive. Talking to Joe D’Allesandro. Just beyond that purple pimple.’
‘Thanks sport. What is that excrescence in mood indigo?’
‘George’s new hat.’
‘I’m going to talk to Evel Winter, if I can drag him away from Alan.’
‘For God’s sake; when is that man going to give it up? At the moment he’s ahead of Mrs Dale and only a couple of years behind Samuel Pepys. He’s after old Parson Woodforde’s record. Saints preserve us.’
‘I bet he’s trained his son to carry on.’
Most of the Ghouls were huddled together in a corner, unused to the lionising they were getting. Melvyn Molineux kept glancing at the door in a mixture of anticipation and worry. If the Last Heroes did show up, he didn’t know how things would pan out; and, if they didn’t, then he was going to be left with a damp squib of a non-story. Although there was a real risk of mass slaughter if there was a confrontation, that was a lot better than nothing at all. Bodies sold papers. The bloodier the better.
His editor caught his eye and waved an impatient hand at him. Molineux sidled briskly across to him, his Campari swishing pinkly in his glass.
‘Mel, we’re spending a lot of money backing this arty-farty crap and I just hope that we get something to bloody show for it.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing, V.B.; there are loads of other reporters from other papers covering this and that should help build up our story.’
‘Mel, I’m trying to be patient with you, but just tell me in nine short sentences exactly what the fuck this story is going to be if this other mob don’t show?’
‘I’ve got a friend in the police force, and they say that their informers are certain that the Last Heroes have moved to London. If they’re in London, then they’re bound to come along here. I’ve made sure ... listen!’
‘What is it?’
‘Bike engines, V.B.; bike engines! A lot of them. Jesus, they’ve come. Thank Christ.’
The editor looked at him coolly. ‘I thought you were sure they were coming anyway. Why are you so relieved?’
‘Well, they might ... I wasn’t absolutely ... that is ... Look, they’re here aren’t they?’
Clapping his hands, Molineux ran into the middle of the large room. Gradually, the talk died away. One last, lone voice quacked on for half a sentence: ‘... so she used the Alsatian and the melon.’
‘Thank you. You can probably hear from the noise outside that our uninvited but not unexpected guests are about to arrive. Evel, I’m relying on you to keep your men under control. If there’s any sign of trouble, then Chief Superintendent Penn has enough men here and outside to check any aggro.’
The critics, hangers-on, freeloaders, reporters and other uninvolved persons, were hastily shepherded to the end of the saloon furthest away from the door. Just by the table bearing the exhibits from the Los Angeles casters in plaster.
The police, in a heliotrope variety of unlikely disguises, ranged themselves in a loose circle round the main entrance. Inside the circle were all the Ghouls – about thirty, with a few more outside watching the hogs. Standing next to Evel Winter, and hugging himself with a mixture of pleasure and simple fear, was Melvyn Molineux.
The roaring of bike engines outside died away and there was a moment of silence. Chief Superintendent Penn used that moment to hiss a warning to the Ghouls: ‘Just one wrong move out of anybody and I’ll see you all away. Remember this isn’t my idea. If I can bust all of you then it’ll have been worthwhile. So, if you want to keep clean, keep in line. Otherwise I’ll have you.’
Even as he was speaking, there was the sound of boots on the staircase and the door was thrown back. Even some of the more cynical journalists gasped at the spectre that strode in. Tall, over six feet, with flowing, fine, shoulder-length hair that was as white as Arctic snow. Flesh as pale as a rain-washed bone and eyes that stared and flamed with a fearsome red intensity.
‘I’m Gwyn. Let’s see. You’re Evel Winter and these pretty people must be the Ghouls. You lot ...’ a contemptuous wave of his gloved hand ‘...are obviously sworn officers of the law. And you, must be Mr. Molineux. The reporter who says that the Ghouls are the top chapter of Hell’s Angels and that the Last Heroes and Wolves are scared to come down to London to say anything different.’
‘Those are all reasonable assumptions, er, Gwyn. But, surely you haven’t come down here from your caves just on your own? We heard several other bikes. Where are all the rest of you?’
