Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set

by Marcus Blakeston

Biffo turned onto a side road and bumped up the kerb into a pedestrian area lined with trees. Two policemen in riot gear watched them pass. Biffo resisted the urge to give them the finger. The last thing he needed right now was hassle from the coppers.

  “Next fucking right, you cunt.”

  Biffo turned right, into a residential area. Dilapidated terraced-houses passed by outside the van’s window.

  “Next fucking right, you cunt.”

  Biffo saw the place he was looking for half-way down the street, and pulled up outside it.

  “You’re fucking here, all right?” The GPS said. “Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

  Biffo switched off the motor and climbed out of the van. He looked at a twenty-foot high, barbed-wire-topped wall. Retirement Home SY-468, a sign read on a solid metal gate built into the wall, Your happy days end here. Biffo smiled. He had no doubt that was a true statement, but with a completely different meaning to the one it was intended to convey. The place looked like a prison, and Biffo wouldn’t be surprised if he saw gun turrets and guard dogs once they got through the gate. He pressed an intercom button by the side of the gate, held it in for a few seconds.

  “Yeah?” a voice said through a speaker. “What do you want?

  “We’re here to pick up Steve Snitch.”

  “Who?” the voice asked.

  “Steve Snitch.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He was in a band called Sick Bastard, they’re playing a gig tonight? It’s been arranged with your manager.”

  “Oh, him. Yeah, he’s been driving us all daft with his noise all day. You can take him any time you want. Keep him for all I care.”

  The gate buzzed and swung open with a whir of electric motors. Biffo climbed into the van and drove though the gate. The gate closed behind him with another whir.

  “Fucking hell, what a dump,” Mike Hock said.

  Biffo nodded. Retirement Home SY-468 was a drab-looking prefabricated building with white-washed walls turning yellow with age and neglect. Dirty windows gave no clue as to what lay inside. Biffo drove up to the front door and parked next to a gleaming red Porsche on the gravel drive. He climbed out and slammed the van door. Mike opened the van’s back door to let Fungal Matters and his dog out. Biffo walked up to the retirement home door and pushed against it. It was locked. He pressed a button on an intercom at the side of the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re here to pick up Steve Snitch?”

  “Oh yeah, all right then.”

  The door buzzed and Biffo pushed through it into a reception area. It smelled of disinfectant, with a faint whiff of urine and boiled cabbage. A man sitting behind a desk looked up from an entoPAD.

  “He’ll be in the lounge, it’s down there.” The man pointed left down a corridor. “No dogs allowed in here,” he said when Mike Hock and Fungal Matters walked through the door.

  “It’s a blind dog,” Mike said.

  “I don’t care if it’s deaf as well, you can’t bring it in here. It’s health and safety, no dogs allowed.”

  “But –”

  “It’s okay mate,” Fungal said to Mike, “I’ll wait outside.

  Biffo and Mike walked down the corridor, following the sound of Steve Snitch’s de-tuned electric guitar, until they came to a green door. Mike pushed it open and Biffo looked inside. The smell of urine and boiled cabbage was much stronger in the open-plan lounge than it had been in the reception. Old people dressed in stained nightwear sat in battered armchairs lined along the walls of the room. Some were asleep, oblivious to the wails and screeches coming from Steve Snitch’s guitar, others stared down at entoPADs resting on their laps.

  “What a fucking miserable place,” Biffo said. Mike smiled and nodded.

  An old man sitting close to the door caught Biffo’s eye. He had a fading red anarchy symbol tattooed on the side of his wrinkled bald head, just above the right ear. An old, jagged scar on his neck stood out in a deep purple from the grey, pallid tone of the surrounding skin. Before him stood a walking frame covered in stickers displaying the logos of lots of different punk bands from the 1980s to the mid-2020s. Biffo couldn’t resist walking over to examine the walking frame in more detail to see if he could spot Sick Bastard’s logo anywhere. He found one near the bottom of the front left leg, and pointed it out to Mike Hock.

  The old man looked up from his entoPAD and stared at Biffo. His eyes went wide and his mouth gaped open. The entoPAD slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor.

