The Second Wish and Other Exhalations Read online

  “Yers,” King shouted. “Also NO ENTRY an’ WORKS IN PRO-bleedin’-GRESS! ’Ere, switch off, you lot. I can’t ’ear meself fink!”

  As the engines of the six machines clattered to a halt, King got off his bike and stretched, stamping his feet. His real name was Kevin; but as leader of a chapter of Hell’s Angels, who needed a name like that? A crude crown was traced in lead studs on the back of his leather jacket and a golden sovereign glittered where it dangled from his left earlobe. No more than twenty-five or -six years of age, King kept his head clean-shaven under a silver helmet painted with black eye-sockets and fretted nostrils to resemble a skull. He was hard as they come, was King, and the rest of them knew it.

  “That’s the place I cased over there,” said Leather, pointing. He had jumped up onto the dome of a huge boulder, the luststone, to spy out the land. “See the steeple there? That’s Affelsford — and Comrades, does it have some crumpet!”

  “Well, jolly dee!” said King. “Wot we supposed to do, then? Ride across the bleedin’ fields? Come on, Levver my son — you was the one rode out here and onced it over. “Ow do we bleedin’ get there?” The rest of the Angels sniggered.

  Leather grinned. “We goes up the motorway a few ’undred yards an’ spins off at the next turnin”, that’s all. I jus’ made a simple mistake, di’n I.”

  “Yers,” said King, relieving himself loudly against the luststone. “Well, let’s not make no more, eh? I gets choked off pissin’ about an’ wastin’ valuable time.”

  By now the others had dismounted and stood ringed around the dome of the boulder. They stretched their legs and lit ‘funny’ cigarettes. “That’s right,” said King, “light up. Let’s have a break before we go in.”

  “Best not leave it too late,” said Leather. “Once the mood is on me I likes to get it off…”

  “One copper, you said,” King reminded him, draw­ing deeply on a poorly constructed smoke. “Only one bluebottle in the whole place?”

  “S’right,” said Leather. “An ’e’s at the other end of town. We can wreck the place, “ave our fun wiv the girlies, be out again before ’e knows we was ever in!”

  “’Ere,” said one of the others. “These birds is the real fing, eh, Levver?”

  Leather grinned crookedly and nodded. “Built for it,” he answered. “Gawd, it’s ripe, is Affelsford.”

  The gang guffawed, then quietened as a dumpy figure approached from the construction shack. It was one of Sykes’s men, doing night-watchman to bolster his wages. “What’s all this?” he grunted, coming up to them.

  “Unmarried muvvers’ convention,” said King. “Wot’s it look like?” The others laughed, willing to make a joke of it and let it be; but Leather jumped down from the boulder and stepped forward. He was eager to get things started, tingling — even itchy — with his need for violence.

  “Wot’s it ter you, baldy?” he snarled, pushing the little man in the chest and sending him staggering.

  Baldy Dawson was one of Sykes’s drivers and didn’t have a lot of muscle. He did have common sense, however, and could see that things might easily get out of hand. “Before you start any rough stuff,” he answered, backing away, “I better tell you I took your bike numbers and phoned ’em through to the office in Portsmouth.” He had done no such thing, but it was a good bluff. “Any trouble — my boss’ll know who did it.”

  Leather grabbed him by the front of his sweat-damp shirt. “You little—”

  “Let it be,” said King. “E’s only doin’ ’is job. Besides, ’e ’as an ’ead jus’ like mine!” He laughed.

  “Wot?” Leather was astonished.

  “Why spoil fings?” King took the other’s arm. “Now lis­ten, Levver me lad — all you’ve done so far is bog everyfing up, right? So let’s bugger off into bleedin’ Affelsford an’ ’ave ourselves some fun! You want to see some blood — OK, me too — but for Chrissakes, let’s get somefing for our money, right?”

  They got back on their bikes and roared off, leaving Baldy Dawson in a slowly settling cloud of dust and ex­haust fumes. “Young bastards!” He scratched his naked dome. “Trouble for someone before the night’s out, I’ll wager.”

  Then, crisis averted, he returned to the shack and his well-thumbed copy of Playboy …

  Four

  “This time,” said Chylos, with some urgency, “I cannot be mistaken.”