Evel Winter brushed past the journalist. ‘What’s more to the point, whitey, where is Gerry? Is he hiding behind clowns now?’
Gwyn smiled gently at the insults. ‘Now, now. Chief Superintendent Israel Pitman Penn there, lurking behind that strange mummer’s beard, won’t be pleased’ if he hears naughty provocative words. Right, sir?’
Molineux was getting a touch concerned. His unctuous smile started to slip away from one corner of his mouth as he felt control edging from him. He’d wanted a grand violent entrance with instant slaughter. All he’s got was a shatteringly self-possessed albino in stinking blue denim, with a white wolf’s head blazing on the back. A man who brought an aura of bizarre death into that effete atmosphere. A man under control.
What Melvyn didn’t know was that this scene had been very carefully rehearsed. Gerry had guessed that the art exhibition had been set up as the scene for a confrontation between the Ghouls and his own chapter. A few quiet words and a couple of pounds spent in the right pubs had revealed the plans laid by the police and the name of the senior officer involved. Gwyn had been chosen as the brother most likely to freeze the minds of some of the straight trendies there – a man who would not blow his cool under pressure or provocation. Gerry knew that Gwyn would say what he’d been told to, and that he could also trust him to play the chat by ear.
Gerry had a suspicion – unfounded as it happened – that Molineux, and, even, the Ghouls, were all part of a police plan to trap the Last Heroes and Wolves. So, they waited while Gwyn sussed things out.
While Molineux sweated, Gwyn suddenly turned and walked out, down to where the other brothers waited. He was followed by whispered insults from the Ghouls, and a mutter of ‘fucking cowards’ from Evel Winter.
It only took a minute for Gwyn to convince Gerry that things seemed to be on the level. Leaving a similar number of brothers to the Ghouls attending to the hogs, Gerry led his chapter up the baroque staircase and in to the ‘Plastic Life’ rooms.
‘Ah. You must be the elusive Gerry Vinson?’
Gerry didn’t reply to the reporter. His brothers fanned out around him, Kafka, Riddler, Cochise and Dick the Hat stood in a half-circle while Brenda and Gwyn stood together, just behind him. Rat also came in the room with them and he was … actually, nobody really noticed his slinking, tiny figure and he melted somewhere round the back.
Finally, Gerry let his eyes settle on Evel Winter. He looked up and down the satin figure of the president, taking in the heavy makeup, the sequins on each cheekbone. Seeing behind the trivia that made up the public image. Detecting the ruthless streak that made him the power he was. Seeing even beyond that to a psychosis that created a figure of quite unpredictable danger. At last, he smiled.
‘You wear soft clothes. You call yourself an Angel and yet you dress like a ponce. Like a queer. Like a girl. What sort of a brother are you?’
One of the Ghouls stepped forward angrily, but Evel was just as much in control as Gerry and reached out and squeezed the cheek of his errant brother between finger and thumb. The Ghoul yelped at the pain. Evel held him steadily, until he suddenly let go, leaving a white, pinched weal across the man’s face.
‘Careful Evel. You might make the poor wee fellow’s mascara run.’ That was Kafka.
‘Quiet. We won’t do anything to upset these silken folk or our steadfast defenders of public safety. We’re not here for that.’
‘In that case, Vinson. What are you here for?’
Yet again, Gerry ignored the querulous interruptions of Melvyn Molineux. ‘Evel. I read in that little man’s paper that you reckon that the Ghouls are the top chapter.’
‘Yeah. I always believe what I read in the papers. Especially when it happens to be the truth.’
‘I would venture that a statement like that could be called … what was it old Churchill said?’
Kafka answered: ‘He called a man a liar by saying he’d used a terminological inexactitude.’
‘Thanks, Kafka. Yes, Evel. I reckon that Molineux is a liar. And that anyone who believes him is either stupid or a liar as well. That’s what we’ve come all the way down here for. Nobody likes liars.’
