Skinhead (12 page)

“The paper says that soldier is 'overing close to death,” Billy remarked, ignoring Joe's daily tale of birds screwed on the job. Billy was worried. He didn't mind the occasional punch-up, the aggro with other skinheads, the sadistic beatings they gave to hippies and the hard battles against the Hell's Angels' crowd. That was part and parcel of his life – why he wore skinhead gear and fashioned tools from the workshop at Ford's. But he didn't like kicking a soldier until he was nearly dead. He had a respect for soldiers – his dad had been one as were his brothers Tom and Eddie.

“Serves 'im bleedin' right! “Joe snarled viciously. He wished to hell the bastard had kicked the bucket. He'd never forget the indignity of landing on his arse.

“Christ, Joe – if 'e dies...”

“So wot? They don't know we did it!”

“I don't like it,” Billy voiced, hands deep in pockets, kicking a tin-can into the gutter with a savagery that belied his concern.

“Fuck the soldier,” Joe snarled. “I'm thirsty. Let's 'ave a beer, mate.”

The pub was almost empty. The pensioners had already taken their pitiful allotment home after a beer and chat. The dockers and their wives wouldn't be here for another hour yet and those layabouts who drew Social Security to keep their booze intake at a steady level were probably at the dogtrack.

As Joe and Billy entered, the landlord hurriedly sent Mary in search of unwanted spirits. He didn't want his pub mentioned in the
News of the World
as the location of a scandalous affair.

“Two pints,” Joe ordered, watching Mary vanish down-stairs. He still liked the idea of them all ganging her. When they got her he'd have first go... and last too.

“There's a dance in Ilford tonight,” Billy said, equally enamoured with Mary's swinging cheeks as she disappeared from sight.

“So wot?”

“So there's birds an' Pakistanis galore...”

Joe tensed. Pakistanis! “Where?”

“Hymie knows...”

“An' where's Hymie?”

“Right here, Joe. Make that three pints, guv...” came a sudden voice.

Joe didn't turn. He forked out the extra, then asked, “You always creep up on a friend?”

Hymie laughed. “I was here before you came in.”

“An' where's the dance?”

“Are we going to be there?”

“Bloody right!”

“Abraham – move over. Hymie is coming to fuck a little hot bitch of a Jewish bird!”

Joe grinned. He liked this Jew-boy. All the stories he had heard about Jews and their continual search for money and Gentile birds meant nothing when it came to Hymie.

“You know, Joe,” Hymie declared enthusiastically, “I've been trying to get this cow to drop her knickers for months. Her old man is a friend of mine and she won't say yes in case I put a bun in her oven. Moses, how stupid can she be! I always carry five French-letters!”

He quickly opened his wallet, displaying the Durex. “Anyway the way she rabbits around with that bloody Catholic Mike Kallinan she should be pregnant!”

“The soldier is nearly dead,” Billy said, still wrapped up in his private worry.

Hymie chuckled delightedly. “So what?”

“So the fuzz will be lookin' for us.”

“Mate, we weren't there,” Hymie said. “I've got friends in Notting Hill will swear we were attending a party there.”

“Notting Hill?” Billy cried. “Christ – that's miles away.”

“Exactly,” Hymie smiled knowingly. “Relax, Billy – that bastard won't kick the bucket.”

“I bleedin' well hope not!” Billy said seriously.

Eric Wilson often wondered what made him turn a successful gambling hall into a teenage dance hall. He knew one reason was the way the heavies had moved in and installed their croupiers and gaming machines; he remembered the day that a certain known boxer had calmly walked through the door and announced he and his mate were now partners in the club. Wilson had been unable to combat the mob and reluctantly agreed to sign papers to that effect. His choice had been simple – sign or have the club wrecked.

Until the new gaming laws had come into force he had been forced to sit back – a manager in name only – and watch the steady downfall of what had begun as an elite establishment. He had seen characters he hated become regulars; seen the standard of play vanish into a crooked table catering to an eighty percent profit for the house; seen old customers tail off until they no longer felt it wise to buck the odds.

