Skinhead (3 page)

“Hey, Mary...” He leant against the bar between two huge coloured men. The stink of the blacks made him sick. He hated spades – wished they'd wash more often or get the hell back where they came from. This was
his
London – not somewhere for London Transport's African troops to live. He enjoyed the occasional aggro in Brixton. Smashing a few wog heads open always gave him greater satisfaction than bashing those bleeding Chelsea supporters.

Mary slopped beer into a glass and pushed it at her customer. She felt her knees go rubbery. Collecting the cash, she rang it up, then hurried along the bar to face Billy. Her eyes sparkled, her breasts heaved.

“Same again for the lads,” Billy muttered, unable to tear his gaze from those beauties. It wasn't his round yet he couldn't come right out with the proposition. Joe's insistence on making Mary made him think about the other night and he suddenly realised how good it had been. Why should he share her with his mates?

“Billy wants to see you again, Mary...”

Billy glowered at Joe standing beside him now. Mary didn't flinch. She stared at Joe, asked softly, “Will you be there too?”

Joe nodded.

“When, Billy?”

The boy was lost. He couldn't understand a woman like her. He'd had his share of the little bits hanging around the fringes of their mob – the local girls trying to snare one of the better-known heroes. He'd even gone to bed with a Soho brass when they'd pulled a job off. But that had been a big disappointment. He'd felt sick, feeling around a professional tart.

“Tonight... when you finish here?” Joe asked.

Mary felt her throat constrict. She glanced up and down the bar. “Wait for me behind the Point?”

“We'll be there – won't we, Billy?”

Billy wanted to object. Knowing Joe, the woman would be subjected to extremes of intercourse before he – or any of the others – got their share. Yet, nobody denied Joe Hawkins his glory. “Yeah, Joe, that's fine.”

Mary lowered her voice. “Forget this round – it's on me.”

Joe laughed, returning to his seat. Mary would fiddle it. They were getting free beer on the guvnor for promising to give her what all concerned would thoroughly enjoy – especially Mary. The round was on her and everything else pleasurable would be on her, too.

The coloured man beside Billy laughed throatily, slapped Billy's shoulder. “Man, you'se got it made,” he grinned.

Billy brushed the hand away and glared at the man. “Don't ever touch me, spade!” He backed away, ready to grab his tool.

Quickly, the two coloured men stiffened and moved to close in on their opponent. Then, suddenly – as the pub grew deathly silent – they glanced around and relaxed with foolish grins on their ebony faces. Even they had heard about Joe Hawkins, and his mob.

“Trouble, Billy?” Joe asked eagerly, watching the coloured men with what amounted to hungry appreciation. Like most East End skinheads – and, for that matter, population – Joe detested the influx of immigrants into what had always been a pure Cockney stronghold. It wasn't so much the colour of the skins that annoyed him. Any intruder would have been subject to the same treatment – be the man South African, Canadian, American. The East End was proud of its London-heritage; afraid to lose its ancient right to control what was, essentially, a Saxon bastion. ‘Anglo-' had never been acceptable here. Loyalty to an established, accredited Cockney crown was taken for granted. In time of war, the East Ender had only to enter a recruiting office to be accepted as a fit example of a British fighting man. Nobody dare question that. Nor the right an East Ender had to voice his opinion regardless of Race Relations Board and governmental sympathies. Spades or wogs didn't count. They were impositions on the face of a London that should always be white, Cockney, true-British... not so-called British because they claimed a passport and insisted on rights their independent nations did not grant to the inhabitants of the British Isles.

“No trouble, man,” the first immigrant said.

“None,” his fellow black murmured.

Joe grinned evilly. He wasn't satisfied to let it go at that. This was Saturday – a day for splitting skulls. What better warm-up than these two coons...

“Apologize...” he suggested antagonistically, moving forward with his mob stepping in tight like a gang of Nazi S.S. men about to interrogate a prisoner.

Billy grinned. He felt tall, more than equal to a couple of hefty niggers now he had the backing of Joe and the lads. “Tell me how sorry you fuckin' well are,” he snarled.

