“Listen,” Trog said, shouting again to be heard. “I’m gonna go and stash this suitcase at the train station, there’s no point carting it around with us everywhere. We should’ve done that first really, now I think about it. I’ll come and find you when I’m done, yeah?”
Mandy smiled and gave him a thumbs up before skipping toward the crowd around the stage. Trog finished off his pint and picked up the suitcase. He squashed the paperback into the back pocket of his jeans and made his way past the dealer tables and out of the venue.
Back on the sea front, he was walking past the arcades when he saw Don and Stew playing on a pinball machine. It was Don’s turn, and Stew shouted encouragement while Don frantically pressed the flipper buttons. Trog crept up on them, and winked at Stew when he caught his eye. Stew grinned, and tapped on the glass to keep Don’s attention on the ball. In a swift movement, Trog stretched out Don’s braces from the back and let them snap back.
“Ahh, you cunt!” Don shouted, spinning around. His ball dropped between the flippers, and the pinball machine laughed at him, declaring that he was average.
“Where’s them birds you was with, then?” Trog asked.
Stew took his turn at the pinball table and pulled back the plunger to launch a ball.
“They’re at that fucking wog festival, aren’t they?” Don said. “That’s where I thought you’d be by now.”
“Got bored with it, didn’t I? Here, talking of wogs, look what I got.” Trog pulled the paperback from his pocket and showed it to Don. “It’s about this skinhead that goes to football matches and beats people up and stuff. He’s always going on about fucking wogs as well, so it’ll be right up your street.”
Don took the paperback and looked at the cover. He flipped it over, read the blurb, and handed it back.
“Fucking smart, mate. After you with it then, yeah?”
Trog nodded, and put the book back in his pocket. “You find anywhere to stay for the night? Everywhere were full for us, except for this one place that told us to fuck off.”
Don laughed. “What, Mrs Brindle’s at the back of the shops?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. You tried to get in there as well?”
“Not only tried, mate, fucking succeeded too. That’s where we’re staying. Well I am, anyway. I’m going to sneak Stew and them birds in after the old bag’s gone to bed. I can let you and the Mandster in as well if you like? As long as you don’t mind sleeping on the floor, it’s only got a single bed and I’m having that with one of the birds.”
“How the fuck did you manage to get a room in there? The fucking witch just slammed the door on me and Mandy when we asked for one.”
Don smiled. He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “You just need to use your fucking smarts, mate.”
“Bollocks,” Stew exclaimed. He wrenched the pinball table to one side and thumped on the glass. “I nearly had the fucking multi-ball then.”
“You joining in the next game?” Don asked Trog. He reached into his pocket for some more change.
Trog shook his head and picked up the suitcase. “Nah mate, I never was much good on them things. I’m just on my way to the train station to stick this in one of the lockers. You really think you can get us into your bed and breakfast okay?”
“Yeah, no worries. Meet us at the pier at half ten. That’s where we said we’d meet the birds.”
5
After depositing the suitcase in a locker at the train station, Trog was walking back to the Winter Gardens when he saw five jeering bikers grouped around the scooters parked on the pedestrian area opposite. They were dressed in what looked to Trog like tattered rags, and were drinking from cans of Special Brew.
“Fucking mod bastards,” one of the bikers shouted. He launched an empty beer can at a Lambretta. It bounced off the side panel and clattered to the ground.
“Where the fuck are the cunts?” another asked, looking around as if expecting an army of mods to appear out of thin air.
“Probably fucking hiding from us. Bunch of fucking queers if you ask me.”
As Trog got nearer, one of the bikers dropped his trousers and started urinating on a scooter, waving his penis around to give it as much of a soaking as he could before his bladder emptied. This generated a lot of amusement among the other bikers, and soon they were all relieving themselves on the other scooters.
“Dirty fucking yeti bastards,” Trog said under his breath as he passed them by.
