Louise Brown, sitting opposite Colin, rested her elbows on the table while she too finished off her morning porridge. She wore a faded, moth-eaten Vice Squad T-shirt beneath a pink mohair cardigan, but it was Louise’s hair that took centre stage in Colin’s attention. Before leaving the women’s dormitory for breakfast Louise had dyed her hair blue and spiked it up. Colin looked down at the image printed on Louise’s T-shirt. The resemblance between Louise and the very young Beki Bondage was striking. They could almost be grandmother and granddaughter.
Louise leaned forward to put her porridge bowl down on the table. Colin caught a quick glimpse of multi-coloured tattoos through the holes in her T-shirt. He wondered what they were, and whether Louise would show him if he asked. Louise coughed theatrically. Colin looked up. She frowned.
“I like your hair like that,” Colin said. “You should do it like that more often.”
Louise smiled. “Thank you. You can use some of my hair wax if you want to do yours?”
Colin raised a hand to his temple and twisted strands of white hair between his fingers. “Yeah that’d be great, thanks. Have you got any blue dye going spare too?”
Louise shook her head. “No, sorry. I could only afford a small bottle, I used it all up this morning.”
“Oh well. I’ll just have to go natural then.”
A workfare assistant took their bowls away and Louise slid her chair back, leaned on the table, and stood up. She pulled her black PVC mini-skirt down to cover her thighs, and turned away. Colin stared at Louise’s ragged fishnet stockings while she walked to her armchair and sat down. She picked up her entoPAD and looked down at the screen.
Colin leaned on his walking stick and stood up when The Ruts were replaced with X-Ray Spex. He hobbled over to the speakers and turned up the volume, sang along with Poly Styrene. The song reminded Colin again of the Woolworths security guard he used to have so much fun with when he was young. He wondered if the man had still been working there when Woolworths closed down, whether he had ever found another job.
The workfare assistant glared at Colin and resumed clearing away the breakfast things. He shooed the last of the stragglers away from the dining table and folded its sides down, pushed it against a wall out of the way.
Louise put down her entoPAD and joined Colin by the speakers. “Come on then,” she said, and took Colin by the hand.
She led him out of the communal lounge and into the women’s dormitory. She sat him down on the edge of her bed and took a tub of hair wax from a drawer in her bedside cabinet. She scooped out a handful of wax and smeared it over the strands of hair on Colin’s right temple, then stretched it out sideways, sandwiching his hair between the palms of her hands. She stood back, admiring her handiwork, and scraped excess wax from her hands back into the tub. Colin raised his hand to feel for himself what she had done with his hair.
“Give it a few minutes to harden before you touch it,” Louise warned. She took a hand-mirror from the drawer and held it out.
Colin looked at the side-mohican Louse had moulded his hair into and frowned. He had never joined the mohican tribe when he was young. Even when just about everyone he knew started sprouting them he had preferred to keep the classic punk look. He combed his fingers through the mohican, separated it into five sections, and twisted each section into a spike.
“That’s better,” Colin said, nodding to the mirror. He smiled at Louise. “Come on, then. Let’s go put the decorations up.”
Back in the lounge, Frank Sterner shuffled around the room with his walking frame. Colin skirted around him and woke up Dave Turner, who had drifted off to sleep despite the loud music. Together with Louise, they raided a store-cupboard in the hallway and pulled out a large cardboard box. Inside were balloons and banners, party hats and streamers. They carried the box into the lounge between them and put it down between the speakers.
Louise unrolled a black canvas banner with white skulls printed at each end, and stencilled block-capital text between them reading DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD. She climbed onto her armchair and attached one end of the banner to the wall behind it with Blu-tack. She climbed down and picked up the other end of the banner, stretched it out to where Fiona Scott sat, and climbed up beside her. Fiona shuffled to one side to make room for Louise, and turned around to watch. Fiona’s eyes lit up when she saw the banner, reflecting a hint of interest usually absent from her. The faint trace of a smile appeared on her face.