  The two buried with him groaned — but before they could comment:

  “Are you deaf, blind — have you no feelings?” he scorned. “No, it’s simply that you do not have my magic!”

  “It’s your “magic” that put us here!” finally Hengit answered his charges. “Chylos, we don’t need your magic!”

  “But the tribes do,” said Chylos. “Now more than ever!”

  “Tribes?” this time it was Alaze who spoke. “The tribes were scattered, gone, blown to the four winds many lifetimes agone. What tribes do you speak of old man?”

  “The children of the tribes, then!” he blustered. “Their children’s children! What does it matter? They are the same people! They are of our blood! And I have dreamed a dream…”

  “That again?” said Hengit. “That dream of yours, all these thousands of years old?”

  “Not the old dream,” Chylos denied, “but a new one! Just now, lying here, I dreamed it! Oh, it was not unlike the old one, but it was vivid, fresh, new! And I cannot be mistaken.”

  And now the two lying there with him were silent, for they too had felt, sensed, something. And finally: “What did you see … in this dream?” Alaze was at least curious.

  “I saw them as before,” said Chylos, “with flashing spokes in the wheels of their battle-chairs; except the wheels were not set side by side but fore and aft! And helmets upon their heads, some with horns! They wore shirts of leather picked out in fearsome designs, monstrous runes; sharp knives in their belts, aye, and flails — and blood in their eyes! Invaders — I cannot be mistaken!”

  And Hengit and Alaze shuddered a little in their stony bones, for Chylos had inspired them with the truth of his vision and chilled them with the knowledge of his prophecy finally come true. But… what could they do about it, lying here in the cold earth? It was as if the old wizard read their minds.

  “You are not bound to lie here,” he told them. “What are you now but will? And my will remains strong! So let’s be up and about our work. I, Chylos, have willed it — so let it be!”

  “Our work? What work?” the two cried together. “We cannot fight!”

  “You could if you willed it,” said Chylos, “and if you have not forgotten how. But I didn’t mention fighting. No, we must warn them. The children of the children of the tribes. Warn them, inspire them, cause them to lust after the blood of these invaders!” And before they could question him further:

  “Up, up, we’ve work to do!” Chylos cried. “Up with you and out into the night, to seek them out. The children of the children of the tribes … !”

  From the look of things, it was all set to be a full house at The Barn. Athelsfordians in their Friday-night best were gravitating first to The Old Stage for a warm-up drink or two, then crossing the parking lot to The Barn to secure good tables up on the balconies or around the dance floor. Another hour or two and the place would be in full swing. Normally Gavin McGovern would be pleased with the way things were shaping up, for what with tips and all it would mean a big bonus for him. And his father at the pub wouldn’t complain, for what was lost on the swings would be regained on the roundabouts. And yet…

  There seemed a funny mood on the people tonight, a sort of scratchiness about them, an abrasiveness quite out of keeping. When the disco numbers were playing the girls danced with a sexual aggressiveness Gavin hadn’t noticed before, and the men of the village seemed almost to be eyeing each other up like tomcats spoiling for a fight. Pulling pints for all he was worth, Gavin hadn’t so far had much of a chance to examine or analyze the thing; it was just that in the back of his mind some sma
ll dark niggling voice seemed to be urgently whispering: “Look out! Be on your guard! Tonight’s the night! And when it happens you won’t believe it!” But … it could simply be his imagination, of course.

  Or (and Gavin growled his frustration and self-annoyance as he felt that old obsession rising up again) it could simply be that Eileen had found herself a new dancing partner, and that since the newcomer had walked into the place they’d scarcely been off the floor. A fact which in itself was enough to set him imagining all sorts of things, and uppermost the sensuality of women and sexual competitiveness, readiness, and willingness of young men. And where Gavin’s sister was concerned, much too willing!

  But Eileen had seen Gavin watching her, and as the dance tune ended she came over to the bar with her young man in tow. This was a ploy she’d used before: a direct attack is often the best form of defense. Gavin remembered his promise, however, and in fact the man she was with seemed a very decent sort at first glance: clean and bright, smartly dressed, seriously intentioned. Now Gavin would see if his patter matched up to his looks.

