Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set

by Marcus Blakeston

  “He got nicked down at the footie, didn’t he?” Twiglet said with a shrug as he sat down at the table. “The daft cunt only went and nutted a fucking copper.”

  “What did he do that for?” Brian asked.

  “Pissed up, weren’t he? Anyway, all of a sudden there was loads of fucking coppers everywhere lashing out at anyone who stood still long enough. The rest of us fucked off sharpish and melted into the crowd.”

  “Aye,” Spazzo said, running his fingers through his bristly green hair. “Mike got a right fucking smack round the head, split it right open. Next thing there’s three of the bastards on top of him and more of the cunts running toward us. Fucking mental, it were.”

  * * *

  Trog looked up at a black and white display hanging over platform 3B and frowned.

  “The fucking train’s late,” he said.

  Don stood by the edge of the platform, bent over with his hands on his knees. He gasped for breath, having run up the stairs from the subway under the train station. He coughed, and spat a glob of mucus between his feet.

  “Just as … fucking well or we’d have … missed the cunt.”

  Trog looked at Don and hitched up his bleached jeans. “Mate, you’re out of fucking condition. We’ve only been running a few minutes.”

  Don straightened up and stretched his arms out behind him. He reached into his flight jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Yeah well, looks like that were a waste of fucking effort anyway.”

  Trog hooked his thumbs in his pockets and polished the toes of his boots on the back of his legs, one after the other.

  A bored-sounding male voice, adding unnecessary emphasis to random words, made an announcement over the tannoy.

  “The next train to arrive at platform 3B will be the late running eighteen-thirty service to Shefferham. We apologise for the late arrival of this train, which is now due to arrive in Shefferham at nineteen-fifty-five approximately. Passengers are advised that the smoking carriage is at the rear of this train, and smoking in any other area of the train is not permitted. Platform 3B for the late running eighteen-thirty service to Shefferham.”

  “There you go,” Trog said, “looks like we’re just in time.”

  A group of punks wandered out of the buffet. The gobby student, his two mates, and a couple more Trog hadn’t seen before. With them was someone he knew from work.

  “All right, Johnno?” Trog called out. “You off to the Cockney Upstarts then?”

  “Aye up, Trog,” Johnno said, nodding. “Yeah, Spazzo here were going on about it at the footie, it sounds a right laugh. So how’s it going then? I haven’t seen you in the showers for a while.”

  “I’ve been working the afternoon shift.”

  “Yeah? Can’t say I’m looking forward to that myself, I reckon I might put in for permanent days when I turn eighteen.”

  Trog smiled. “Yeah, you and thousands others. It’s not so bad really, you finish just in time for the pubs opening. It’s the night shift that’s the real killer.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my dad says too. He’s a right grumpy old bastard when he’s on nights.”

  “Did you hear about Ian?”

  Johnno nodded. “Yeah, it were in the local paper, it said he took a right fucking beating. How is he?”

  “Still unconscious. You heard anything about who did it?” Trog glanced at the student punk and his two mates. They glared back at him.

  Johnno shook his head. “No, mate. But if you find out, let me know and I’ll help you sort the bastard out. He were a good bloke, Ian.”

  “He still is,” Trog said.

  * * *

  “Fucking hell Stiggy, you can’t do that on here,” Colin said when he saw Stiggy pull out a can of glue.

  Stiggy shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Because it will fucking stink,” Brian said, “and the train guard will chuck us all off.”

  “Yeah well,” Stiggy said, “not if I open a window it won’t.”

  “Can’t you do it in the bogs or something?”

  “Nah, fuck that. I’m sick of hiding away, it’s not like it’s illegal or nothing.” Stiggy unscrewed the lid and poured a blob of glue into a bag.

  Brian frowned. “Yeah, well, you can fuck off to the other side of the carriage with it. And when the train guard catches you we don’t know who you are, right?”

  Stiggy shrugged and rose to his feet. He walked along the carriage to the exit door and pulled down its window. He leaned out, turned his head to face away from the wind, and raised the glue-bag to his mouth.

  “Fucking dick,” Brian said, shaking his head. Colin turned to watch Stiggy.