Dave Turner unfolded a large Spitting Image poster of Thatcher with the words DEAD DEAD DEAD scrawled on her forehead in red marker pen. He stretched up and fastened the poster to the wall at a crooked angle. Frank Sterner wandered over to have a look, mumbled “Fucking bitch,” and walked away.
Colin took a handful of black balloons from the box and showed them to Tony Harris. Tony nodded, and pulled the plastic tube from his face-mask. Colin stretched a balloon over the end of the tube and held it tight while he twisted a dial on Tony’s oxygen cylinder. The balloon inflated, displaying the phrase I STILL FUCKING HATE THATCHER. Colin tied off the end of the balloon, batted it away from him, and attached another.
With all the balloons inflated, Colin re-attached the tube to Tony’s face-mask and left the communal lounge. He walked up the corridor to the men’s dormitory and made for a large wardrobe they all shared. He pulled out a dusty cardboard box from the bottom of the wardrobe, set it down on a nearby bed, ripped brown parcel tape from the top of the box, and lifted the flaps.
Thatcher stared out at him from the box. Her wide, blood-shot eyes seemed to bore straight into his soul. A disturbed spider ran across Thatcher’s long, pointy nose and disappeared into her gaping red mouth.
A cold shiver ran down Colin’s spine.
He reached down and curled his fingers around Thatcher’s nose. Her withered, naked body unfurled before him with a slight crackling sound as Colin pulled her out of the box. He felt an intense rage and punched her in the face.
“Fucking bitch,” he shouted, and threw her onto the bed.
The spider darted from Thatcher’s mouth and ran across the bed in search of a new hiding place. Colin squeezed his hands around Thatcher’s neck. Thatcher stared up at him, as uncaring as she had ever been. Colin lifted her from the bed and shook her. A cloud of dust made him sneeze. He shook her again, swiped cobwebs from Thatcher’s sagging breasts with one hand. He dragged her back to the lounge by the neck.
Colin paused in the lounge doorway and looked in. Billy Bragg sang about waiting for the great leap forwards while a few people batted balloons to each other and sang along with him. Louise Brown twirled her arms around slowly as she danced before one of the speakers.
“Oi Tony, look who’s here,” Colin called out. He held Thatcher before him and shook her.
Tony Harris smiled when he turned to look. He struggled to his feet and limped toward Colin, pushing a trolley containing his oxygen cylinder before him.
Colin squeezed one of Thatcher’s breasts and put the nipple to his mouth. He bit down on it, prised open a valve with his teeth, and attached it to Tony’s oxygen cylinder tube. Thatcher’s body crackled as it took shape. Twisted arms uncurled themselves and reached out like a hungry zombie. Her legs straightened and ballooned out, supporting her on huge, webbed feet.
When she was fully formed, Colin squeezed Thatcher’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pulled the plastic tube free. Oxygen hissed from the tube while he handed it back to Tony. Tony re-attached the tube to his face mask while Colin wrestled Thatcher’s nipple valve closed.
Colin squeezed each of Thatcher’s arms and legs in turn to check for any punctures left from the previous year’s Thatcher Day celebrations. Satisfied she was uninjured, he gripped her by the neck and held her out before him while he hobbled through the doorway into the lounge.
“Where there is hope, let us bring despair,” Colin said in a high-pitched, screeching voice. “Where there is prosperity, let us bring poverty. Bring me the head of Arthur Scar
gill, for I have returned from hell to give you an eternity of torment.”
Fiona Scott looked up and gasped, raised a hand to her mouth in shock. Frank Sterner, who had been shuffling across the room, veered off course and inched toward Colin with a look of pure hatred on his face.
“You fucking evil bitch,” Frank yelled. He shook with rage, his knuckles white around the top of the walking frame. He hacked up and spat in Thatcher’s face. Thatcher stared back defiantly while thick brown mucus dribbled down her cheek.
“How very dare you, you ignorant fucking Yorkshire pleb,” Colin screeched. He swatted Frank with one of Thatcher’s outstretched hands.
Dave Turner walked over and punched Thatcher in the stomach with such ferocity it made Colin stumble back a few steps. Colin steadied himself with his walking stick and swung Thatcher down to headbutt Dave, but the old man was ready and punched her in the face long before she made impact.
