They stood with their backs against the wall for a few minutes while they caught their breath, then Trog pulled her into the back yard. The yard was strewn with rubbish; old discarded household appliances, a car tyre, and other assorted junk.
A rickety-looking lattice fence was at the bottom of the yard, separating it from the back yard of another house in the next street. Trog ran up to it and started to climb over. Mandy held him back.
“We should stay here. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone home.”
Trog stepped back down off the fence and looked at the rear of the house. The curtains were all drawn. He glanced at the adjacent houses to either side, expecting to see angry residents brandishing telephones to summon the police, but the windows were all empty. He nodded, and walked back toward the house. An old baby bath, cracked and stained green with moss, had collected rainwater. Trog dipped his hands into it to rinse the blood from them. Mandy took out a handkerchief and soaked it in the water, then used it to wipe the dried blood from her face.
Trog tried the back door, but as he expected it was locked. He was about to put his shoulder to it and force the flimsy-looking lock when Mandy stopped him.
“We need to keep quiet,” she whispered. “Wait for the coppers to lose interest. Then get back to the train station and get the fuck out of here.”
Trog nodded and slumped down against the door. He sat on a small stone porch with his knees raised before him. Mandy sat down next to him and held her head in her hands while they listened to the police sirens all around them.
11
Later, Trog heard a door slam and the sounds of a man and woman shouting abuse at each other from inside the house. He looked at Mandy, and she nodded. Without a word, they rose to their feet and made their way back through the passageway between the houses, ducking low as they passed a side window.
Out on the street, Trog looked in both directions to get his bearings, then led Mandy through the back streets toward the town centre. The main road through Cleethorpes was blocked in both directions with stationary vehicles, drivers sounding their horns impatiently. Trog watched as seven police officers mounted a bus and dragged off two young skinheads in handcuffs. He pulled Mandy away, onto the sea front, before the police had a chance to notice them.
The arcades and gift shops along the sea front were all closed and shuttered, bemused day-trippers forced onto the beach by sheer boredom. Police surrounded the train station, only letting people through one at a time, and a long, winding queue had formed. Other police officers patrolled the queue, searching out anyone dressed in skinhead attire and arresting them. Two officers dragged a young skinhead girl to a riot van parked nearby. She screamed abuse at them as they hurled her inside and slammed the doors.
Mandy frowned. “Why are they arresting skins? We were the ones who were attacked, they should be going after those fucking bikers, not us.”
Trog sighed and shook his head. “Fuck knows, but we won’t get past those cunts. We’ll have to walk it out of town, then get a bus to Grimsby or something.”
“But all my clothes are in there,” Mandy said, pointing at the train station entrance. “And my new records.”
Trog shrugged his shoulders and sighed again. “Not much we can do about that, we’ll have to come back for them another day.”
“Fuck that, we haven’t done anything wrong.” She smiled. “How much money have you got left?”
“About eighty quid, why?”
“Remember what Don looked like when he had that wig on?”
“Yeah, he looked like a right fucking soppy cunt. What’s that got—” Trog stopped mid-sentence and laughed. “Fucking hell Mandy, now I know why I love you so much. That’s just fucking brilliant.”
Mandy gaped at him, her eyes wide.
Trog frowned. “What?” he asked, when she didn’t say anything.
Mandy smiled and threw her arms around Trog’s neck, then pulled him in for a quick kiss. “Nothing, nothing at all. Come on, let’s go shopping.”
* * *
“What do you think?”
Mandy twirled in front of the changing room curtains. A long yellow summer dress flared out from her ankles with the momentum of her spin.
Trog laughed. “Fucking horrible. And it doesn’t go with those boots either.”
Mandy looked down at her Doc Martens and frowned. “Shit, I never thought of those. I’ll need some new shoes as well.”
“What size do you take? I’ll go and get some for you.”
“Seven. But don’t get anything too girly or I’m not wearing them.”
“I’ll try,” Trog said, grinning over his shoulder as he left. “But I know fuck all about women’s shoes so I’ll probably just pick the cheapest.”
He returned a few minutes later brandishing a pair of brown sandals. Mandy looked at them in disgust.
“Sandals? Do I look like a fucking hippy or something?”
Trog smiled mischievously. “Well yeah, you do a bit in that stupid yellow dress. But isn’t that the whole idea?”
Mandy frowned and held out her hand. “Give us them here then.”
She went back into the changing room and sat down on a stool, leaving the curtain open. She unlaced her boots and kicked them off. Trog watched in amusement as she slid her foot into one of the sandals and buckled it up at the side. She twisted her ankle around, examining it from all directions, and then stood up to put her weight on it.
“It feels funny. It’s too light, and the sole is too hard.”
Trog laughed. “You’ll get used to them. Stick the other one on and try walking around in them. That’s what me mam always used to tell me when I were buying shoes for school.”
Trog reached into his pocket for Mandy’s camera. He held it behind his back until she stepped out of the changing room once more.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Mandy screamed when she saw the camera pointing at her. She raised both hands to cover her face just before the flash went off.
Trog laughed again when she thumped him on the arm and made a grab for the camera. He spun around, guarding the camera from her clutches with his body.