And then, when the new laws were passed, he had been thrown on the scrap-heap of unprofitability. The boxer had moved into fresh ventures not subject to strict control, and he was left with a shambles of a club – unsupported by the locals, avoided by the criminal element, shunned by those who would drink in a friendly atmosphere.

It was at that stage he decided to interest the teenage element and started the dances. He hired local groups hoping to play enough reggae to appease the aggro boys.

But now, he operated a veritable powder-keg of teenage violence. Every night, as he opened the doors, he wondered what had been so marvellous about his original idea and why he risked neck and limb for the few pence he made each week. Damages alone cost him a fortune; even his huge Alsatian refused to act as Gestapo regulator after having his beautiful hide burned by cigarettes. A dog is a dog and after being savaged by thirty or forty raging teenage lunatics the Alsatian had decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

Thursday night was generally quiet. Most of the yobbos got paid on Friday. Most of the skinhead element came to gawk on Saturday. Most of the problems and the police visits were confined to Sunday when nobody else catered for a growing menace.

Seated at the bar with Bill Thompson, a reporter, Eric felt reasonably secure. A girl in a slash-fronted dress played a fruit-machine; a man with a permanent leer trying to date her sat nursing a large Scotch and offered suggestions as the female levered the machine's handle.

“You were a damned fool ever allowing the mob in,” Thompson said.

Wilson recalled the fateful night when his club was invaded, taken over, and sent in a tailspin plunge to hell.

“And you're a worse fool letting these layabouts hold their tribal dances here.”

Wilson shrugged. “Bill, you're so smart you tell me how I'm supposed to get my money back from the investment if I don't cater to the money crowd.”

“Teenagers?”

“Yeah, teenagers. They've got the dough today.”

“And what about Mr. and Mrs. wanting a night out? Don't they rate?”

“Shit!” Eric exploded vehemently. “They spend a few quid and expect Savoy service. This is Ilford, mate – not Mayfair!”

The two men sat silent, watching the girl on the fruit-machine go through the antics of a gambling maniac. She wasn't in the least bit interested in the leering spectator. She had one thought – the urge to hit the jackpot. That it was, legally, limited to pay-out didn't stop her insatiable desire for a win. It was the gamble that attracted.

“One of these days...” Thompson said softly.

“She's terrible,” Wilson confided. ‘I've had it – all pull a handle and no push a coin in her slot.”

A group of boys suddenly burst through the front door. From his stool, Eric Wilson surveyed their gear and moaned. “Skinheads!”

Thompson tensed. Even the girl on the fruit-machine hesitated as she sank another sixpence in the slot and held the handle with grim determination.

“Telephone the police,” Thompson suggested.

“Why? They haven't done anything yet...”

Thompson shrugged. “Not yet.”

“Bill...”

“Thank you and goodnight,” the reporter said finishing his drink. Waving to the girl on the machine, waving to the lecherous man seated by her side, waving to Eric, his friend, he left hurriedly.

At the front door he paused, glancing into the dance hall. He could see the first signs of trouble – skinheads pushing to get the birds they desired onto the dancefloor. He felt sorry for Eric Wilson.

“Where's the Jewish bird?” Joe asked, conscious of a mounting desire to find something that somebody else wanted. From what he could see in the club, he didn't much fancy getting his trousers down.

Hymie said, “At the fruit-machine, Joe.”

Let's have it off, then...”

Eric Wilson watched as he saw the trouble develop. He knew, instinctively, that Joe and Hymie were only interested in Ruth. And, also, he knew she was only interested in the machine.

“Hiya, doll,” Hymie said in his best Brooklynese-American. He liked affecting the accent, especially around Jewish birds.

Ruth ignored him, dropping another tanner into the machine.

“Look, chick...”

She jacked the handle then glared at him. “Get lost, you creep!” she snarled.

“Skip the machine,” he told her warningly. “We're going to dance.”

She fixed him with a hot eye. “Like hell we are!”

The machine clicked through its series, and spat out five coins. Her hand reached for them, but halted as Hymie grabbed her wrist. “Baby doll, we're dancing and then...” he leered.

“I don't enjoy it when they've been circumcised,” she said hurtfully.

“This one you will,” Hymie threatened.

