Skinhead Page 8

  Jack grinned. He was a good-looking man in his late thirties. When his wife said he looked like a youthful Cary Grant when he grinned she was not far wrong. Of course, he wished he had the star’s money. He would be able to afford a decent home for his parents, a plush flat for his wife and a private-school education for his two kids. For himself, he would buy a Rover car, a small cabin-cruiser, a retreat far away from the London filth and his freedom from the Army. Not that he found much wrong with an Army career. The forces had treated him generously and he had no valid complaints – except one... he didn’t enjoy the unnecessary bull when some big shot decided to visit the camp.

  The ancient features cracked into a smile. “I’ve had my wins, son. A tanner each way treble is good enough for me.”

  God, Jack thought, they still take tanner bets down here. “Anything worth betting on today?”

  Charles Piper puffed contentedly on his briar, gazing into the fire. “Could be Mister Piercer will give them all a shock,” he said with accumulated wisdom. “He’s been running in low-class company. I say he’s been held back for today’s big race.”

  Jack grinned at a dancing devil in the fire. “Ten bob each way, eh?”

  His father looked up, startled. “That’s a lot of money to wager, son.”

  “I can afford it, Dad. Fact is, I’d like to split the proceeds – call it a father and son bet, eh?”

  The old man shrugged. He loved his son, and the respect that a man his age expected from an offspring. He wondered how many men his age in this area could get the feeling of parental love that they shared. Not many, he guessed. Not many!

  “I’m not certain about the horse, son...”

  “I am, Dad! Agreed it’s a fifty-fifty proposition?”

  “Agreed, lad,” Charles Piper said, hiding the tears which threatened to spoil the gesture.

  “Which bookie do you normally use?”

  “Dick Hedley.”

  “What time is the race?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “Right – soon’s Mum has dinner served we’ll shoot down and make the bet.”

  “Jack...” Watery eyes surveyed the son.

  “Forget it, Dad! Values have changed, that’s all. Tanners are fine for old age pensioners but we’re paid pretty good money in the Army today.”

  His mother stepped into the room. She had heard the conversation and decided it was time to rescue her husband from an overly-emotional experience. “If you gentlemen will excuse the cook,” she laughed, “dinner is ready. I’m afraid it’s only bangers and mash but can guarantee the sausages are the best in London.”

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” Jack said with a smile. Embracing his mother he added, “You remember how I love bangers...”

  She shook her head. “No, tell me, son.”

  Entering the kitchen, Jack wanted to cry on his mother’s shoulder. Grandma’s best china was on the table and heaped mash on his plate was probably what they both took during any given week of his absence. The six sizzling sausages for him and the three for each of them had broken the Post Office account. “It’s fantastic, Mum,” he said with a gulp. “I feel like a general...”

  His mother laughed. “Get away with you, Jack Piper. Your generals eat caviar and smoked salmon and sirloin steaks. I remember once when Dad and I were in India and Sir John Clacksley came to the mess for dinner. He had a dozen oysters, a pheasant, soup, a Bombay duck and sweet with black coffee. And do you know what he said about the dinner afterwards?”

  Jack shrugged. “What?”

  “He said, ‘Why is it always a sparse meal when one is entertained in India?’”

  Jack gazed at the table before him. “I think Sir John was a bloody bore! This meal is fit for a Prince of Wales and I don’t give a damn if Wales like sausages or not.”

  Jack Piper didn’t pay much attention to the coal delivery men when they interrupted the meal. His father went to attend to the necessary arrangements for removing the wooden slat they had across the coal bunker and came back to finish his meal. Then, when the knock sounded, Jack leant back and waited until his father settled the bill, unconsciously adding this amount to what he would give the old man when he finally went back to his unit.

  He half-heard his father’s quavering voice contest the cost of coal, and figured it for another increase the old man hadn’t heard about until...

  “Pay up or else, you old bastard...”

  Jack stiffened. In this district people addressed one another with what amounted to blasphemy, he knew. But this... He jumped to his feet, marched stiffly to the back door and stared at the cocky kid with a coal sack over one shoulder.

  “Or else what?” he asked.

  Joe Hawkins glared at the stranger. He hadn’t expected the old couple to have visitors – certainly not one wearing the uniform of an army sergeant, “’E’s refusin’ to pay up,” he said defiantly.

  “Jack – look at this...” Charles Piper held out the altered bill to his son.

