Skinhead Read online

  Joe laughed and touched Don’s arm. “Get a load of ’im,” he clowned, affecting the vicar’s mode of walk.

  “You bastard!”

  Joe glanced round the hall, trying to catch sight of the speaker. It certainly didn’t sound like one of the flock – not using that language here.

  Albert stepped forward, joining the vicar as a team pitted against a superior side.

  Joe felt apprehension race down his spine. He and Albert had attended the same school and the only boy he had never been able to lick was Albert Newton. He recalled several bloody noses and black eyes when he antagonized the same Albert.

  “You don’t belong here, Joe,” Albert said evenly. “Get lost! Go bovver some other function but forget this one!”

  Joe forced a scowl intended to frighten his opponent. He couldn’t back down. Not in front of the mob.

  “Please...” Peter Bloomfield smiled at Albert, placing a restraining arm before the youth, and took a tentative step to Joe.

  Billy growled, aiming a solid kick at the vicar’s groin...

  Don whooped, tearing into three timid youngsters near him; his tool flashing, hitting; his boots finding their soft targets without much satisfaction gained.

  Before he knew what was happening, Albert lunged forward, slamming a right, left, right into Joe’s face. Joe staggered back. Albert closed in, not letting those deadly boots get freedom of movement, his bunched fists pounding into Joe’s unprotected middle.

  From his undistinguished position on the dusty floor, Peter Bloomfield watched the battle with prayers on his lips. His groin hurt, his hopes pinned on Albert’s initiative. If only the others would back Albert...

  Albert didn’t require backing at this stage. He was hammering Joe into insensibility, driving rights and lefts at the skinhead leader... forcing him back... back... back against a solid wall from which there was no escape.

  “That’s enough m’lad!” A heavy hand pulled Albert off his enemy.

  Joe shook his head, desperately trying to clear the fog that threatened to make him a sitting-bird. He heard the strange voice, saw Albert half-turn away from him and...

  “God!” Albert sank to his knees as Joe’s boot found his stomach. He wanted to be sick... couldn’t.

  “Little swine!” The stranger slashed a stiff-hand across Joe’s throat, sending the skinhead reeling. Then, swinging into action, he vaulted the prostrate Albert, rabbit-punching Billy to his knees before making a flying tackle that brought Don down with a whump!

  Joe struggled to his feet, his throat raw. Through the mist hanging over the hall he saw Don struggling with the stranger. It wasn’t his fight, he reasoned and, sensing the nausea in his guts, he stumbled out of the hall into the fresh air. He was sick in the street, thankful for the fact that none of his mates could see him.

  Inside the hall, bedlam reigned...

  Don fought back with all the ferocity of his mind. His tool knocked the attacker flat, then, using his boots, he slammed kick after kick into unprotected ribs until the sickening sound of cracking bone told him he’d done enough damage.

  Backing away, he helped Billy to his feet, but found his way blocked by Albert.

  “I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Don snarled, brandishing his tool.

  Albert shrugged and moved aside.

  Don backed to the door and lumbered by the semi-unconscious Billy, As he pushed the door open, Albert leapt forward, his foot a blur in the subdued lighting of the hall. He felt the toe dig into Don’s side and steadied himself for a second kick where it would count.

  “Albert... NO!!!”

  Albert hesitated, watching Don heave himself through the swinging door with Billy still clutched under one arm.

  “Don’t let them make you into what they are!”

  Albert turned slowly. Peter Bloomfield swayed unsteadily before him. The vicar’s face was a study of ecstasy and agony.

  “Don’t, Albert...”

  Albert relaxed. The fury was spent. He went to the vicar, supporting him now.

  “We’ll need men of your calibre,” the vicar said through his pain. “Think about what I suggested, Albert...”

  “Excuse me, sir...”

  Peter Bloomfield turned his attention on the stranger in their midst. Albert eyed the man with outright suspicion. He didn’t trust sudden appearances nor did he like what was formulating in his mind. The man smelt like a copper. “I’m a police officer...” The stranger said.

