Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set

by Marcus Blakeston

  “All right, Col. Giz a drink, I’m fucking freezing.” Without waiting for a reply, Stiggy reached out for Colin’s tea mug and cupped his hands around it. Colin saw his knuckles were bruised and scuffed. Stiggy lifted the mug to his mouth and breathed into it a few times before he took a drink.

  “What happened to your hands?” Colin asked.

  Stiggy put the mug down and stretched out his hands, palms down, on the table. He looked puzzled for a few seconds, then grinned and nodded. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Me and Mike found a skinhead on the way home last night and did the cunt. Battered him fucking senseless. You should’ve heard him beg, it were funny as fuck.”

  “I wish I’d been there to see it,” Colin said. “What did he look like?”

  “Like a fucking mess after we’d finished with him.”

  “No, I mean before. Was he short?” Colin held out a hand. “About this high?”

  Stiggy shrugged. “Dunno, can’t remember. Does it matter?”

  “Well yeah.”

  “You’ll need to ask Mike about it then, I were out of me fucking head last night.” Stiggy ran his fingers through his wet hair, then wiped them on the front of his T-shirt.

  “Is it raining out?” Brian asked.

  Stiggy shook his head. “No, why?”

  “You’re all wet.”

  “Yeah well, I fell in the river, didn’t I?”

  Brian laughed. “What, glued up again?”

  Stiggy shook his head again. “Nah, were I fuck.”

  “Come off it, I can smell it from here,” Colin said.

  “Well, yeah, I were a bit,” Stiggy said. He looked down at the table, then looked back up at Colin. “But I weren’t tripping or nothing, so I knew what I were doing.”

  Colin caught Brian’s eye and grinned at him. “So how did you end up falling in the river then?”

  “Well, there were this bloke, and …”

  “What, and he pushed you in the river?” Colin tried to keep a straight face, but it wasn’t easy when he saw Brian’s expression.

  Stiggy shook his head vigorously, sending water spraying in all directions. “Nah, he had this big sack and he chucked it in the river, I don’t think he saw me at all.”

  “So how did you end up in the river then?” Brian asked.

  Stiggy looked at Brian blankly for a few seconds before replying. “Well I thought it might be some cats, didn’t I?”

  “Some cats?” Colin asked.

  “Yeah. It were all lumpy, like.”

  “Why would someone put cats in a sack and throw it in the river?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Brian said, shaking his head. “There’s some really cruel people about.”

  Colin shrugged. “Well yeah, but you’d hear them wouldn’t you? The cats, I mean. They’d make a right fucking noise.”

  “Not if they were dead,” Stiggy said.

  “Well if they were dead it wouldn’t really matter if they got chucked in the river would it?” Brian said. “Anyway, that still doesn’t explain how you fell in.”

  “I were trying to get them out with a stick.”

  Colin leaned forward over the table. “What, the dead cats?” He grinned at Brian.

  “Yeah.” Stiggy nodded. “Then I went and leaned over too far, didn’t I?”

  “You daft cunt,” Brian said. “What did you want with a sack full of dead cats anyway?”

  “I didn’t say they were dead cats, I said I thought they might have been cats. Could have been anything really.”

  “So what was in the sack then?” Colin asked.

  “I don’t know. I fell in the river didn’t I?”

  “Didn’t you have a look while you were in there?”

  “I never thought of that. I just wanted to get out of the water, it were fucking freezing.”

  Brian shook his head and sighed. “For fuck’s sake.”

  Stiggy leaned on the table and rose to his feet, then shuffled himself out of the bucket seat. “Yeah well, I’m off to the bog. You two waiting here?”

  Colin nodded. After Stiggy left Brian burst out laughing. “That guy’s a fucking head case,” he said.

  Colin smiled and shook his head. “Nah, Stiggy’s okay when you get to know him. And if anything kicks off at the Cockney Upstarts gig he’ll be a good bloke to have on our side.”

  Brian grunted. “He’s off his fucking head on glue most of the time. All that bollocks about bags of cats in the river and throwing pigs’ heads at people?”