‘Now just a fucking—’
‘Shut up Melvyn. This is between him and me. All right, big bad wolf. What are you and your gang of smellies going to do to prove that you’re the best? You want one big crash-bang brawl, or would you dig something a bit more subtle?’
‘Subtle from you means tricky. What have you and your creepy mate got arranged?’
‘We haven’t got anything arranged. The “Daily Leader” would never lend its name to anything that wasn’t absolutely clean and above-board.’
‘Clean! You couldn’t even guess at what the word means. What do you suggest, then, Winter?’
The police had relaxed as the talk went on. While people were talking there wasn’t that much danger that violence would suddenly spew out. Although the chat was insulting and somewhat provocative, it wasn’t anything that they could move on. Not by a long way. So, they relaxed and waited.
The ladies and gentlemen of the press were also relaxing after the burst of tension caused by the appearance of Gwyn. Led by one or two of the braver ones – with a bravery that owed much to the alcohol laid on by the exhibition sponsors – they began to push forward to hear the exchanges.
All this movement meant that there were gaps in the room, areas where a small man might creep and brew up evil and mischief. A small man, like – for instance – Rat. Barely five feet tall in his stinking socks, Rat was one of the longest established of Hell’s Angels in Britain. He had been a member of the Last Heroes during all their dark underground days, long before Gerry even appeared on the scene. At least twice he had attempted to help the ex-president, the late and little lamented Vincent, to kill Gerry. Distrusted by many of the Wolves and hated by Brenda, Rat was still a useful weapon in the armoury of the chapter.
However, because of his Satanic sense of unpleasant humour and his anarchic love of violence, there were times when he was something of a liability. Like now.
Sneaking gently through the fringes of the crush, Rat was barely noticeable. Only the smell of his colours gave warning of his presence. By the time your nose had registered the miasma of his passing, and your eyes had sought the source of the odour, he had moved on.
As the journalists gathered round, forcing the police into a useless, huddled mass, the two leaders of the Hell’s Angels chapters were pushed almost eye-ball to eye-ball. At the rear of the Ghouls, hidden by the Palladian column, a hand came round a corner, spidered softly towards the back pocket of one of the beautiful satin jackets and poured some liquid in to the pocket, splashing more over the side and back. The hand disappeared and then eased round again, holding a small cigarette lighter. A flick of the thumb and the high-octane fuel burst into flame. A scuttling dash and Rat was well over the other side of the room before the unfortunate Ghoul even noticed that he was well ablaze.
In fact it was a blonde lady journalist from a popular daily who first saw the fire and screamed a warning. Instant panic! The Last Heroes and Wolves gathered round Gerry to face the unknown threat. The reporters fled for the doors and balcony. The police milled uselessly around and the Ghouls tried to help their stricken brother. He ripped off the blazing coat and heaved it across the room. It knocked over an early Warhol silk-screen, which flamed down on to the table of plaster casts, breaking many of the most famous phalluses in show-biz history.
Fortunately, Penn of the Yard was a man of action and he proved his reputation by leaping at the spreading fire and beating it into submission with a leather and brass mobile. A quick-thinking constable, hampered by a flowing cotton kaftan, earned himself a commendation by slashing open a vermilion plastic water-bed that had been waiting for the group-grope on a small platform. A couple of hundred gallons of warm water soon extinguished the flames and reduced the danger to a smoking heap of rubble.
Wheeling quickly round, Penn spotted a more immediate danger. The two chapters of Angels were facing each other, ready for one more spark to set off a battle.
Banging his truncheon on a ringing Hepworth sculpture, he bellowed for attention. ‘Hold it! Everybody stay exactly where they are. One movement and my men will move in and all my men will come running from outside. I warn you. One word in the wrong place and I … I will personally guarantee that every single one of your prize motorbikes will be pounded into scrap metal. The Council of Civil bleeding Liberties can protest all they like afterwards. It’ll be too late then. Right?’
It was the threat to their hogs that really kept the Ghouls and Last Heroes and Wolves apart. But, it was a tenuous and desperately uneasy peace. Fragile as a spun-crystal ball. Aching in a void that shrieks to be violently filled. They stood and faced each other, stiff-legged and bristling.
