All over Britain, and, indeed, Europe, millions of video and television viewers heard the astounded exclamation from ace commentator, Rick Austen. ‘My God!’ Not the sort of thing that good old John Snagge would ever have said. Not on the air anyway.
So, what amazing incident had prompted the outburst? The owner of the “Daily Leader”, Valentine Bergen, had dropped the starting flag for the beginning of the first of the five legs of the challenge between the Ghouls and the Last Heroes and Wolves.
Led by Evel Winter, the Ghouls roared out of the forecourt of the ‘Leader’ office block. The draw had given them the slightly favoured outside place, and they were first into the road, through the narrow opening. Last of them was the fat Shelob, who skidded in the entrance and blocked it off for the following Heroes. There was instant chaos, and it was this mess of bikes and riders that had caused Rick Austen to lose his customary cool.
Cochise rushed from the crowd with his pendulous old lady, Forty, and quickly dragged the fallen Ghoul and his hog from the entrance, laying him out cold in the process. The rest of the Heroes also came running to help and all the six were soon off and rolling again. But, it had taken more than two minutes and the Ghouls had a lead that seemed almost unassailable. And, they knew that part of North London as their hunting ground, so they had very much the advantage.
Leaving behind them a mass of police struggling to keep the two chapters apart after that incident, the Heroes sped up Chancery Lane. At the top they split, Gwyn and Monk turning right to head for Kings Cross and Caledonian Road. The others went left to go via Camden Town.
It would be dull to simply recount the chase that went on through North London. The Ghouls had the dual advantage of knowing the district and of having cheated a lead of a couple of minutes. Although the Last Heroes pushed their hogs to the limit, and a bit beyond it, they couldn’t close the gap. When Evel rocketed into the small courtyard in front of the red brick castle of Holloway Jail, they were still a full minute ahead. By cutting round through Middleton Grove and back on to the Caledonian Road, they were able to steal another couple of hundred yards.
The copy of the “Daily Leader” – marked with the large red letters ‘Last Heroes’ – clenched between his teeth, Monk blazed after the Ghouls. At his elbow, sometimes screaming some fearful Welsh curse at an unwary passer-by, was the silver vampire of Gwyn. As they eased to a stop in the elevated yard at the front of Pentonville’s dull facade, Gwyn reached out and snatched the marked copy of the second paper from the hands of the ‘Leader’s’ man on the spot. Then, wheels kicking dust, it was full belt down the Caledonian Road back to the finish.
Realising that they were going to be too late, anyway, Gerry and the two Last Heroes had not bothered to go all the way to Holloway and had cut through, hoping to be able to do something to stop the Ghouls before they could get back. They could hear the sound of the Ghouls’ choppers, whining away from them before they even got to Caledonian Road. Just as they burst out of a side road, they glimpsed Monk and Gwyn burning up the asphalt as they fled in pursuit.
Gerry waved Brenda alongside him. ‘We’ve fucking had this one, love! Those two’ll never close up on the Ghouls. From the noise, they’re a good half-mile ahead. And, it’s only about a mile to go. We’ll have to do a bloody sight better on the next clue. What the …?’
Had you forgotten Kafka? Admit it. Be honest. You thought he was with Gerry? Look a bit back and you’ll see ‘Gerry and the two Last Heroes’. That’s Gerry, Brenda and Bardd. Not Kafka. After the shambles at the start he had not gone far with the main group. Seeing the futility of a stern chase with little hope of victory. Gerry, for once, had failed. He knew the latest brother, young Monk, was good and that the mad white-haired Gwyn would ride through Hell for his brothers. But, none of them could do the impossible. But, he might.
Kafka was one of the oldest of the Angels – and the one with the most tricks. Apart from Gerry himself, he was probably the only one with any grasp of what could be called strategy. As he rode slowly through the back streets off York Way, his mind was working furiously. Some kind of ambush seemed the only logical chance. But where? And he had to stop all five of the Ghouls. He didn’t know who would have the precious papers, and he couldn’t risk stopping the wrong one. Not far from the public baths, and on the opposite side of the road is Carnegie Street. The visibility is none too good down there, and that was where Kafka went.
