Skinhead (7 page)

Only one item on the menu passed for what it said – the tea. It was hot, fresh, sweet.

“Like it?” the owner asked with a secret smile as Joe again withdrew his cash.

“Not bad!”

Money exchanged hands – an exorbitant amount duly paid without a query.

As the mob trooped from the caff, the owner laughed and muttered to himself, “Bleedin' fools!” Then leaving just enough change in the till, he folded his notes, placed them in a paper bag, put that inside an open packet of Tate & Lyle sugar and left it in plain sight on a shelf. Ringing up NO SALE he removed five shillings, put in a seven-sided atrocity which decimalisation had decided to thrust upon an unwilling public and helped himself to a packet of Everest cigarettes. As he lit one he watched the mob stagger down the front, the wind in their faces. “Bleedin' fools!” he said aloud and blew a smoke ring with expert ease...

“I feel full up,” Don bucked the steadily rising gale, the remains of his meal resting like lead balls in his stomach.

“Let's have a few beers, Joe,” Tony suggested.

“Yeah, that's an idea,” Billy agreed.

Joe cut around the bus depot and past the dolphin statue. He knew a large pub where they could get served without the fuzz noticing they were in town. It made him feel good to exhibit himself in a conspicuous place like the pub he had in mind. Almost like those Western movies he avidly watched on the goggle-box. He pictured himself as the villain going into a strange town, ready to meet any challenge, prepared to face up to the marshall.

“Christ!” Billy examined the pub's interior with awe. He was used to East End establishments with their smaller bars, their dinginess. He hadn't expected Joe to select such an opulent tavern. He had never before seen such grandeur – unless one counted the time his school paid a visit to Hampton Court Palace. He had been seven then and his memory could still conjure up images of the vastness of those rooms, the armorial bearings and the instruments of torment with which the ancient men attacked their foes.

Joe stalked to the bar giving the snooty barmaid a wink and getting a haughty look in return. He knew the score – his kind were unwelcome in these hallowed precincts. But he didn't flinch. He ordered beer, flashed a fiver, and waited for the slow service which said more than any retort could have.

A log fire burned in a huge hearth, expensively dressed people chatted quietly and, across the room two young birds got their heads together and their legs further apart as Joe's mob swilled their beer.

“l can see 'er knickers,” Don enthused.

“Bloody hell... 'er mate ain't wearin' any.” Billy almost jumped from his seat, only to have Joe restrain him.

“Not in 'ere,” Joe snarled.

“But, Joe... she's...”

“I said...”

“Okay, Joe!” Billy controlled himself, refusing to take his eyes from the delightful view of the girl with her thighs spread wide apart.

“I'd like to start a fight in 'ere,” Don remarked with relish.

“Me too,” Tony chipped in.

“I'd like to fuck that bird!” Billy said eagerly.

Joe scowled, finished his brew. “Let's find the hippies.”

“Naw, let's have another...”

Joe turned on Billy. “I said – let's go!”

Billy drank his beer, wiped his lips, leered at the girls and followed Joe from the pub. On the street he glanced around. “There ain't goin' to be hippies out in this.”

“If we walk towards Roedean we'll find 'em,” Joe said with authority.

Don laughed to himself and finally said, “My old man used to tell us about the time he was stationed down 'ere durin' the war. They was in Roedean an' they 'ad a notice on the gates sayin' RING FOR A MISTRESS...” His laughter erupted anew; a lonely laugh the others failed to appreciate. Perhaps it was the way he told it.

“I'd like a bleedin' mistress now,” Billy said hopefully.

“Me too,” Tony quipped. He glanced at Joe. “'Ow about it, mate. Can't we find a coupla birds an'...”

“After we find a few hippies!” Joe remarked adamantly.

He was consumed with hatred and anxiety. What if, he found himself thinking, they didn't locate any hippies? What would they do then? His leadership depended on getting the boot in.

They walked along the spray-swept front, past the marina, the motor museum, the rows of cold, unfriendly houses perched high on the hill. Hotel signs glowed faintly in the greying sky, offering some warmth and companionship behind their bland facades.