  Albert stiffened automatically.

  “Do any of you know the men who attacked you?”

  Peter Bloomfield smiled wearily. He glanced at Albert, feeling that this was the youth’s moment of truth. He said: “Personally, I don’t want to press charges, officer.”

  Albert smiled with his own weariness, too. He was being pressured. He knew it, as sure as he could feel the strength surging back into the vicar. He released the other, taking a few steps away to stand aloof from the interrogation.

  “We’re trying to encourage teenagers to accept us,” the vicar continued. “It wouldn’t help our cause to lay a complaint on one specific boy, or girl.”

  The police officer grunted. “That’s where you’re wrong, sir. It would help a great deal. These young thugs need to be taught a lesson. A six-month sentence would serve ’em right!”

  Albert mentally agreed. Joe Hawkins and his mob needed a dose of prison.

  “I disagree, officer,” Bloomfield remarked. “They need charity and tolerance...” His gaze swung to encompass Albert now.

  The plainclothes man shrugged and turned to leave. “If you happen to remember who they were, sir – get in touch with your local police station... before they commit murder, sir!” He opened the door and departed with a thought-wish expression.

  “Mr. Bloomfield...”

  The vicar smiled at Albert.

  “I’ll take that grant you spoke about!”

  Peter Bloomfield held out his hand. Perhaps, he thought, the agony searing his insides was worthwhile after all. “I’ll make the arrangements, Albert. You’ll make a wonderful policeman.”

  Albert grinned. “That’s debatable, sir – but I won’t let Joe and his mob get away with what they’ve done when I’m in uniform...”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Every Tuesday, Joe left the house as though he was going to work. In actuality, he didn’t. Never on Tuesday! Tuesday was his day for a piece... a very special piece.

  At Swete Street he almost got clobbered by a taxi-cab and he spent five minutes recovering, blasting passers-by with a violence that frightened off several old biddies going to the Co-op for their shopping. By the time he had passed the station where cabbies gathered looking for fares, he had cooled somewhat. But not enough. He stalked to one cab, thrust his head inside the open side-window, and cursed the driver until the man called for help.

  Joe didn’t wait for reinforcements to arrive. He knew better. Cabbies in this district could handle themselves – especially when they outnumbered the opposition!

  He was feeling big when he arrived at her house.

  Every Tuesday, her mother went shopping – not locally as most women hereabouts did, but to Ilford where bargains could be found and the larger stores offered a greater variety of goods for the housewife.

  “Joe...” she hissed as she opened the front door.

  “Christ, Sally...” He stepped inside, feeling her hot tongue probing his mouth, her hands feverishly unzipping his flies.

  “Oh, Joe...”

  “Can’t you bleedin’ wait?”

  “No, Joe... feel me!”

  He felt her breasts with their hard-tipped response arousing him immediately. He felt lower, between her thighs getting the same urgent reaction.

  “Joe... Hurry...”

  He rushed her along the short, narrow hall, feeling the almost impossible hurry she insisted upon. They were practically naked when they reached her cramped room – her abject surrender evident when she flung herself on the unmade bed and
opened her legs wide.

  He flung his clothes across the room, unable to tear his gaze from where her hand rested... agitating herself into acceptance of what was about to happen.

  “Joe...” She held her arms out, shuddering as she saw his nudity.

  He fell on her, fumbling for contact...

  “Joe...” she wailed as he inserted his penis. Then as he continued to plunge up and down on her, she gave herself totally to his frantic pleasure... gyrating; moaning; begging him to go faster...

  “Okay?” he asked, rolling from her.

  “Joe...” Tears stung her eyes. It had been beautiful. What she wanted from him every night of the week; what she couldn’t have because her father forbade her to associate with a bastard like Joe.

  “Let’s have a kip.”

  She snuggled against his naked chest. Her hand fondled him, loving the slickness of what had recently been her passion. “Marry me, Joe.”

  He stiffened. “You’re crazy, Sally. We ain’t old enough.”

  “I’d run away with you, Joe...”