Kafka breathed a quiet prayer to whatever gods he might have worshipped – possibly the blessed Harley-Davidson, or the sainted Terry the Tramp – when he saw what was standing at the end of the street, just round the corner from Caledonian Road. A big barrow, loaded to the gunwales with fruit and vegetables. Surrounded by a small crowd of afternoon shoppers and with a big West Indian doing good trade.
Kafka rolled softly to a stop alongside the barrow, enjoying as he always did, the confusion and panic his appearance created.
The crowd melted away like the morning dew and he was left magically alone with the owner of the barrow.
‘Thanks a lot, man. You really did me a fucking good turn there. Springing out of the floor like a fucking pantomime demon. Do me another good turn and fuck off. Then I can sell some of me stock. Anyway, you’re one of those Hell’s Angels in the race, ain’t you? Jesus! Sweet Jesus. What do you want?’
‘Your barrow, mate. Sorry about this, but I don’t have the time to do anything else. Hear those bikes? Yeah, well, they belong to a gang of bastards called the Ghouls, and I want to give them a surprise. Now piss off.’
The West Indian didn’t move. ‘That’s okay, man. But who pays for all this?’
‘Don’t worry. The Daily Leader’ll pay. If they don’t, I’ll pay for it. You got my word. Now, piss off.’
‘Right on, man.’
Kafka dropped off his denim jacket with the deaths-head blazoned across the back and heaved at the heavy barrow to get it moving. To his surprise, the owner came and helped him.
‘Know something? I know those bastard Ghouls. They ride around here like they was the Ku Klux Klan or something. You aiming to bust them up with my barrow? Then you are surely welcome. Let’s go. They’re nearly here.’
Packed and bunched together, the triumphant Ghouls tore up the road to get back to the finish and claim the first victory. Dim and far behind them they could hear the petulant whine of the leading Hero—Gwyn. Too far back to present any kind of threat. Evel, both copies of the paper stuffed down his harlequin jacket, raised both gloved hands from the ape hanger bars on his bright Harley and screamed his joy at the amazed shoppers and spectators.
Timed to the most split of seconds, the heavy barrow lurched out of the side-road, angled round and overturned, just as the Ghouls came up to the corner at over forty miles an hour. The owner and Kafka leaped for their lives as Evel hit the barrow full on, cartwheeling over the bars to skid into a pile of oranges and aubergines. The fruit burst under his weight and carried him into the gutter on a tide of pulp and peel. His new jacket tore from shoulder to shoulder and the papers were shredded from his grasp. The rest of the chapter had no chance of avoiding his fate. Bunched as they were, they tried to find a way through the shambles of fruit, but there just wasn’t the time for them. One hog slipped over a pile of hard nuts while another Angel was badly-bruised when he came down on a pile of very knobbly King Edwards.
The chapter was demolished in that moment and hogs and riders were scattered all round the road and pavement. The watching crowd, many of them local coloured people with no love for the perverted Ghouls, cheered their enemies’ downfall.
Kafka gave his helper a quick pat on the back, then he was up on to his own hog and away round the loop at the top of Carnegie Street and gently back through Farringdon Road to the ‘Leader’.
He had seen enough in those cataclysmic moments to know that the first part of the challenge was theirs. Gunning down the hill, Gwyn and Monk had plenty of time to see the chaos at the junction and steer a safe course through the fruit and vegetables on the road, round the fallen bikes and past the Ghouls who were just staggering to their feet. Those who could still stagger!
Gerry, Brenda and Bardd came down the hill seconds later and found it difficult to believe their eyes. Victory had been plucked by what appeared a miracle out of the very maw of defeat. They slowed down, as the other two had done and Gerry found time to shout at the torn and beslobbered Evel: ‘You shouldn’t be over-confident! Wasting time like that doing your shopping.’
A whoop from Bardd and the three rode off towards Gray’s Inn Road singing away to Bardd’s mouth-harp; ‘Blood on the road and a white heron flying ...’
The Last Heroes and Wolves won the first leg of the challenge by a full five minutes. That night they celebrated, but the cheers and the drinks and the offers from the mamas were all for the conquering hero, Kafka.
