Skinhead (15 page)

The yobbo laughed, “'E's bein' nasty!”

A group of long-haired clipped-hair teenagers surrounded P.C. Webster. For a few ugly seconds he thought –
Lord, what have I done to deserve this?
– then, as a soulless sound burst from the microphones on-stage, he felt the mob melt away, surging towards their idols.

Like bad pennies rolling down a gutter, the mob rolled in a solid wave. Crowding, surging, flowing into an ever-packed mass. Closer, tighter, jammed into a mass that could not contain them...

Webster struggled to free himself of the crush – fighting to retain his official position on the
outside
of the gathering.

And then...

His jawline tightened, his hands itching to grab the young thug.

Joe felt the hand on his shoulder and figured it as another yobbo trying to get ahead of him. He wanted to be as near the platform as possible, wanting to hear the undistorted sound as it bathed him in ecstasy.

“Lemme go,” he screamed above the raucous noise.

“Don't struggle, son... you're coming with me...”

The deep male voice stung Joe to action. He tried to whip his latest tool from its hiding place under his shirt... couldn't as the crowd grew tighter, less controlled. He glanced around, saw the helmet, the blue uniform.

“We wish to ask you certain questions, son...” The voice said in his ear.

Joe kicked... felt his boot strike a hapless shin, found himself in a strong grip...

In the lonely cell Joe felt the world was indeed a wonderful place. He had been questioned – without brutality. He had been identified by the photographer – although how he could see when he had been forced to use infra-red was a little beyond belief.

But it didn't matter, according to Joe's thinking processes. It didn't matter a bleedin' bit.

Once he paid his fine – which Social Security would fork over anyway once he pleaded “compassionate circumstances” – he would be free; free to continue as he always had; free to rule with an iron fist over
his
mob. None of them would dare question orders now. Not after he had made the big time by having his picture in the papers and being sentenced.

Oh, yes – Joe Hawkins had it made. He could go on to better things after this. He had been scared about how the fuzz would treat him but they'd been very correct – tea and sandwiches; questions without kicking him around; even a reporter allowed to get his viewpoint of the incident.

Somehow, he didn't mind missing the concert. Not when he was being given the full treatment. He didn't understand that a prisoner was innocent until proven guilty, of course. In Joe's book everyone was guilty of crimes against him until he kicked the shit out of them and forced them to assume positions of subservience. That was the difference between society and Joe Hawkins – and he probably never knew it existed. His was a senseless world of violence for the sake of violence; his ideal devised by those wishing the end of civilised behaviour patterns; his the starstruck era of pop and pot and the belief that might is right even if might has to play games and call itself right.

From today, Joe Hawkins was made. His name would rank with those others in the crime underworld. He had done a police sergeant and he would face the consequences – a fine, a warning, a beration and the all-essential publicity.

Oh, the stupid bastards – didn't they ever learn! Didn't they know that his crime being publicized would make him a king of skinheads!

THE END

Richard Allen was the pen-name of James Moffat, born in Canada in 1922.

Moffat was prolific, though one repeated claim that he was the author of “at least 290 novels in several genres under at least 45 pseudonyms” still requires independent verification. It is known that Moffat contributed to an early draft of the novel
Somewhere in The Night
, which was later completed (or entirely rewritten – sources differ) by Michael Moorcock and published under the pseudonym Bill Barclay in 1966.

However it was Moffat's gritty youthsploitation novels, published in the 1970's and early 1980's under the name Richard Allen, that form the bulk of his legacy today. The Joe Hawkins story began in
Skinhead
(1970) and was continued in
Suedehead
(1971). Later there were further instalments in Joe Hawkins' story, as well as novels focussing on other youth movements such as
Smoothies
(1973),
Punk Rock
(1977) and the final Allen novel
Mod Rule
(1980). Altogether there were eighteen novels under the Richard Allen brand.

James Moffat spent most of his final decade in obscurity, though he lived to see the reissue of the Richard Allen novels in the early 1990's. He died in July of 1993, while living in a nursing home in Newton Abbott.