Soon Colin was surrounded by a mob of angry geriatrics shouting abuse at Thatcher, and was forced to drop her and move out of the way for his own safety as they set about her with fists and walking sticks. Even Greg Lomax joined in, his eyes blazing, his body trembling with rage as he kicked out at her.
The workfare assistant watched in wide-eyed disbelief. “Settle down now, you lot,” he shouted, stepping toward the melee around Thatcher, “before you do yourselves a mischief.”
Dave Turner stamped on Thatcher’s crotch and her upper body reared up like a vampire rising from its coffin. Fiona Scott screamed and fainted backwards. The workfare assistant caught her by the armpits and lowered her to the floor. He dragged her away, shaking his head.
The attack on Thatcher lasted several minutes until the last of the retirement home residents finished venting their rage. Thatcher stared up at them as they wheezed and panted for breath around her.
“Thatcher’s dead,” Colin shouted. He raised his walking stick above his head. “Happy Thatcher Day, everyone.”
There were panted responses of “Happy Thatcher Day” from those who had recovered their breath. Others just smiled and nodded their heads. Dave Turner reached behind one of the speakers and pulled out a cable, silencing The Vibrators mid-song with a loud electrical pop. He plugged his entoPAD into the speakers, and Sick Bastard’s Ding Dong the Fucking Bitch is Dead blasted out.
Colin nodded in approval at Dave’s choice of music and joined in with the spontaneous dancing that broke out. At the song’s chorus everyone stopped gyrating as one and pointed down at Thatcher’s corpse while they shouted along with Biffo Ratbastard’s vocals – “You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re fucking dead!” – then resumed dancing.
It wasn’t long before people started to drift away, exhausted and red faced, back to their armchairs. Only Colin Baxter and Louise Brown remained by the speakers. Colin leaned on his walking stick and jerked his shoulders while Louise’s slippered feet shuffled across the carpet to the sound of The Exploited’s Maggie You Cunt. It was one of the band’s later, thrash-tempo releases from the mid-1990s, and Colin wished he still had the energy to keep up with its fast beat.
He shouted along with Wattie at the chorus, “Maggie Maggie Maggie Maggie, you fucking cunt!”
If Colin was honest he would admit those were the only words he could decipher from Wattie’s thick Scottish accent. Louise, meanwhile, seemed to know every word.
The song ended and Steve Ignorant shouted “How does it feel?” Colin’s shoulders slumped and he panted for breath. Sweat poured down from his armpits, sticking his T-shirt to his body. Louise continued dancing by his side, her fist punching the air in delight as she sang along with the Crass song. She stopped when she noticed Colin standing motionless beside her, and frowned at him.
“You pegging out on me too?” she shouted, hands on hips.
“No, I just don’t like Crass,” Colin shouted back. “I am fucking knackered though. And we should save some energy for when Sick Bastard gets here.”
Louise laughed. “You fucking lightweight. You’re eighty, not a hundred and fifty. There’s plenty of time for resting when you’re dead, so come on, get fucking dancing.”
Oi Polloi’s Fuck Everybody Who Voted Tory started up and Louise raised her arms and twirled like an arthritic ballerina to the slow beats of the opening monologue. When the song sped up and got going proper, she flailed her arms wildly and lurched toward Colin. She bumped into him, causing him to drop his walking stick and stumble to one side. Colin grabbed onto Louise’s mohair cardigan with both hands to steady himself and she stumbled with him, laughing as they both fell to their knees. She stopped laughing when she saw the pain on Colin’s face.
“Sorry,” she shouted. “I didn’t mean to do that, I just got a bit carried away.”
Colin clutched his knee and grimaced. “It’s okay. Can you pass me my walking stick? I can’t get up without it.”
Louise crawled over to where Colin’s walking stick lay and slid it across the carpet toward him. She shuffled herself onto her bottom and sat back, leaning on her hands. She twitched her feet and nodded her head in time to the music while Colin struggled to his feet. Colin leaned on his walking stick and panted. He looked down at Louise.
Louise smiled up and raised her hands out to Colin, like a small child wanting to be picked up. “Guess what?” she shouted.
