‘All right. Those are the rules. Nice and simple. Seven days to pick your teams of six and get ready. So, on Tuesday next, the cameras roll and away you all go at mid-day sharp. Remember to come here first at eleven to get the first clue. Then, one a day till the big last one on Saturday. Each chase starts on the forecourt outside apart from the last one. That runs from Marble Arch. Just to be different. Have any of you got any questions?’
Brenda spoke first. ‘Each clue will lead us to a specific place. At each place there will be a man with a copy of the ‘Leader’ for each chapter and all we have to do each day is find the place and the man, collect the copy of the paper and bring it back to the main doors here.’
‘Right. Absolutely right.’
‘Thanks. I wanted to be sure. And, each time we get the clue just one hour before the off at twelve.’
‘Yes. Evel, have your team any questions?’
‘Melvyn, about the money from the television—’
‘Shut up, Vanya. We’ve spent bloody hours arguing about that this morning. Drop it. It’s settled.’
Kafka disturbed his bulk from one of the Danish tubular steel and mustard canvas executive chairs that had been brought into the conference room at the ‘Leader’s’ offices near Fleet Street. He peered through the clouds of pot smoke and asked his question. ‘Can you tell us anything at all about these clues? What sort of subjects they’ll be – that sort of thing?’
‘Well now. I don’t think it would be at all fair to give too much away. They’ll be single clues to each place – not a great string of them. The first one is quite easy, the next two are a bit literary, the third one is … well, let’s just say it’s not literary, and the last one is a bit tricky.’
The room was edgy with tension. Security guards stood round the back of the room, but there had been no actual trouble. The Ghouls had a smug air of superiority but the Last Heroes and Wolves were far from happy. Though Gerry, backed by Brenda, Gwyn and Kafka, had finally convinced that they had to go through with the challenge, there was a strong feeling that the whole thing might be a fix and that they were going to get crapped on from a great height. As Melvyn ran quickly through the rules, suspicion had been swelling nearer the surface. Gerry was relieved when Melvyn gathered up his papers and Evel led the Ghouls out the room. It had been agreed beforehand that the Ghouls would arrive first and leave first. Just to avoid jostling in the hallowed corridors of the paper.
As the Last Heroes filed out in turn, Gerry felt a hand gently on his arm. It was Gwyn who winked encouragingly at him. ‘Don’t look so glum, Wolf. We can beat those queer bastards without raising a sweat.’
Gerry turned to face the albino. ‘I think we can. Otherwise I’d never have agreed to it. But, I’m sure that fly little cunt Molineux has arranged some kind of fix with the Ghouls. It’s not just that we can win; it’s that we’ve got to.’
During the week before the challenge began, the ‘Daily Leader’ gave it saturation cover. Pictures of nubile, clean young ladies wearing unlikely combinations of leather and denim filled the centre pages. Articles on how to chop bikes, on the lore and language of Hell’s Angels, plans for the start, interviews with concerned sociologists and psychiatrists – the whole show.
One or two other chapters claimed they should be included in the challenge but they were cold-shouldered. One set of brothers from Windsor even ran up to London and roared round the paper’s offices carrying picket cards. Mynydd, Cochise, Draig and Rat happened to be riding round the area, trying to familiarise themselves with the roads, when they came across the demo.
Bearing in mind Gerry’s instructions to keep out of trouble until the challenge was over, they made their attack carefully. Since it had to be sneaky, it was a happy chance that Rat was along. He ‘arranged’ a couple of pints of oil, punctured the can and rode sedately through the other outlaws, muttering the most gross insults under his breath. Watching police saw only the small figure of a solitary Hell’s Angel, ride gently past. Then the Windsor chapter seemed to go crazy. They dropped their placards, revved up their engines and roared off after the single rider. Then, the craziness increased. They’d only gone a hundred yards, and were catching up on Rat, when they all skidded wildly across the road and fell in a tangled heap of cursing men and screaming machines.