  Stiggy let out a roar and leaned out further. He stretched up on his toes and shuffled his stomach across the window edge, then roared again. He raised his arms out sideways as if they were wings, and the glue-bag flew out of his hand. His feet rose from the ground.

  “Fucking hell, quick,” Colin shouted as he jumped to his feet. He ran to the door and grabbed one of Stiggy’s ankles. He could feel something hard in Stiggy’s sock, but didn’t have time to think what it might be. Stiggy’s other leg kicked out wildly at him, narrowly missing his face. Stiggy clamped his hands against the outside of the train when Colin tried to pull him back into the carriage.

  Brian rushed forward and took hold of Stiggy’s other ankle. They both tugged, fighting against Stiggy’s apparent desire to jump out of the train. With both of them pulling together, Stiggy’s hands began to slip, and with a final roar he fell face down on the floor of the train carriage.

  Colin bent down and lifted up the bottom of Stiggy’s combat trousers to see what was hidden in his sock. It was a knife with a vicious looking six inch blade, fastened to Stiggy’s ankle with black masking tape.

  “Fucking hell Bri, look at this!”

  Brian’s eyes widened when he looked at the knife. “Jesus fucking Christ. I told you that cunt was trouble. What the fuck’s he doing with something like that?”

  “Help me get it off,” Colin said, pulling at the masking tape.

  Between them they were able to remove enough of the tape to twist the knife loose, and Colin tossed it out of the train window.

  Stiggy stumbled to his feet and made straight for the window. Brian grabbed his arms and held him in place while Colin closed it.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?” Stiggy yelled. He struggled in Brian’s grip.

  “Why do you fucking think, you mad bastard,” Brian said. “You can’t take a fucking knife to a gig.”

  “What’s going on here?” A voice thundered from nearby.

  Colin spun toward it. A six-foot, well built man of African descent wearing a train guard uniform glared at him.

  “Nothing,” Colin said. “Um … he’s not feeling very well. Travel sickness, you know.”

  “So why are you holding his arms like that then?” The train guard looked at Brian. Brian let go of Stiggy and shrugged. “Well?”

  Brian glanced at Colin, then looked at the train guard. “Um… so he doesn’t fall over? He got a bit dizzy.”

  “Is that right?” the train guard asked Stiggy.

  Stiggy shrugged and glared at Colin. “Yeah,” he said.

  The train guard grunted. “Right, okay. Let me see your tickets.” They presented their train tickets and he punched holes in them with a clipper. “Right. Now go and sit down, you’re blocking the gangway here. And no more trouble or you’ll be off the train at the next station. Clear?” They all nodded. The guard stood to one side and gestured for them to pass.

  Colin and Brian sat down in the nearest vacant seat. Stiggy walked to the opposite end of the carriage, where he remained for the rest of the journey to Shefferham.

  * * *

  Colin squinted up at one of the seemingly endless blocks of high-rise flats that comprised Shefferham’s landscape. He shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to imagine what it would be like to live so high up in the sky.

  “So where do
we go now?” Brian asked.

  Twiglet pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. “The Maples, Fitzholme Street,” he read out loud.

  “Where the fuck’s that?” Colin asked.

  “How should I know?” Twiglet said with a shrug.

  Spazzo sighed. “You cunts are fucking useless. I knew I should have gone with Johnno instead.”

  “Yeah, right,” Stiggy said with a sneer. “And them fucking skinheads he’s mates with. So what’s that about then?”

  Spazzo shrugged. “Dunno. Johnno seems to know them from somewhere.”

  “Yeah well, anyone who hangs around with skinheads is a fucking cunt as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Yeah, I’d go along with that,” Colin said, nodding. He saw an old woman across the road and called out to her. “Scuse us, missus.” The old woman looked, then hurried on. Colin ran across the road to intercept her. “Scuse us, missus,” he repeated.

  “I haven’t got no money,” the old woman said. She stopped and raised her palms to Colin. Her hands shook as she stared at him wide-eyed.

  “Neither have I,” Colin said. “Do you know where there’s a place called The Maples?”