Evel had to reckon on wearing his second-best suit for the second leg the next day. He was very unhappy about the first result and he and his team spent a lot of time talking together. Planning together. Repairing their hogs together. Then, they all went to bed. Yes.
The bookmakers were unhappy and the overnight odds came down to evens on both chapters.
Melvyn Molineux was incredibly angry that night. He had a painful conference with V.B. that gave him a sleepless night. Alone.
The newspapers were full of the race and, though some queried the possible danger to the lookers-on, most entered the spirit of the competition and built up interest for the next day. They gave so much space to the first leg in the evening papers that there was scarcely any other news. The next morning, the papers were even worse. In fact, the death in a fire of nine people in a terraced house near Havelock Street, not far from Caledonian Road gave nobody pause. Obviously those blacks with their paraffin heaters. One of the men who died – with his wife and two of his three children – was the owner of that famous fruit and vegetable barrow. It’s a funny oil heater that starts a fire just inside the front door, right below the letterbox.
Evel Winter may have lost the race, but he wasn’t prepared to be a good loser.
He had a long arm.
None of the Last Heroes—not even Kafka—ever heard about the fire.
‘Go!’
‘George Yard Buildings saw my death,
A whore was I, till my last breath.
Thirty-nine cuts bled me fast,
I was the first, but not the last.’
They were racing off on the second leg and this time the edge was with the Last Heroes. No interference at the beginning, and, though they didn’t know it, no help for the Ghouls. That had been an absolute condition of the previous night’s meeting with Valentine Bergen. Molineux knew his boss well enough to know just how far to mush. And, he had pushed enough. He had leaked the answer to the first clue to the Ghouls, and they had still lost. He dared not leak the second answer. His big hope had been that neither chapter would solve it in the one hour that they were allowed before the clue became public and they were off to follow it up.
Had he been in the Ghouls’ room he would have been happy, for they had little idea. ‘Of course it’s a murdered tart you silly bastards! Yes, Rohan; it probably is what you said. But, we still don’t know fucking where. And old creepie-weepie smelly Melvyn ain’t helping this time. We’ll just to have to try and follow them. If they know. Let’s hope they don’t then this one will be cancelled. Fingers crossed chummies.’
The scene in the conference room of the Last Heroes was somewhat different. Only the six chosen plus the three nominated reserves were allowed to discuss the clue. And the reserves – despite a certain coolness in some quarters – included the ubiquitous and generally despicable Rat.
When Gerry read the clue out again to them, there was a long silence. Gwyn broke it: ‘It’s obviously some kind of murder.’
Brenda had little to offer this time but weighed in with the thought that it might be the nude murders that had baffled police in the sixties, down near the Thames.
Gerry suddenly got to his feet, waving the paper with the clue. ‘Jack the Ripper. That’s what it is. I bet it’s about Jack the Ripper. The man who murdered all those tarts in Victorian England. Cut out their wombs and took away bits of their kidneys to eat.’
There was a murmur from Cochise, one of the other reserves at this information: ‘Christ! That’s real class! What a brother he’d have made.’
Gerry went on: ‘But, where the sodding hell is George Yard Buildings? Wasn’t it all done up the East End somewhere? God, if the Ghouls get this one they’ll walk it. We haven’t a chance.’
He looked round the circle of depressed faces. Brenda looking miserable. Gwyn and Bardd, gloomy in one corner. Cochise obviously missing his old lady. Kafka, poker-faced, but with nothing to contribute. Monk, looking puzzled and angry. Rat grinning away. Alongside him was ... Rat … grinning!!
‘What is so fucking funny, Rat? Share it with us.’
There was a pause before Rat spoke softly. ‘When the lady there, (pointing maliciously at Brenda) got the first clue, everyone said ‘Good old Brenda’ and she got a place in the six. Suppose I got this one. Just suppose. Now, if I did, then it would only be fair to let me come in as one of the reserves. The rules say that any reserve can be substituted at any time outside of the actual runs. If I came in, then I might insist that the lady drops out. And, I take her place.’
To his disappointment, Brenda concealed her true feelings and leaped into the vacuum left by his shock announcement. ‘If you do know, Rat. And you’re right. Then I will stand down and you can ride in my place. Because I haven’t any idea this time. Don’t grin too fast. Because, if you go and you’re wrong, you’ll learn to sleep lightly every night you stay with this chapter. My knife will make fucking sure of that.’
