Skinhead (11 page)

When Ronnie Goodman was sentenced to six months Hymie believed he could assume command of the mob. Believed...

His ego was shattered when the mob refused to obey his leadership edicts. He felt betrayed.

When Don came to see him, Hymie was more than willing to throw-in his lot with yet another Gentile commander and reassess his situation. He didn't make his feelings evident; he always hid his thoughts.

“Alright, “he told Don, “Joe Hawkins has a name – but is he capable of leading a big mob?”

Don glared at the Jew. Personally, he could have chopped the hook-nosed bastard to bits but he remembered how Joe would have acted. He forced a smile, and said, “Sure he can! Arsk anyone in Plaistow.”

Hymie mentally agreed that Joe Hawkins had a name. There were enough people running scared to make him a suitable stand-in for Ronnie. Anyway, he wanted to set up a situation that would be resolved when Ronnie came out of prison. He wanted to watch the two leaders fight it out for supremacy. If either, or hopefully both, flopped then – maybe – he stood a chance of assuming ultimate command.

“We have twenty-five in our mob – how many are in yours?”

Don hesitated. Hymie knew, like everyone, the exact count. He tried to get around the issue. “That's not the point...”

“How many?” Hymie insisted sadistically. He had already decided to enlist the support of as many adherents as possible but he still had to place Don, and through him that bastard Joe Hawkins, on a spot.

“Seven...”

“Just seven?”

Don tried to make sense of his mental fingers. His worst subject at school had always arithmetic.

“Fifteen...”

Hymie ignored the difference. He liked Don although he knew the other hated his guts. That, he told himself, came from the East Ender's inherent belief that all Jews were bloodsucking moneylenders and slave-employers... a fact he could not deny without bringing in statistics to show that there were others – Gentiles – equally guilty of the same charge.

“Where is Joe?”

Don beamed success. “I'll take you to 'im...”

Hymie laughed inwardly. Dropped Hs spoke of servility and inferiority in his book. He went with Don...

*

“Alright,” Hymie said. “We join mobs!”

Joe smiled. He didn't particularly like the Jew-boy but he did respect Hymie's abilities and his promise to bring Ronnie's mob in with his.

He thought of that bastard Piper.

“Look, mate,” he told Hymie, “we're goin' to visit a house near 'ere tonight. I want a soldier done...”

“That's fine with us, Joe,” the Jew replied nonchalantly.

“Bring your boys to the...” he thought, then said, “Greengage at seven-thirty eh?”

“Right!” Hymie shook hands, sealing the bargain. It was official now – Joe's mob had grown into a force worthy of his leadership.

*

Jack Piper got from his comfortable chair and glanced at his mother. She was snoozing, head propped on hands to make it appear she was interested in the television programme. Jack smiled, shook her, and said, “Mum – go to bed. It's an awful show.”

The old woman shook herself awake, trying to smile. “I'm sorry, son...”

“Don't be, mum – go to bed. Dad's asleep too.” He motioned to his father who was curled in his end of the sofa with eyes tight shut and snores gently issuing from compressed lips.

“He's a silly old B,” Mrs. Piper said lovingly. “Can't stand these late shows, he can't.”

Jack grinned. It was not quite nine-thirty and he knew their need for sleep. “Mum, I'm going to the boozer. I've got a key so why don't you and dad go to bed?”

“What about your supper when you come in, son?”

“Mum...” He placed an arm round her shoulder, helping her to her feet. “Forget that! I'm not a child now. I can make something to eat when I come home...”

“You're sure?” she asked with a true mother's feeling every son was absolutely helpless.

“I'm sure, mum. The army taught me to fend for myself.”

She laughed, throwing her arms around him. “Jack...” she sighed. “Jack... you're a wonderful boy!” She kissed his cheek, then eyed her husband. “Isn't he a soppy date?”

They shook the old man awake and helped him upstairs. Jack knew that the Scotch – Teacher's from the off-licence – had taken its toll. His father wasn't used to a treat and, especially, for six glasses neat. Jack had wondered about the amount consumed. He believed in the Teacher's edict: Moderation has its rewards... or words to that effect. He didn't knock Teacher's Scotch whisky. He firmly held it as a friend of mankind. Providing one always held to the code of moderation, nothing gave such a feeling of well-being and relaxation as a good old Teacher's did. For himself, he never drank Scotch unless the label had the distinctive name on it.

