Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set

by Marcus Blakeston

  Mandy was looking around, as if searching for something, and eventually steered Trog toward a small pub in the town’s centre. It was a small, dingy pub with a sticky wooden floor that didn’t look like it had seen a mop and bucket in years, and had a yellow, nicotine-stained ceiling. There were no decorations on the walls, and the only occupants were an old man sitting in a corner nursing a half-pint glass of beer, and a middle-aged barman who glared at the skinhead couple as they entered.

  Trog was about to head for the bar when Mandy tugged on his arm. “Come on, I need a piss,” she said, and headed for the toilets. Trog glanced at the barman, shrugged, then followed her.

  “Wait there,” Mandy said, and pushed through the door marked ladies. She emerged again a few seconds later and pulled Trog through the door and into one of the cubicles. She closed and locked the door behind them and unclipped Trog’s braces, then fumbled with his jeans to unfasten them. Trog took the hint and tugged at her shirt, pulling it out of her jeans. She flinched as Trog’s rough, cold hands swarmed inside the shirt.

  Mandy broke away and lifted the shirt over her head to give Trog better access. She dropped it on the floor and leaned back against the cubicle wall while Trog peeled down his jeans and underpants, leaving them tangled around his ankles when he couldn’t get them over his boots. He waddled across to Mandy and put his face between her naked breasts, then squeezed them together around it.

  Mandy reached down and gripped Trog’s penis. She pushed him against the wall and sought his mouth with hers. She reached down to unfasten her own jeans, and pulled them down with a quick tug. She spread her legs as best she could with her ankles encumbered by the jeans, by crouching down slightly and bending her knees outwards until she could direct the tip of Trog’s penis where she wanted it. Trog started to gyrate his hips slowly, rubbing himself against her wetness. She moaned softly.

  Mandy pulled away again and sat down on the toilet seat. She lifted up her legs and held her ankles with both hands. Trog smiled and shuffled toward her, crouching down to get the right angle. It wasn’t easy with her feet in the way, and after a few attempts he gave up and unlaced one of her boots so he could remove it and tug the jeans from one leg to get better access. Mandy gasped when he thrust into her violently. The toilet rocked on its anchorings, and Mandy’s head banged gently against the cistern behind her until she reached up and clasped her hands behind her head to protect it.

  When Trog spurted into her he withdrew and wiped himself on some toilet paper. He passed the roll to Mandy and she took it. She stretched her arms out at the sides and arched her back, urinating into the toilet. She tore off a few sheets of toilet paper and wrapped it round her fingers, then used it to wipe herself dry.

  “What we doing now then?” Trog asked, pulling up his jeans.

  “Back to the festival?”

  “Don’t you want to get a drink in here first? It’s not really fair using the facilities and then not buying anything.”

  Mandy laughed. “Fuck that, it’s a right dump. I’d rather get back and watch a few more bands.”

  6

  At Mandy’s insistence, they made their way back toward the sea front. She said she wanted to take the scenic route along the beach to the Winter Gardens, even though it would add at least ten minutes to their journey. But Trog suspected she really just wanted to see what was happening at the pub where the trouble had kicked off.

  When they got there, the road leading down to the pub was blocked off by two police cars parked at right angles either side of the road. A burly police officer stood between the cars and regarded Trog and Mandy as they approached.

  “What’s up, cuntstable?” Trog asked the officer, standing before him.

  The policeman looked Trog up and down with obvious contempt, but if he had heard Trog’s deliberate mispronunciation he chose to ignore it.

  “Bit of bother in the pub. I don’t suppose you two know anything about it?”

  Trog shook his head and smiled. “Nah mate, we’ve just come out of the ska festival for a bit of a breather. What’s happened like?”

  The policeman glanced over his shoulder at the pub, where someone was taking photographs of the wrecked motorcycles. He turned back to face Trog.

  “There’s been a violent assault and criminal damage, we’re still piecing it together.”