  “Never heard of it,” she said, and turned and walked away.

  “Hold up, missus. Oi Twiglet, what’s the name of that road again?”

  “Fitzholme Street,” Twiglet shouted.

  Colin caught up with the old woman and stood before her. “Scuse us, missus. Do you know where Fitzholme Street is?”

  “Oh heck, you’re miles off,” she said, pointing back the way they had come. “It’s up that way, about a mile or so past the train station.”

  Colin sighed. “Cheers, missus,” he said. “We’re going the wrong fucking way,” he shouted to the others.

  * * *

  After asking a few more people for directions along the way, they arrived at Fitzholme Street a little under forty minutes later to join the end of a lopsided queue trailing down the outside of The Maples.

  Stiggy glared at a group of twelve skinheads in front of them, and Colin saw his fists were clenched. He hoped Stiggy wouldn’t start anything because they were vastly outnumbered. One of the skinheads, heavily built and standing a good six inches taller than the others, looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had his arm draped around the shoulder of a small, much younger girl with a shaved head and a long pink fringe. The other skinheads, all male, were closer to the girl’s age than his, and he ordered one of them to go to the front of the queue and see what the hold-up was.

  “There’s a pair of fucking gorillas on the door,” the young skinhead said when he returned. “They’re searching every cunt that goes in.”

  Colin looked at Stiggy, wondering if he had any more weapons hidden away.

  When they neared the front of the queue, Colin saw two black bouncers. They both had short cropped hair and were dressed in identical grey suits, both sporting a pair of dark sunglasses and the same scowl on their faces. People were let through the door one at a time and frisked. Confiscated items lay in a pile by the side of the door, mostly studded wristbands and bullet-belts, though Colin did see at least one knife glittering amongst them.

  When it was the large skinhead’s turn he raised his arms and glared at the two bouncers. One of the young skinheads, the next in line, started making monkey sounds. The bouncers waved the large skinhead through and beckoned for the younger skinhead to enter. He walked toward them swinging his arms from side to side and grinning. He stood before the bouncers and raised his arms, still grinning. One frisked him from behind while the other stood before him, glaring down. When the skinhead had been searched, the bouncer in front raised his foot and stamped down on his toes.

  “Ah, you cunt,” the skinhead cried, hopping on one leg. “What did you do that for?”

  The bouncer shrugged. “Testing for steel toe caps. Now on your way, you little shit.”

  When they searched Stiggy one of the bouncers found his can of glue and tossed it at the pile of confiscated items. It landed on the tiled floor with a dull thud and rolled to a halt near an expensive-looking cassette recorder. Stiggy made as if to retrieve it, but the bouncer blocked his way.

  “You can pick it up on your way out,” the bouncer said. “Either now or at closing time, I don’t care which.”

  Stiggy stood his ground. He stared at the bouncer and clenched his fists. The bouncer stared back, unfazed.

  “Hurry up mate, we want to get in before the band comes on,” a young punk standing behind Colin said.

  “Yeah come on, Stiggy,” Colin said. “You won’t need it in there anyway, you can pick it up when we leave.”

  Stiggy held the bouncer’s stare a moment longer before turning away. He looked at his glue, then turned back to the bouncer. “It had better be there when I come back out. And I know how much is in it too, so don’t think about pinching any.”

  The bouncer laughed humourlessly and shook his head. “On your way, freak.”

  * * *

  After they were all let into the venue Colin and Brian made straight for the bar, while the others took ownership of a table nearby. Spazzo procured an extra stool from the adjacent table, and they all shuffled closer together to make room for Colin and Brian when they returned with the drinks.

  “Here you go Stiggy,” Colin said, putting a pint of cider down before him. He sat down opposite and took a drink of his bitter.

  Stiggy was staring at something over Colin’s shoulder. Colin turned to look, and saw the group of skinheads standing at the bar. Several had taken off their flight jackets, revealing British Movement T-shirts beneath. The large, older skinhead faced outwards, leaning his elbows on the bar. His muscular arms were covered in multi-coloured tattoos. The younger skinheads faced him, pints of lager in their hands, while the skinhead girl stood to one side sipping from a bottle of Babycham.