The police dashed towards the scene of carnage – the lone rider had proceeded gently along – when there was the roar of more bikes and three other Angels sped round the corner, keeping within the legal speed limit, and rode into the wreckage. The Windsor brothers hadn’t even got to their feet when they found themselves the targets for three heavy bikes ridden by three expert riders. Skidding round the oil on the road, the Last Heroes and Wolves chopped their way through, breaking arms and fingers and smashing bikes beyond salvation.
The only thing the police could do was charge what was left of the Windsor chapter with dangerous riding, without due care etc. etc. The others got off since they obviously couldn’t have expected to see a load of men and bikes sprawled across a busy road. They never traced the first motor cyclist. The one who must have had a leaky tank, or something. Or something.
Nobody else challenged the Ghouls or the Last Heroes after that. It wasn’t worth it.
One of the most surprising side-effects of the paper’s coverage of the coming challenge was a vast increase in the numbers of people who suddenly wanted to join the Hell’s Angels. An idea of the difference between the two chapters involved comes from the way they treated applicants.
The Ghouls attracted girls more than boys, which was rather a shame. And a waste.
Many of the girls were only just in their teens and they were sent screaming away. Evel Winter liked his amusement, but he didn’t like jail bait. When a group of schoolgirls refused to leave them alone, Evel broke one of the cardinal laws of Hell’s Angels – he called the fuzz to collect them. And, he insisted that they were charged.
Prompted by Rohan, Evel agreed to let twenty or so of the best-looking women into their clubhouse in Camden Town. There they were doped up until their minds were wobbling free. Then, Evel announced a contest to find the most lovely mama. Miss Ghoul. But, it had to be done nude. So, the hopefuls, spaced out of sight, stripped off their blouses, tore off skirts or trousers, pulled down tights. Posed and preened themselves all along one wall, while the made-up Ghouls admired them from the other side of the room.
Shelob, fattest of all Angels, unusual among the Ghouls in that he had a beard, collected up the girls’ clothes and took them out of the room. To be kept safe? No? To be burned!
Evel lined the girls up and kept them waiting for nearly half an hour in the freezing cold while they ‘added up the marks’. Then he announced that they had reached a decision. He called Rohan over to him. ‘Now my brother. Let us show these little breasties what we think of them.’
All the Ghouls immediately burst into howls of laughter and derision, throwing food and drink over the frightened girls. The vicious joke continued with Evel grabbing Panya and kissing and fondling him. Before the horrified gaze of the prospects, Vanya dropped to his knees in front of his president and began to unzip his trousers. All round the room, other Ghouls began to make love to each other.
Their laughter rose even higher as the crying girls ran into the other room and found only a smouldering heap of rags where they expected to find clothes. As they clawed their way out into the night, Evel himself came to the studded door and shouted: ‘Come back when you’ve got something more to offer us. Like another eight inches!’
That was one story that Melvyn Molineux didn’t use in the ‘Leader’. He did use a feature about the number of men and boys who’d tried to join the Ghouls but had finished up coolly saying that not a single applicant had measured up to the strict tests imposed by the Angels. Well, that was true. In a way.
Evel had warned Melvyn that the Ghouls never accepted prospects in the usual way. ‘Sorry, sweetie. Nobody asks to join the Ghouls. Sometimes we ask somebody. But, not very often.’
To humour the journalist, Evel Winter agreed to lay on a test for anyone who wanted to become a Ghoul. A time and a place was announced in the ‘Leader’ and over a hundred turned up. First off those who came without a chopper were immediately sent away. Then those who came along wearing either normal gear or a parody of the silk and satin jackets were dismissed. This left nine, with ages ranging from fifteen to thirty-eight.
Evel picked out the oldest and the youngest and told them that selection would be run on knockout lines – Molineux couldn’t understand why the word ‘knockout’ provoked such mirth from the assembled Ghouls.
