Skinhead (13 page)

Roy's hand flashed, knocking Joe to his bed. “I like Desmond Snow,” he said.

“Then take 'im to bed!” his son screamed.

Roy smiled easily. He didn't believe in violence, nor sadism. But, tonight, he would teach Joe a late lesson. His hand lashed out again and again... each punch a telling blow... each a lesson in itself. More than once he hoped Joe's manhood would assert itself and force the boy to hit back. It never did – and the beating continued until Joe lolled around on the bed in a semi-conscious state. Only then did Roy Hawkins stop. He just hoped his wife had not heard the beating nor guessed that her son was as good as a murderer.

Nobody could have called Joe's week a raving success. From the failure to see the match the previous Saturday until last night Joe had suffered more than he gave out. He didn't enjoy looking back down the days; it was just one of those best forgotten periods in his young life. Yet, he couldn't forget. Sergeant Snow especially had to be remembered. Joe did not take kindly to his father's punishment and blamed Snow for bringing trouble into an otherwise tolerable house. Until now, his antics had been overlooked but he felt positive they would no longer receive his father's indifference. Once aroused, Roy Hawkins could be an unrelenting, authoritarian foe.

All day, as he worked his fiddles, Joe schemed revenge on Snow. He wanted to have the mob batter him but he knew this was a delicate matter requiring no more than three trusted mates. Once the fuzz started asking questions Joe wanted to be absolutely certain that the weak links were already eliminated. Normally he allowed his desire for violence and publicity to overshadow any fear of legal restraint. But what he planned was not normal. One didn't do a copper every day of the week – even such a terrible week as this!

What he needed, Joe thought, was a solid alibi. If only there was somewhere the mob could attack...

He laughed aloud. His driver mate glanced at him suspiciously. “Wot's the joke, Joe?”

Joe waved away the query, concentrating on private laughs now. During the next four calls he didn't even try to fiddle. He wanted a perfectly clear head free from other distractions. He did the job with a speed that surprised the hell out of his mate. And, he did not speak to the flighty bird in 17... an unheard of feat.

When he jumped from the lorry as it entered the coal-yard, Joe had his scheme worked out. He was whistling when he entered his own home and washed, changed and left without once speaking to his anxious mother. For all her many faults, Mrs. Hawkins worried about her son. She would not hesitate to belt him around the ears nor did she believe he was a plaster saint. Yet, she was his mother – and the maternal instinct did beat faintly within her. She knew something terrible had happened and knew too that Roy had unleashed his fury on the lad. But no more. And it grieved her to be completely ignored just as she was on the verge of displaying some tenderness and understanding. It never struck her that the offer would be years too late. No more than it struck Roy at work that his thrashing had been delayed to the point of uselessness.

*

“Right, mates, 'ere's wot I want...”

Hymie, Billy and Don leant forward, conscious of Joe's low voice and the need for secrecy. Around them, disinterested men drank and argued about the next West Ham match. Behind the bar, Mary watched Billy – hoping for an opportunity to catch his eye and make arrangements for another meeting.

“Hymie – you get your lot an' 'ave 'em at Ilford station by eight o'clock.”

“Right, Joe.”

“Billy – chat up Mary. Tell 'er you'll meet 'er tonight when they close 'ere.”

Billy grinned. “No bovver there, Joe.” He began to rise.

“Sit down, you stupid bastard,” Joe growled. As Billy sank into his chair with a frown, Joe explained, “We've got to 'ave everything worked out first.”

“Wot about me?” Don asked rebelliously.

“You, mate, can find all the lads you can. 'Ave 'em at Ilford same time as Hymie.”

Joe sipped his pint, settled back with the air of a general about to outline a highly dangerous mission behind enemy lines. Planning confidence showed on his face when he spoke again.

“Now 'ere's wot we do...”

Hymie listened avidly, feeling excitement course through him as Joe continued to elaborate. He liked the step-by-step daring of the plot; the underlying sensation of crowding in a week's bovver into one night. Tomorrow's Upton Park lark would seem tame after this, he thought fleetingly.