“What?”
“I can’t get up either.”
Colin reached down and took one of her outstretched hands. She clasped her other hand around his wrist and squeezed it tight while she pulled herself up. Colin braced himself against his walking stick until she was upright, then she released him and resumed flailing her arms to the music.
“Come on Colin,” she shouted.
Colin smiled and shook his head. He stepped back, away from Louise’s grasping hands. “No, that’s enough for me. I need to sit down for a bit.”
Colin limped to his armchair and slumped into it with a sigh. His arms and legs ached and he felt a bit light-headed from his exertions. He wondered if Tony Harris would let him have a go on his oxygen mask, but didn’t have the energy to go and ask him. The Varukers’ Thatcher’s Fortress blasted out of the speakers and he watched Louise shuffle around to it. He shook his head and smiled. He rested his head against the back of his armchair and closed his eyes, wondering where she got all her energy from.
* * *
After dinner, while the workfare assistant cleared the dining table and wheeled it out of the way, Colin took Dave Turner and Louise Brown through the French doors into the back yard. They stood by the ten-foot high gate, looking at a pair of heavy bolts securing it at the top and bottom.
“What do you reckon?” Colin asked.
“The bottom one should be easy enough,” Dave said, “but what about the top one?”
“Maybe I could reach it with my stick?”
Dave shook his head. “Nah mate, you’d never get it open with that.”
Colin lifted his walking stick and stretched up onto his toes. His hand shook. The walking stick wavered wildly in the air, impossible for him to control. He gripped the walking stick in both hands but it made little difference to his coordination. Louise joined him from behind and held his wrists to steady them. Colin felt her hot breath on his neck, the spikes of her hair jabbing into the back of his head. Together they manoeuvred Colin’s walking stick, inch by inch, closer to the bolt’s sliding grasp.
“Hold it there,” Dave said. He grabbed the centre of Colin’s walking stick and yanked it toward him. The rubber end slipped off the bolt grasp and Dave stumbled backwards. “Bollocks,” he said. “I told you it wouldn’t fucking work.”
“Yeah well, how else are we supposed to open it?” Colin asked. He lowered his walking stick and leaned on it, stared up at the bolt.
“I reckon we’d need something to stand on,” Louise said. Colin turned to look at her. She smiled and shrugged. “Chair or something?”
“It’d need to be a fucking big chair,” Dave said.
&n
bsp; Louise frowned. “Yeah well, I’m only saying. You got any better ideas then?”
Dave shook his head.
“Maybe there’s a ladder somewhere?” Colin said. “Otherwise how would they have locked it in the first place?”
Dave shrugged. “Well if there is a ladder, I’ve never seen it. That gate hasn’t been opened in the ten years I’ve been living here.”
“Yeah well,” Colin said, “we’re going to have to get it open somehow, or the whole fucking day’s a write-off.”
Colin heard a window slide open upstairs and the sound of trippy technobabble drifted out. He looked up, saw the retirement home manager lean out of the window and glare at him.
“Oi you lot. Get back inside.”
“We’re going to need to do something about that cunt too,” Colin said quietly.
* * *
Biffo Ratbastard sat in the driver’s seat of his electric transit van, waiting for the traffic light to change to green. Mike Hock sat in the passenger seat. He drummed his fingers on the roof of the van through the open window while he hummed a song to himself. Fungal Matters was in the back of the van with his drum kit. His dog, Gristle, lay by his side next to a box of merchandise left over from Sick Bastard’s last tour in the late-2030s. By his feet was another box containing Biffo’s Samson microphone, a small four-channel mixing board, and assorted cables and couplers.
The traffic light changed to red and amber. Biffo floored the accelerator and the van lurched forward with a loud hum. Fungal swore as he was catapulted back. Biffo drove up Shefferham High Street, past rows of pound shops and charity shops, boarded up shops that used to be newsagents or fruit and veg shops, following the directions given by Ozzy Osbourne’s voice on the van’s GPS device.
“Next fucking left, you cunt,” the GPS said in a shaky Birmingham accent.
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 30