One of the bikers looked over his shoulder, still in mid-flow. “You say something, you baldy headed fucking midget?”
Trog stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look the man up and down. “I said dirty fucking yeti bastards.”
“Here Stan,” another biker said with a wide grin, swaying slightly from his inebriated state. “I think we’ve got some sort of fucking scooter lover here.” He kicked out at one of the scooters and sent it crashing to the ground. “What do you think of that then, scooter lover?”
Trog looked from one to the other of the bikers, weighing up his options. Two or three of them he would have no trouble with, they were all so drunk he would have them on the ground and sticking the boot in before they even knew what was happening. But five of them could pose more of a problem. He decided ‘flight’ was the better option, but couldn’t let the ‘baldy headed midget’ comment go unpunished.
Trog ran at the biker while he was busy pulling up his filthy leather trousers, and barrelled into him. The biker stumbled back a few steps, lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. One eye on the other bikers, who stared at him dumbfounded, Trog launched his boot at the man’s bloated stomach and heard a satisfying “Oof!” when it landed on target.
“Come on, let’s get the cunt,” one of the other bikers shouted when Trog swung back for another kick. They lurched toward him, beer cans still clutched in their hands. Trog felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, his fists rising.
“You fucking cunt,” the biker shouted. Spittle flew from his mouth and splattered into Trog’s face.
Trog punched the biker in the stomach. As the biker bent forward groaning, he brought his knee up and smashed it into his face, sending him reeling backwards. He grinned at the remaining bikers, who seemed hesitant to approach, stuck up two fingers to them, then turned and ran across the road to the Winter Gardens entrance.
Seeing him flee galvanised the bikers into action and they gave chase, but Trog reached the Winter Gardens door before they even made it half way across the road. Trog flashed his wristband at the bouncers and charged through. Safely inside, he stood and grinned through the window at the huffing and panting bikers while they argued with the bouncers on the street outside. He gave them a slow wanker sign when they waved their fists at him through the glass. This made the bikers surge forward with renewed effort, but the bouncers held them at bay with linked arms. Trog turned his back on the still yelling bikers, and made his way into the concert hall.
On the stage, a very fat skinhead stook his tongue out at the audience while Trog made his way to the deserted bar. “Fatty reggae,” the fat skinhead roared. The audience roared back their approval, drowning out Trog’s order to the barman, and he had to shout to be heard over the music that started to play. Pint of lager in hand, Trog made for the table where he had seen Mandy last, sat down, and took the paperback from his pocket.
* * *
When the band finished playing, some thirty minutes later, Trog looked up from the book to see if he could spot Mandy among the large crowd heading for the bar. As the crowd thinned from the stage area, he saw her with Doug and Sheila and waved to get their attention.
“You’re back then?” Mandy said, smiling. She lifted up her shirt tails and wiped her face and neck with them.
“Looks like it,” Trog said, grinning back. He rose to his feet and gave her a quick hug. She smelled of cigarette smoke and stale sweat.
“All right, mate,” Doug said to Trog when Mandy peeled herself away from him. “Y
our bird here certainly knows some good moves.”
Mandy laughed. “Yeah, and I’m gonna get Trog on that dance floor with me before the end of the night, even if I have to drag him there.”
“You’ll need to get the DJ to play some fucking Oi first. Here Doug, you’d best check on your scooter mate, there was a bunch of fucking yetis messing about with it earlier.”
“What? They’d better fucking not be.”
Doug bolted for the crush around the bar and repeated the story to people on the outer edges. Word soon got around. A group of twenty skinheads rushed to the exit, closely followed by Sheila and Mandy. Trog rose to his feet, picked up his paperback, then followed them out.
Outside, Doug looked in horror at his prized possession lying on its side. Its wing mirrors were shattered, its plastic side panels were splintered, its seat was slashed open. Sheila started to cry, and Mandy hugged her. The other scooters hadn’t fared any better, and the pedestrian area they had been parked on was littered with the wreckage of once gleaming machines.