  “Christ,” he exploded. “You’re fourteen, Sally!”

  “And I take the Pill so you can...”

  “Jeeze, I know, doll.”

  “Don’t that mean somethin’?”

  “Yeah, crawl over me. I’m getting the urge again...”

  Her body flowed through his greedy hands, her thighs straddling him.

  “Cor...” He kissed a breast, hands actively working between her thighs.

  She bent over him, positioning herself... all fourteen years of experience doing what came naturally on their Tuesday.

  “I’m ready,” Joe whispered...

  She sank onto him, loving the feeling of his penis buried in her body.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “It was lovely, Joe.” She lay by his side, her hand toying with his genitals.

  He felt sleepy. Funny, he thought, how he wanted to sleep after a good screw. “That’s terrific,” he growled, twisting on one side.

  “Joe...?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Can’t we run away an’ get married?”

  “No!”

  “Why not? Others do...”

  “You’re only fourteen.”

  “So what? I can take everything you’ve got, can’t I?”

  “When I’m ready to give, doll,” he rasped.

  She giggled playing with him. “It won’t take long, Joe ’awkins.”

  “Crissakes, you’ve ’ad it twice already.”

  “So what?” She sulked, taking her hands from his flesh, rolling on her back and brushing his groping hand away with a certain amount of petulance.

  “Shit!” He sat up in the bed and stared at the small window with its thin curtains doing nothing to hide a view of brick wall beyond.

  “Joe...”

  “Wot?”

  “Don’t you love me?”

  “Yeah!”

  “You’re a rotten bastard. All you want is what I let you have every Tuesday.”

  “You enjoy it, too!”

  “Sure I do – ’cause you’re shovin’ it into me!”

  Joe felt a sudden flow of energy. “Want it now?”

  She took his hand and placed it on him. “No! If you’re feeling horny, work it off yourself!”

  “S’truth,” he panted, feeling over her nakedness. “This ain’t my week...”

  “Joe... don’t do that unless you want to...”

  “Wot?”

  She whimpered. “That...”

  He crawled down the bed, down... kissing her sides, her hip, her stomach.

  “Oh, God – Joe... Joe...”

  His hands lifted her buttocks. His mouth wandered over each thigh, down to the knee, back to the inner tenderness of the thighs and his hands kept opening the thighs, wider... wider...

  So intent were they on their lovemaking, they couldn’t hear the slam of the front door, the heavy footfalls of Sally’s mother as she approached her daughter’s bedroom.

  At forty-seven, Mrs. Morris looked, and acted, like a woman ten years older. The harsh war years had taken a deadly toll; and the constant battle to provide for a growing family had sapped all ambition. She existed now, for her infrequent shopping trips to Ilford and Romford; for the tea with gossip when she visited her sister in Barking; for the once monthly night at the pictures. She no longer fought her husband for her rights nor did she care what Sally did. She had tried with the girl – tried desperately hard to make her have respect for herself and stay away from that awful Joe Hawkins.

  Today, she didn’t feel good. The migraine had begun almost the second she entered Ilford and increased steadily until she had been forced to abandon her shopping and return home. She didn’t like the frequency with which these blinding headaches struck; yet she did not want to see her doctor. She had a fear of medical men – a carry over from the war when she witnessed an on-the-spot amputation in a shelter.

  As she slowly climbed the narrow stairs to her bedroom she paused, frowning. The sounds coming from Sally’s room were suspiciously like those associated with passionate lovemaking. She listened, forcing herself to ignore the migraine for those vital moments...

  “Oh, God...” She hurried now, moaning softly, hands shaking as she turned the bedroom door knob.

  She closed her eyes tightly against the sight confronting her. “Sally! God, no!” A black sheet of pain covered her head. She clung to the swinging door for support, unable to watch their cavortings.

  Sally couldn’t stop herself. She was at the peak of her orgasm. Her eyes rolled open, and fixed on her mother’s face...

  She wanted to yell; to draw away from her lover and hide beneath the rumpled covers.