  “Oh no,” Mandy said, wide-eyed. She raised her hand to her mouth in shock. “How simply awful.”

  Trog snorted, stifling a laugh, and the policeman glared at him. He faked a coughing fit, and the policeman grunted before turning back to Mandy.

  “Yeah well, this road’s closed so you will need to go a different way.”

  “Yes of course, officer,” Mandy said. She looped her hand through Trog’s arm. “I hope you catch whoever was responsible.”

  The policeman frowned. “Don’t worry, we will.”

  Mandy slapped Trog on the arm when they were out of earshot. “You daft bastard,” she said, “What did you have to go and laugh for?”

  “I couldn’t help it. Your little miss fucking innocent routine cracked me up. You think the copper sussed anything?”

  “Nah, he wouldn’t have let us go if he did. Anyway, fuck him. Let’s get back to the festival.”

  At the Winter Gardens they found several police cars and riot vans parked outside. Dog handlers stood by, while uniformed officers lined skinheads against a wall and searched them. As Trog and Mandy approached there was a short scuffle and a young skinhead was handcuffed and dragged toward one of the vans. He yelled abuse at the three policemen who held his arms stretched out behind him, forcing him to stagger along bent almost double. One of the police officers slammed the youth’s head against the side of the van, pinning him in place while the others unlocked the back door. Still dazed, the skinhead was bundled into the van and the doors slammed behind him.

  “Let me out you cunts, I haven’t done nothing,” he shouted from inside the van.

  The police swaggered back to the crowd of skinheads lined up outside the Winter Gardens entrance.

  When Trog and Mandy walked up to the entrance door a scowling policeman directed them to stand against the wall with the other skinheads, with their legs apart and hands flat against the wall.

  Trog’s search was thorough, with no concession made to his dignity as rough hands covered every inch of his body. He jumped when he felt the policeman’s hand glide over his testicles, fearful for their wellbeing, but the hand soon travelled back down his leg. The search was over within a few minutes, and Trog waited while Mandy had her turn.

  The policeman reached forward from behind Mandy and gripped her breasts, one in each hand, and gave them a vicious squeeze before palming them in slow, circular motions. His hands then travelled down her sides to come to a rest on her buttocks. He smiled as he ran the palm of his right hand up and down Mandy’s butt-crack a few times, making her squirm.

  Trog stepped forward to intervene, but another policeman pulled him back and pushed him against the wall. He held him there with his hand on Trog’s chest.

  “I only need a fucking excuse,” the policeman growled, staring into Trog’s eyes.

  Trog clenched his fists by his sides, but had no choice but to watch while the other policeman crouched down and gripped Mandy’s left leg with both hands. He started at her ankle and made his way up toward her inner thigh. The right leg got the same treatment, and then his hands travelled up her sides to come to a rest at her armpits, before reaching forward to her breasts again.

  Trog wished he had a chance to pummel the dirty bastard, and made a mental note of the policeman’s identity number, just in case he got a chance later.

  “Okay, you can go now,” the policeman said, standing back and grinning at his colleague.

  Trog struggled against the hand pinning him against the wall, but he was held tight. His captor stared deep into his eyes, as if daring him to say something, then released him. Trog immediately reached out to Mandy and hugged her, th
en asked if she was okay.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go in.”

  “That fucking cunt,” Trog spat, loud enough to be heard from outside when they walked through the door. “Dirty fucking bastard, they shouldn’t be allowed to do that.”

  Mandy shrugged. “No big deal, you get used to it. It used to happen all the time in the old days.”

  “No big deal? He had a right fucking grope. I would’ve flattened the cunt if that other bastard hadn’t stopped me.”

  Mandy smiled and looped her arm through his. “Ah, that’s so sweet.”

  “Fuck off,” Trog said, grinning as he felt his face flush. “Any bloke would’ve.”