  “That’s just the glue talking, he’s pretty sound when he’s not on it. And he’s a right vicious cunt in a fight, you heard what he said he did to that skinhead last night.”

  Brian frowned. “You think there might be some bother at the gig?”

  Colin shrugged. “Dunno, maybe. They do have a big skinhead following. So the more punks who go along the better, really.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Brian took out his cigarettes and lit one. He blew smoke rings across the table at Colin. “He’s taking his time in the bogs, what do you reckon he’s doing in there?”

  “Knowing him, probably getting glued up.”

  “What, in Woolworths? He’ll get us chucked out.”

  Colin smiled. “Well there’s only one way to find out.”

  * * *

  “No fucking way,” Brian said when he opened the toilet door and looked in.

  Colin pushed past him to see for himself. Stiggy stood before a wall-mounted hand dryer, holding his Discharge T-shirt under it. His camouflage trousers were draped over a nearby sink, dripping water onto the floor. Stiggy’s socks were stuffed inside his canvas trainers, which lay by his bare feet.

  “Oi, shut the fucking door, you’re making a draft,” Stiggy said. The dryer stopped, and he pushed a button with his forehead to restart it.

  Colin closed the toilet door and stood with his back against it while Brian made his way to the urinal. Stiggy put his T-shirt on and reached for his trousers. He wrung them out in the sink and held them under the dryer.

  “Aren’t you going to dry your underpants?” Colin asked. Brian laughed. He looked over his shoulder from the urinal.

  “I did them first,” Stiggy said.

  “Fucking hell,” Brian said. “I’m glad we waited before coming in now. You’d have put me off me piss stood there with your arse out.” He walked across to the sink and washed his hands, then splashed cold water on Stiggy’s bare legs.

  “Fuck off, you cunt!” Stiggy shouted.

  “You what?” Brian said, flicking more water at him. “Can’t hear you over the dryer.”

  Stiggy swung the wet trousers at Brian. Brian dodged out of the way, laughing.

  “Come on Col,” Brian said, “let’s leave him to it. I’m off home for me tea anyway. You out tomorrow?”

  Colin shook his head. “Nah, I said I’d take me Gran to the cemetery to visit me Granddad, that always ends up upsetting her so I’ll probably stay in after that.”

  “Ah, okay. I’m helping me dad all day Friday, so I guess I’ll see you at The Juggler’s Rest after tea then.”

  Colin nodded. “Yeah. You reckon them birds will be there?”

  Brian shrugged. “Don’t see why not, it was their idea.”

  “Who’s this you’re on about?” Stiggy asked.

  “Couple of birds we met earlier,” Colin said.

  “What, punk birds, you mean?”

  “No, mod ones,” Brian said. “Of course they were fucking punk birds. Who else would look twice at an ugly cunt like that?” he added, pointing at Colin.

  Stiggy laughed.

  “Fuck you,” Colin said with a grin. “It were me they fancied.”

  “They felt sorry for you, more like.”

  “So have they got a mate then?” Stiggy asked.

  * * *

  Trog had finished work for the day and headed into town for a quick pint in The Black Bull. His heart sank when he saw Mandy talking to Don at the bar. The way they both fell silent, the look on Mandy�
�s face when she caught Trog’s eye. He had been hoping last night wasn’t just a one-off, a mad fling on Mandy’s part, but there was no smile to welcome him. It looked more like Mandy was going to tell him to fuck off.

  “Trog,” Mandy said. “Did you hear about Ian?”

  Trog shrugged, relieved it was about something else. “Why, what’s he done now?”

  “He got attacked last night,” Don said, “he’s in a really bad way.”

  “What?” Trog wheeled on Don, his eyes wide.

  “The coppers came for me this morning, wanting to know if I knew anything about it. They said Ian’s mum gave them my address. I’m surprised they didn’t go round to yours too.”

  “I’ve been at work,” Trog said, “I haven’t been home yet. So what happened then?”

  “Dunno. He missed his bus, that was the last I saw of him. I said he could crash at mine, but he said he fancied some chips anyway so he’d walk home.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “He’s in the hospital.”

