Copyright
© 2011-2014 Marcus Blakeston. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
A Very Stabby Christmas was originally published at http://www.punx.co.uk
While these are all standalone stories, it is recommended you read them in the order in which they are presented.
http://marcusblakeston.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/marcus.blakeston
[email protected]
Punk Faction
1 Fucked Up and Wasted
Colin Baxter was already buzzing when he walked through the door of The Queen’s Head half an hour after opening time – four cans of beer to go with the bag of chips he had for tea had seen to that. The pub smelled of furniture polish and stale tobacco, masking the sweet scent of malt and hops he expected.
An old couple playing dominos near the door looked up at Colin and tutted to each other. The middle-aged woman behind the bar eyed him with a frown. Colin ignored them all. He was used to getting funny looks – everywhere he went people stared at him, like he was an alien or something. You’d think nobody had ever seen a punk before, the way they always stared. Still, it was their problem, not his.
Colin looked around the otherwise empty pub for his mate, Brian Mathews. He found him sitting by an old Wurlitzer jukebox, and raised his hand in greeting. Brian nodded back and glanced at his watch.
“All right, Col?”
“Yeah, not bad.”
Brian reached into his leather jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. He pulled a cigarette out with his teeth and struck a match on the underside of the table. Colin took out his own cigarettes and leaned over the table to get a light from Brian.
“What did you want to meet in here for?” Colin asked, blowing smoke across the table. “The place is fucking dead.”
The old couple playing dominos tutted again. One mumbled something, the other laughed. Colin poked out his tongue at them.
“Happy hour, innit?” Brian said. “Might as well get a few in here while it’s cheap, then fuck off down to The White Swan once we’re bladdered.”
“Yeah, I guess. Or we could just get some drinks in here and take them with us?”
Brian laughed. “Nah, that barmaid’s been watching me like a fucking hawk since I came in. You’d have no chance getting out of here with any drinks.”
Colin looked at the barmaid and smiled. She frowned back, hands on hips. Colin walked up to the bar and drummed his fingers on it.
“Pint of bitter please, darling.”
“How old are you?” the barmaid asked.
“Erm … Eighteen?” Colin looked away and tapped his cigarette on the edge of a spotlessly clean ashtray.
The barmaid sighed. Colin looked up in time to see her shake her head and frown. She reached under the bar for a pint glass and filled it from a hand-pump, then put it down on the bar before him.
“Sixty pence,” she said.
Colin pulled a crumpled pound note from the pocket of his leather jacket and dropped it into the barmaid’s outstretched hand. She sighed again and straightened it out, then held it between her thumb and forefinger as if it was something disgusting while she took it to the till. She returned and dropped Colin’s change on the bar.
Colin’s eyes strayed to a naked girl on a peanut dispenser behind the bar as he picked up the coins and put them in his pocket. The young blonde woman in the photo had one bag of peanuts hanging over each breast. Colin thought about buying a bag, and wondered if the barmaid would give him a choice between left or right. But something about the way the woman stared at him made him change his mind, so he just picked up his pint and walked away.
“I thought you’d have saved that for the gig at the weekend,” Colin said, pointing at Brian’s Cockney Upstarts T-shirt.
Brian shrugged. “Nah, I’ll get me mam to wash it before then. Or wear something else. I haven’t decided yet. Besides, everyone else will probably be wearing the same shirt, and I’d rather be an individual than a sheep.”
Colin sat down and took a long drink of beer. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Talking of which,” Brian said, spinning round in his chair. “What do you reckon to this? Twiglet’s brother did it for me, fucking smart or what?”
Colin stared at a white Exploited skull intricately painted onto the back of Brian’s leather jacket, with the band’s logo beneath it. He nodded.
“Yeah, he’s done a good job there. How much?”
Brian turned back and smiled. “Twenty quid.”
“Twenty quid? Fucking hell, where did you get that much money from?”
“I haven’t paid him yet, I said I’d give him it when me giro comes. Well worth it though, nobody else has got anything like this.”
Colin thought about his own leather jacket, the stencilled band names spray-painted onto it, and wished he could afford to have something similar done to his. Not much chance of that though. After he paid his grandmother for board, Colin’s giro hardly stretched to a couple of nights out a week and a new record at the weekend. Brian didn’t know how lucky he was having working parents who could afford to keep him for free.
The pub door swung open with a loud thud. Colin turned toward it. A young skinhead with an angry scowl on his face swaggered through the door. He was short, just over five feet tall and slightly overweight, and wore a green flight jacket with a Union Jack patch above the left breast. Red braces hung down from a pair of faded denim jeans, the legs of which were turned up six inches to show off a pair of highly polished cherry red fourteen-hole Doc Marten boots.
“Aye up, it’s the Munchkin Gestapo,” Brian whispered.
Colin laughed. The skinhead glared at him as he walked toward the bar. Still smiling, Colin shook his head and picked up his beer. He gulped it down.
“Sieg Low, Sieg Low, Sieg Low,” Brian said, holding a finger under his nose.
Colin spluttered beer across the table. Brian wiped splashes from his face with a frown.