‘It’s agreed then, Rat. Tell us. If you know, then we might be on a real winner. And, you’ll ride with us. Now. Come on.’
The trendy conference room was hushed as Rat hissed and whispered his tale. ‘A few years ago I knew a bloke who used to run tours for kinky tourists. Not the regular ones that were in all the papers. These were a bit, unusual. He used to take them to all the murder spots in London, and he’d read bits out of contemporary papers and things. Really horrible. The krauts loved it. More than anyone else. He gave them things that nobody else liked to touch. One of his big specialities was … what you said, Wolf, Jack the Ripper.’
‘Come on, Rat. You’re making a fucking epic out of it.’
‘Patience my young monastery friend, is one of the greatest virtues. Learn it. I’ll go through it line by line. George Yard Buildings was the scene of one of the Ripper’s killings. On Tuesday August 8th, 1888. It was in the early morning on the day after a Bank Holiday. The whore was a scrubber called, Martha … Turner, I think it was. But there’s a bit of doubt about the name. I remember that. Thirty-nine times. That’s right. A two-handed attack they reckoned. With a bayonet and with a scalpel. Thirty-nine! Slashed her body to bits. She was the first, most people reckon. But, not the last. There were round about six more. That’s it. There you are.’
‘Rat. Where the fuck is George Yard Buildings? I know Whitechapel a bit, but I’ve never heard of it. It could be anywhere and had its name changed.’
‘Sorry, Wolf. Forgot that bit. It’s now called Gunthorpe Street. Just off Whitechapel High Street.’
The Last Heroes lost that second leg. Though they knew the answer to the clue and the Ghouls didn’t. Evel really justified his presidency by winning it for his chapter.
He noticed the change in the personnel at once and the greased tumblers in his mind quickly came up with the right answer. He called Rohan over to him. ‘Look. They’ve dropped the tart. And they’ve brought in that tiny cunt what burned Alice. I wonder if that little bastard knew the clue and that’s why he’s in. Yeah! That’s got to be it. Listen brother. You and I are going to follow Rat, regardless of what the others will do. The rest can follow any of the other Heroes. They’re bound to try a diversion.’
Obvious, isn’t it? That’s what Gerry thought as well, and had laid careful plans to cover exactly that happening. He would lead three of the chapter towards Hyde Park, Rat would deliberately act suspiciously and head east, but he would try and shake off any pursuers round Bank. Whatever happened, he wasn’t to go anywhere near Gunthorpe Street. Bardd would ride slowly off and then fake a breakdown, so that he would be ignored. When everyone had left him behind, he was to ride slowly and carefully to Gunthorpe Street, pick up the marked copy of the paper and come back. Simple.
They all knew what they had to do, and Gerry knew, from past experience, that he could rely on them all to do their bit He was only a bit doubtful about Rat, but he figured that his plan was foolproof.
But, not Rat-proof!
In Evel’s head, greased tumblers had meshed. In Rat’s head, slimy cogs slowly engaged their gears. ‘I got that clue. Why should that Welsh git have all the glory? Once I shake off any tails, I can go straight there and quick back. No problems. No satin poof with lipstick on’ll have a chance of keeping up with me!’
So, Gerry, Kafka, Gwyn and Monk thrashed off westwards, followed by an equal number of Ghouls. Bardd had cunningly turned off the petrol tap on his hog so that it cut out at the very moment that the flag dropped. Cursing loudly and ostentatiously, he leaped off and poked angrily at his chromed engine. Apart from jeering at his ill-luck, none of the Ghouls took any notice at all of him.
Rat skulked around, looking suspicious – which was easier for him than for most people – and then set off eastwards. Off towards the shining dome of St Pauls. Trailing him were Evel and Rohan.
The eight members of the warring chapters who went westwards are of no further concern to us. They livened things up for the Thursday afternoon shoppers in Oxford Street and then came straight back to the offices of the ‘Leader’. Together with an anxious Melvyn Molineux, they waited for the return of Bardd with the paper.