  “Gavin,” said Eileen, smiling warningly, “I’d like you to meet Gordon Cleary — Gordon’s a surveyor from Portsmouth.”

  “How do you do, Gordon,” Gavin dried his hands, reached across the bar to shake with the other, discovered the handshake firm, dry, and no-nonsense. But before they could strike up any sort of conversation the dance floor had emptied and the bar began to crowd up. “I’m sorry,” Gavin shrugged ruefully. “Business. But at least you were here first and I can get you your drinks.” He looked at his sister.

  “Mine’s easy,” she said, smiling. “A lemonade, please.” And Gavin was pleased to note that Cleary made no objection, didn’t try to force strong drink on her.

  “Oh, a shandy for me,” he said, “and go light on the beer, please, Gavin, for I’ll be driving later. And one for yourself, if you’re ready.”

  The drinks were served and Gavin turned to the next party of customers in line at the bar. There were four of them: Tod Baxter and Angela Meers, village sweethearts, and Allan Harper and his wife, Val. Harper was a PTI at the local school; he ordered a confusing mixture of drinks, no two alike; Gavin, caught on the hop, had a little trouble with his mental arithmetic. “Er, that’s two pounds — er—” He frowned in concentration.

  “Three pounds and forty-seven pence, on the button!” said Gordon Cleary from the side. Gavin looked at him and saw his eyes flickering over the price list pinned up behind the bar.

  “Pretty fast!” he commented, and carried on serving. But to himself he said: except I hope it’s only with numbers …

  Gavin wasn’t on his own behind the bar; at the other end, working just as hard, Bill Salmons popped corks and pulled furious pints. Salmons was ex-Army, a parachutist who’d bust himself up jumping. You wouldn’t know it, though, for he was strong as a horse. As the disc jockey got his strobes going again and the music started up, and as the couples gradually gravitated back towards the dance floor, Gavin crossed quickly to Salmons and said: “I’m going to get some of this sweat off. Two minutes?”

  Salmons nodded, said: “Hell of a night, isn’t it? Too damned hot!”

  Gavin reached under the bar for a clean towel and headed for the gents’ toilet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Eileen and Gordon Cleary were back on the floor again. Well, if all the bloke wanted was to dance … that was OK.

  In the washroom Gavin took off his shirt, splashed himself with cold water, and towelled it off, dressed him­self again. A pointless exercise: he was just as hot and damp as before! As he finished off Allan Harper came in, also complaining of the heat.

  They passed a few words; Harper was straightening his tie in a mirror when there came the sound of shatter­ing glass from the dance hall, causing Gavin to start. “What—?” he said.

  “Just some clown dropped his drink, I expect,” said Harper. “Or fainted for lack of air! It’s about time we got some decent air-conditioning in this—”

  And he paused as there sounded a second crash — which this time was loud enough to suggest a table going over. The music stopped abruptly and some girl gave a high- pitched shriek.

  We warned you! said several dark little voices in the back of Gavin’s mind. “What the Hell—?” he started down the corridor from the toilets with Harper hot on his heels.

  Entering the hall proper the two skidded to a halt. On the other side of the room a village youth lay sprawled among the debris of a wrecked table, blood spurting from his nose. Over him stood a Hell’s Angel, swinging a bike chain threateningly. In the background a young girl sobbed, backing away, her dress torn down the front. Gavin would have started forward but Harper caught his arm. “Look!” he said.

  At a second glance the place seemed to be crawling with Angels. There was one at the entrance, blocking access; two more were on the floor, dragging Angela Meers and Tod Baxter apart. They had yanked the straps of Angela’s dress down, exposing her breasts. A fifth Angel had clambered into the disco control box, was flinging records all over the place as he sought his favourites. And the sixth was at the bar.

  Now it was Gavin’s turn to gasp, “Look!”

  The one at the bar, King, had trapped Val Harper on her bar stool. He had his arms round her, his hands gripping the bar top. He rubbed himself grindingly against her with lewdly suggestive sensuality.

  For a moment longer the two men stood frozen on the perimeter of this scene, nailed down by a numbness which, as it passed, brought rage in its wake. The Angel with the chain, Leather, had come across the floor and swaggered by them into the corridor, urinating in a semicircle as he went, saying: “Evenin’ gents. This the bog, then?”