‘Not here, then?’
‘Right.’
‘Where, and when?’
‘Somewhere away from this army of fucking piggie-wiggies.’
‘Wait a minute. Wait. Listen. Wait. Listen to me. I’ve got an idea. Wait.’
Evel Winter turned to look stonily at the capering figure of Melvyn Molineux. He had promised the Ghouls that he would set it up for them so that they would have the chance to grind the Last Heroes into the shit. He’d said that they wouldn’t dare start any kind of fight with the place packed with police. But, the Ghouls had lost face. The incident of the burning jacket would be splashed over most of the daily papers the next morning. Since Molineux hadn’t delivered what he promised, it would have to be settled with knives and chains and fists and hogs. In the grand old manner.
Molineux gabbled his plan. His careful plan. ‘A sort of duel. That’s it. The losers agree to disband and publicly burn their colours and their jackets with the badges and things.’
Gerry turned from the door, interested. ‘What sort of duel? You mean pistols at dawn? Or lances on our Harleys?’
‘He means a sort of trial by combat. That way he’ll get rid of all of us. Or have us busted for disturbing the peace.’
‘No. No. No. Not like that. More a sort of competition rather than a duel. I’ll draw up a list of clues giving places that you have to go to and things you have to find there. The team from each chapter that does it fastest and gets them all right will be the winners.’
Cochise made one of his rare public utterances: ‘When I was a kid I used to go on car rally things like that with my brother, Nigel. He’d put on his deer-stalker hat, his super suede jacket and we’d roar off in his M.G. sports car. We never won though ’cos he was so frigging thick.’
‘I think it might be funsie and save you Heroes from getting badly hurt.’
‘Good. Well, Gerry, what do you think? Evel has agreed on behalf of the Ghouls. Are you going to come in or are you too scared to risk it? Maybe you lot are only good at stealing and grandma-bashing.’
‘Why you dirty …’
‘Cool it, Dick. He’s just trying to get us rattled. I’ll tell you what. We’ll talk it over and I’ll ring you at your office tonight at nine o’clock. If we agree, then I’ll want a proper meeting to get the rules straightened out. Just so that nobody has any doubts what’s happening. Okay?’
‘Yes, that’s very fair, Gerry. What do you think, Evel? Will you agree to that?’
The sound of sirens drawing nearer heralded the arrival of the Fire Brigade and drowned the answer from the president of the Ghouls. But, everyone saw the nod. Brenda saw more, and pushed forward to whisper in Gerry’s ear.
‘Watch it, lover. I smell a rat, or, two rats. One a little reporter who wants a scoop for his paper and another who’s the. president of a crowd of sodding queers and who might go along with any plan that gave him die chance to carry on with his boasting about being the number one. I reckon they intend fixing it between them.’
Gerry turned to whisper back. ‘Maybe you’re right, but we haven’t got a lot of choice. His paper will blow this up into a big thing. Just think about the fucking class if we can pull it off. I reckon we could. With a bit of luck and a lot of planning. I’ll get us plenty of time for the planning and then we’ll go ahead. But, we’ll have a full chapter meeting out in Hertfordshire tonight. Relax.’
He turned back to Molineux and confirmed his agreement that he would ring later that night. Molineux could hardly hide his pleasure and the two groups of Angels started snarling threats at each other. Penn moved his men in between and asked the Last Heroes and Wolves to leave first.
They filed out, Gwyn remaining facing the room and leaving last. They pushed past the huddle of reporters hiding on the landing and were gone.
All but one. Rat sneaked back along the landing and stuck his head round the door, whistling to attract the attention of the Ghouls. When he saw that they were looking, he held up his cigarette lighter and flicked it on. Penn was hard put to hold back the angry Ghouls but, in a flash, Rat was gone. With a jaunty two-fingered salute.
Chief Superintendent Penn turned away towards Melvyn Molineux and mopped his brow. With a totally unconscious humour he said: ‘You know, Mr. Molineux. For a few moments it got quite warm there.’