  Biffo bent down and picked up the entoPAD, placed it back in the man’s shaking hands. “Here you go mate,” he said. The man stared at Biffo, but said nothing.

  Biffo turned away and walked toward Steve Snitch, who was sitting in the far corner of the room. Steve wore the same black and red striped pyjamas he had been wearing for their rehearsal earlier in the week. His slippered feet were stretched out before him, resting on top of a small practice amp. Chrome-plated finger protector rings on his right hand slid up and down the fretboard, while metal finger picks on his left hand plucked the guitar’s strings. He looked down at the guitar while he played, his tongue lolling out in concentration.

  “Snitchy, you cunt,” Biffo shouted.

  Steve Snitch startled and stopped playing. He looked up at Biffo and grinned. “All right Ratty, you old fucker. Good to see you again. So how’s life back in the outside world?”

  “Fucking shite, same as always,” Biffo said, smiling. He looked around for somewhere to sit, couldn’t find anywhere. “So you ready to fucking rock then, or what?”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, “just need to get my dreads and I’m all set. Can’t fucking wait to get back on stage.”

  Biffo nodded. “Yeah, you and me both. But change out of those pyjamas first, we’re not a fucking Boomtown Rats tribute band.”

  Steve laughed. “Yeah, no worries. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be all sorted.”

  Steve grunted as he sat forward and shuffled his feet off the practice amp. He leaned over and rested his guitar against the amp. Loud feedback whistled from the speaker. A man nearby clasped his hands over his ears. Another fiddled with his hearing aid.

  Mike Hock walked over and switched the amp off, then unplugged Steve’s guitar and swung its strap over his shoulder. “I’ll take this out to the van and check up on Fungal,” he said.

  “All right, Cocky?” Steve said. “Ratty got you fetching and carrying then?”

  Mike nodded. He smiled. “Yeah, he’s still the same old fucking slave driver.”

  “Give us a hand getting up then, Cocky.” Steve held out a hand and Mike clasped it, pulled him onto his feet. Steve grimaced. “Fucking hell, my legs are getting worse.” He limped across the threadbare carpet with Mike and they left the lounge together.

  Biffo eased himself into the armchair Steve had vacated and took out his electronic cigarette. He puffed on it, occasionally glancing at the door.

  The old man with the anarchy tattoo struggled to his feet and hobbled across the room. His back was arched, almost bent double over the walking frame as he inched his way closer. Several minutes passed before he stood before Biffo. His wheezing breath came in short, gasping pants. His face had turned a bright red colour.

  “You all right mate?” Biffo asked. He took another drag on his electronic cigarette while he waited for the man to catch his breath.

  “Didn’t you used to be Biffo Ratbastard?” the man finally asked, in a rasping, hoarse voice.

  Biffo nodded. “Yeah, mate. Still am, in fact.”

  “I’ve got all Sick Bastard’s records and CDs,” the man said, proudly. “I’ve not got nothing to play them on, mind, but they were a fucking great band.”

  “Thanks. They’re all on entoTUNES now, so you could listen to them on there if you wanted?”

  “Yeah. Not the same though, is it? I couldn’t believe it when they moved Steve Snitch in here. Does being in a band not make much money then? I thought you’d all be fucking loaded.�
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  “Ah, we never did it for the money,” Biffo said. “Not like them 1970s tossers. Besides, Old Snitchy had an expensive operation to pay for, that’s how he ended up in here. He blew all his savings on it, couldn’t support himself no more.”

  The old man shook his head. “Damn fucking shame that. Still, it’s been good having him here. He plays his guitar to us every night and we all have a sing-song before bed time. So what are you doing here then, you moving in too?”

  Biffo laughed. “Nah mate, they’ll never get me in a place like this. I’m just here to pick Snitchy up. We’re reforming Sick Bastard, we’ve got a gig tonight at one of the other –” Biffo almost said death homes, and managed to catch himself just in time. “–retirement homes.”

  The old man’s eyes widened. “No fucking way. You need a roadie?”

  “Not really,” Biffo said. He watched the old man’s face drop, his shoulders slump. “But you’re welcome to come along with us if you want?”

