Skinhead (4 page)

The guard felt a hard lump fill his throat. He could see what had happened – and he didn't want the same treatment for himself.

“Wot you goin' to do, mate?” Joe asked deliberately.

The guard swallowed. “Off the train, son...”

Joe's cosh lashed out, striking the hapless guard across the cheek. The crunch of breaking bone was a glorious sound for Joe's mob. Like a pack of wolves they swarmed forward, bent on the kill. Boots found their target, tools slashed viciously, fists landed with dull, sickening thuds. The guard wasn't a fighter. Not like the woman's husband. He melted away as the mob pushed forward, trampling him under foot.

“Leave the coon bastard,” Joe yelled, surging through the open doors. “Let's get a bus!” He raced down the platform, scattering those passengers who had dared view the incident.

Billy – always one to take advantage of a beaten man – aimed a kick at the guard's groin, felt his boot sink in with devastating impact. He grinned, got ready to land a second blow... and then screamed as a hard fist slammed against his eye. Pain lanced through him and he stumbled from the carriage, yelling for his mates...

“Darling... oh, darling... don't!”

The woman grabbed her husband, clung to him, preventing him from following the fleeing mob. From the floor, the guard tried to gauge the situation, struggled to his feet and was immediately sick all over the place. His groin hurt terribly.

From the sanctuary of his newspaper, the tall portly man muttered: “It's about time the law did something to curb this violence. Young thugs... should be taught a lesson!” He didn't even glance down at the stricken guard nor the bloody face of the husband, still determined to protect his wife and fight on against impossible odds. He didn't realise it, but the tall, portly man was a statistic – just one of those who had allowed the likes of Joe Hawkins to rise to fame; one of the masses unwilling to share responsibility for putting teenage hoodlums in their place and safe-guarding the nation from a wave of anti-social brutality. In a time of war, the man would have risen to meet the challenge yet he was unable to see that this conflict between the young and the State was, in fact, all-out war. A war threatening the authority that a country needed to keep it stable.

*

“Did you see how I booted 'im?” Billy asked.

“Yeah, mate,” Don answered, eager for praise for his own efforts. “You saw me bust 'is head, didn'tcha?”

“You was terrific,” Jack enthused. He glanced at Joe, anxious to please their leader. “Mate,” he slapped Joe's back, “you got 'im good. God, 'ow he bleedin' well yelled when you caught him!”

Joe felt proud. His home-made tool had come through with honours. Blood flecked its length – that bastard's blood! He didn't enjoy thinking about how the man had withstood all their battering and still kept fighting back. He didn't like knowing that some men had more guts inside them than what his mob had in total.

Billy felt his eye. It would be black tomorrow. It hurt. “Fuckin' bastard!” he growled to himself. “I'd like to go back an' do 'im.” He wasn't proud of himself when he touched the eye. He didn't pretend to be tough, nor brave, nor able to handle himself right inside where he lived. For show, though, he acted like he was Henry Cooper – fit fighting man, ready to take on all-comers. Especially, he acted hard when with Joe. That Joe, he thought – nothing scares him!

“What can we do, sir?” the policeman asked the bleeding man. “We don't know who they are...”

James Mowat dabbed at the blood trickling down his cheek, and felt the pain increase as his wife tried to stem the flow, too. “Isn't it about time you banned football supporters from using the Underground?”

“Ah, that would be difficult, sir,” the constable replied. “Who can tell who is a supporter and who is a skinhead...”

“Skinhead?” Mowat asked.

“The ones who attacked you, sir,” said the patient constable, “were skinheads. You've described how they were dressed. That's skinhead gear, sir.”

Mowat shrugged. ”1 don't give a damn what you call them – why should innocent people be forced to share the same carriage with animals like that?”

“It's a problem of our times, sir...”

“The hell it is!” The man erupted.