Doug turned to Trog. His fists were clenched by his sides. “What did they look like?”
Trog shrugged. “Like yetis. Long scraggly hair, dirty clothes.”
“Would you recognise them again?”
“Of course.”
“Well come on then, let’s find the cunts.”
Doug marched off, the group of skinheads following close behind. Trog turned to Mandy and Sheila. “You coming, or are you going back into the festival?”
Sheila wiped her nose with the back of her hand and set off after the skinheads without replying. Mandy looked at the mangled scooters in dismay and shook her head.
“Why would they do this?”
“Dunno,” Trog said, turning away. “They were pissed up, said something about mods.” He watched the skinheads storming down the main road, shouting and baying for blood. He turned back to Mandy and said, “You coming then or what?”
“Too fucking right I am.”
As the angry skinheads marched up the road, day-trippers stood to one side to watch nervously as they passed, or ducked into nearby gift shops or amusement arcades to get out of their way.
When they arrived at the arcade Trog had seen Stew and Don playing pinball in earlier, he glanced inside to see if they were still there. He saw them by a fruit machine. Don shovelled ten pence pieces into a slot while Stew stood by the side and watched the reels spin.
“Have you seen any yetis?” Trog said, walking up to them.
Don looked up from the fruit machine and grinned. “All right, Trog. No, why?” he added, when he saw the large group of skinheads gathered at the roadside.
“They smashed some scooters up, this lot wants a word with them about it.”
“Scooters?” Stew said with a sneer.
“Yeah well,” Trog said with a smile. “I don’t get it either, but there’s a rumble in the offing if you’re up for it?”
“Now you’re talking my fucking language,” Don said, rubbing his hands. He turned and strode to the exit.
Trog winked at Stew, and they both followed him outside and rejoined the other skinheads.
Opposite the pier, on the corner of an intersection leading off the main road, Trog saw a pub in the distance with motorcycles parked outside it. He counted fifteen of them in total, and pointed in their direction. Doug nodded, and quickened his step toward the pub. When they got closer they saw a group of eight bikers lounging on a wooden picnic table.
Doug glared across the road at the bikers. “Is that them?” he asked. The other skinheads stood around, waiting for their cue.
Trog squinted across the road, trying to remember any distinguishing features. He remembered the one he had stuck the boot into was a fat bastard with long scraggly brown hair, but that was about it. That description fit at least three of the people he was looking at.
Trog shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe.”
“Come on then, let’s get the bastards,” Doug said, and stormed across the road.
The rest of the skinheads followed him. One shouted, “You fucking cunts,” and they ran headlong at the bikers.
The bikers looked up from their drinks. Their initial interest at the sudden yell quickly turned into blind terror when they saw a huge mob of skinheads hurtling toward them. Five of the bikers ran into the pub seeking sanctuary, while another made straight for his bike. The remaining two bikers just sat there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the skinheads swarmed over them. They dragged them off the bench by their hair, punched them to the ground, then kicked them mercilessly.
The skinheads split into two groups. Most ran into the pub, while four went after the lone biker feverishly pulling on a crash helmet that had been perched on his motorcycle’s handlebars. He straddled the bike and tried to kick-start it. The engine only just exploded into life when the skinheads reached him. They barrelled into the side of the bike and sent it crashing to the ground.
The biker cried out as he fell. His helmet flew off his head when he landed heavily on the tarmac, and rolled into the centre of the road. The skinheads were on him immediately, reigning down blow after blow on any part of his exposed body they could reach as he curled himself into a ball.
Trog watched for a few seconds and debated with himself whether to join in or not, but the other lads seemed to have it covered. Trog didn’t care much for mob violence, there was no skill involved and therefore nothing much to brag about later. He much preferred a fair fight, and four onto one seemed a bit over the top, so he followed the larger group of skinheads into the pub.