The test was simple. The two prospects had to ride out into the back yard where a course had been prepared. It was a bit like the old tournaments that knights in armour had to ride. Two paths, about four feet wide, with walls eight feet high. In the centre of the course was quite a sharp bend, taking each rider to the left. The walls were made of heavy board partitions, in sections. Imagine that you are in one of the upper windows of the old warehouse, near the canal, which was the club-house of the Ghouls. Looking down you would see that the course was really like a big figure ‘X’, with the centre partitions moved so that it formed two runs, more or less at right angles, but totally separate. No danger of the riders hitting each other. No. Unless …
Unless the centre partitions were moved; only if they were shifted around a bit. Then you might get an arrangement with one straight diagonal route through with a vision-obscuring chicane in the middle. See what might happen. Right!
Both riders thought they would come round the high partition in the middle, facing a turn to the left. What a surprise when they got there! Oh, how the Ghouls laughed!
Since the gap was only one handlebar’s width, and since both prospects had wound their machines up to peak revs, they hit each other, head-on, at an aggregate speed of nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour.
When the screeching, crashing and ripping had died away, before they dragged out the fused mass of chrome, flesh, steel, bone, oil, muscle, water, brains and mud, Evel turned to the other prospects and whispered softly: ‘Ride with care my doves. See how much better it is to travel hopefully than to arrive.’
Once the remaining contenders saw the carnage, and realised that they would each be expected to make that run with death, six of the seven split.
One tall young man, with immaculate gear and a finely-tuned Norton, insisted that he should have a chance to show his class.
‘Rig up one of those screens, Vanya. In the middle. That’s it. There we are, I’ll ride through that first to show you how it should be done. Then we’ll have a short break for some light refreshments and you can have a go.’
Evel turned his Harley and throttled hard forward, doing a wheelie for nearly twenty yards before he brought the front end down and powered up to the fibreboard partition. He hit it square on and ripped through, skidded on the patch of blood and oil in the centre of the natural arena, fought the bike round and rolled back to applause from his brothers.
‘Great class, Evel!’ shouted the prospect, whose name was Ingrams and was a rather seedy outcast from Winchester School. Manners may have made him a man, but they had failed to cultivate his intelligence. Having seen what had happened to his two predecessors, you might have thought that his natural wit would have alerted him to the possibility … probability, even, of treachery.
Not one fucking bit.
A few drinks under his belt, a new partition, in a different place, on his Norton, gleaming teeth for the cameraman from the ‘Leader’, gloved hands on the ape-hanger bars, foot kicking down on the starter, rear wheel gouging up turf and gravel, a half-hearted wheelie and up to full-bore to hit the partition well in the centre. What a pity!
The warehouse had once housed some gear for shredding and pulping soft bulk plastic. One of the huge units, now rusting, stood massive and immovable, directly behind where the roguish Shelob had placed the board. Though it was aged and corroded, it still had a functional effect when anything was projected at it hard. It was like, well, like a vast chipping machine.
His eyes still closed against flying bits of the fibreboard, Ingrams didn’t know about it until he hit it. Then, it was obviously too late to do much. Though his mind may have been willing to stop, his flesh was weak.
Melvyn Molineux threw up on the spot, and even his hardened cameraman paled. Evel Winter found it all rather amusing. ‘See that, Mel? They didn’t know whether to push the rest of him through, or try and poke the bits of him back. Like I said: “Nobody asks to join the Ghouls.” We’re exclusive and we’re going to stay that way.’
The Last Heroes and Wolves also had a number of applicants who wanted to join them. Though Melvyn played it down, they actually had far more than the Ghouls. Most young people who were interested in Hell’s Angels preferred the traditional look of Gerry’s chapter to the soft look of the Ghouls.
Gerry’s attitude to prospects was much the same as Evel’s. But, he played it differently. Any man without a hog was sent packing. Any girl who even looked as though she might be under the age of consent was also rejected automatically. The rest of the girls were taken on one side by Brenda, Lady, Holly and some of the other mamas and old ladies. They were told what their place would be–generally horizontal. That they would all have to pull a train as part of their initiation. If one of the brothers picked them out to be his old lady, then they would go through a marriage ceremony, over the tank of the brother’s hog, using a service manual instead of any bible or prayer-book. Then they would be the exclusive property of that brother and no one else would dare touch them. Some brothers insisted that their old ladies should be tattooed with their names, generally on the buttocks or on the stomach, just above the line of the pubic hair.
