Skinhead (8 page)

He hated Monday almost as much as he hates hippies. He had read the
Mirror
's account of the young thugs who had viciously attacked five hippies in Brighton and tried to mass-rape the girl with them. He had read, with a high degree of pleasure, how the four male hippies were in serious condition in Brighton hospital and that the girl had been released after getting stitches in a head wound. Fortunately, the description issued by the police would fit any skinhead in London so he didn't think they'd ever trace the mob from Brighton.

His mate on the delivery lorry was a man of about forty – an illiterate Cockney with a fantastic sense of humour but nothing else to qualify him as Joe's mate. Joe worked his fiddles with a recklessness that increased the thrill of robbing old age pensioners and old women too timid to object to his overcharging. He had a standard method of getting a few bob from every customer – he simply altered their half of the delivery slip to read a higher amount. If they argued, which was seldom, he argued back – and usually won. If they threatened to telephone the company he'd back down with a grin and explain that some stupid bastard of a clerk had made a mistake.

There were a few calls where fiddles were strictly
verboten
– like when they had a delivery to Mrs. Marrinor. He always let his mate heave the coal into her basement. And, naturally enough, he never appeared again until he had satisfied the middle-aged nympho's craving for a “dirty coalman to jump on top of my lily-white flesh”.

Oh, there were perks galore for delivering coal!

Another non-fiddle place of call was on the estate. Mrs. “bleedin' heart” Bassault, the French bird whose husband always seemed to be away on some ship or another. Joe knew all about her. She was the Point professional fuck. Any man with enough ready cash left after a night in the local boozer could stop off at her flat to avail himself of her excellent services regardless of whether or not he could, or could not, perform with a skinful on. Mrs. Bassault had never been known to fail when she was paid for relieving frustrations. One way – or another – she guaranteed results.

This Monday they had six bags for Mrs. Bassault.

“Look, mate,” Joe told his driver, “she's due for it. Let me 'ave it today?”

The older man screwed his piggish eyes into slits and considered Joe's request. He had been thinking how nice it would be for himself. He hadn't been getting his share off the old woman for weeks and he was overdue to make a personal delivery to Mrs. Bassault's bedroom. “I dunno...” he said.

“A quid if you let me...”

“Shit! I'd pay twice that to call at night.”

“Okay, two quid!” Joe felt generous. He'd made forty-seven shillings that morning already. And, he had what was left of the robbery in his wallet, too.

“Done! Ram her for me, eh?” the driver chuckled as he eased his lorry into the Point driveway and parked directly behind the Bassault block.

Mrs. Bassault didn't question Joe's urgent knocks. She looked at him and said, “Coal today?” She stood back and added, “I'm short of cash but...” Her robe fell open displaying knickers and brassiere and expanses of creamy flesh.

Joe crudely pulled the front of her knickers down and studied the pubic region. “Sorry, Mrs. Bassault – we're short on cash this week. I'm afraid I can only deduct a quid...”

“You're a
big
boy, “she replied. “I suppose...” She moved away as the coal-dust on his hand left a black mark down her gently-rounded stomach. Where his fingers had gripped her pink knickers the individual black prints showed too. She glared at these, and said testily, “I hate washing them, Joe.”

“Take everything off,” he said, starting to unzip his flies. “I won't dirty your bed today, either. The floor's great.”

She spread newspaper on the carpet, stripped and lay back with her thighs wide apart. Her hands came up, and out. “Don't keep me waiting, Joe...”

*

“Was it good?”

Joe inclined his head. “Like it always is... in, out, up, down and thanks for bringing the coal, Joe.”

“We've got Sally Vincent today, “the man said slowly, watching Joe's face.

Joe cursed. He should have studied the delivery sheet. If he'd known Sally was one of their customers he'd have let this bastard fuck the French whore.

“I get 'er, eh Joe?”

“Yeah, you get Sally!”