Inside, bedlam reigned. Day-trippers and bar staff looked on in horror as the five bikers ran through the lounge. They overturned tables and sent drinks crashing to the ground in their wake as they were chased by angry, shouting skinheads. The skinhead advance slowed when they were forced to climb over the upended tables and crunch over broken glass. Quickly running out of space to run, the bikers turned to face them as they backed up toward the toilets. One picked up an empty beer bottle from the bar and brandished it over his head.
“Come on then, you fucking bald cunts. Who wants it first?” he growled. The other bikers followed his lead and armed themselves with bottles and glasses.
The skinheads halted to take in the situation. A few picked up beer glasses that had survived their fall and hurled them at the bikers. Most of the glasses shattered harmlessly on the wall behind them, but one landed on target and bounced off a biker’s arm just as he raised it to protect his face. The biker yelled out in pain and launched a bottle in retaliation. He searched for another projectile to replace it with, but he was too far away from the bar and there was nothing within his immediate reach. He looked around and saw an emergency fire exit to his right. He started to back up toward it, crouched low to avoid the barrage of glasses the skinheads were throwing.
Trog saw where the biker was heading and pointed it out to Don and Stew.
“One of the cunts is going to get away.”
Mandy, who was close behind Trog with Sheila, nodded. “This way,” she said, leading them back out through the main door.
Outside, the four skinheads had turned their rage toward the bikers’ motorcycles. They gouged deep scratches in the paintwork with keys, and stamped down on plastic mudguards and side panels to shatter them. The lone biker lay where he had fallen, blood pooling around him from multiple cuts on his arms and face. Trog quickly filled the skinheads in on what was happening inside the pub, and directed them to the emergency exit just as it started to open.
Trog got there first and slammed the door back on its hinges. He reached inside for the startled biker and grabbed a handful of filthy clothes. He dragged the man outside and spun him around to send him crashing against the pub wall. The other skinheads ran past Trog with a roar, into the pub to take the remaining bikers by surprise from behind.
Still holding the biker pinned to the wall with one hand, Trog drove his fist into the man’s fat stomach. The biker doubled up and sli
d to the ground when his knees gave way beneath him. Before he could recover, Trog took a step backwards and launched a boot at the side of his head, knocking him to a prone position on his side.
Trog’s leg swung back for another kick, aiming for the man’s blubbery stomach. But before he could deliver it he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He spun around, his fist rising instinctively to lash out. It was Mandy.
“No, Trog,” she said.
“What? You saw what they did, you can’t let them get away with it.”
Mandy smiled. “I wasn’t going to.” She turned to Sheila, who was standing behind her watching, then gestured at the biker. “Here you go, Sheila.”
Sheila walked up to the dazed biker and spat in his face. “Fucking cunt,” she screamed, and bent down to pummel his face with her tiny fists. Mandy joined her, and Trog stood back to watch her put the boot in, grunting with the force behind each kick that sent the biker’s fat stomach rippling.
That’s my fucking girl, Trog thought, welling up with pride. Two-tone sirens sounded in the distance. “Coppers!” he yelled. “Fucking leg it!”
Sheila and Mandy stopped their beating of the biker to listen for themselves. When they heard the sirens Sheila ran into the pub. “Coppers!” she shouted above the carnage inside.
The pub drew quiet as everyone listened, and then a mass of skinheads swarmed through the emergency exit to scatter in all directions.
“Come on,” Trog yelled. He grabbed Mandy by the hand and pulled her across the road toward a nearby miniature crazy-golf course just as the first police car screeched to a halt in front of the pub.
They vaulted over a wall protecting the golf course from unauthorised use and ran through its grounds, heading for a gated exit on the next street. A man in the ticket office near the gate shouted after them as they ran through. They continued running, oblivious to the angry horns of passing motorists as they darted across roads without looking, until they reached the gift shops on the edge of town and slowed to a casual walk amidst the crowds of day-trippers.
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 13