The first negro blanched. He lived in Plaistow and knew how difficult it could be to oppose this gang of young thugs. He had heard of other immigrants whose homes had been terrorized. He had been warned by the pastor not to invite racial discontent with the 'ignorant' Londoner. Mentally, he rejected these white savages – and all Englishmen – as inferiors striving to prove their right to subjugate black peoples. He didn't stop to think about the poverty and superstition that made his homeland a place to avoid, or leave, nor the debt each of his people owed to the British administrators, the British tax-payer, the British sense of fair-play. He forgot these things because he wanted a job, a decent home – even if, after occupation, he turned it into a slum-dwelling – and a right to stand on his own feet without having a witch-doctor, a tribal chieftain, or an arrogant headman telling him what to do, when to do it, how to do it. He remembered his rights in England – the right to protest and call the British bastards and exploiters.

“I'se sorry,
boss
,” he snarled.

Joe laughed. “Boss? Sambo – get stuffed!” He turned away in disgust. The Chelsea mob would offer more resistance.

Billy puffed out his skinny chest and pushed past the coloured men.

Conversation started again in the pub and Mary's eyes glittered frantically as she kept watching Joe, Billy and the mob. These were her type of men, she thought. She loathed serving blacks. She detested their lecherous looks, their arrogant attempts to strip her across the bar and the almost “don't dare refuse me” propositions they made. But the guvnor had warned her not to invite trouble by refusing to serve them.

Waiting for the District Line train to come in, Joe regarded his mob with a critical gaze. They were not an inseparable group. Billy and Don usually accompanied him on big bovver but Tony, Jack, Frank and Harry usually managed to avoid the more audacious escapades and shrank from physical contact with opposing forces of numerical superiority. As the leader, Joe felt his mob needed some backbone. It was disastrous to turn for support and find no-one there.

“We gave those spades something to think about, eh, Joe?” Billy laughed as they gathered outside the waiting room.

Joe shrugged. He wasn't interested in the niggers now. They were past tense; his mind was on present and future trouble. “Forget the bastards, Billy,” he cautioned. His mind searched for something to vent his spite upon. His gaze lit upon the station sign: UPTON PARK. He grinned. That's what they needed – a sign to tease those Stamford Bridge yobs. “Tony, Jack, nick that sign!” he commanded.

Grinning, the two hurried off, tearing the metal sign from its moorings.

From his relatively safe position on the opposite platform, a stationman took a quick step forward, then slunk back to his post with studious concern for counting the small change people offered in lieu of correct fare. Six weeks previously he had been brave and tried to defeat the vandalism of these young thugs. Not any more. London Transport didn't pay him enough to wage single-handed war against savages. Nor did he consider contacting the police any solution, either. He didn't want them waiting for him after a night-shift. Occasionally, he glanced furtively across the track to see what they were up to next. He would have to make a report but that was going to be the extent of his involvement in the affair.

He would never know what his lack of involvement was going to cost his employer – nor the agony to one of his fellow-workers!

“WEST HAM... WEST HAM... WEST HAM...” The mob chanted as they poured into a carriage when the train arrived.

Other supporters laughed, took separate carriages – content in the thought that they were better off not riding with Joe Hawkins. Yet, they didn't find the mob's actions contrary to accepted behaviour for football supporters. None of them belonged to an official body attached to their club. That would be tantamount to accepting authority and civilized conduct – and these were anathema for the likes of Joe and other young tearaways.

Joe glared at the occupants of his carriage. Native cunning warned him that L.T. sometimes planted one of their trains likely to carry football supporters. He didn't give a damn about one man but he didn't wish to be trapped below ground when the dogs came. Boots and a tool meant nothing to a ferocious dog but flashing teeth meant a whole lot of pain for a skinhead.

Like frozen puppets, the other passengers sat in their seats, trying hard to forget Joe's presence. The fat woman with shopping bags glared right back at him then, conscious of the strained atmosphere as the train started, dropped her gaze and concentrated on the tips of her shoes. A small man wearing a scarf and hat examined the route map, reading and re-reading the names of stations listed. A young mother with two children suddenly discovered wonders outside the window to bring to their attention. A tall, portly gentleman in a window seat refused to be intimidated and stared at the mob until Joe's slow grin changed his mind. A newspaper opened and the man's face got lost in the spreading printed pages.