If they were accepted as mamas, then they were a lot less secure. Any brother who wanted them would be able to take them at any time he wanted. That was the rule. A mama didn’t last very long with the Last Heroes and Wolves, unless she had some particular quality. Or, unless she happened to be very exceptional like Holly or Lady. The Last Heroes were not a typical chapter, any more than the Ghouls were. They had a far more careful attitude to authority, in that they would never deliberately damage property or beat anyone up for kicks. Nor would they indulge in the traditional gang-bangs of the seventies. It was okay at the time, one way of showing class. But, things had moved on.
But, all that didn’t mean that the Angels had gone soft. Most of them still had hair-trigger tempers and would brawl at the least provocation. And class still mattered. That was what this challenge was all about. The top chapter had to be the one that would never turn down a dare or a bet. Deintydd was living proof of that.
In a cafe in Caernarvon, he had been moaning about the state of his teeth. A girl had laughed at him and offered a pair of pliers from behind the counter and dared him to pull out his own teeth if he was so tough. Deintydd had grabbed the pliers and seated himself at the table and pulled out five of his rotting molars. The girl behind the counter had been rather surprised. She was even more surprised when he pulled her bodily over the counter and pulled out five of her teeth for good measure. Now called simply Geneth, she had joined the Wolves and had become Bardd’s old lady.
The chat had its effect on the female prospects. No chapter likes a big surplus and the Last Heroes and Wolves were no exception. Only two of the girls were still prepared to go on with their initiation. But, they would have to wait to pull the train until after the men had been tested. Then, if any of them got through, there would be drinking and drugs. The girl prospects would present themselves to the assembled chapter and would be taken first by the president, then by any successful prospects – who would be initiated at a later date – then by the vice-president and then by any and all of the brothers. As many times and in as many ways as they wanted. It could last three or four hours. With two girls, it might last a little less.
The tests for the male applicants started with a check of their hogs. They had to be chopped and not custom-built by some garage that exploited youth cults. The prospects, all wearing plain denim jackets and jeans, with the sleeves cut out of the tops, had to show that they knew how to service their machines. Then a series of questions about the Angels’ movement. How and when it began. The big names. How they died. What happened at the Altamont Festival. Who were the great writers – Cave and the mystic Stuart. About the Last Heroes and its history. What wings were and about other chapters. And, why did they want to join the Heroes?
A French kiss from the aptly-named ‘Foulmouth’, who suffered badly from halitosis, combined with ulcerous gingivitis, came next. After that – and failure here meant a crashing blow from a huge right hand – the numbers were down to eight. A simple test of riding ability brought the eight down to four. Of the four, one was outstanding. Still only a schoolboy, the curly hair of Mick Moore blossomed out over the neck of his denim jacket. Just Seventeen, his parents’ ambitions were for him to achieve a good degree and become a teacher at his old school in Wandsworth. So, at seventeen, he was still at school. Or, rather, he was supposed to be still at school. For the last three days he had been marked absent, devoting his time to preparing himself for his big chance. He had polished all the chrome on his hog and read up all the books and magazines on Angels in his library.
Gerry had pointed him out to Gwyn when the prospects were first paraded for him. ‘Keep an eye on that one. He’s got a streak of mean bastard in him. I reckon he might make it through.’
His time in the army, followed by his year and a half with the Angels had made Gerry a reasonable judge of men. Just as he had picked out Gwyn from all the Angels, so he had spotted Mick Moore as the likeliest prospect he had yet come across.
It was now time for the last four to take the test that would leave only one of them as a prospective Last Hero and Wolf. Mick had decided that it was going to be him. One of the other prospects was even more anxious to succeed in the last test as his girl friend was one of the two who were to take their own initiation later that day. Without him, she would rum a grave risk of being a mama. Having gone as far as she had, he was worried, he confided to Mick, that she might go ahead even if he failed to be accepted.