“Oh, you fucking wait until it’s your turn to look like a silly cunt. I’m going to enjoy choosing your clothes for you. And I’m destroying that fucking photo as soon as they’re developed.”
* * *
Trog emerged from the shop feeling self conscious and foolish. The clothes Mandy had chosen for him were the most ridiculous-looking ones she could find in the entire shop. The brightly-coloured baggy shorts and thick green and pink striped jumper might have looked at home on a golf course, but anywhere else they would just single him out as a fucking idiot with no fashion sense whatsoever.
He stared down at the pavement as he walked, imagining the smirks on the faces of everyone he passed. He had got his own back on Mandy by topping her off with a long, blonde, crimped-hair wig that made her head look massive. But then Mandy had retaliated with a stupid-looking brown hairpiece with a side parting that reminded Trog of his old chemistry teacher.
They carried their real clothes in two carrier bags provided by the shop, eager to change back into them at the first opportunity presented. But first they had to run the gauntlet of the police line around the train station.
Mandy sought Trog’s hand when they joined the end of a long, winding queue running down the side of an amusement arcade, outside the train station, and onto the sea front. Trog could feel her hand trembling against his, and he fought down the rising panic in his own mind.
A young woman with a small child turned to Trog and Mandy. Her eyes widened when she took in Trog’s unusual attire.
“Do you know what the hold up is?” she asked Mandy. The young child stared at Trog and giggled. Trog felt his face redden.
“No idea, but I hope we don’t miss the train because of it,” Mandy said.
When they reached the front of the queue, Mandy was asked for her name and address. She gave an address i
n Shefferham, and a policeman wrote it down. He asked if she had seen anything of the trouble that had occurred earlier. Mandy shook her head. The policeman said they would be in touch if they needed any further details, and waved her through the barrier.
When it came to Trog’s turn, the policeman frowned and stared at him thoughtfully.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked.
Trog’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt his face flush. “Don’t think so?”
He glanced at the policeman’s stern face, felt a slight glimmer of recognition himself, and looked away quickly toward Mandy who was waiting for him on the other side of the barrier. He hoped she would have the sense to disappear if he was rumbled.
“Yeah, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” the policeman said. “Where are you from?”
Trog gave the same address in Shefferham that Mandy had used, and the policeman grunted as he wrote it down.
“What’s in the bag?”
Trog looked down at the carrier bag in his hand, and subconsciously moved it behind his back. “Um… nothing. Just my beach clothes.”
“Let’s have a look then.”
Trog held out the bag in both hands, resigned to his fate. He was sure this was it; that he would be carted off to the cells for a kicking. The policeman bent forward to look inside the bag and saw a crumpled white shirt with a pair of faded jeans underneath it. He frowned, and looked Trog up and down, then waved him through the barrier.
Trog looked heavenward and sighed as he walked through, thankful that the policeman hadn’t seen anything suspicious in the bag, and hadn’t thought to search it more thoroughly. It was purely by chance that the shirt had been on top. He hadn’t given any thought to packing the bag, just thrown everything in when he got changed. He gave Mandy a quick squeeze, and strode up to the luggage lockers to retrieve their suitcase. He rejoined her on the platform, and they lost themselves in the crowd waiting for the next train to arrive.
Mandy put her arms around Trog and stared into his eyes. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?” Trog asked. He circled his arms around Mandy’s back and sought out her familiar bra strap through the strange yellow material.
“This weekend. It was supposed to be something special, but it ended up being a fucking disaster.”
Trog laughed. “Don’t be daft. I haven’t had this much fun in ages. But next time you want to go to something like this …” he trailed off, grinning.
“What?” Mandy asked, smiling back.
“We bring a fucking army with us.”
Bare Knuckle Bitch
1
So I’m in the local night club with my mate Shaz, yeah? The Zone, it says on the big neon sign above the door, but most people call it The Meat Market. It’s the sort of place you go to if you want to find random people to fuck without having to worry about any of that soppy romance bollocks. I’m sure you know the sort of place I mean; you’ve probably been to one yourself a few times, right? Low lights so you can’t see how ugly everyone is, loud music so you can’t hear how fucking boring they are. The perfect pick-up joint for freaks of all ages, yeah?
Anyway, we’re checking out the studs lined up along the bar, trying to decide which ones are worth bothering with. Most of them are fat bastards in their thirties with huge beer guts flopping down over their belts like an old woman’s tits, so there’s not much to choose from. There is one reasonable looking guy at the end of the bar though. Not that he would win any beauty contests, mind. He’s dog fucking rough in the face department, and his clothes look like he’s slept in them for a month, but he does have this massive bulge sticking out of the front of his trousers that catches my eye.
“See anything you fancy?” Shaz yells in my ear.
Shaz is the same age as me, but she looks a few years older. We grew up on the same council estate and went to the same shitty schools together, so we’ve known each other pretty much forever. My dad calls her a trollop and says she’s a bad influence on me, but he doesn’t know the half of it.
“That one’s quite cute,” I shout back, nodding my head toward bulge-guy. It’s like he can hear me over the loud thumping music or something, because he looks straight at me and winks.