Out to sea, tossed as a cork in a violently disturbed bathtub, a small coastal vessel battled the frothed waves. When the breakers swooshed up the shore, row-boats rattled and shifted at anchor. And, always, there was the restless sound of stone under water as the sea rearranged the composition of the beach once again.

“It's bloody cold!” Billy wasn't thinking of birds now. The biting wind had long since whipped away desire, leaving him wishing for the warmth of a log fire and the sanctuary of a pub.

Up ahead, where their paths rose to meet the road to Hastings, a small group of figures detached themselves from a shelter and started walking down to the beach. Joe stiffened. Even at that distance he could see long hair caught in the freezing wind and could make out gear that wasn't worn by ordinary people.

He grunted, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Hairies!” he snarled.

Billy yelled and felt for his tool. The coldness of metal did not shock him; his senses were attuned to violence and the thought of laying into a bleedin' hippie made him feel suddenly hot.

Don and Tony too, had withdrawn their crude clubs – Don's had once been an axe handle while Tony believed in using a tyre iron cut down to right size in Ford's workshops.

Joe didn't have a weapon. He'd come to Brighton for the pleasure of kicking hippies – not bustin' their skulls with a tool. His boots were weaponry enough and, anyway, he wanted the satisfaction of feeling his toe sink in deep.

“Don't let 'em see we're looking for aggro,” Joe warned. “Let it be a surprise, eh?”

From their vantage point, the five hippies saw the others approaching. They were cold, hungry, unafraid. They didn't consider an attack on a day like this as even a remote possibility. That they had roughed it for the last week didn't mean their natural enemies – skinheads and Hell's Angels – would brave the bitter weather and venture to Brighton's storm-tossed icebox.

It was afternoon and the last meal they'd been able to cadge had been in Eastbourne the previous night. They had some pot left, some cigarettes and tomorrow, Monday, the Social Security office would give them enough to take care of immediate problems.

“Turn back, Roger...”

Roger was a tall man with flowing dark hair and a small beard. His mandarin moustache had never quite succeeded in becoming Chinese and formed a wispy coating above firm lips. “What's wrong, Cherry?” he asked, unable to comprehend her.

“I don't like the look of those boys,” The girl replied, fear suddenly tugging at her heart. She was only eighteen but she had had enough experience fighting off those who wished to destroy them. She had taken part in practically every demonstration in Grosvenor Square, been arrested sixteen times for obstruction or disturbing the peace and, always without exception, had the Welfare State pay her fine. She had had two abortions on the State, been in receipt of a student grant until she tired of her fellow students using her as a physical oil-change. Since meeting Roger she had wandered from one end of the country to another, sleeping rough, eating when they could, stealing a little here and there to pay for pot and, when they found a sympathetic Civil Servant, begging a pitiful sum from the tax payers to let them continue the anti-social life they insisted was right.

She was a pretty girl beneath the grime of their outdoor existence; a girl with a high I.Q. gone to “pot”. She liked calling herself that. It amused her to watch intelligent faces light up and acknowledge her witticism.

“Cherry's right, Rog,” Joel Standish said calmly. His American accent bit into the wind. “They're coming after us!” For himself, he didn't give a goddam what happened. He was sick and needed hospitalization anyway. His ulcers were reaching danger point. In a way, he'd welcome a beating and deportation. He could think of better places to go hippie than England. He thought about California and the communes; about the searing head of Death Valley and the wild life the likes of a Manson could have there. He thought about orgies where the girls were all naked and the pot was freshly imported from Mexico and the desert sun beat down to provide a love nest of shifting hot sand.

Then, suddenly, he thought about his draft dodging and how they'd grab him and toss him into a hoosegow once he set foot in Uncle Sam's land. Fear clogged his nostrils. “Let's get the hell away from here, Rog,” he yelled, turning to run.

“No...”

Roger was too late. The moment Joel turned tail, Joe and his mob broke into a run.

Cherry screamed, threw herself over a low fence and rolled down the incline, her sleeping bag denting her soft side as she rolled over and over.

He couldn't tell it was a girl trying to escape. He jumped the fence, slithered down the steep incline and landed on top of her as she sprawled on the pebble beach. His tool rose ready to smash down on the unprotected head until he saw her face.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, ripped her duffle coat open and felt for her breasts.

