Class of '88

by Wayne Anthony

‘Oh, please don’t, we’re really sorry he drove like that. We’ve come all the way from Devon to be here tonight,’ said one of the girls.

  ‘I don’t give a shit. He’s lucky I don’t do him. If he’d run someone over, what would you be saying then?’ Keith argued.

  I butted in. ‘I’ll tell you what, you lot can go in. But you can fuck off, mate, and don’t come back,’ I said to the driver.

  ‘But how are we going to get home?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t care. If he doesn’t start moving now, you can all go,’ Keith replied.

  The rest of them opted to stay and the driver got into the van and drove off. If he was smart he’d just park down the road and come back because we’d never spot him in all those faces. There must have been 2,000 people waiting to get into the warehouse by now.

  I looked back up the busy private road leading to the main junction, which was crammed with motors. A traffic jam stretched as far as the eye could see. There’d been a minor crash and Keith and I made our way towards it. One car was embedded in the back of another vehicle, which turned out to belong to some of our mates, Rico, Mickey, Pondi, Gary, Rolle and Kenny, who were mad as hell.

  The motorist who had crashed into them had done a runner and escaped the lads’ clutches, so they’d apprehended the passengers to try to find out where the driver lived. Neither car could be pushed out of the way so we all grabbed hold of them and tried to lift them. The sound of car horns and cheers filled the air.

  I glanced in the direction of the meeting point and saw the blue flashing lights of roughly ten police vans. Shit, time to go back inside! We ran like Steve Austin the bionic man back to the warehouse entrance. The Old Bill’s vans were driving along the private road, weaving and dodging people as they approached the yard.

  Our door takings by now amounted to 75 grand, which was packed into cardboard boxes and placed in canvas holdalls. Six security guards with shooters escorted me and Keith into the dance arena with the dash. One of our boys was outside on the walkie-talkie, monitoring Dibble. There were 8,000 party animals jumping for joy in the warehouse. We stood, feeling paranoid, near a fire exit at the back of the building, with four bags filled with money. My earphones were plugged into the walkie-talkie.

  ‘Wayne, there’s about 60 police in full combat kit approaching the door,’ crackled the radio.

  ‘I need to hear what’s being said. Try to get close to them to hear what they are saying. Walk into the reception and keep the radio keyed,’ I replied.

  I tried to listen to what was happening, and heard the chief say, ‘Where is Wayne Anthony? I want to see him immediately. This party is coming to a close.’

  Fuck! We’d better get out of here, pronto, I thought. How could we get these bags of money out past Old Bill? There was a group of girls dressed in dungarees and I went over and asked if they could help us out. I suggested stuffing wads of money into their clothes, and anything else that might conceal notes. They were happy to oblige, so I took them over to my boys, who started handing over cash, which was being pushed into the girls’ knickers, bras, trouser legs and hats. Keith was still listening to the radio. He said one of the doormen was pretending to look for us, and told me to listen in.

  ‘Who’s responsible for turning the music off?’ asked the chief.

  ‘Wayne is no longer on the premises,’ said our guy. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Right, you’d better take us to the person in charge of the PA system. This is all over,’ said the chief.

  ‘You can’t do that, mate,’ said the security guard. ‘This is private property. Have you got a warrant?’

  ‘Are you taking responsibility for this fiasco?’ asked the chief.

  ‘No, I’m just stating the facts.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to show you anything. Now take me to the source of the music before I lose my temper.’

  ‘I’ll take you to the DJ stand, but it won’t do any good. Nobody will do anything without Wayne’s consent: he’s the boss,’ said the security guy.

  ‘We’ll see about that. Let’s go.’

  I needed a better view of the riot squad now entering the arena and so I climbed a pipe attached to a wall. One of the security pushed open the fire exit, but it caught the attention of three policemen standing just yards away outside and so was quickly slammed shut.