  “Yeah, that’d be fucking great. Can my bird come too?” He gestured with one hand at a frail-looking old woman sitting by the door.

  Biffo shrugged. “Yeah, no worries. You’ll need to go in the back of the van with the equipment though.”

  “Great, thanks, I’ll go get her. You won’t leave without us?” Biffo shook his head. The old man hobbled away. “Oi Brenda, guess what?” he shouted.

  A few minutes later he returned with the old woman, Brenda, clinging onto his arm.

  “Is that right what my Brian here says, you’re taking us out for the night?” Brenda asked.

  Biffo nodded. “Yeah, that’s if you want to come. Do you like Sick Bastard too then?”

  Brenda smiled. “Of course I fucking do. So when are we going then?”

  “I’m just waiting for Snitchy to get dressed, then we’ll be off. You’ll be okay in the back of the van with the drums and shit?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not as fragile as I look. I used to live in a campervan before the bastards caught up with me and dragged me into this fucking dump.” She sighed. “Still, I wouldn’t have met my Brian here if they hadn’t.” She looked at Brian and smiled. Brian smiled back.

  “Are we fucking off then or what?” Steve Snitch shouted from the doorway.

  Biffo looked up and smiled. Thick, grey dreadlocks were gaffer-taped to either side of Steve’s bald head, and hung down his shoulders like twines of crusty rope. He held a red baseball cap with a black Sick Bastard logo patch sewn onto it in his left hand. He wore camouflage shorts and huge black Doc Martens, and a red and black striped mohair jumper that was at least three sizes too big for him. He placed the baseball cap on his head, covering the gaffer-tape. The finished effect was striking, and took several years off him.

  “Looking good there, Snitchy,” Biffo called out. He stood up and gestured at Brian and Brenda. “Come on then, if you’re coming. If you want to get dressed or something first we’ll be waiting outside in the van.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Brian said, “we’ll come as we are.”

  “You sure?” Biffo asked. “It’s a bit cold out.”

  “Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

  When he reached the doorway, Biffo turned to wait for the old couple to catch him up. Brian hobbled across the room painfully slowly, his walking frame inching across the carpet. Brenda sauntered by his side, keeping pace with him.

  Back in the reception area, Biffo turned a latch on the main door and held the door open while Steve Snitch walked through. A shrill alarm sounded. The man sitting behind the desk jumped to his feet and rushed toward the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, shouting to be heard above the sound of the alarm. He grabbed Steve by the arm and pulled him back inside. The alarm silenced.

  “Got a fucking gig to get to, haven’t I?” Steve said. He tried to wrestle his arm free, but the man held him tight. “Fucking get off me, you cunt.”

  “Look mate,” Biffo said to the man, “we’ve got permission to take him out for a few hours. Check with your manager if you don’t believe me. We’ve already been through this twice already, you said we could take him.”

  The man looked at Biffo. “You’ll need to sign him out first, and he’ll need a GPS tag in case he gets lost. You understand that you’re responsible for his safety the second he walks through that door? If anything happens to him it’s nothing to do with us.”

  “Yeah,” Biffo said. “It was all in the forms I had to sign.”

  The man wrestled Steve toward the desk. He took a thin yellow plastic strap from a desk drawer and fastened it around Steve’s wrist. He picked up a hand-held scanner and scanned a bar-code printed on the yellow strap. The scanner beeped and the man released Steve’s arm.

  “It’s too fucking tight,” Steve said, pulling at the strap.

  The man shrugged. “You’ll get used to it. And don’t even think about taking it off because I’ll know about it if you do.” He picked up his entoPAD and turned to Biffo. “I’ll need your thumb-print to sign him out, then he’s all yours.” He held out the entoPAD and Biffo took it.

  “These two are coming as well,” Biffo said. He pointed a thumb at Brian and Brenda.

  The man looked at the old couple and shook his head. “First I’ve heard of it. I was told there was just one going out tonight.”

  “Are you sure? I distinctly remember stating three people on the forms. Maybe you should go and check with your manager? I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble by delaying us any further than you have already.”

  The man glared at Biffo. Biffo smiled back. The man shrugged. “Fair enough, take them all. But make sure they’re back by nine-thirty, or I’ll need to send someone to collect them.”