A man and woman sitting almost directly opposite Joe continued to discuss matters of intimate importance until Joe leered at the woman. She was tall, blonde, beautiful, and showed a neat pair of pins. She flushed and turned her head. The man, who was slightly shorter than his wife and looked as if he could take care of himself in a fight, turned and glowered at Joe. In a loud voice he asked his wife, “Is this layabout bothering you, hon?”

The woman muttered something too low for Joe to hear but he didn't give a damn. He had his target – the man. He didn't like people calling him a layabout nor did he like men to think they could put him in his place.

“Hey, Don – what about this piece?”

Don Taylor broke off his discussion about Bobby Moore's merits and stared at the woman. He smiled and gestured obscenely. “A bleedin' shame she's got 'im!”

“Shit on 'im!” Joe retorted. “She fancies you mate...”

Don moved down the carriage until he stood leaning on the seat the couple occupied. “That true, missus?”

The man got to his feet. There was no hurry in his movements and this lulled Don into false security. Anyway what did he have to fear? He had his mates...

“You bloody little swine,” The man snarled and, without warning, his fist whipped upwards in a perfect uppercut to land under Don's jutting chin. Like a sack of grain, Don folded, slammed back across the carriage, and collapsed into Joe's lap. The train swayed, then slowed for the next station.

The woman gasped, hand reaching to touch her husband's sleeve but he shook it off angrily. “All right, you bastards!” he snarled. “Let's see how brave you are...”

Joe dumped the floundering Don on the floor, got to his feet, hand coming from inside his shirt with the deadly tool ready for its vicious work. Like clockwork soldiers, his mob filtered down the carriage, forming a semi-circle round the lone passenger. “You arsked for this, mister,” Joe growled, whipping his tool against one palm, feeling the satisfying smack of it on flesh. “Pile in, lads...”

The man fought like a tiger. He caught several blows on extended forearms, landed his own counter-punches with devastating results but he was outnumbered and, slowly, he was forced back... back... almost into his wife's lap. Her screams didn't help him. Her struggles to avoid battering blows hindered him.

Joe grinned, feeling his cosh bounce off the man's temple, seeing blood spurt.

Frank landed a boot into the man's thigh hearing the agonized gasp.

The fat woman yelled, and leapt up to pull the communication cord.

The tall, portly man flung his newspaper aside, got to his feet, saw blood pouring from the man's face and slumped back into his seat – ashamed of himself but safe in the knowledge it wasn't his personal fight.

The man fought to get away from his hysterical wife... head down, charging into the slashing, kicking, maddened mob of attackers.

The train jerked to a halt, the doors sliding open.

The fat woman exploded onto the platform, screaming for help – her exit not adding to the excitement
inside
the carriage as the mob battered their enemy with relentless fury.

Running to the fat woman, a coloured guard felt himself pulled unwittingly to the scene of carnage. He had been warned by his union not to tackle rampaging fans on his own – but to call for police reinforcements and take a back seat regardless of what happened. Unfortunately, the fat woman decided otherwise and shoved him into the carriage, screaming for “somebody to do something to save that courageous man from those vicious thugs in there”.

Joe saw the guard and stepped back. As though telepathically controlled, his mates retreated from the man, leaving him clawing for support as he folded over a seat, face streaming blood, body battered and bruised where heavy boots had taken their toll.

“A coon! A fuckin' coon!” Joe hissed, edging forward, suspicious yet sure the police had not been called this soon.

“Wha's wrong here?” the guard asked timorously.

Joe laughed, jabbing the guard's chest with a stiff finger, his cosh held in readiness down one thigh. “Beat it, coon! This ain't your business!”

The beaten man's wife stood huddled against a window, her face expressing the revulsion and fear welling inside her. She pointed, yelled: “Arrest them... can't you see what they've done to Jim?”