Billy did not have Hymie's imagination. He enjoyed some aspects of Joe's grand plan and especially where they would finish the night having a real old bang at Mary. But he did not like the most important part. He felt scared – and refused to voice his fear. His position as Joe's best mate was at stake and all the doubts in the world would not jeopardize that.

Don was neither excited nor frightened. He looked on the scheme as just another aggro – one with more risks attached but still an aggro. He nodded as each step was unfolded and when Joe ended his instructions he got to his feet, drank the remaining dregs of his beer and announced: “I'll round up the lads now.”

From his chair, Joe watched Billy approach Mary, saw the woman's eyes fasten on the youth and smiled as she nodded a furtive agreement.

“That's that,” Joe remarked. “Get lost, Hymie.”

The Jewish boy slapped his thigh. “Mate, it'll be a fantastic aggro.”

*

Arthur Mason wished he had refused the offer of help. At the time, it had seemed a wise course to count on a few dozen dedicated fighters but not now in light of recent developments. What should have been a refuge for homeless students was, in reality, an armed camp controlled by uncouth, sex-crazy Hell's Angels. And, what hurt most was the sad fact that squatters had no rights inside the building they had commandeered.

“Can't we get them out?” Tony Maxwell asked.

The bearded student shook his head as the frustration became an overpowering urge to smash things. “How the hell can we?” He flung his few belongings across the dirty floor. “Once they discovered the pot they took over.”

From downstairs the sound of an orgy filled their ears. Arthur knew exactly what was happening; he didn't require a guide book around this place. They would be naked or partially dressed and the toughs would be having their fun before departing for yet another night. The bitches! he thought angrily. “Cheap tramps! Doesn't it ever strike them as degrading to have those bastards crawl all over them?”

Toni shrugged. She was a pretty girl, an intelligent girl. At twenty-four she considered herself the den mother of the house; a position she had abruptly surrendered when the other girls started acting stupid. “Is there a difference between men when all one wants is intercourse?” she countered. She could remember her own experiences with pot. She had not cared how she was used, nor by whom, nor how often providing the pleasures were fast and furious and the activity continued until her senses could stand no more. She didn't blame the girls for begging the Hell's Angels boys to make love to them; in fact, she considered all their unwanted visitors as strapping, virile men capable of sustaining sexual delight far beyond the capabilities of the male students. The outsiders didn't have the intelligent inventiveness of the more sophisticated students but how did one compare positional gratification when one was seething in convulsive passion!

“Oh, shit!” Mason snarled, digging into his jeans. ‘I'm not going to worry about them! ” He drew a thin cigarette from his pocket, looked at Toni. “Want to?”

She nodded eagerly. “If you think it's safe...”

“There are sixteen girls down there – almost two for each of the others. Even they aren't supermen. No, it's safe enough!” He lit the joint, drew deep of its relaxing qualities.

“1 don't want this bra torn,” Toni said with a grin, remembering the last session and how impatient Arthur had been to fondle her breasts. She reached under, behind her sloppy sweater and unhooked the brassiere.

Toni accepted the joint and smoked it reflectively. As far back as she could recall she had delved in the mysteries of the occult. It was this addiction that had opened doors for other mysteries – sex and revolutionary movements and, then, pot. She wished, at times, she could slam the door just as that man had closed out interference a few seconds ago. Since becoming more involved with her demonstrator friends, she had not been given the opportunity to think things out for herself. She was caught up in a world of anti-everythings in the going-nowhere merry-go-round of pseudo-politics and, worse, the ecstatic mayhem that was surely destroying her body. Knowing this did not limit her writhing attendance on the physical side of “intellectual” companionship. Sex was, for her, an outlet; a means to prove she was above society and the dogma of the Church. It was a justifiable excuse for parading and defying authority; for committing herself completely to ideals which had already ruined her family link.

Inarticulate mouthings seeped through the wall, followed by frenetic bangings.

“Man, I hate those crummy bastards!”