 

Skinheads were dead, man. Phased out. Home had never appealed. All his life he had dreamed about a plush flat somewhere in the West End of London. So now he would make the leap from poverty street into the affluent society. In one gigantic jump.

Fresh out of stir after kicking a police sergeant's head in, former skinhead Joe Hawkins is heading for the big time – a job in a firm of stockbrokers, a swanky flat and (hopefully) plenty of money. A whole new style is called for – so Joe becomes a Suedehead.

The hair is a few millimetres longer, the uniform a velvet-collared crombie coat, bowler hat and neatly-furled umbrella – with razor sharp tip. For while Joe might be playing the establishment pet, he remains the unrepentently vicious, cunning hooligan from
Skinhead
, intent on pulling women, stealing and putting the boot in. It's not long before he finds some other Suedes willing to commit mayhem under cover of respectability... but can Joe and respectability ever really get along?

Suedehead
is the second of Richard Allen's era-defining cult novels featuring anti-hero Joe Hawkins. First published in 1971, this new edition features an introduction by Andrew Stevens.

As he stood in the dock, Joe Hawkins considered his situation with utter detachment. Legal procedures meant nothing to him. He had done a police sergeant and now he faced the consequences of that action. What
they
– those stupid bastards going through the motions of justice – did not know was how all this was making him an even greater figure in the eyes of his pals.

Joe listened to snatches of the case against him. He was not troubled about the outcome. It was always the same – a fine, a warning, publicity. He returned the magistrate's glare, he smiled cockily at the coppers in court. He refused to assume an innocent attitude. Nobody was going to say that Joe Hawkins ever knuckled down to authority. He was a law unto himself.

Suddenly, Joe felt tension mounting inside him. The message reached his shocked brain. This wasn't any common or garden fine. Not the way that old buzzard was talking. This wasn't a warning to behave like other decent citizens. This was the big walk – bird...

“
...eighteen months...
”

Joe was stunned.

“
You may step down. Next case...
”

Stumbling from the box, Joe felt strong hands grab his arms. Realisation smashed into him like red-hot daggers probing for a vital spot. Eighteen days was a lifetime but months sounded like the total end of all his dreams. The gang would forget him in a few weeks. When he came out there would be nothing for him to command. Some rotten bastard would have taken control and he – the famous Joe Hawkins – would be a skinhead without mates.

“He can't...” Joe struggled. “He bloody can't do this!”

“That's where you're wrong,” a harsh-voiced policeman said. “You've got off light. If I had my way...”

“Nobody arsked for your opinion,” Joe snarled, striving desperately to keep his cool.

The policeman grinned and motioned for the others to remove this
object
from the courtroom. He had no sympathies for those who deliberately attacked coppers. The magistrate had surprised them all with his treatment of Joe and, the bobby thought,
about time too
. Practically every member of the force believed that stiffer sentences would eliminate eighty percent of the injuries they sustained doing their duty.

Joe's co-ordination vanished as his legs turned into elastic. He felt weak, ready to scream. Half-dragged, half-staggering, he made it downstairs into the cells. According to one of the fuzz he had a short wait – and then...“Clobbered you, eh?” a thin-faced youth smirked as he picked at a sore on his ear. “I got three years.”

Joe shuddered. “I expected a fine.”

“That's the way it goes, mate. It all depends on how the beak's missus treated him the night before!”

“What did you do?” Joe asked unemotionally.

“Knifed my girl, “came the easy reply. “The little bitch held out on me.” Blood trickled down the ear and a dirty handkerchief was hurriedly used to stem the flow. “We had an agreement how much she would charge, then I discovered she was upping the ante and keeping the change.” Narrowed eyes surveyed Joe's face. “You ever tried pimping?”

Joe's head shook a fast negative.

“Man, it's the life. They do all the work and you collect.”