Constable Monteeth was young, capable, dedicated. If he had been otherwise he would not be wearing his uniform. He readily sympathised with the battered man but he didn't believe in countering violence with more violence. He believed, as his superiors had taught him to believe, in the British policeman's duty to temper violence with understanding – and therein lay his problem. He could not reason that consideration for these thugs gave them a feeling of confidence, that it added to their determination to make fools of the law, society and their fellow men. He could not see that the teenage hoodlums needed strict measures and stricter punishment when caught in the act. He believed injustice without going further to see how the other side looked on justice as a blind, foppish old nanny administering a gentle slap when a cane should be used. He paid heed to the do-gooders who would treat all problems as the result of traumatic experiences in childhood and who would ban hanging for the most heinous crimes and institute psychotherapy instead of the birch.

“Yes, sir,” The constable remarked with a lack of feeling. “Now, if you could come to the station...”

“To hell with that!” Mowat exclaimed. “What good will it do? You'll not lift a finger to apprehend the thugs and, even supposing you catch 'em – what'll they get? Ten pounds fine and the Social Security pays it from my taxes? Hell, man – can't you see what this bloody Welfare State is costing Britain?”

Joe stuck his feet on the front of the bus. From here he would be able to watch London jerking past; see the sights tourists paid a fortune to come see. None of the monuments nor architectural beauties made any impression on Joe. He was ignorant of historical heritage, believing in modern sterile skyscrapers as the ultimate in construction. The Bank of England only reached him as a source of ill-gotten loot; St. Paul's as a symbol of London and not a church dedicated to the advancement of Godliness within his City; Nelson's Column as a roosting place for dropping-birds and not the heroic valour that had made his homeland great; Admiralty Arch as a traffic hold-up and not the remaining splendour of a navy that had once ruled the waves. Joe, like his teenage hoodlums, had forgotten the greatness and the adventure that had given him and his ancestors that sense of pride which came from expansion, world domination, democratic rule.

For the most part, Joe and his mob loudly speculated about the sexual attributes of mini-skirted girls walking along The Strand, through Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall. When they were not doing this they concentrated on causing a disturbance with the other passengers on the top-deck – especially to the annoyance of a small, Dresden-doll girl with a perfect figure and a nice pair of thighs.

“Cor, doll, “Joe drooled, arm over the back of his seat, eyes feasting on the girl's limbs, “won'tcha meet me tonight?” He leered where – just faintly – her panties could be seen. “I could make it luverly for you!”

The girl blushed, turned her head and tried to find interest in the Houses of Parliament.

A military-type wearing an officer's coat grunted to the conductor and remarked, “I say, isn't it time you gave those young thugs a warning to behave?”

The conductor glanced at the first three seats, carefully avoiding a direct confrontation. “They're just high-spirited...” he mumbled, wishing that some people would mind their own bloody business.

“They haven't paid their fares,” a stout woman snapped.

The conductor blanched. He
knew
that. He'd asked several times “any more fares” and they had done nothing to give him the idea that they intended paying. Normally, he didn't take any nonsense from layabouts and yobbos but he had been on the Brixton run two weeks previously and got a nasty punch for daring to request fares. Now, he knew better than to antagonize thugs. “They have, missus,” he said, hurrying down the bus.

“Not so bleedin' fast,” the stout woman shouted, grabbing the conductor's arm. “Make 'em show their tickets. Why should the likes of us pay if they don't?”

The conductor's jaw muscles tightened. He had prayed this moment wouldn't come...

“Fares, please,” he said advancing on the mob.

Not one of them even glanced in his direction.

“Excuse me, sir...” The conductor murmured, standing over Frank Cooper.

“Fuck off,” The boy snarled.

The conductor bristled. The beating was forgotten. He didn't like yobbos to start with and he didn't enjoy being spoken to in this manner in front of his passengers. “Tickets, please...” he snapped, instantly sorry as Frank turned around and laughed up at him.

Joe got from his seat, stood in the aisle facing the flustered conductor. “Wot's wrong?” he asked belligerently.

“Nothing – if you've got tickets,” the other replied.

“We ain't – so wot?”

The conductor wanted to turn, run down the stairs and consult with his driver. He couldn't. The passengers behind him were glaring, waiting for him to assert his authority; consciously willing him to toss these young tearaways off the bus. “Where did you get on?”

Joe sneered. “Last stop, mate.”

“That's a lie,” The stout woman yelled.

Joe glared at the woman. It was his day for bumping into fat, old cows determined to cause trouble for him. “Fuck you, missus!” he shouted back.

