Skinhead (14 page)

For minutes, neither could move – they were trapped by the mob trying to enter the house and by the Angels attacking with their chains and lead pipes. Even the students had joined their protectors and were driving the mob back... back... always back.

Constable Greenwood had a broken left arm. The agony of it sent blinding flashes across his eyes yet he mustered his strength to reach for his walkie-talkie. Another thirty-five minutes remained before his relief showed. Too long! They'd be killing one another in there if the battle lasted just five more minutes. He had to summon help – had to!

*

Sgt. Snow came from the hospital feeling like hell. He had seldom seen such seething pools of accusation as he had when he gazed into Piper's eyes. The soldier would be fine – after a month's treatment. That helped give Snow hope but he would not easily forget how Piper had silently blamed him, and the Force, for his injuries.

From what Piper had said, Snow knew Joe Hawkins was mixed up in the brutal beating. But could he prove it? He wanted to, very much!

Walking home, Snow reviewed the situation. Joe had tried to cheat Piper's father and the soldier had shamed the lad by knocking him down. That alone justified revenge in Joe's language. Then, the attack. It was all too pat for mere coincidence. It had to be Joe. Maybe if...

At the next corner he changed direction. He entered the local police station just as the news broke – a skinhead assault on Ilford squatters had resulted in a constable being injured and in several combatants going to hospital. One of the skinheads – a lad of fifteen – was in critical condition. He had been stabbed in the stomach. And, he lived in East Ham...

Sgt. Snow chewed his lower lip. Could this be the break he wanted to crack Joe Hawkins? he wondered. If the skinhead came from this area and Joe was a leader of the mob then perhaps...

“Cobb... get me a car. I'm going to interview that kid...” he roared. Quickly, he arranged to co-operate with the Ilford station. He couldn't just rush in when it was outside his jurisdiction. He had to have permission and, considering the circumstances, this was quickly forthcoming. In less than fifteen minutes Sgt. Snow was being driven to Ilford district hospital...

“That stupid bastard Hymie...” Joe thought as Don, Billy and he waited in the shadows outside the hospital. All his carefully prepared plans down the drain of Hymie's rotten luck.

“Look, Joe!”

Joe followed Don's finger. He tensed. Even at this distance he could see the sergeant step from the police car and enter the lighted area of the hospital casualty department's door.

“Is he...?” Don started to ask.

“That, mate,” Joe said harshly, forgetting that Don's concern was for their companion, “is the bastard I want done!”

Billy shivered. “Not tonight, Joe. Christ – Hymie's...”

“Hymie's a fuckin' Jew an' can take care of 'imself.” Joe edged an inch closer to the huge gates guarding the hospital precincts. “'Ey, 'is car's leavin'...” He wanted to shout so great was the joy inside him then.

“Ah, Joe – it's too dangerous,” Don complained.

Joe swung on his mates. “It wasn't dangerous before Hymie got 'is, was it?”

“No – but...” Don spluttered into silence.

Billy wanted to run. Something was seriously wrong with Joe's mind if he imagined the three of them could take on a copper. Those bastards were
trained
to fight dirty!

“'ow about you, Billy mate?”

Billy bit his tongue and said nothing. His face showed the extent of his fear but he steadfastly refused to go against Joe.

“Right, it's settled. When 'e leaves we do 'im!”

*

From his vantage point across the busy street, David Sansome watched the furtive prowlings of the three boys. Half inclined to telephone the police he forced himself to wait. He did not like being a nuisance, nor did he truthfully know why he felt they were acting suspiciously. He had heard the news bulletin and could understand that even skinheads and hippies must feel a certain sympathy for a wounded comrade. He told himself it was his vivid imagination that made the shadows flitting back and forth near the hospital seem so wrong.

Just in case he was failing in his duty to notify the authorities, though, he kept his precious camera by his side. If anything did happen he would have a visual recording of the events.