Rat rode up past St Pauls, leaning back in the saddle, hands drooping over the bars. He could see Evel and Rohan clearly in his twin mirrors. Evel in dazzling white and Rohan in deep purple. They were only fifty yards or so behind as he reached Bank. Glancing quickly back over his stunted shoulders, Rat twisted the throttle right round. The powerful engine roared in protest at this mistreatment, but thrust forwards, rubber smoking off the roadway.
Without once looking back, he revved up Bishopsgate and then dived into the maze of small, narrow side streets between Liverpool Street and Aldgate. Middlesex Street led him into Wentworth Street, where he was held up for a moment by the traffic, and then across Commercial Street towards the end of Gunthorpe Street. He cunningly stopped in the gutter before he actually made the turn, looking round for any sign of pursuit.
The traffic was heavy, and he couldn’t see that far back. There was the usual number of local delivery lorries and trucks, a few private cars and a handful of motorbikes. None of the latter sported the dreaded Ghouls’ colours. Feeling smug and safe, Rat turned into Gunthorpe Street and cruised down it towards Whitechapel Road. Exactly on the site of the old George Yard Buildings, he saw the representative of the “Daily Leader”, waving a copy of the paper at him.
He stopped and snatched it from him, and then, chuckling happily to himself, he set off on his triumphant return journey. As he reached Newgate Street, nearly there, he saw the crowds on the pavement, thick as fields of harvest wheat. Sexy little office girls, stretching their lunch hours in the hope of catching a glimpse of one of the dread Angels. He saw them waving to him and shouting. He couldn’t hear what because of the roar of his Triumph and the noise of traffic. He waved a gloved fist at them – a gesture of victory. New Fetter Lane and he could freewheel from there. He was home.
So, how could the Last Heroes have lost that second leg?
Maybe Rat is being fractionally premature in claiming victory before he’s handed the paper in to Valentine Bergen. But, he’s so close that nothing could stop him. Could it? Yes, it could.
Go back about eight minutes to the moment when Rat paused at the opening of Gunthorpe Street and looked back. Looking for the distinctive jackets of the two Ghouls. Remember how he saw a couple of motorbikes? And how he dismissed them?
Go back a little further and you’ll recall how Rat was held up for a few moments in the traffic. During that briefest of stops, Evel and Rohan had ripped off their bright colours and ridden on, wearing plain shirts and dungaree trousers. Unseen by Rat, they had followed him down Gunthorpe Street at a discreet distance, then roared back to the ‘Leader’ by using roads nearer the river.
Coming through the back of the crowd, nobody noticed them as the little Angel strode cockily through towards the editor, his marked copy already held out. Timing his move to absolute perfection, Evel stepped out in front of Rat, when he was only six feet from Bergen, and thrust his own copy of the paper into the astonished (and delighted) man’s hands. ‘I think this is what you’ve been waiting for, sweetie.’ He turned round to the paralysed Rat. ‘One all, tiny-weenie one. Thanks for taking us straight to it.’
The well-respected man, Penn of the Yard had made it his business to be present at each start and finish and he grabbed Rat by the shoulders from behind. ‘Bad luck lad,’ he said with a ringing voice. ‘Close that. Still, three more legs to go. I’m sure you’re not going to be a bad loser, now, are you? Of course not.’ In a quieter voice, designed only for the wriggling Angel, he whispered: ‘Pull out whatever it is in your pocket, laddie, and I’ll break both your wretched collarbones. No? Wise lad. Now push off.’ Digging his knuckles hard into the little man’s back, he propelled him into the arms of his glowering president. Penn added insult to injury by calling for, and getting, ‘Three cheers for a very sporting little loser!’
Nothing was said by any of the Last Heroes and Wolves until they reached their conference room. Kafka slammed the door shut with an ominous thump. Gerry opened his mouth when Rat spoke first. ‘No. If it hadn’t been for me we’d have had no chance at all, because none of you lot got the clue. And ... and …’
‘Yes,’ the menacing monosyllable from Brenda.
‘And, I’m sorry brothers. I really fucked it up, didn’t I?’
‘Forget it, Rat. Let’s all go back to base and start getting ready for Number Three.’