After he heaved the coal down Sally's chute he returned to the lorry and sweated out the half-hour before his mate returned. His imagination ran riot thinking of Sally. He knew exactly what would happen inside her house... he'd been through the procedure often enough to visualize her performance. She didn't believe in intercourse in the ordinary way. She didn't want a bastard, she always said. She had her own pleasurable method for making her delivery men pay for her creature-comforts. The milkman for one, got his treatment every Monday. The laundryman got his on Friday. The gas and electricity blokes always came away swearing she had been a frugal customer. And, whenever she wanted coal, she got a delivery and a forty-five minute thrill. Not to mention what the coalman got.

“Hey, Joe... she let me into 'er...”

Joe felt sick. Ever since he took this flamin' job he'd wanted into Sally. Now, this old bastard had done the bit.

“She was pissed,” his mate kept saying. “Pissed! Seems she discovered her old man put one in her oven and she don't give a cunt anymore!” The driver chuckled, got behind the steering-wheel. “Cor, she did give me one! I tell you – there ain't no woman with a better set or a more active...”

“For chrissakes, dry up!” Joe shouted.

He felt so rotten he didn't even attempt to argue when an old age pensioner contested his charges. He changed her figures back to normal, stamped off to the lorry and growled for his mate to hurry. For once, the Cockney humour was lacking. His mate didn't wish to rile Joe. He'd have ample opportunity to sleep in a cold bed that night and cogitate over his earlier success.

*

The church basement was crowded with clean, respectable teenagers. They were enjoying their weekly social and the vicar kept changing the discs and serving the coffee without one single word of discouragement.

They were an exuberant crowd, perfectly content in the knowledge that St. James's was a church young people could be proud of, and assured of a weekly welcome from the with-it vicar.

Every Sunday, the church was able to boast of superlative attendances – mostly consisting of teenager adherents to the open policies that had initiated their decorous youth club.

Peter Bloomfield studied the group dancing and inwardly congratulated himself for the success he had had with what had always been classified an unruly element in his district. In his opinion, God was not a harsh God, nor an authoritarian. God was love and love should be that emotion shared with one's fellow man or woman (always depending, naturally, on the holy state of matrimony; he did not condone the permissiveness that certain elements of society tried to force churchmen into accepting).

“How are things at home, Albert?” he asked as a tall, thin youngster came to stand beside him.

Albert Newton shrugged casually. He wasn't one of those who accepted Bloomfield as the “teenager's saviour”. He had his reservations and, mostly, they revolved around the vicar's pet theory that sex before marriage was illicit, immoral, bad for a “God-blessed” union. Albert was virile and could always get any girl he went after. He enjoyed feeling around and exercising his manhood. For that reason he was the blackest sheep in the vicar's little fold.

“Not bad, Mr. Bloomfield,” he replied, conscious of the need to treat the man with a certain respect. He didn't realise that it was this deference that made him Bloomfield's special target. In the vicar's mind, any teenager willing to show respect was worth saving.

“Has your father found a job yet?”

Albert grunted. “How could he?”

There was no answer to that, Bloomfield thought. Mr. Newton was one of nature's favourite layabouts. He had feigned illness so long he would not know how to find the strength to go for an interview.

“I see Betty Rowe is here tonight...”

Albert tightened up inside.

“She asked if you were coming...”

Albert lit a cigarette.

“Have you thought about what I suggested the last time we met?”

The boy grinned. “Yeah. No!”

Peter Bloomfield felt the immediate urge to rant at the youth. He calmed himself and said: “There's nothing wrong with being a police constable, Albert.”

“No?” Albert savagely stubbed his cigarette into the palm of one hand – a feat he had perfected since seeing it done on television by a so-called hard man. “They're underpaid, nobody likes 'em and I don't want my head kicked in at demos...”

“Ah, “the vicar smiled, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. “I see.” He didn't really! “You think all policemen spend their time getting maltreated?”

“Don't they?” Albert wanted to hurt. Ever since the vicar had suggested he join the force he had seriously tried to get his inner-self to agree. He liked the idea of walking round his district in a nice blue uniform. He enjoyed the prospect – imaginary, of course – of apprehending villains. Yet, he couldn't go against public opinion and his mates.