When his father was safely in bed and his mother preparing to climb in beside him, Jack slipped from the house. Walking down the street, Jack felt that familiar desire to set fire to the slum properties. In his estimation – after seeing some of the places the army had to offer in far-flung regions of the globe – this district was sadly in need of an arsonist's expertise. He couldn't stand the run-down factories, the shops with their cheap goods, the overall impression of poverty and low income buying.

He was feeling in a bitter mood as he reached the local. He didn't honestly wish to enter. It was always the same these days when he came home on leave. He felt so bloody sorry for the old men sitting around the lonely bar. It wasn't too bad for the dockers and the Ford workers. They got a bloody good screw. But the pensioners – shit! he thought savagely, they've been robbed of decency begging to a Welfare system that demands they queue in sterile, unfriendly offices and go down on bended knee to some supercilious Civil Servant who only knows the rule-book method of handling people. Men like his dad who fought for their country didn't deserve to be treated as names in a book, rubber stamps on triplicate forms. They were men, and women. Solid people. The honest backbone of Britain. They deserved much better than a socialist free-for-all and begging for supplementary benefits.

“God help us all,” he said aloud as he went in.

“Wotcher, mate,” a hefty labourer laughed as he entered. “Christ, you get talkin' to yourself an' they carts you orf!”

Jack grinned, slapping the man on the shoulder. “Sorry, chum – I was thinking about me dad.”

“S'alright me son,” the other cried, “'ave a beer on me.”

“Ta,” Jack nodded, shoving through the normal door-jam crowd.

“Beer fer me mate, Rosy,” The man shouted to the Irish barmaid.

“Make that Teacher's and soda... I'll pay the difference,” Jack said hurriedly.

The Irishwoman shrugged, causing her monstrous breasts to do a jig inside her sweater. She didn't mind his eyes feasting on them. In fact, she repeated the gesture to give him a second eyeful before smiling her way to the bottles. Jack hid his amusement. It never paid to take the mickey out of an Irish barmaid. The regulars didn't like it.

“Ain't you Jack Piper... Charlie Piper's lad?”

Jack turned slowly. The old man facing him presented a toothless smile and an outstretched hand. He nodded, accepting the friendly shake.

“Cor, I remembers you when you was a nipper,” the man said. “An' look at you now...” He studied Jack with an admiring gaze. As the barmaid deposited Jack's drink the old man eyed it speculatively. “Lemme buy it, son,” he said without an effort to reach for his pocket.

Jack grinned. “Have one on me, mister.” He handed Rosey ten bob.

“Scotch?” the quavering voice asked.

“Scotch for the gent, Rosy.”

“Bless you, son. T'ain't often we gets the chance...” He halted, conscious of his
faux pas
.

“Forget it,” Jack smiled. His drink tasted perfect and he handed a cigarette to the old man.

“Where's Charlie?”

“In bed... where you should be!”

The man laughed, bending to light his cigarette from Jack's butane Ronson. “Son,” he explained, “I sleep till noon so's can spend every night in 'ere.”

“It can't be much fun...”

“No,” The old face grew serious. “These young yobbos make it hard on the likes of me. They don't 'ave respect no more.”

“Do you play darts?”

“Me eyes ain't wot they was, son...” and when he saw Jack's sudden disinterest he quickly added, “but I could give you fifty up?”

“We'll start from scratch,” Jack said. “Come on... let's have a game.”

*

For an old man, the friend of Charlie Piper certainly threw a mean dart. He wasn't kidding when he offered Jack fifty-up. Playing for beers (and Jack was glad it wasn't Scotch) cost him a few bob. He didn't win a single game and when another couple of pensioners joined in for a foursome it still cost Jack his cash. After all, he reasoned, he was the worst player on the board and he didn't expect his mistakes to come out of a paltry allowance.

Walking home, he felt the evening had had its compensations. He had renewed his faith in a dying breed – the old soldiers of London.