  “Not a problem,” Biffo said, still smiling.

  After Brian and Brenda had their GPS straps attached, Biffo pressed his thumb against the entoPAD and handed it back. Then they joined Mike Hock and Fungal Matters, who were waiting outside by the van.

  * * *

  Colin Baxter sat in his armchair. He held his entoPAD up in front of his face and peered over the top at the workfare assistant. It was coming up to the end of the assistant’s shift for the day and he walked around the lounge, checking everyone was okay before handing over responsibility to his replacement. Fiona Scott was asleep, slumped over in her armchair and snoring loudly. The assistant prodded her awake and asked if she needed anything. Fiona stared up at him, but said nothing. The assistant grunted and moved on, Fiona went back to sleep. He reached Louise Brown and asked if she needed anything.

  “Yeah, I need a piss,” Louise said.

  “Well go and have one, then.”

  Louise stood up and walked to the door. She looked over her shoulder and winked at Colin. Colin nodded and smiled back. The workfare assistant continued his end-of-shift rounds. By the time he reached Colin, Louise had returned. She raised a thumb to Colin and retook her seat.

  “You need anything?” the assistant asked Colin.

  “Nah mate, you’re all right,” Colin said.

  The assistant turned to Dave. “You need anything?”

  “Nope.”

  The workfare assistant moved on. When he finished his tour of the lounge he left the room. Colin looked at Dave and nodded. Louise was already on her feet and moving toward the lounge door. Colin and Dave joined her. Colin pulled a triangular block of wood he had found in the store-cupboard from his pocket. While Dave and Louise wrestled with Fiona Scott’s armchair, Colin wedged the block of wood under the door and kicked it into place with his slipper. He joined Louise and Dave, and together they pushed Fiona’s armchair against the door. Fiona didn’t stir from her sleep.

  “You think that will hold it?” Louise asked.

  “Should do,” Colin said. “Is The Gestapo secure upstairs?”

  Louise smiled. “Yeah. I tied a belt round the handle to his office door, tied it to the door opposite. As long as nobody goes upstairs he’ll be in there for the night.”r />
  Dave plugged his entoPAD into the lounge’s speakers and The Exploited’s Fuck The System blared out. Colin walked over to the French doors and opened them. He went back to the dining table and tried to push it toward the doors. The table’s castors were stiff, unresponsive.

  “Give us a hand with this,” he shouted.

  Dave helped him push the table through the French doors, while Louise picked up a foot-stool and followed them. They pushed the table out into the back yard and up against the gate. Louise put the foot-stool down in front of the table.

  “So who’s doing it then?” Colin asked. “I don’t reckon I’ll be able to, what with my bad knee and everything.”

  “I should be able to manage it,” Dave said.

  He put a hand on Colin’s shoulder to steady himself while he climbed onto the foot-stool. He leaned forward and grabbed the top of the table, shuffled his stomach onto it. His legs kicked out wildly and his slippers flew off.

  “Be careful,” Louise said.

  Dave brought his knees up under him and reached out for the gate while he pulled himself to his feet. He stretched up and gripped the bolt grasp. He tugged and twisted. The bolt moved millimetre by millimetre before springing free.

  Dave grinned down. “Got the fucker.” His smile faded. “Oh fuck, it’s a long way down.”

  “Just come down the same way you went up,” Louise said.

  Dave crouched down, sliding his back down the wooden gate. He sat down on the table with his legs dangling over the edge. Colin and Louise took hold of a foot each while Dave shuffled onto his stomach.

  “We’ve got you, mate,” Colin said, “just jump off.”

  Dave shuffled himself backwards. Colin and Louise moved their grip up to his knees, ready to let him slide into their arms when he fell. Dave didn’t move any further.

  “You sure you’ve got me?” he asked.

  “Yeah mate,” Colin said.

  Dave’s fingers squeaked as they slid across the table. He dropped. Colin and Louise staggered back as they caught him between them.

  “Well done,” Louise said. She hugged Dave briefly, then picked up the foot-stool and took it back inside. Dave retrieved his slippers and shuffled his feet into them.