“I'm not circumcised,” Joe said.

Ruth glanced at him. “So, wank...”

Joe lashed out, catching her across the face with an open palm.

“Just a bloody minute...” Eric yelled, coming off his stool.

Joe swung, hand streaking for his tool... coming out with a knife.

Eric froze.

Afterwards, Eric swore nothing would have happened if the girl hadn't screamed. She pushed past Joe, darting for the door with Hymie in hot pursuit. The scene scared Joe and he lunged, ramming the knife into Eric's thigh, his face flushed, his eyes bulging.

In the club, the noise attracted attention. Like automatons, the mob erupted... slashing, kicking, hitting.

From his comer, Frank White watched the battle progress. He wasn't involved... not yet. The fix he'd had before coming here left him immune to all happenings – his was a joyous scene on its own.

A boy charged forward, knocked off-balance. His knife glinted evily, his face taut with emotion.

Frank rose swiftly – faster than normal. He zipped a gun from his shirt, fired without hesitation, seeing his victim collapse on the floor as if it was all a dream; a cinemascope technicolor extravaganza to equal that last epic he'd watched in Piccadilly Circus...

*

Sgt. Snow studied the chart. Even he could see that the graph was down. The kid had a bullet in his chest, dangerously close to his heart. Only top-doctoring could save him and even then it was doubtful if he would live more than a few days.

“You can speak to him, Sergeant,” MacConaghy said. “He's conscious.”

Snow studied the pale features. “Are you sure?”

MacConaghy shrugged. “Might as well get information while you can. He'll live – or die, depending on how we perform.”

Snow felt sick. He couldn't understand the doctor's callousness. “It might lower his chances,” he said.

“Like hell it will!” came the sharp reply. “He's on borrowed time now. Go ahead.”

*

Roy Hawkins relaxed with shoes off, feet up on a small coffee table. The programme was interesting; an interview with Jack Dash on his retirement. Roy thrilled to the man's statements – especially those connected with a hardcore reserve left behind to look after the docker's interests in Jack's absence. He enjoyed the reference to containerization. He didn't like it any more than his mates did. He could see the system vanishing as new container ports grew in prominence. Falmouth first, then maybe such places as Scotland and Northern Ireland and Wales. No self-respecting Londoner would want work going to those areas, when, by right, it should stay in London.

Roy was feeling pleased. Not only was his ideal man being allowed to prove his abilities, but the trade figures again gave Labour an edge.

He heard the urgent knocking, ignoring it until his wife said, “Answer that, Roy!”

He knew Sgt. Snow. He grinned, stood aside, and said, “Come in, Sergeant.”

Snow couldn't get used to warm welcomes with their cold-cold farewells. He preferred the suspicious half-open door, the growling display of indifference when he produced a search warrant, the laughing goodbye when he found nothing.

“They've got Jack Dash on telly, “Roy said eagerly, leaving the door open wide for Constable Cheeseman to follow him inside.

“Is Joe in?” Snow asked.

Roy hesitated, then closed the living room door. His face was tight, worried. “What 'as he done?”

“A boy was shot tonight,” Snow replied. “We think Joe was the leader of the gang that caused the trouble.”

Roy opened the door and shouted: “Joe... come here!”

Sergeant Snow watched the boy saunter to meet them.
A right cocky bastard!
he thought.

“What?” Joe asked, deliberately avoiding Snow's gaze.

“Joe Hawkins,” the sergeant said slowly, “I have reason to believe you took part in a shooting tonight...”

“That's a lie!” Joe snapped.

Snow smiled. “Perhaps you could account for your movements, son?”

“I was home all night. Arsk Dad...”

Roy felt guilty immediately. He stared at the floor, saw a spot the missus hadn't polished and murmured, “That's right, Sergeant.”

Snow wanted to shout, “Mr. Hawkins... Roy... don't cover for him...”

Roy met the sergeant's gaze then. “Cover for Joe?”

Snow shrugged, told his constable, “There's nothing we can do here...” and marched down the short path to the pavement.

“Joe, I want the truth...”

Joe laughed. “You didn't take that cunt seriously, did you?”