Mick felt sorry for him. Partly sorry. But not too sorry. The girl – her real name was Christine, but she said she wanted to be called ‘Modesty’, was very attractive and Mick even fancied his chances there. Play his cards right. But, first: the test.
All four would take part at the same time. It was to be a straight race round a country circuit near die ruined missionary college in East Hertfordshire, which had been the headquarters of the Last Heroes before the apocalyptic happenings of the last couple of years. They had ridden a couple of times round the route and were to start together at ten the next morning.
After breakfast Gwyn took Gerry on one side. ‘I arranged a few of the brothers on sentry rota last night, like you ordered. Bardd saw someone sneaking around. He followed him and saw him rigging up a thin wire, neck-high, on that shadowy part of our race-circuit, where it goes through all those overhanging trees.’
Brenda had joined them. ‘Who was it? Those bastard Ghouls! I’d like to castrate them myself.’
Before Gwyn could reply, Gerry spoke. ‘No! I’d take money it wasn’t Evel’s mob. My guess is Mick Moore.’
‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Gwyn, surprised. ‘How the hell did you fucking guess that?’
‘I said, didn’t I, Mick Moore’s got a real bastard mean streak in him.’
‘And he fancies that new prospect; the one who calls herself Modesty.’
‘Right. Yet another motive. I hope that wire hasn’t been touched, Gwyn.’
‘No, Wolf. Right where he left it. I had a look at it myself. Nice job. Just neck-high.’
‘Okay. Send them off then.’
The race began at one end of a bumpy, wide avenue of tall trees. Mick Moore waited discreetly at the back as they roared along, left at a sharp corner, where Modesty’s boyfriend nearly came to grief, and then down the steepest and fastest part of the run, where the track grew narrower and more shadowed.
Brenda and Gerry chose that part as their vantage point and neither were surprised to see the two leaders plucked off their bikes by the wire, as though an invisible fist had struck them both under the chin. Their bikes skidded noisily into the deep ditch at the side of the track and both men lay still. From the angle of the neck of one of them, the wire had snapped his spinal cord.
The chasing pair managed to avoid the wire, the first by sheer luck as he broadsided under it trying to avoid the two bodies, the second by skill, aided by foreknowledge. They both sped on, with Mick still not opening his hog full out.
‘What the fuck is he waiting for? There’s only about half a mile to go to the finish at the ford. He’s going to leave it too late unless …’
Gerry’s sentence remained unfinished as a crash and a scream, cut short by the thump of something striking hard into a tree trunk, interrupted him. ‘Jesus. The cattle grid! He was busy last night.’
Very much later that night, most of the Angels were either pissed or stoned or, in most cases, both. But all the brothers were trying to keep a little soberness in reserve, for the double-headed train pull was due to start. Modesty was standing, shaking slightly, near to Brenda, when Mick Moore loped up, waving a half-full (or, half-empty if you happen to be a pessimistic person) bottle of the beautiful peach liqueur – Southern Comfort. He was grinning all over his face.
‘Hey, there. Why not have a little sip to keep out the cold. Get you in the right mood. Gerry first, then me. That right, Brenda?’ And he slapped her on her tight jeans.
‘Yes, Mick. That’s right. And if you slap my arse like that again, I’ll cut your balls off.’
‘Sorry. Anyway, must go and have a piss before it starts. Don’t like working on a full stomach. See you later, Modesty.’
‘Mick! What about after?’
‘What you mean? Like, if you get to be my old lady. We’ll have to see. Afterwards. See you.’
‘Relax, Modesty. Your turn will come. When he has his initiation tomorrow. He lies down and has piss and puke and everything poured over him. Christening his colours. He has to just lie there and take everything. Like I say. That’ll be – your turn. Nobody can look cocky with a face full of shit.’
When Gerry had exercised his presidential right over the two girl prospects, he stood and watched, his arm round Brenda. She nudged him to attract his attention from the orgiastic scenes. ‘Gerry. You were right about Mick Moore. He really is a bit of a bastard.’
‘Yeah. Good isn’t it? Remember God looks out for bastards.’