Jack of Ravens

17

The Whiskey-a-Go-Go was a smart, compact club on Sacramento Street, the mirror image of its more famous Los Angelino sister. On Valentine’s Day the Doors were performing to push their debut album. The crowds were heavy and curious about the mounting reputation of the band.

‘Their singer is a very interesting fellow,’ Tom mused as he surveyed the poster outside the venue.

‘We’re not here to see the band.’ Church watched the people streaming in; nothing had alerted him yet. ‘I want you to stay out here with Niamh to keep an eye on Gabe and Marcy. Any sign of trouble, get in the rental and drive away as fast as you can.’

‘You don’t have to baby-sit us,’ Marcy said with irritation.

‘Yes, we do.’ Church nodded to Grace. ‘Just keep your eyes open.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘You’ll know it when you see it. We’re like magnets. The Pendragon Spirit brings us together. He or she is inside.’

‘You’re sure?’ Grace said, still uncertain.

Church closed his eyes: he could feel the presence like a torch in the dark. He nodded.

Inside the club, they separated. People were several deep at the bar, but when the band came on ten minutes later there was a crush towards the stage. Soon after, Jim Morrison was singing ‘Break On Through’.

As the night wore on, Church started to doubt. There were too many people, too much distracting light and sound. But as the band began to play the eerie opening chords of ‘The End’, Church saw all the evidence he needed. On the other side of the club, his back to the stage searching the crowd, was Veitch. His hair was longer and wild, and his hard face had the first shaggy signs of a beard. He wore a denim jacket, and as he turned, examining every face, Church saw a peace sign emblazoned on the back.

Morrison was singing about a danger on the edge of town. Church saw Grace heading towards Veitch. He hadn’t seen her yet, but she was hypnotised by the band and Church couldn’t catch her eye.

‘Hey, man — do I know you?’ It was a Hell’s Angel, a good six feet six inches tall. He towered over Church, in a cut-off denim jacket covered in badges, and a black T-shirt with the devil’s face in red. His wild hair and beard made him look like a mountain man.

Church was about to wave him off when he felt a crackle of energy. The Hell’s Angel was the one.

‘Yeah, I think so,’ Church said. ‘I need your help. There’s a girl over there in trouble — long black hair, see her?’

‘The witchy chick?’

‘That’s the one. There’s someone here who wants to hurt her. Can you get her outside to our friends? I’ll cause a diversion.’

The Hell’s Angel grinned. ‘A diversion,’ he repeated in a mocking English accent. ‘Sure thing.’ He clapped Church on the back and ploughed through the crowd with no resistance.

Veitch was still searching faces, and close to fixing on Grace. As Morrison threw himself around the stage in an orgiastic daze, Church clambered onto the edge of the speaker stack where Veitch couldn’t fail to see him.

The expression that came over Veitch’s face as his eyes locked with Church’s was utterly chilling. So great was his hatred he forgot everything else, as Church had anticipated. Without breaking his stare, Veitch pushed through the crowd, relentless but controlled. Behind him the Hell’s Angel caught up with Grace.

Church jumped from the speakers before the bouncers caught him and headed to the side of the room, hoping to get back to the exit, but Veitch was already bearing down on him. Veitch broke into a run and they both crashed through the doors into the toilets. Even as they hit the floor, Veitch was raining vicious blows. Church blocked them as best he could and threw Veitch off. He knew he lacked Veitch’s brutal instinct and street thuggery; a straight fight would be too one-sided.

‘You’re one of us,’ Church said, trying to blunt Veitch’s attack. ‘Existence must have seen some good in you to make you a Brother of Dragons.’

‘You’re talking to me as if I’m the bad guy.’ Veitch’s furious attack split Church’s lip and bloodied his nose. ‘I’m the one who was betrayed by his mates.’ He grabbed Church and smashed his head against the urinal. Church kicked out, ramming his boot into Veitch’s gut and propelling him into a cubicle, winded. Church threw himself after Veitch, punching rapidly. This time it was Veitch’s blood that splashed across the graffitied wall.

‘This is about more than you and me,’ Church said.

‘You’re right there. Once we find what we’re looking for here, it’s game over for you, and all that bollocks you stand for.’

Veitch thrust them both out of the cubicle and as Church fell, Veitch planted a boot in Church’s face. Church saw stars, but just as Veitch was about to stamp on his face, he rolled out of the way and brought his head and shoulders up into Veitch’s groin.

‘You’re a dirty fucking bastard,’ Veitch said, staggering backwards. ‘I like that. Shows I’m right. No pedestal for you, Jack fucking Churchill.’

Before Veitch could attack again, the door swung open and the Hell’s Angel stepped in. He took less than a second to size up the situation before hammering a rabbit punch into the base of Veitch’s skull.

The Angel hauled Church out and dragged him through the crowd. ‘The name’s Ice Cream Al,’ he said with a maniacal laugh. ‘ Or just Ice.’

One thing was on Church’s mind: what was Veitch searching for in San Francisco, and could it really be as powerful as he had implied?