The military-type got to his feet. “I say...” he began.

“Fares, please,” the conductor interrupted, hands ready to issue tickets from his machine.

Joe shoved the man aside, shouted, “Our stop,” And started walking down the aisle. Like automatons, the gang rose, followed their leader, each one making sure he pushed against the conductor, each pausing by the stout woman to laugh.

“Christ, Joe – we didn't have to get orf,” Jack Holly complained as they stood watching the bus grow smaller in the distance.

“Look, mate,” Joe replied firmly. “We want to see the match, don't we?”

Jack nodded.

“Then we don't want trouble with the fuzz until we get to Stamford Bridge, do we?”

Jack smiled. “Gee, Joe – you think of everything!”

*

Joe did think of everything. A bunch of skinheads entering the ground together would certainly attract the notice of coppers near the turnstiles. The group split – into pairs, Joe taking Billy Endine with him. Without West Ham scarves, acting innocent as new-born babes and trying to affect a nonchalance the police would overlook, Joe and Billy managed to slip past the scrutinizing eyes of the fuzz.

Don and Jack were unlucky. They got turned away, screaming protests, accusing the fuzz of being petty dictators and arousing the Chelsea fans to such a pitch that they got turned over before taking their hasty departure.

Tony and Frank, playing it safe, got in and joined with their mates.

Now they were four – all bent on mayhem; each wanting to vent his spite on the nearest Chelsea supporter.

“1 don't like this place,” Frank muttered, gazing around him.

Joe had reached the same conclusion but now that Frank had voiced his opinion it was imperative he – as their leader – should decide. “It's okay,” he grumbled, casting nervous glances at the fanatic Chelsea fans gathered about them. He could tell the others were equally bent on trouble – the standardized uniforms, the close-cropped heads, the boots, all spoke of opposition skinheads.

If Joe had but known!

For miles around the ground the word SHED was emblazoned on gables, walls, poster sites. It meant something in this area – a warning for those wishing to watch a match in quiet contemplation to stay clear of that area of Stamford Bridge commonly called The Shed. It was here that the fanatic supporters gathered, in their gear and with boots ready to inflict injury on opposing factions.

And it was there that Joe and his mates gathered! Unaware of the consequences they faced if, just once, they let their West Ham feelings erupt...

The man was alone, loud-mouthed and eager for crowd support when he glorified Chelsea's record in the league. He didn't mean to be offensive; he was an ordinary fan squeezed in with a bunch of savages. He tried to get crowd-sympathy for his tolerant club support – not honestly wishing more than a clean, well-fought game. He wanted his neighbours to yell for victory but was willing to go home relatively content if the match should end with Chelsea a goal down. Always providing, of course, the game was clean, hard-fought, played in the spirit of football.

In The Shed he was asking for a miracle if he wanted his support to be fair-minded and free from trouble!

Unaware that the boys behind him were avid West Ham supporters and boiling for a fight, he turned to Joe, grinned, and asked, “Ain't they the best?”

Joe laughed. His fingers closed round his tool, and eased it from under his union-shirt. “Yeah,” he muttered, pointing with his free hand to the pitch. “There they come...”

The fan turned, and as he did, Joe whipped the cosh from his shirt and cracked it across the man's ear. He saw blood spurt – felt greatness descend upon him.
First blood to West Ham!

The fan slumped.

Tony leered, slamming his boot squarely into the man's backside as he fell.

Billy – not to be outdone – kicked viciously, catching the man in the chest. His next blow broke the man's jaw – the crunch bringing a measure of satisfaction.

Like quicksilver, the message whipped around The Shed: “Tool up – the enemy's here!”

The kid next to Joe was no more than thirteen, and small. He had a close-cropped haircut and new boots. He had a sharp hunk of steel in his right hand, knuckledusters on his left hand. As the man slumped and fell under scuffling feet, the kid lunged at Joe, the sharpened steel finding its target in the ribs, the knucks flashing as they headed for Joe's chin. Joe ducked, pain lancing through his side. His cosh curved across the kid's tender cheek, smashing bone. Then it slammed down, busting the skull. Blood trickled down Joe's side, making him groggy.