Considering that he only worked as a maintenance man with Ford's he had an expensive array of photographic equipment in the house. He was, plainly, a camera-bug. Every penny he could afford went into new darkroom materials and his successes were many in the amateur field. It had always been his ambition to be a Press photographer although necessity had long ago relegated him to exhibition work and the occasional “London's Day” type of picture in a newspaper.

The camera by his side had cost him £350; the telephoto lens another £125. He was proud of camera and lens and, especially, his latest venture into the field of infra-red photography. Using this equipment, with a highly sensitive film loaded, he could practically guarantee results.

And, now, watching the boys across the street, he was sure he could snap them doing whatever it was he feared they may do...

Sgt. Snow was dissatisfied with his results of his hospital visit. Hymie was in bad shape; certainly too weak to talk to anyone. The doctors had expressed concern at the amount of blood the boy had lost and they rated his chances of recovery at a low ten percent. According to one doctor, Hymie had been stabbed several times with a bayonet.

As he approached the hospital gates, Snow was vaguely aware of the three youths coming towards him. He didn't associate them with danger; why should he? – youths came to visit sick people like any other human being!

It wasn't until his arms were suddenly seized and twisted behind his back that he realised something was terribly wrong – and then it was too late. Far too late...

He felt the savage kick catch his jaw, and sagged.

He felt a second boot crash against his temple and the night became inky-black, enveloping him in swirling mists of pain and horror...

Joe Hawkins sounded cheerful at breakfast. His Friday had more than compensated for all the disasters of the week. He had his revenge and nobody would ever be able to point the finger of guilt at him. The vision of Sgt Snow returned, as it had all night, to please him. Looking at his mother's idea of bacon and eggs made him think anew of Snow – bleeding and battered, insensible and unable to identify his attackers. They had been careful; so bleedin' cautious.

Roy Hawkins entered the kitchen, face unshaved, hair uncombed. Rubbing sleep from his eyes he studied Joe's Cheshire face, and asked gruffly, “Wot's up with you?”

Joe stuffed bacon in his mouth, washed it down with insipid tea and got to his feet. “There's a pop concert in Hyde Park today.”

“Wot about the football match?”

“Stuff that!” Joe replied lightly. Nothing could get him down today. Just nothing!

“You young 'uns.” Roy shook his head sadly as if the world would end when a supporter would miss a West Ham game for any bloody concert. He swung to his wife. “The trouble is 'e thinks there won't be any bovver is wot 'e thinks!”

Joe shrugged and opened the door. “Jesus, dad – grow up! It's the first free concert of the year... I ain't goin' to miss that!”

As his son vanished, Roy stared at the unpalatable mess on his breakfast plate and shoved it aside. “I'm not hungry, dear,” he offered as an excuse, wondering if Barney would have a decent meal at the corner caff. After years of his wife cooking Roy had reached a compromise stage – he feigned a weak stomach and ate out whenever possible.

In his room, Joe dressed with all the ritual of a soldier going on parade for a visiting brass. He couldn't tell the mob what a big man he was, not yet. Not until after the fuzz dropped their enquiries into Snow's beating. But he still felt tops.
It wasn't every skinhead done a sergeant, was it?
he asked his reflection in the mirror.

*

Outside the local, Billy darted from an alley and shoved the
Daily Express
at Joe. “Look at that!” he screamed, scared shitless as his trembling hands held the paper open.

Joe looked and felt instantly sick.

The picture carried the credit:
by David Sansome
. It showed Joe, Don and Billy in dramatic action as they attacked a beaten police sergeant.

“Christ, Joe – we've had it!” Billy wailed.

Joe couldn't hear Billy. He was struggling with the write-up:

Hardly had the camera shutter clicked than Sgt. Desmond Snow fell to the ground, yet another victim of skinhead thuggery.

Sgt. Snow was visiting a wounded victim of another skinhead encounter when he was suddenly seized and beaten into unconsciousness, a helpless victim of senseless viciousness. The frozen horror of this picture captures once again the problem of our times – The Youth Revolution. If we are to expect our policemen to give us protection we demand then surely it is our duty to stamp out this terrible evil that is threatening all of us.