  “Well let’s get down there, then, and find out who did it so we can fucking batter them.”

  “Hold on,” Mandy said, “I’ll close up here and come with you.”

  * * *

  Trog stared down, open-mouthed, at the figure lying before him. Bandages covered Ian’s face and upper body like an Egyptian mummy. A clear plastic tube inserted into Ian’s throat pumped oxygen from a machine by his bed. A drip hanging above led to a catheter in his left arm. Another tube in the side of his chest drained brown fluid into a bag hanging from the side of the bed. A machine on a trolley next to the bed beeped regularly, the only sign Ian was still alive, his only movement the faint rise and fall of his chest in time with the oxygen machine’s bellows.

  “Fucking … hell,” Trog said.

  Don slumped into a nearby chair and held his head in his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Mandy shook her head slowly.

  “Can I help you?” a nurse asked. Nobody had noticed her approach until she spoke.

  “How is he?” Trog asked.

  “Are you a relative?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes, we all are,” Mandy said, before Trog had a chance to reply.

  The nurse smiled faintly at Mandy and shook her head. “He’s not good, I’m afraid. He’s got a fractured skull and two broken ribs, one of which punctured a lung. We repaired the damage, but it’s the injuries to his head we are most concerned about. Until he regains consciousness we won’t know if there is any long term damage.”

  “What, like brain damage?” Don asked. He stood up and glared at the nurse as if it was all her fault.

  The nurse looked at Don and shook her head slowly. “It’s too early to say. I’ll get a doctor to explain it to you properly, but we’ll need to run some tests when he wakes up.”

  “How long do you think it will take for him to wake up?” Mandy asked.

  “I can’t really tell you at this stage. Like I say, I’ll get a doctor to…”

  “How long has he been unconscious?” Trog asked.

  The nurse looked at Trog, then looked away. “Since he arrived last night.”

  “Why is his face all bandaged up like that?” Mandy asked.

  The nurse’s face paled. She shook her head. “It was a very savage attack. Whoever did this cut his face up pretty bad. “He…” Her voice faltered when she caught the cold glare of the two skinheads. She looked away before continuing. “He’ll need reconstructive surgery further down the line. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on another patient. I’ll send a doctor to talk to you.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Don repeated after the nurse left. “So what now?”

  Trog leaned over Ian’s prone figure and shook his head. “I don’t know, Don. But some cunt is going to fucking pay for this.”

  “Yeah but until he comes round we won’t know who did it.”

  “Someone will know,” Trog said. “I’m going to find out who did this. And when I do I’m going to fucking kill them.”

  3 Reality Asylum

  Colin’s grandmother hadn’t been as upset about the visit to his grandfather’s grave as he expected, so after they got home Colin checked she was still okay to be left, and when she assured him she was, he got a bus into town. Nobody was in any of the regular hangouts, so he made his way to Stiggy’s bedsit on the outskirts of town.

  It was right in the heart of the local red light area, and as soon as Colin entered the street he was approached by a middle-aged woman in a low-cut black top and PVC mini-skirt. She had sunken, staring eyes, accentuated rather than hidden by her liberal use of makeup. She scratched her left arm and picked at a scab.

  “Are you looking for business?”

  Colin felt his face flush. He shook his head slowly and walked past without speaking.

  “Fuck you then,” the woman shouted after him.

  Colin entered Stiggy’s front yard and squeezed past a broken washing machine to reach the front door. It opened without a key and he stepped into a communal hall. The boom boom boom of a heavy dub reggae bassline seeped through the door of Flat One as he passed. Colin walked up to Flat Two and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Stiggy shouted from behind the door a few seconds later.

  “It’s me, Colin.”

  The door opened a tiny crack and Stiggy peered out. He grinned and opened the door fully. “All right, Col? What you doing here?”

  “All right, Stiggy. Just thought I’d come and see you.”