“What I had in mind,” the vicar continued with his infectious enthusiasm, “was a course at a police college. None of the beat pounding trivia for you, Albert. I have funds at my disposal. The Church would provide a grant to see you through the course...” His face broke into a benevolent smile and his eyes searched through Albert – almost to the closed soul-door.

Albert hesitated. He wanted to accept – on the spot. He wanted to tell this man that he was the best person he had ever met... and couldn't. His upbringing forbade any emotional response. His father's constant claims that the State owed its citizens a living, that nobody got anywhere offering their services stuck in his mind; and in his heart.

“I tell you, Joe – they've got birds in there would turn your head,” Billy remarked as they lounged outside the church hall.

“Wot's keepin' us from getting a few?” Don asked.

Joe scowled. He'd had his bit for the day and tomorrow was Tuesday. He had to keep reasonably virile for Tuesday! “Christ – you wanna go in?” he asked sulkily.

“Yeah!”

“Okay...” Joe shoved the door open and faced a frightened goody-goody boy. “Move aside, pansy,” Joe shouted, shoving the boy over amid a collection of flying tickets.

For a moment, nobody noticed their arrival. Then, when Billy grabbed one of the girls, a scream split the hall into factions and Joe's mob found themselves confronted by hostile glares. Just glares. Nothing else.

“Keep dancin',” Joe announced. “We ain't goin' to rape you bleedin' virgins.” He grinned and added in a stage-whisper to Billy, “Are we?”

“I bloody-well am,” Billy said in a loud voice. “That one over there!” He indicated a girl of about fifteen wearing a mini and a tight blouse. Billy took a step towards the girl...

“Just a moment!” Peter Bloomfield tried to control his seething anger. First, he turned the record player off, then he walked through the parting crowd of his flock and stood facing Joe Hawkins. He recognised Joe; knew that this was the most serious crisis ever to be thrust upon his small gathering. Joe represented evil; Lucifer in clip-on braces and wearing devilish boots.

Joe laughed and touched Don's arm. “Get a load of 'im,” he clowned, affecting the vicar's mode of walk.

“You bastard!”

Joe glanced round the hall, trying to catch sight of the speaker. It certainly didn't
sound
like one of the flock – not using
that
language here.

Albert stepped forward, joining the vicar as a team pitted against a superior side.

Joe felt apprehension race down his spine. He and Albert had attended the same school and the only boy he had never been able to lick was Albert Newton. He recalled several bloody noses and black eyes when he antagonized the same Albert.

“You don't belong here, Joe,” Albert said evenly. “Get lost! Go bovver some other function but forget this one!”

Joe forced a scowl intended to frighten his opponent. He
couldn't
back down. Not in front of the mob.

“Please...” Peter Bloomfield smiled at Albert, placing a restraining arm before the youth, and took a tentative step to Joe.

Billy growled, aiming a solid kick at the vicar's groin...

Don whooped, tearing into three timid youngsters near him; his tool flashing, hitting; his boots finding their soft targets without much satisfaction gained.

Before he knew what was happening, Albert lunged forward, slamming a right, left, right into Joe's face. Joe staggered back. Albert closed in, not letting those deadly boots get freedom of movement, his bunched fists pounding into Joe's unprotected middle.

From his undistinguished position on the dusty floor, Peter Bloomfield watched the battle with prayers on his lips. His groin hurt, his hopes pinned on Albert's initiative. If only the others would back Albert...

Albert didn't require backing at this stage. He was hammering Joe into insensibility, driving rights and lefts at the skinhead leader... forcing him back... back... back against a solid wall from which there was no escape.

“That's enough m'lad!” A heavy hand pulled Albert off his enemy.

Joe shook his head, desperately trying to clear the fog that threatened to make him a sitting-bird. He heard the strange voice, saw Albert half-turn away from him and...

“
God!
” Albert sank to his knees as Joe's boot found his stomach. He wanted to be sick... couldn't.

“Little swine!” The stranger slashed a stiff-hand across Joe's throat, sending the skinhead reeling. Then, swinging into action, he vaulted the prostrate Albert, rabbit-punching Billy to his knees before making a flying tackle that brought Don down with a
whump
!