  “What the fuck sort of cider’s this?” Stiggy said.

  Colin turned back to Stiggy and watched him put down his glass and grimace. He shrugged. “I don’t know. The cider sort, probably. Why, what’s up with it?”

  “Nowt. I suppose it’ll have to do, won’t it? You think me glue will be all right out there? There’s fucking two quid’s worth in that can, someone might nick it.”

  “Nah, who’d want that fucking shite?” Brian said. “I wouldn’t mind that cassette recorder though if we’re out first. Got to be worth a fucking hundred quid at least.”

  “I could do with a new cassette player meself,” Colin said, nodding. “Me old one’s broke.”

  Over the next half hour the venue started to fill up with an even mixture of punks and skinheads, plus a few nondescript youths in casual jeans and sweatshirts. The mob of skinheads at the bar were getting louder the more they drank. They kept looking over at Twiglet and nudging each other, then laughing. One pretended to be a monkey and they laughed louder.

  Twiglet stared back at them, his arms folded. “Fucking Nazis,” he said under his breath. “So proud of their white skin they cover it up with tattoos.”

  Brian laughed. “Yeah. Here’s one for you. A skinhead walks into a bar. ‘Ow,’ he says.”

  “You what?” Twiglet asked, looking at Brian.

  Brian smiled. “They lowered the entrance bar, didn’t they?”

  Twiglet shook his head and frowned. “What the fuck are you on about?”

  “It was an iron bar, but it was okay because it only hit him on the head so no damage was done.”

  Colin snorted. Twiglet sighed and shook his head. He turned back to look at the skinheads.

  “You know what, Bri?” Colin said, smiling. “That was a fucking shite joke, your worst yet.”

  Brian shrugged. “Yeah well, I only just thought of it so it probably needs a bit of work.”

  “It needs a fucking lot of work if you ask me. Or better yet, just never tell it again.”

  “All right, what about this one then? See that skinhead bird with the Babycham?” Coli
n looked and nodded. “It’s Baby-Sham69, innit? The skinhead version, as drunk by Jimmy Pursey when he were a baby.

  Colin smiled. “Singing If the Babies are United.”

  “There’s Gonna Be A Nursery Breakout,” Brian said.

  “Hurry Up Mummy.”

  “Red Nappy Rash.”

  “You what?” Colin asked. “Which one’s that then?”

  “You know, Red London. It was their first single.”

  Colin shrugged. “Don’t think I ever heard that one.” He turned to Stiggy, who was staring at the skinhead girl. “What do you reckon Stiggy?”

  Stiggy smiled when he caught the girl’s eye. The girl glanced quickly at the group of skinheads, who were busy throwing beer mats at each other, and smiled back before turning her back on him.

  “You what?” Stiggy said.

  “Do you know any Baby-Sham69 songs?”

  Stiggy shrugged, still staring at the skinhead girl. “No, not really.”

  * * *

  The support group were a local punk band who introduced themselves as The Burglars.

  “Smash the state!” the singer shouted, and an out-of-tune guitar started up. The guitarist stood with his back to the audience, as if he was embarrassed to be there. Bass and drums followed, and the singer launched himself into the song. He gripped the microphone stand in both hands and shook it angrily as he sang about how much he wanted to kill Thatcher.

  The short song ended to complete silence from the audience. “Clap, you fuckers!” the singer shouted.

  The skinheads at the bar started a slow hand clap, but nobody else joined in. The band started their second song, a cover version of an Exploited song that didn’t quite sound right with a Yorkshire accent.

  “Off, off, off,” the skinheads chanted, punching the air.

  Stiggy drained his glass and went to the bar. He stood next to the skinhead girl and shouted his order to the barman. The skinhead girl looked at the large skinhead, then turned away from the band to face the same direction as Stiggy. She leaned against the bar and took a sip of Babycham. Stiggy looked at her and smiled, then said something into her ear. She smiled back and looked away.

  The band on stage continued to play, despite an obviously hostile audience who just wanted them to hurry up and finish.