  What the Hell’s happening? thought Harper, lunging to­wards the bar. There must be something wrong with the strobe lights: they blinded him as he ran, flashing rainbow colours in a mad kaleidoscope that flooded the entire room. The Angel at the bar was trying to get his hand down the front of Val’s dress, his rutting movements exaggerated by the crazy strobes. Struggling desperately, Val screamed.

  Somewhere at the back of his shocked mind, Harper noted that the Angels still wore their helmets. He also noted, in the flutter of the crazy strobes, that the helmets seemed to have grown horns! Jesus, it’s like a bloody Viking invasion! he thought, going to Val’s rescue …

  It had looked like a piece of cake to King and his Angels. A gift. The kid selling tickets hadn’t even challenged them. Too busy wetting his pants, King supposed. And from what he had seen of The Barn’s clientele: pushovers! As soon as he’d spotted Val Harper at the bar, he’d known what he wanted. A toffy-nosed bird like her in a crummy place like this? She could only be here for one thing. And not a man in the place to deny him whatever he wanted to do or take.

  Which is why it came as a total surprise to King when Allan Harper spun him around and butted him square in the face. Blood flew as the astonished Angel slammed back against the bar; his spine cracked against the bar’s rim, knocking all the wind out of him; in another moment Bill Salmons’ arm went round his neck in a strangle­hold. There was no time for chivalry: Harper the PTI finished it with a left to King’s middle and a right to his already bloody face. The final blow landed on King’s chin, knocking him cold. As Bill Salmons released him he flopped forward, his death’s-head helmet flying free as he landed face-down on the floor.

  Gavin McGovern had meanwhile reached into the disc-jockey’s booth, grabbed his victim by the scruff of the neck, and hurled him out of the booth and across the dance floor. Couples hastily got out of the way as the Angel slid on his back across the polished floor. Skidding to a halt, he brought out a straight-edged razor in a silvery flash of steel. Gavin was on him in a moment; he lashed out with a foot that caught the Angel in the throat, knocking him flat on his back again. The razor spun harmlessly away across the floor as its owner writhed and clawed at his throat.

  Seeing their Angel at Arms on the floor like that, the pair who tormented Angela Meers
now turned their at­tention to Gavin McGovern. They had already knocked Tod Baxter down, kicking him where he huddled. But they hadn’t got in a good shot and as Gavin loomed large so Tod got to his feet behind them. Also, Allan Harper was dodging his way through the now strangely silent crowd where he came from the bar.

  The Angel at the door, having seen something of the melee and wanting to get his share while there was still some going, also came lunging in through the wild strobe patterns. But this one reckoned without the now fully roused passions of the young warriors of the Athelsford tribe. Three of the estate’s larger youths jumped him, and he went down under a hail of blows. And by then Allan Harper, Gavin McGovern and Tod Baxter had fallen on the other two. For long moments there were only the crazily flashing strobes, the dull thudding of fists into flesh, and a series of fading grunts and groans.

  Five Angels were down; and the sixth, coming out of the toilets, saw only a sea of angered faces all turned in his direction. Faces hard and full of fury — and bloodied, crumpled shapes here and there, cluttering the dance floor. Pale now and disbelieving, Leather ran towards the exit, found himself surrounded in a moment. And now in the absolute silence there was bloodlust written on those faces that ringed him in.

  They rolled over him like a wave, and his Nazi helmet flew off and skidded to a rocking halt … at the feet of Police Constable Charlie Bennett, Athelsford’s custodian of the law, where he stood framed in the door of the tiny foyer.

  Then the normal lights came up and someone cut the strobes, and as the weirdly breathless place slowly came back to life, so PC Bennett was able to take charge. And for the moment no one, not even Gavin, noticed that Eileen McGovern and her new friend were nowhere to be seen …

  Five

  Chylos was jubilant. “It’s done!” he cried in his grave. “The invaders defeated, beaten back!”

  And: “You were right, old man,” finally Hengit grudg­ingly answered. “They were invaders, and our warnings and urgings came just in time. But this tribe of yours — pah! Like flowers, they were, weak and waiting to be crushed — until we inspired them. “