“You bastard!” she screamed up at him.

Billy felt the old urge return as he squeezed soft yielding flesh. His hand worked inside her jeans down... down, until he felt her pubic hair. “Christ, I'm goin' to rape you,” he mouthed.

Cherry fought. She didn't mind the act itself but she objected to being used in plain sight of these animals. His hand was hurting her, his fingers exploring without regard for the tenderness of her body. Her fist smashed into his face... into the damage of last night. He yelled, his tool catching her a hard blow above the eye. She slumped dazed, shocked, unable to resist his frantic attempts to rip her jeans off.

Joe felt his boot sink deep into the tall one's groin. He lashed out again, catching the other under the chin as he sank to the ground, hands clutching the injured parts. Like an automaton, Joe kept kicking... each blow bringing him greatest satisfaction as the moans of hurt rose above the screaming wind. He didn't care if he killed the hippie or not. He wanted to hurt... to rid himself of the feeling within his chest; a feeling bordering on murderous rage.

Don laughed, slammed his shortened axe handle almost down the hippie's throat as the man valiantly tried to resist. It was easy, Don thought, kicking his opponent in the balls, listening to the rapturous sigh, the explosive groan. He hit the falling hippie on the head, hearing the crunch of bone against axe handle, and kicked into the ribs.

Tony watched blood flow from the ripped head of his target. That made two for him. The other wasn't moving now. A few fast belts with his tool and several well aimed kicks had taken care of him. He glanced down the incline, saw Billy mounting the girl, and yelled joyously. He kicked his second opponent in the face, slammed the tyre iron down on the bloody head again and vaulted the fence.

“Me next, mate,” he yelled, watching Billy penetrate the half-stupefied girl hippie. Her jeans lay on the beach, her thighs pimpled with cold, her buttocks bruised by the relentless rocks that formed this section of the shoreline.

Joe wanted to keep kicking the hippie but, somehow the pleasure had ebbed since the other ceased to fight back; since the unresisting body had stopped moving. He turned away in disgust to seek another fresh target for his rage.

“Bloody fools,” he yelled, catching sight of Billy and Tony. He glanced down the road, saw a familiar car starting to enter it from the direction of the marina. He jumped the fence and raced downhill. “Get out of the bitch!” he hollered at Billy, tearing his mate from the girl's nakedness. “Fuzz...”

“I ain't finished it yet,” Billy wailed, eyes wild and staring at her nudity. God how he loved thick pubic hair! She had the thickest covering of any bird he'd ever stripped.

“You'll be finished if the fuzz get you,” Joe snapped. “Come on – run!” He started running along the beach, seeing Don slither and fall as he followed in their wake. He didn't care if Billy had to run with it out – that was his fault for trying to do two things at once!

*

The train took its time leaving the station. Joe felt on edge, seated at the window, straining to see if the fuzz were coming down the platform. At last, as the wheels began to catch, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bleedin' lucky, mate,” he told Billy. He saw Preston Park flash past as the train gathered speed. “Christ, can't you ever go on an aggro without trying to find a bird to fuck?”

Billy sulked. He felt worse than he had earlier. He had a bad case of “lover's balls”. If only Joe had let him have just another couple of plunges...

“Did you see it, Joe?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, so wot... she's no different from other birds.”

“Jeeze, she had...”

“Shuddup,” Billy growled. “I know wot she 'ad.”

Joe grinned. He'd expended his hatred. Now, he could afford to vent a little spite on Billy. “Tell me about 'er, Tony,” he said deliberately. “Was she hairy...?”

Billy tried to close his ears as Tony delighted in describing the girl in intimate detail. He couldn't help overhearing how Tony had viewed his hasty mating nor how he had looked when Joe dragged him off the bitch. He wished the fuzz had caught the others and let him finish. He'd have to find a bird when they got back to Plaistow or else he'd have an awful night of it again...

For four days of every week Joe worked for a coal delivery merchant. He never worked a Tuesday, but that was tomorrow and his reasons did not bear thinking about until...