  By now at least 50 Old Bill were surrounding the DJ’s console. I got on the radio and asked someone to check outside for a clear fire exit. At that exact moment the music stopped. Nightmare! Everyone started booing and jeering. A crowd of 300 or more began chanting ‘Party, party, party’ and thousands more picked up the cheer: ‘PARTY, PARTY, PARTY, PARTY!’ The sound bounced around the warehouse and echoed into the street like Cup Final day at Wembley.

  How could they possibly stop this event? I thought. There were just too many of us. I headed for the DJ console and the army of riot police. The cry changed to ‘Freedom to Party’ and the whole warehouse was cheering it. The inspector knew this was a situation that could easily get out of hand and he started to move his men towards the exit. The police walked into the reception declaring that the party could continue but I would be held personally responsible. Within five minutes the police were gone and the crowd went crazy, jumping around and hugging one another.

  I turned the microphone on and yelled, ‘Genesis 1989!’

  The DJ spun ‘Meltdown’ by Quartz and we all left our senses for a while. I shouted out again: ‘Genesis 1989.’ Everybody danced wildly with their hands in the air and began chanting: ‘Genesis, Genesis, Genesis.’ I looked at my partners and we screamed in each other’s faces: ‘Yes!’ For one moment we forgot all about the security standing in the corner with 75 jib and got down to Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’. After ten minutes we returned to the corner where even the security were boogieing – and there’s no way on Earth those boys had ever danced before. The electric atmosphere had rubbed off on them and they were going for it, as were the wedged-up girls. To me, this represented a prime example of how systematically programmed minds could be reconditioned and channelled towards a brighter future.

  Back in our command centre everything was running smoothly again and there was a huge queue of people outside the office. I called the lads at the back-up venue to let them know what had happened and told them to pack their stuff up and come down to us for some wages. We had already collected the bar money of about 30 grand, which was added to the boxes. The phones were going like mad and rang non-stop for hours.

  A few of our friends were having a charlie session in one of the offices and Martin was with them, all loved-up and rushing from his first E. He couldn’t believe how he felt or the number of people there were at the party; it reminded him of attending all the major music festivals back in the Sixties. In fact, he said it was better than Woodstock, and he’d never danced so much in his life. We sniffed some huge trench lines and a massive lump went down my throat. The buzz was so intense. Keith suggested we should take the money to Martin’s boat and leave some security with it.

  Then there was a knock at the door and virtually our entire security team entered the room. They asked everybody but me and Keith to leave while we had an emergency meeting.

  ‘What’s happening? Who’s watching the entrance?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Listen, we need to talk about the money arrangements,’ one geezer said.

  ‘What money arrangements?’

  ‘As we see it, we’re not being paid enough money to lay our lives on the line. We’ve heard whispers that another AWOL army unit is planning to rob you, and they’re a tough bunch of lads. They were in the Falklands the same as us, but this lot were the top unit on the force. Since then, they’ve been on a world tour. They arrived in England last week and they’ve been asking questions about us and the safe houses,’ said Dick.

  ‘So what are you saying?’ asked Keith.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Dick said. ‘You give us 25% of the door takings instead of flat wage
s and we’ll give you 24-hours-a-day protection against anybody that may cause you a problem. If the party gets stopped and there’s no money after everything has been paid, we don’t get paid. That’s the deal.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re scared of the other firm,’ I said.

  ‘We’re not frightened, but if we come up against the unit it will be a bloody war. We want to be sure that we’re earning good money before we even think about it,’ he said.

  ‘What if we say no?’ said Keith.

  ‘We walk out now with 25% of tonight’s takings and you’ll be on your own. We want your decision right now, before we go any further,’ he said.

  I analysed our predicament. We needed a good security team, and it would have to be strong. The parties were now so big that would-be robbers knew there was some serious dosh changing hands. Although 99% of party people were fun-loving, there was always that 1% who could cause a problem. I could always recognise this minority because they’d all be standing together playing charlie big potatoes. If we didn’t give Dick’s team their cut, the chances were that someone else would come along and want even more. I should have knocked it on the head right there and then, but we were hooked. The huge warehouse parties, smiley faces, adrenaline rushes and colossal amounts of money were too much to resist.