Something about the youth frightened Joe. Not a physical fear but a deeper menace which went against his grain. Not many things bothered Joe but pimps were scum and their treatment of girls they professed to care for left him cold.

” I once had a black chick...” The youth kept talking, evidently proud of his record. He was about Joe's age yet there was a worldly wisdom in those narrowed eyes which went with his thin, hungry, cunning face. Every so often he examined his blood soaked handkerchief and nodded.

Joe lost interest after the first few sentences. He had problems of his own and how this other prisoner had spent his freedom did not matter. Nothing mattered except those eighteen months inside. Could he take it? Could he emerge feeling like Joe Hawkins of old? Or would prison have a sapping effect on him? He knew several old lags near his home and hated to think he would ever look like them.

“...and you can have her address if you like.”

Joe shook his mind awake. The youth had not noticed his preoccupation.

“Man, she's a terrific worker. Six, seven marks a night. That's money, man.”

“I'll give it some thought,” Joe said.

“Do that, mate. You'll be out long before me. I'm not going to get remission.”

“Why not?”

The youth laughed. “I've done porridge before. I'm not worried about it. I like breaking every rule in their book.”

The hell with that! I'm going to get full remission
, Joe thought.

“Stick with me,” the youth said softly, eyes wider and shimmering now. “I'll show you the ropes...”

*

Standing on the street with the Scrubs a gigantic horror behind him, Joe Hawkins took a gulp of air down into his starved lungs. It wasn't that this air tasted fresher, or had less pollution in it than the air breathed back there in Wormwood. It was just that here, on the outside looking in, there was a freedom quality he had been denied for far too long.

“You goin' my way Joe?” Nobby Clarke asked as he hefted his bundle under one ancient arm.

“Naw,” Joe replied thankfully. He did not want to be seen anywhere near the old lag. It had been great finding somebody he knew by sight in prison but once outside he was determined to avoid all ex-cons like a plague.

“Lemme give you a tip, Joe,” Nobby said brightly. “Never get nicked for anything small. Next time make sure they gets you for a big job!” The old man shuffled a few feet, turned and grinned. “Go see that woman I mentioned. She'll help a kid like you!” He winked and hurried off.

Alone now, Joe thought back to the first day of his bird. That had been bad but not nearly anything like when he discovered he was a special target of every queer in the Scrubs. God how he loathed those bastards! He had always figured homosexuals to be small, dancing men with carefully manicured hands, lisps and a walk that signposted their aversion to women. He had found that they did not belong to any such tight limitation. Some of the ones who had tried to lure him into their cells were big, strong, typical heavy types. One especially had been sent up for murder – a vicious ex-boxer with a protection racket backing his penchant for desirable young men.

The queers had been bad but they had not been the worst of his problems. Even now, after all that porridge, he could not get used to regimentation and loss of identity. The soul destroying routine had shattered his self-confidence until Mr. Thompson had seen fit to take Joe under his wing. In a sense, Joe felt a debt of gratitude to Thompson. As a screw he was a pretty good egg. But he was a screw! And although he had gained permission for Joe to take a course in office procedure, and got him a job in the prison administration section, there was that barrier – prisoner and screw!

Some of the old lags had been kind, tolerant of youthful mistakes, eager to pass along knowledge gained from years spent doing prison sentences. Nobby had been most helpful. Thanks to him Joe had managed to evade the dirtiest jobs and make sure his lapses weren't reported.

“Never again, “Joe whispered to himself.

Far ahead, Nobby shuffled along – a lonely, beaten old man with but one thought gnawing on his saturated mind; back to Plaistow and the boozer. Joe didn't give Nobby more than a few weeks freedom. The man was beyond rehabilitation. He'd blow his bankroll, make a couple of visits to Social Security and then, when the boom was lowered, he'd do a sloppy job and get nicked again.

Now take me
, Joe thought.
I'm young. I'm smart. I'm not going to commit a crime like Nobby. I've got an address and I can make out okay until I get a job. There'll be birds and booze, but not another visit to the Scrubs.