“You dirty bastard,” Brian said. “You dirty fucker.”
“What a fucking rotter,” Colin said, recognising the famous quote from a write-up about it in Melody Maker. He sensed someone standing behind him and turned. The skinhead glared down at him. Colin nodded. “All right, mate. You joining us?”
The skinhead stared at Colin for a few seconds, then shook his head and turned away. He took up a seat a few tables away and sat with his arms folded, staring at his pint glass. Colin shrugged and turned back to his beer. He drained the glass and took it to the bar for a re-fill.
“What’s his fucking problem?” Brian asked, nodding at the skinhead when Colin returned.
“Dunno,” Colin said with a shrug. “I need a piss anyway. Watch me beer for me.” He put the full glass down on the table and headed for the toilet. “All right mate,” he said when he passed the skinhead. The skinhead didn’t look up.
Inside the toilet, Colin rushed to the communal urinal and pulled down his zip. The toilet door opened and closed behind him. Boots slapped across the tiled floor. Colin took a drag on his cigarette and sighed clouds of smoke while he urinated.
A hand grabbed the spikes on the back of Colin’s head and yanked it back. Colin cried out and dropped his cigarette into the urinal, raised his hands and tried to turn. His forehead crashed into the wall with a dull thud. Blinding white light filled his vision. His head was pulled back and slammed into the wall once again. The hand re
leased his hair and he was spun around by his shoulder. He stared at the fuzzy blob before him and shook his head to bring it into focus. His eyes widened. The skinhead scowled at him and raised a fist.
“You fucking cunt,” the skinhead yelled, and smacked Colin in the mouth.
Colin’s lip stung. He tasted warm copper, felt something dripping down his chin. He raised a hand to his mouth. Rough hands pushed him back against the urinal wall.
“What the fuck are– ” Colin began.
The skinhead punched him in the stomach. Colin doubled over, the wind sucked out of him. His legs buckled from beneath him, his back slid down the urinal with a faint squeak of leather against aluminium. He looked up at the skinhead as he sat there, piss soaking through his tartan trousers.
“Not so fucking big now, are you cunt?” the skinhead yelled. He shook with rage. His fists clenched and unclenched by his sides.
Colin held his stomach and moaned. He leaned to one side and spat out a glob of blood. “What the fuck?” he asked.
“Like you don’t fucking know, you gobby cunt.”
Colin shook his head. “Mate, I were just being friendly. You’re a fucking psycho.”
“Fucking cunt,” the skinhead roared, and kicked Colin in the side of the head.
Colin didn’t feel the impact, everything just faded to black. The words echoed around his head, “—unt –unt –unt”, along with the beginnings of a cackle of laughter. The sounds mingled together before fading to nothing along with his vision.
* * *
Colin opened his eyes and groaned. His head throbbed, his stomach and mouth hurt, and he was soaking wet. He lay in the urinal a few seconds while he figured out where he was, then sat up and looked around. Bubbly, foul-smelling liquid dripped down his face. He wiped it away and felt a sharp stabbing pain in his forehead when his hand brushed against it. He explored the area with his fingertips and winced when he touched a tender, round lump.
The toilet door opened. Colin startled, fearing it might be the skinhead returning to finish him off. But as the figure loomed closer, Colin relaxed. It was just one of the domino players from the bar.
The old man leaned over him and smiled. “The sit down bogs is over there, lad,” he said, pointing at a cubicle door. He laughed raspingly, then stepped up to the urinal a few feet from where Colin sat.
Colin leaned forward onto his hands and knees and crawled out of the urinal just as a fresh torrent of urine made its way toward him. He stumbled to his feet and spat a glob of blood onto the tiled floor. He realised he still had his penis out, and pushed it back in and zipped up.
The old man looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Is that the new fashion then?” he asked.
Colin staggered to the sink to look at his battered face in the mirror. His bottom lip was split and oozing blood. There was a red lump the size of a golf ball on the left side of his forehead, and the beginnings of a bruise just above his right ear. The spikes he had spent so long twisting his hair into were all wilted and bent out of shape, frothy with soap bubbles. A wave of nausea hit him. He leaned over the sink and retched. Blood, beer and half-digested chips splattered into the porcelain bowl.
“Can’t take your beer, that’s your trouble,” the old man said, walking past. “You should stick to shandy, lad.”
Colin turned on the cold water tap and splashed water onto his face, then ran his hands through his hair. He tried to mould it back into shape but it was too wet for that. He reached for a paper towel but the dispenser was empty. He sighed, took a final look at his reflection in the mirror, and walked back into the bar.
Brian’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell, what’s happened to you?” he asked.
Colin attempted a smile as he staggered back to his seat, and winced at a sharp pain in his lip. “That fucking skinhead cunt smacked me in the bogs.” He looked around the deserted pub. The old couple with the dominos pointed and laughed at him. “Where is the bastard?”
“Went ages ago. You all right then? You look a right fucking mess.”
“Yeah well, I’ve been better.”
“Mate, if I’d known I would’ve come in and helped you out. So what happened then?”
“Took me by surprise, didn’t he? Fucking little coward whacked me while I were having a piss.”