  “Yeah well I’m glad you didn’t. Scum like that aren’t worth it, and I’m not worth getting arrested over either. Come on, let’s go and see some bands. And this time you’re coming on the dance floor with me, no fucking excuses.”

  7

  Later that night, after the last band had finished playing and the bar had dispensed its final drinks for the evening, everyone reluctantly shuffled out of the Winter Gardens. A heavy police presence gave the area an oppressive atmosphere, but did little to dampen the high spirits of the festival-goers as they flocked to the nearest fast food outlets that were still open.

  “Any ideas for where to stay the night?” Mandy asked, shivering in the cool evening sea breeze.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you,” Trog said. “Don’s got a place to stay, he said he could sneak us in. Shit, what time is it?”

  Mandy glanced at her watch and twisted it toward a nearby streetlamp for illumination. “Just gone half-eleven.”

  “Bollocks, we were supposed to meet him at half-ten by the pier. I hope he’s fucking waited for us.”

  “Where’s he staying?”

  “That place we tried with the old bag with the curlers, the one that told us to fuck off.”

  “How did he manage that?”

  Trog shrugged. “Dunno, he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Come on then, we’d best hurry up.”

  When they reached the pier it was deserted. The pier itself, and the amusement arcade next to it, were both closed for the night, shutters drawn. Trog and Mandy walked along the sea front, hoping to find Don and Stew somewhere nearby, but there was no sign of them.

  “Fucking cunts, wait until I get hold of them,” Trog said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m fucking freezing,” Mandy said, huddling up against Trog. “Let’s go and get some more clothes and find a late night café or something. Anywhere to get out of this cold.”

  “Yeah okay. Train station’s not far, maybe the waiting room’s still open? We could probably sleep in there.”

  When they reached the train station Trog was surprised to find three police officers standing in a line across its entrance. The last train had already departed almost an hour ago, and he wondered why they would still be there.

  “Move along, please,” one of the policemen said when Trog approached.

  “I’ve left me stuff in one of the luggage lockers,” Trog said. “I just need to get something.”

  “Station’s closed.”

  “I just need to get into me locker. Look mate, it’s just over there, it’ll only take a minute or so.”

  The policeman took a step toward Trog and glared at him. “I said the station’s closed. Now move along or I’ll nick you.”

  “What for?” Trog said with a sneer. The last he heard there were no laws against accessing a locker you had paid to use.

  “For disobeying a police officer’s direct orders. Now fuck off. This is your last warning.”

  “Come on, Trog,” Mandy said, and started to walk away.

  Trog glared at the policeman, who stood his ground and glared back. He frowned and turned his back on the policeman, then followed Mandy back onto the sea front.

  “Fucking cunt. Now what do we do?” he said, catching her up.

  “Can you remember where that bed and breakfast was, the one Don’s staying at?”

  “Back of the gift shops, wasn’t it? Why?”

  “Well if we can get his attention he might still be able to let us in.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Worth a try, anyway.”

  It began to rain, a light drizzle, and they hugged the shop fronts for shelter, darting across open space to reach new overhangs when they were forced to cross roads.

  At the bed and breakfast, the No Skinheads sign was still displayed defiantly in the window. Trog looked up at the second and third floor windows. Both were in darkness, their curtains drawn.

  “Don!” he shouted, cupping his hand around his mouth. When he received no reply he turned to Mandy and said, “Let’s try round the back.”

  They counted the number of houses to the end of the street, and walked around the corner, coming to a back alleyway that ran adjacent to it. Counting the houses back, they came to a green wooden gate set flush into a high brick wall that ran the full length of the alleyway. Trog tried the latch on the gate but it was bolted from the inside and wouldn’t open.

  A large metal dustbin stood to one side of the gate, overflowing with foul-smelling rubbish. Trog climbed onto it and looked over the wall. The building looked dilapidated from the rear, in contrast to the more enticing view from the front.