He didn't have a chance. They came at him from every angle. With iron bars, broken bottles, steel-toed boots and chains. They swarmed over him, knocking him to the ground, kicking and gouging and slashing with all the ferocity of their ugly minds.

He couldn't recall much of what happened. He knew he'd been hit with something hard; something solid; something brutally unyielding. And, as blood spurted to blind him, he felt the waves of them pour over him...

“His condition is extremely serious, Sergeant.”

From where he stood, Sgt. Snow could see the bandages, the ugly bruises. He was used to violence and broken bodies, just as Dr. MacConaghy was accustomed to making running repairs to them.

“Have you any idea who did this?”

The sergeant shook his head angrily. “Not by name, doctor. We know it was a bunch of skinheads and that's all.”

“Skinheads! My God – can't our society control even them?”

Sgt. Snow stiffened. He didn't want to listen to a tirade about the ineffectualness of the police; nor did he have the inclination to have his role in the investigation questioned.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” the doctor smiled wistfully. “I'm not condemning you and the force...”

Snow smiled easily now.

“I'd just like to know where it's all going to end,” MacConaghy finished.

Snow didn't reply. One didn't make an issue of problems when one wore a uniform; regulations formed a tight noose round a man's tongue and political solutions were left to those chasing votes. Stricter controls over demonstrators, over students who forgot that the public paid for their right to education, over skinheads at football matches and on special trains were definitely required. Stiffer penalties would help too.

The doctor made notations on Piper's chart, swung away with distant eyes surveying the stained, grime-coated exterior of the hospital as seen from a small window. “Same outlook for a man trying to recover body and soul, eh, Sergeant?” he murmured.

Snow studied the view. He found it repulsive, sickening, and was forced to agree with the doctor this was, indeed, the worst possible sight for a recuperative patient to watch. “Even a high-rise block would look better,” he said slowly.

“There's half the trouble,” the doctor remarked. “Environment! Can one blame people living in that for wanting something different in their dreary lives? The youngsters see it and remember it. They think of areas where other people live – Belgrave Square, Richmond, Surrey stockbroker belts where the grass grows green and a man can look around him and see just merrye olde England's glorious land.”

“You're saying then that crime is directly linked to the slums?”

“Sergeant, when it comes to crime I'm a rank amateur,” the doctor grinned. ”1 couldn't steal a purse from a cripple.” He scowled. “That was bad taste! Seriously, though, I'd like to see what a dictator could do in this country. Slums wiped out, harsh measures to curb the grab-all boys, savage sentences for injury to persons, hanging for child rapists and cop killers, the birch for young offenders like these skinheads.”

“Pretty effective penalties,” Snow laughed as they progressed down a dismal corridor.

“Since when does molly-coddling criminals pay dividends?”

Snow refused to be drawn. He accepted the doctor's remark; could have enlarged on it. But again regulations stopped him.

“Get yourself an iron bar, Sergeant,” MacConaghy suggested as they reached reception. “The next time one of those young thugs starts making noises, break his head. I'll have the pleasure then of sewing him so it hurts.” He held out a hand. “I'm supposed to cure ailments and heal people but, just once, I'd like to slice away the evil parts some of these kids have in their heads.”

Snow shook hands solemnly. He understood the doctor's feelings. Patching up cracked skulls wasn't funny. No more than seeing a damned good soldier stretched out flat because some of the kids he constantly defended against totalitarianism had decided to make mince-meat of him.

“When you've had a go at the little bastards bring them here, Sergeant.”

“I will, sir,” Snow smiled thinly.

Both of them knew it would never happen. The British policeman was allowed the private thoughts of his fellow-countrymen only in the seclusion of his home. Outside those walls he was a machine – ordained into an order totally against counter-violence. And for that reason alone, he should have been protected against those he tried to apprehend...

His Thursday showed a profit of £2-15-0. His body ached but that twenty five minutes with Mrs. Scalatti had softened the pain. There was something about Maltese women that made him feel the itch. At forty, the Scalatti woman was going to fat but he didn't care. He enjoyed meat on them; and, as he told Billy that evening – “I bounced on her like an aircushion!”