“Fucking hell, what a cunt,” Brian said, shaking his head. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke in Colin’s direction. “You want me to take you home or something?”
Colin shrugged and reached for his beer. “Nah, I’ll be all right.” His hand shook as he raised the glass to take a sip. Searing pain shot through his mouth. Colin jerked the glass away, spilling beer down his already wet clothes.
Brian looked at Colin and raised an eyebrow. He smirked. “You’ll need to drink it with a straw, mate. I can remember when me brother gave me a fat lip years ago, it fucking killed for ages.”
Colin put the glass down and reached into his leather jacket pocket for his cigarettes. The gold pack was damp, and his fingers sank in as he gripped it. He flipped up the lid, took hold of a cigarette, raised it to his mouth–
–and looked down at the soggy brown filter tip in his hand, the rest of the cigarette still in the packet.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Colin flicked the cigarette filter away and turned to Brian. “Give us a fag Bri, mine are all wet.”
Brian tossed his cigarette pack across the table and held out his own cigarette for Colin to light one from. Colin closed his eyes and sighed as he exhaled. The nicotine rush cleared his head a little. He opened his eyes and looked at his beer longingly, wishing he could drink it without pain. He decided Brian’s idea of using a straw wasn’t as daft as it sounded, and looked toward the bar. The barmaid stared at him, her arms folded. She frowned. Colin placed his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. The table wobbled under his weight, and Brian grabbed his pint glass to stop it from toppling over.
“Have you got any straws?” Colin asked the barmaid.
She shook her head, frowning. “I’m not serving you looking like that. You’ll have to leave.”
“What?” Colin said. “I haven’t done nothing. I got attacked in the bogs.”
“I don’t care, this is a respectable pub. People come here for a quiet drink, they don’t want to look at louts like you and your friend over there. Now get out, you’re barred.”
Colin knocked over an empty stool and glared at her. “It’s a fucking shit pub anyway.” He looked at Brian, who frowned back at him.
Outside, Colin shivered in the cold while he waited for Brian to finish urinating against a wall. A dark blue car pulled up at the kerb just as Brian finished, and its tinted passenger-side window rolled down. A young man wearing a suit and tie leaned out, then beckoned Brian over with his fingers. Brian walked up to the car and leaned down to look inside.
“What’s up, mate?” he asked.
“SID’S DEAD!” the man shouted.
The driver of the car, another young man in a suit and tie, laughed and aimed a bottle of tomato sauce over the passenger’s shoulder. He squeezed the soft plastic bottle and a stream of red tomato sauce flew at Brian. Brian jumped back, but couldn’t avoid his face and clothes being splattered with it.
“You fucking cunt,” Brian shouted. He reached for the car’s door handle and pulled, but the door was locked. He reached through the open window and grabbed a handful of the passenger’s shirt. The car sped away with a squeal of tyres, causing Brian to withdraw his hand quickly.
“FUCKING TOSSERS!” Brian shouted after the car as it raced to the end of the street. It disappeared around the corner with another squeal of tyres. Brian turned to Colin. “Did you see that?”
Colin nodded. “Yeah. Fucking trendy wankers, they’re worse than fucking skinheads.”
Brian took a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped tomato sauce from his face, then dabbed at the smears on his leather jacket and T-shirt. “As if anyone cares about that drugged
up cunt anyway. He couldn’t even fucking play.”
“Yeah,” Colin said, not really interested. He had heard Brian’s tirade on the relative merits of Sid Vicious and Ronnie Biggs versus Glen Matlock and Johnny Rotten many times before and had no desire to hear it again. “We going to The White Swan then, before I sober up too much?”
Without waiting for an answer, Colin marched unsteadily up the street.
* * *
Trog punched the door of The Black Bull, wishing it could be the gobby punk’s head. It was bad enough having his bird yelling and screaming at him for no reason, then stamping off in a sulk. But having someone call him a ‘fucking rotter’ just tipped him over the edge. Probably some sort of layabout student. Well that’s one student who won’t be giving him any lip next time.
Trog would have done his mate too if he had the chance. He’d waited for them outside the Queen’s Head, but neither of the useless pricks had come out. If someone from The Black Bull had been smacked like that the whole fucking pub would be out there looking for revenge. Because that’s what skins do. They look after their own.
The rowdy sounds of a Cockney Upstarts song playing on the jukebox blasted out when Trog pushed open the door and entered the smoke-filled lounge. He waved at a group of skinheads taking up the far corner, nodded at the old codger nursing a half by the door. Alf, his name was, but everyone called him ‘H’, short for Half Pint Alf because that half sitting before him would last all night. He was the last of the old time Black Bull regulars, from before the town’s skinheads moved in and turned it into their own regular hang-out. The stubborn old bastard just plain refused to move on, and had become part of the furniture.
“Lager, Trog?”
Trog leaned on the bar and nodded. “Yeah, cheers Mandy.”
Mandy pulled Trog a pint of lager and placed it on a bar towel before him. She smiled as she held out her hand. “Cheer up Trog, might never happen.”
Trog shrugged, staring at his pint. “It already has.”
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 1