  Damp, decay and stale glue wafted out of the dingy room. Stiggy stood to one side and Colin squeezed between him and an old armchair just behind the door. Inside, taking up most of one wall, was a small unmade bed with no headboard, a single brown blanket strewn across it in a rumpled heap.

  Stiggy sat down in the armchair and toyed with a tuft of stuffing hanging out of one of the arms. Colin looked around and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Opposite him was an unvarnished wooden chest of drawers with a battered old music centre perched on top of it. A few dog-eared records stood next to it, propped up by a haphazard pile of hand-written cassettes.

  On the wall above the music centre, surrounded by peeling off-white paint, was a black and white poster of a severed hand caught on barbed wire bearing the slogan ‘Your country needs you.’ Colin guessed from the criss-cross of regularly spaced creases it had probably come free with one of Stiggy’s records. The floor of the room was covered by a threadbare carpet that had once had a vibrant pattern weaved into it, but was now just a dingy brown colour, stained and caked in mud and assorted spillages that hadn’t been cleaned up over the years.

  Stiggy drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair, completely out of step with the thumping reggae bass-line coming through the wall. “I got the new Discharge album the other day if you want to hear it?” he said, jumping up. He walked over to the music centre and switched it on.

  “Not really,” Colin said. “They’re just a load of noise.”

  Stiggy grunted as he lifted a cracked Perspex lid up on its hinges. “Are they fuck. What about this one then? They’re new.”

  Stiggy turned around and held up a red and black single sleeve. Colin stood up and moved closer, tilted his head to read the band name printed down the side.

  “Varukers? Never heard of them, what are they like?”

  “They’re fucking smart mate,” Stiggy said. He pulled out the record and placed it on the turntable. He sat down in the armchair and tapped his foot rapidly to the music, mouthed a few of the words, and glanced at Colin for his reaction.

  Colin frowned. They sounded even worse than Discharge. He scooped up Stiggy’s records and took them back to the bed, spread them out before him. Most of them were by bands Colin had never heard of, and he wondered where Stiggy had bought them from. Colin certainly hadn’t seen any of them in the local record shop.

  “Haven’t you got any Cockney Upstarts records?”

/>   Stiggy shook his head. “Nah, they’re shite.”

  “Well if you don’t like them why are you coming to Shefferham with us?”

  Stiggy shrugged. “I want to see them throw a pig’s head at a skinhead. It’ll be a laugh. Anyway there’s nowt else to do, is there?”

  Colin smiled and shook his head. How could anyone be so gullible they would believe what they read in a newspaper? According to newspapers, punks liked to spit on old grannies and stuck safety pins through practically every part of their body. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Stiggy stood up and walked over to the bed. He pointed at one of the singles. “That one’s good,” he said.

  Colin picked up the cheaply-printed wraparound record sleeve and peered at it. A black and white screaming face stared out at him, surrounded by seemingly random images. He tilted it to read the stencilled lettering around the face, then flipped it over. A punk sat before a pile of dead bodies. He unfolded the cover to see what was printed inside, and a Crass single fell out. Colin picked the record up and folded the sleeve around it. He shook his head and tossed it back onto the bed.

  “I don’t like Crass,” he said.

  Stiggy leaned over and picked up the single. “It’s not by Crass, it’s just on their record label. Like Flux of Pink Indians was.”

  Colin looked up at Stiggy and nodded. “Oh, okay.”

  Colin had been surprised when he first heard Tube Disasters at one of Twiglet’s parties and been told it was by a Crass band. He had bought a Crass single once, on a whim because it was very cheap. He hated it. There had been no tune to it whatsoever, just a noise with some woman ranting about Jesus. Colin didn’t bother playing the other side, he just threw it in the bin and vowed never to buy anything by Crass ever again, no matter how cheap it was or how many people said how great the band was.

  “They’ve got an album coming out soon,” Stiggy said, putting the record on the turntable. “I bet it’ll be fucking great.”

  While the song played, Colin looked through the other records spread over Stiggy’s bed. He didn’t care much for the single’s title song, it was too slow and ponderous for his tastes, but he did like the more upbeat B side even though its lyrics were somewhat depressing.