She forced herself to return to the room, the lonely emptiness of sleeping bags and scattered clothing and the scrawled notations some of their companions had considered as decoration...

SEX – NOT GOD!

DOWN WITH AMERICAN PIGS!

LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE!

CASTR(O)ATE IMPERIALIST SWINE!

“What did you say, Arthur?”

He turned to her, leaning against her pliable softness.

His beard tickled, rubbing on her face, his tongue probing hotly into her willing mouth. His hand pushed aside the brassiere and cupped her breasts.

Over his shoulder, as he pressed her back down on the hard floorboards, she saw the scribbled red letters accusing her...

IT'S ONLY GOOD IF IT'S HARD!

She reached for him, hoping it would be good...

Constable Greenwood consulted his watch. Another fifty minutes and he'd be off-duty. He was sorry for the squatters but he didn't consider it a policeman's lot to mount guard over those breaking the law. Frankly, in his opinion, the force would be better off letting all the warring factions fight it out and then swoop on the weakened remains. His wife had a more profound suggestion... “Give them guns and maybe we can all sleep in our beds after they wipe one another out” was her idea.

As he walked back and forth, Greenwood studied the nice houses along York Road. He had lived in Ilford all his life and this area – outside of the Cranbrook Road where the properties were elite – had seemed to him the perfect area for retirement. Since the war, though, there had been a steady movement away from private ownership.

The road had changed drastically of late. What had been residential and tranquil was becoming a hive of transient parasites swarming in, moving out, doing nothing for the community except create problems galore for the authorities. He did not blame landlords for making a profit where they could; he did blame them for excessive rents, and an uncritical examination of those they accepted as tenants. A little more time spent asking questions, checking references and some thought to the district as an integral whole could save the police hours of wasted manpower chasing those who skipped out with rented television sets, unpaid bills and stolen furnishings.

From outside, he could see people moving back and forth in the house.
Damned shame!
he thought.
I can imagine how they'll leave it...

His heart hammered. Coming down the road – like a small army knowing it has superior firepower and unafraid of the opposing force – a bunch of skinheads leaped and pranced as they studied the houses.

This is what the sergeant warned us about!
were Greenwood's first thoughts. Then...
Christ, I can't be expected to make this lot behave!

He moved to block the entrance, face set tight, hand hovering over his truncheon. He would have to use it. There was no mistaking the mood of the invaders – nor the target.

Joe wanted to do a war-dance when he saw the lone constable stationed outside the squatters' abode. He had reckoned on at least four fuzz guarding the hippies. This would be a walk-over!

“Nevermind the fuzz,” he yelled to his minions. “Charge!”

Swarming as wasps goaded into anger, the skinhead brigade surged forward, brushing aside Greenwood's lonely resistance. In an instant, weight of numbers battered down the front door, smashed windows, and raced round to the back in an effort to prevent the enemy from retreating.

Joe was in the vanguard as the skinheads ploughed aside the lightweight barricades the squatters had erected; still heading his men when they entered a reception room.

“Christ...” A huge, hulking brute wearing a leather jacket emblazoned with the Hell's Angel motif leapt to his feet, confronting Joe.

For the first time, Joe felt his intelligence had been faulty. Nobody had warned him to expect trouble from Hell's Angels. He knew, of course, that Piccadilly had been swarming with the skinhead foes but this wasn't Piccadilly; nor even a place a thinking Angel would expect a skinhead attack. What had gone wrong?

Joe lashed out instinctively. His tool caught the Angel across the face – slicing through to the bone. As blood spurted, Joe kicked – finding the groin with a devastating boot. The Angel slumped to the floor, battered into unconsciousness by angry skinheads.

From a corner, the girl watched the mayhem without seeming to care. Her nudity attracted one of Joe's mob and before she could realise her partner had changed, she was thrashing under a new lover.

Joe was distantly aware of the rape; very conscious of the Hell's Angels coming at them from every part of the house. He did not know how many of them were inside; he only cared about the rest of his plan.

“Find Hymie and let's get out of 'ere!” he snarled at Don as they battled back to the front door.