  Joe Public would never guess what was happening behind the scenes. We were earning illegal wonger because, in effect, the authorities had forced us underground. We’d tried on many occasions to hire venues through the correct channels, but as soon as we mentioned a music-business party, we got turned down flat. Nightclub licences in the late Eighties extended to 3.30 a.m. at the latest. All-night events for 8,000 people were unheard of. We wanted to play it straight at our parties and never endorsed the selling of drugs. Everybody we hired got paid. The only dodge thing we did was break into buildings and steal their electricity and, even there, if we had had a way to pay the owners they would have been sorted.

  We didn’t choose to be surrounded by trained killers and I hated that part of it. Their dark aura was scary shit, although some of them behaved like perfect gentlemen. Nobody ever got clumped by our security, but if it came to the crunch they’d stand up against any aspiring robbers. Yeah, it was heavy shit, but what else could you do if you were sitting on a hundred grand in an illegal venue with thousands of people around?

  And now here we were, holding all this dosh with fifteen mercenaries about to take some and run. We needed these geezers, if they were as tough as they looked and acted. I was sure a test would present itself to us in the near future, although I hoped to God it didn’t.

  ‘OK, we’ll agree on the condition that Genesis will always be ours to manage as we see fit,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to know about any heavy shit – that’s your department. We’ll worry about organising the parties.’

  ‘Agreed. We’re glad you made the right decision. We won’t let you boys down,’ said Dick.

  ‘Right, we’re not being funny, but we should get this money out of here. It’s making us nervous and we can take it to the boat until later,’ said Keith.

  He grabbed the holdalls and seven of the team escorted him to the houseboat. The party was packed solid and the bar had had to be restocked three times during that night. After this heavy and possibly life-threatening scenario, I needed to be reminded of what I was doing all this for. I went down to the dance floor and searched for the girls who had helped me to hide the wonger. I found them freaking out to ‘The Dance’ by Nude Photo, on the roof of a small tool shed.

  I passed the bag of Peruvian flake around our new circle; one thing quickly led to another and I took them up to the command centre. A black bag of uncounted notes lay on the table so I left the girls in the adjoining room and quickly started adding up the paperwork. Then I got introduced to Chris Sullivan of The Wag Club, who told me about the warehouse parties he used to organise in the old days. Chris was most impressed with our party and its uplifting atmosphere. He told us the future of dance parties lay with promoters like us.

  We split the money on the boat at 9 a.m. When we decided to go home there were 2,000 hardcore smileys still in the warehouse. I took my share of the profits and slipped off with two of the girls. The only worry now was being stopped on the way home because they would have definitely put me down as a drug dealer, with the amount of money and bag of gear I had in my possession. I didn’t get to sleep that day, but it was well worth it.

  KIDNAPPED!

  It was a Wednesday morning and, lost in a state of semiconsciousness, I could hear banging. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not, when suddenly the bang turned into a crash and I jumped up thinking it was a police raid. Standing at the top of the stairs, I looked down to see three stocky geezers running up towards me.

  I’d just managed to ask who they were when the first one reached me, headbutted me in the face, grabbed my throat and began punching me. I fought back but was dragged into the bedroom where all three of them were kicking, stamping and hitting me. I remember the blood gushing from my face and staining the beige carpet. What the fuck was going on?

  The geezers stopped the onslaught for a few seconds to tell me that I was going for a ride, and if I made a sound when we walked out of the front door they’d top me there and then. Meanwhile, I was lying in a heap on the floor thinking my time was up and that I could do nothing to save myself. I asked them what I had done, and was told to shut the fuck up.