Shaz shakes her head and sighs. “Fucking hell Abby, try looking beyond his cock. He’s fucking skint, you can tell that a mile off. You’d be lucky to get a drink out of him, never mind anything else.”
“Well what about that one then?” I point at one of the fatties, choosing him at random.
“Are you kidding? Look at his shoes. Fucking Hush Puppies? Get real, Abby.”
“Well which one would you go for?”
Shaz smiles, and points her finger at one of the other fatties. “Armani suit, not cheap in that size. You need to get them made especially, you can’t just pick one up off the fat cunt rail in Tesco. See those shoes? Paul Smith brogues, three hundred quid a pop. And look at the way he’s standing, you can tell he’s used to ordering people around. Probably middle management at least, but more likely some sort of fucking company director. Either way he’s fucking loaded.”
“Right,” I say. I’ll have to take her word for it, I know fuck all about men’s clothes and the way this one’s standing doesn’t look any different to the way all the other fat bastards are standing. “So who’s having him then, you or me?”
“You can have him, I’ll pick one of the others.”
“Right, okay. See you later then, yeah?”
I walk up to the bar and squeeze myself in next to the one Shaz pointed out for me. The barman looks at me and nods, asking if I need serving. I shake my head and he walks away to serve someone else. The fatty on my left looks in my direction and smiles, thinking he’s in with a chance. I scowl at him and he looks away sharply. His face turns the colour of a slapped arse.
I turn my head to look at the over-stuffed Armani suit on my right. He stares straight ahead at the optics behind the bar but it’s obvious he knows I’m here from the way his hand shakes when he picks up his drink. Great, he’s one of those fucking shy bastards. That means I’ll have to make all the moves instead of just standing here looking pretty. I nudge him with my elbow and watch the rolls of fat ripple for a few seconds until they settle down again.
“Hi,” I yell when he doesn’t look in my direction. No reply. I can see sweat breaking out on his forehead. Fucking hell, he’s not going to make this easy for me, is he? I stroke the back of his hand with my fingertips. He jumps as if I’ve just fucking scratched him or something, and turns toward me.
“Hi,” I yell again. I flash him my warmest smile and hope he doesn’t make a run for it. If he does I’ll have to go back to Shaz and start the selection process all over again.
“Um… hello. Do you come here often?” he says.
I laugh. Well at least he can fucking talk, even if what he does say is corny as fuck. “Yeah, I come here all the time. You going to buy me a drink then or what?”
“Um… sure, what’ll you have?”
“A pint of Guinness and a whisky chaser.”
He pulls out a brown leather wallet and I can’t help noticing how stuffed full of money it is when he plucks out a tenner and waves it at the barman. There must be a few hundred quid in there, easy. I turn and give Shaz a double thumbs up while he’s distracted with the barman. She smiles back at me in that smug bastard way people do when they know they’ve been proven right.
He buys my drinks and I down half the Guinness in one go, then wipe the froth from my mouth with the back of my hand.
“So, um, what do you do for a living?” he asks. As if he gives a fuck what I do or who I do it with. But I might as well humour him, it’s only polite.
“I work the till in a burger joint. How about you?”
“I’m a stockbroker.” He says this as if I’m supposed to be impressed, but I’ll be fucked if I know what one of those is. Probably something to do with warehouses, or making sure a sup
ermarket’s shelves don’t run empty.
“Oh yeah?” I shout. “That’s nice.”
“My name’s Alan.”
I shrug and pick up my Guinness, drain the rest of it. The whisky follows it down, and I get a warm glow spreading down my throat and into my chest.
“So what’s yours?” he yells.
“I’ll have another pint of Guinness, Alan.”
“No, I mean, um, what’s your name?”
“Abby.”
“Pleased to meet you, Abby.”
He holds out his hand. I look at it. Who the fuck wants to shake hands when they’re picking up some random woman at a bar? He holds it there a few more seconds, then takes the hint and reaches for his wallet. He orders himself an alcohol-free beer, obviously worried whether he’ll be able to perform or not when the time comes.
The fat cunt on my left peels himself away from the bar and waddles off to the toilets like a hippo that’s just learnt how to walk on two legs, so I put a bit of space between me and my new friend Alan. He’s sweating like a pig, but it’s not the nice, heady aroma of a proper man. It’s the sort of greasy chips and curry stench you always get from fat blokes. I lean back against the bar and take another long drink.
“So, um, you fancy going somewhere a bit quieter, Abby?” Alan asks my tits.
I answer on their behalf. “Nah, I like it in here. Besides, I’m barred from most of the pubs in town.”
“I, um, wasn’t really thinking of another pub.”
Here it comes. Two measly fucking drinks I’ve had from the cunt and he already thinks he’s fully paid up. What the fuck is it with men these days? I’d need at least ten pints before I even considered having that lard-arse pounding on top of me. I’d need the anaesthetic for when he crushes my fucking ribs.
“Maybe later,” I yell. “The night’s still young and all that.” I drain the rest of my pint and hand the glass to Alan. “Your round, yeah?”
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 17