  For the first time in her young life, Sally Morris felt sorrow for her mother...

  “Yes... yes... yes...” Joe’s panted exhortation beat on her ears, his body a pistoning battering ram pressing her down in the creaking bed.

  The physical sensations blew away her shame.

  And then, it was over; and the dregs of passion ebbed into an ocean of remorse as she struggled free of Joe’s weight and covered her nakedness.

  “Wot’s the big idea?” Joe asked testily.

  She pointed, silently accusing.

  Joe glanced over his shoulder and felt a flush of hatred. How dare the old bitch come in on them! he thought. Tuesday was his day in this house!

  “Mum...” Sally grabbed a blanket, hid her nudity and ran to her mother. Tears rolled down her cheeks, matching those staining Mrs. Morris’s face.

  The woman brushed aside the hand on her wrist.

  “Please, Mum... let me explain...”

  “You little tramp! You slut!” The woman’s eyes opened, staring wildly. “Get that bastard out of this room...”

  Joe leapt to his feet. “You old cow...”

  “Joe!” Sally swung round. “Don’t call Mum names.”

  He paraded his naked, sweating flesh round the room, deliberately taunting both of them.

  “Your father wasn’t wrong about ’im...” Mrs. Morris groaned, pain lancing through her head. She leant against the wall as her legs turned to rubber.

  “Make ’im leave, Sal...” she sobbed.

  “Joe...” The girl pleaded with tearful eyes.

  With an ugly grin, Joe began dressing, taking a perverted delight in their eyes watching him. He’d been satisfied with Sally’s performance and now there was the bonus of knowing that her mother could not quite prevent herself peeping to see what he had to offer. Only when he had gratified himself did he leave them alone and walk downstairs to the front door. Before opening it, he paused and shouted: “When you want what Sally likes be sure an’ let me know, Mrs. Morris...” Smiling, he slammed the door behind him, and walked to the nearest pub without one regret, without the slightest thought for Sally’s predicament.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Whenever Sergeant Jack Piper came home, his parents dipped deep into their meagre savings for a special m
eal. Nothing was too good for their soldier son, the Pipers always told neighbours – and they meant it too.

  Jack knew the circumstances and felt a bastard when he sat down to a perfectly-cooked meal with all the trimmings. But, he never complained, never spoke to his mother and requested a smaller tribute. He just fitted in with her plans and then, the day he returned to base, he slipped his father whatever he could afford to replenish the family coffers. Usually, it worked out well for the old couple. Jack was a decent son. Having a jar with the boys was always secondary to seeing that mum and dad had enough to exist upon. No matter what part of the world he was serving in, Jack always managed to send a parcel home.

  Jack Piper loathed the district his parents insisted on making their home. He had been glad to join the Army just to get away from the rows of houses, the smoke-belching factories, the dirt-littered streets and the old-before-their-time people with their sad faces. He had never been able to understand why his dad wanted to stay put in the old, semi-slum home. His dad had been somebody in the Queen’s Army in Africa and India – a colour-sergeant possessing medals and ribbons galore.

  “Do you still follow the Hammers?” his dad asked.

  Jack laughed. “When I can. They ain’t doing too good lately.”

  “Give ’em time, son,” The old soldier suggested placidly. “They’re a young team. One of these days we’ll be on top of the First Division.”

  Jack lit a cigarette and held his lighter out for his dad to place his worn pipe against the flame. He didn’t want to discuss West Ham’s chances of ever again topping the Division. He frankly had grown away from the local team, preferring to lend his support to an Army match down in Aldershot. “Found many winners over the sticks?” he asked, tactfully switching subjects.

  Charles Piper glanced in the direction of the kitchen before answering. He knew that Madge knew he had the occasional flutter on the nags but he didn’t like voicing the information in her hearing. They had long ago reached an understanding on his betting, and his visit to the local. What she didn’t know didn’t cause friction in the house. Each of them went along without ever mentioning the small win, the quick nip, the Saturday night dart game where stout and companionship compensated for all that was vastly different from the old days.