  Bound, gagged and with a blood-soaked pillowcase over my head, I was taken outside. Their van was right outside my house. We ran across the pavement and they threw me in a sliding door on what must have been the side of the vehicle. Falling flat on my mush, I banged my shins and was smashed with what felt like an elbow. I took the blow quietly, and was thrown deeper into the van.

  ‘If he moves, fucking shoot him!’

  I heard the sound of a gun being cocked and a small single metal barrel was poked into my eye.

  ‘If you move from this position in any fucking way, I’m gonna blow you away, do you understand?’

  Nodding my head, I started to feel my body going slowly into shock. The hood was sticking to my face and I could feel the bruises and cuts throbbing through my cotton blindfold. We drove for ages along a seemingly endless motorway or A road. This is it: I’m going to die. Why me? I’m only 22. These shit cunts are all in their thirties. What have I done? All this for a few parties. Nobody even knows where I am.

  I passed out and dreamt of swimming with dolphins. It felt so real that I didn’t want to come back. Then somebody was carrying me and I was underwater but heard the sound of a door being opened. I crashed on to a concrete floor and the dolphins disappeared. Cold water was thrown into my masked face and woke me up like a light being switched on. It stung like mad.

  A foot connected with the back of my head. A voice told me that Keith was in the room. There was a muffled noise, and the sound of knuckles against flesh. Keith and I were tied to wooden chairs and the geezers lifted our hoods only enough for them to undo the gags on our mouths. A country-bumpkin-sounding voice spoke.

  ‘You lads don’t know me, but I know a lot about you. There’s two ways of doing this. You can either play tough guys, or give us what we want.’

  ‘Who are you, and what have we done to you?’ Keith said.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ said another country voice.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with here, lads. The boys here think we should do one of you in as a lesson to the rest of you,’ the first voice said.

  ‘But we haven’t done anything,’ I said.

  ‘My name is Sergeant Anderson. Has your cowboy army unit mentioned my name to you before?’ asked the voice.

  ‘No, why should they?’ said Keith.

  ‘We served in the Falklands with those pricks,’ said the sergeant. ‘They were tossers then, and they’re tossers now. We’re taking over: you lads need real looking after, not the cheap-rate services they give you. The profits are cut fif
ty-fifty and we’ll take care of you and all the security arrangements. We had to give you a few slaps, so you’d know we’re not joking. The boys here get a bit carried away sometimes.’

  ‘We don’t like Cockneys,’ another voice said.

  ‘If you don’t comply with us we’ll take all your money and slit your throats,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘How do we know you’re not going to cut our throats anyway?’ I said.

  ‘You’ll have to take my word for it. If your cowboy unit want trouble, then we’ll give it them. They know how we work,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, if you’re going to kill us anyway, it might as well be now,’ said Keith.

  ‘Fucking cockneys!’

  They started hitting us again. They were big blokes and every blow did some damage.

  ‘Right, give me one of your lads’ telephone numbers,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘What?’

  Whack! I was smacked in the head with a hard, small object – a mobile phone? I quickly said a number.

  ‘Whose number is this?’

  ‘It’s Dick’s number. It’s the only one we’ve got.’

  ‘What’s your emergency code?’ he said.

  ‘Acid Teds.’

  The tone of the keys being pressed on a phone could be heard over the sound of Keith getting a severe hiding on the other side of the room.

  ‘Acid Teds,’ said a voice, before ringing off.

  The sergeant burst into laughter and the others joined in.

  ‘That should wake them up,’ one of them said. ‘Fucking tossers!’

  ‘Keith, are you all right, mate?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve told you once,’ one geezer said, then booted me in the chest. I fell to the ground, still tied to the chair. My head was pulled back and a thin, sharp, metal edge was pulled across my Adam’s apple.

  ‘Don’t say another word,’ said the geezer with the knife. The dried-up wounds on my face opened up and fresh blood poured out. I knew by now that I was in a seriously bad way. The telephone was being redialled.

  ‘Acid Teds. Are you together yet?’