  An extension had been haphazardly built onto the rear of the building, taking up most of the back yard, and its sloping roof was made of corrugated metal. There was no guttering on the extension, and rainwater flowed down it to fall in sheets on the concrete below

  Trog stared up at the building, looking for any signs of life. “Don, you cunt!” he yelled. A dog somewhere in the distance started barking.

  A light was on in a room on the second floor. Stew, stripped to the waist but still sporting a pair of red braces, drew back the curtains and looked out. He waved when he saw Trog’s head poking over the top of the wall. He struggled with the latch to the window and lifted it up, leaned out and spat onto the concrete below.

  “All right, Trog. Where were you then? We waited half an hour, but then some bastard coppers told us to move on or they’d do us for loitering.”

  “Got delayed, didn’t we? You going to let us in then or what? It’s fucking pissing it down out here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, no worries.” He turned away from the window, looking into the room. “Oi Don, put her down a minute. Trog’s outside.”

  Don appeared in the window and looked out, leaning his hands on the windowsill. Close behind him stood a young girl, her shirt flapping open in the breeze as she looked over his shoulder. She shivered and drew the shirt around herself, then wandered back into the room out of view.

  “Go round the front, I’ll open the door for you,” Don said.

  Trog jumped down from the dustbin as giggles came from the room above, followed by a light hearted “Piss off” from Don before the window slid shut.

  Trog and Mandy walked back to the front of the guest house and stood impatiently by the entrance door. Trog crouched down and lifted up the letterbox flap to peer inside. Don was walking through the hallway in a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans, no sign of his standard issue braces.

  “About fucking time,” Trog said when Don opened the door and let them through into the hallway. Don closed the door behind them and led the way upstairs. The uncarpeted wooden stairs creaked under their feet with every step. Inside the apartment, Stew was lying on top of the only single bed in the room with one of the girls, his arm draped around her.

  “Oi, get off me fucking bed you cunts,” Don growled.

  “Piss off, me and Shaz were here first,” Stew said without looking up in Don’s direction.

  “Were you fuck,” Don said.

  Don strode across to the bed and gripped the covers, then pulled them out sideways like a conjurer tugging on a tablecloth. Stew and Shaz travelled with the bed covers and landed with a loud thump on the floor. They swore at Don as he stepped over them and jumped onto the bed.r />
  “Oi Annie, I’ve saved you a space,” he called out to the other girl, who was sitting in an armchair playing with her fringe and watching with a smirk on her face. She got up and plodded over to lay next to Don. Don drew the girl toward him, his groping hands going to work immediately.

  A knock on the door made everyone jump. “What’s going on in there?” a female voice asked.

  “Fuck,” Don said under his breath. “Nothing,” he called out. “Um … my suitcase fell off the bed, that’s all.”

  “I could hear voices. Have you got someone in there with you?”

  “No. I … erm … I was listening to the radio.”

  “It didn’t sound like no radio. Open the door, I want to see for myself.”

  Don got off the bed and looked around the room nervously.

  “Open the door,” the voice repeated. “Now!”

  “Hold on a minute, I’ll need to get dressed first, I’ve got nothing on.”

  Don pointed toward the bed, and Stew and Shaz crawled beneath it. Mandy joined them under the bed, while Annie climbed into a wardrobe and crouched down, holding her knees in her hands. After a quick glance in the wardrobe and deciding there wasn’t enough room for them both, Trog curled up next to the bed on the side furthest away from the door. He peered through the gloom at Mandy, who had her hand over her mouth trying desperately not to laugh. Don picked up the bed covers and threw them back onto the bed, draping them over one side to cover up Trog.

  The door creaked open and footsteps padded across the room. Trog held his breath when they came close to where he lay.

  “Where’s the radio?” the woman asked.

  “I packed it away in my suitcase. That’s how it fell.”

  “Where’s the suitcase?”

  “Under the bed.”

  The woman grunted. “I can’t remember you having no suitcase with you when you took the room.”

  “No, I left it at the train station and went back for it later.”