No father, or mother, can feel proud of her son when viewed in the light of this attack.

But it is up to you – the parents – to assist the police in their efforts to put a name to the vicious thugs who perpetrated such an obscene crime...

Where the hell had the photographer been and why hadn't they noticed the flash-gun?
Joe thought immediately. Nobody could mistake his face. Nobody! He was a marked man; a criminal on the run now.

“Joe... Joe, for God's sake say something!” Billy wailed.

Joe started to push open the pub door. “Let's go to Marble Arch.”

“No, Joe – I ain't goin',” Billy said.

“Why not?”

“Joe, they'll clobber us for this!”

“So?”

“So, I'm not going near Hyde Park tooled, is wot.”

“Ditch it... I won't.”

“Joe, for God's sake, can't you unnerstand – I'm scared! That was a copper we done...”

“An' so?”

“An' so I'm not goin' with you!” Billy retreated two yards, hands ready to fend off any blow.

“You're yellow,” Joe shouted.

“Bleedin' right I am,” his mate confirmed. “Coppers don't like their sort bein' done. If they catch us, Joe...”

“They remember the rule-book wot says they can't hit a prisoner.”

“Shit! Joe...”

“Where's Don?” Joe asked suspiciously, feeling lonely.

“'E's gone to the match...”

“An' the others?” Now Joe felt really alone.

“They backed out. 'Onest mate, I want to come with you but...”

Billy did a fine impression of a dummy being jerked off-stage. “I'm scared!”

“Wot a bloody mob,” Joe snarled. “One picture in a fuckin' newspaper an' they turn yellow! To hell with you... I'm goin' to Hyde Park...” He swung away and stalked off.

*

On the Underground, Joe felt the loneliness of the Amazonian explorer; the feeling of departed civilisation; the glare of publicity that robs criminals of friends, neighbours, the sheltering crowds. At least, he reasoned, Hyde Park would shelter him from the spotlight. There would be so much going on nobody would want to concentrate on a single individual. After the show he would have a beer, a nosh, a chance to consider his future plans. He never considered the possibility of capture; the “he's not with us” ritual most of his type affected when confronted by law and order. He forgot the running scared streak down the back of every young thug – and old, for that matter – and the self-protective desire of underworld characters to save their own skins regardless. The code of honour that supposedly existed in criminal circles and was, again supposedly, relevant to skinheads, hippies, revolutionaries and Hell's Angels did not enter into his thinking. He placed his faith in his personal ability to avoid disaster; to apply the native fox-like cunning to any given situation.

By the time he reached Mile End the train was packed solid with teenagers going to the concert. He felt safer. His was a face that did not conflict with those around him. He had distinguishing characteristics and so did the others. Plus, of course, the fact that countless thousands would attend this special show. It wasn't every day that youth demanded its tribute to the revolution against society's strict codes on pot and LSD and free love. This was
the
protest to crush all opposed to youth's right to call the tune.

He was tooled but not in anticipation of bovver from hippies, Hell's Angels or any other youth cult. He was tooled because, naturally, this was a Saturday. No real skinhead ever ventured forth on a Saturday without his trusty weapon. None!

Today meant an extra few shillings for Constable Webster. He had no choice in whether or not he would give up a duty free Saturday.

If he had his way, Webster would have eliminated concerts such as the one taking place. He did not hold with policemen being forced to offer protective services to those ferociously dedicated to the total destruction of all that the policeman was forced to uphold. He did not take kindly to being shoved, pushed, called obscene names whilst smilingly upholding the peace of Her Majesty's lands.

“Move along, son,” Webster said kindly.

“Fuck you, fuzz,” came the short sharp reply.

Webster controlled his impulse to hit the young bastard. Instead, he laid a hand on the person's back and pushed. Gently, but firmly.

“'E's molestin' me,” came the immediate retort as a scowling, antagonistic face was presented for the constable's provocation.

“I said – move along,” the constable said again, minus the friendly tone.