  Jack took one fast look and laughed. “Sonny – your arithmetic is haywire. This says five times sixteen bob is five quid. That isn’t right.”

  “Look, mister,” Joe snarled, refusing to back-pedal. “I collect wot it says on the bill. I want five nicker or else.”

  “Or else what?” Jack said softly.

  “I takes the coal back, is wot,” Joe snarled, again.

  “You’ll leave it where it is,” Jack said. “I’ll phone the office...”

  “You’ll fuck off!” Joe shouted.

  Jack studied the bill closely now. He sighed. “Seems this has been altered.”

  Joe tensed. He could handle old age pensioners but a soldier... those boots matched his for effect! “Do you want bovver?”

  “Yeah, sonny,” Jack said, smiling coldly.

  Joe didn’t hesitate. His right foot lashed out seeking a vulnerable spot.

  Jack Piper grinned, catching the foot, flipping the rest of Joe on his back. It was so simple when one took into account all those experienced instructors who trained men in the art of self-defence.

  Joe came to his feet, caution forgotten. He had always made an extra quid at this house and he didn’t want any clever soldier to spoil his untaxed income. He shot forward, hands slashing air, feet trying to find a solid groin to dig into... finding only a hard fist to the jaw, a knife-edged hand to the Adam’s Apple and a boot in the bollocks to send him gasping amongst the newly-delivered coal.

  “Tell the office to send the bill by post,” The soldier growled. “If it’s right we’ll pay. If it isn’t we’ll take it up with the accountant.”

  As Joe struggled to climb off the shifting coals, Jack Piper guided his father back into the house, and locked the door in Joe’s face.

  All the fury of his encounter burst like a bomb inside Joe’s mind. He had been relegated to an inferior position and this riled him; more – it positively went against his grain. He wanted to make the bastard pay for the indignity of being sent on his arse in the coal; for being shown to fabricate delivery slips.

  Shaking his fist at the Piper house, Joe swore: “You’ll pay for this, you bastard!” He glowered at Jack’s grinning face in the kitchen window and stomped off to berate his mate for not coming to his side in a time of extreme peril...

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “’Im an’ ’is mates,” Joe concluded as he fondled his latest weapon – an ancient, rusted iron bar with sharp teeth serrating one edge. No doubt it had once been a gear-activator, a sliding set of teeth to regulate an obsolete device.

  “It don’t pay to bash-up soldiers,” Don remarked more to himself than Joe.

  “’Ere,” Billy interrupted with sudden enthusiasm, “did you read the paper tonight?”

  Joe studied his closest confederate, wondering what bright-eyed inspiration was forthcoming. One could never tell about Billy. He read every edition of the Standard – practically devoured each word a dozen times over – and although most of the articles and news went wa
y over his head, he did have a knack for recounting specific items by heart.

  “They arrested Ronnie Goodman larst night!”

  Joe was aware of a tightening in his chest, a butterflying sensation deep in his stomach. “And?” he asked eagerly.

  “Six months!” Billy said proudly.

  The tightness developed into a steel band round Joe’s chest. He could hardly breathe.

  “’Is mob...”

  Joe snapped, “’Is mob needs a new leader!”

  Billy grinned. “Yeah!”

  “I know Hymie Goldschmidt,” Don offered.

  “Ronnie’s lieutenant,” Billy cut in.

  “Christ,” Joe barked, “don’t I know it, too!” He waved aside Don’s open mouth and allowed wonderful thoughts to trickle through his mind. If Goodman had been put away for six months he might just be able to swing the command of his mob. It would take diplomacy; no single group of skinheads ever willingly joined forces with another yet... they were both West Ham supporters and both lots came from Plaistow. It may not be so difficult...

  “Don, find Hymie an’ arsk if he’ll talk to me.”

  Billy rubbed his hands gleefully. “Cor, mate – won’t it be sumfin’ if’n we can get ’em in with us?”

  Joe stared at his pal. How the hell he ever read so much and spoke so badly was a mystery. Even Joe felt he had a better command of the Queen’s English than Billy. “You’re a cunt...” he flung at Billy.

  The youth grinned. “That means I’m useful, eh Joe?”

  Ignoring the standard remark, Joe swung on Don. “Find Hymie. Tell ’im I want a meeting.”

  “Wot about the soldier?”

  Joe smiled evily. “If Hymie an’ Ronnie’s mob join us we can beat the ’ell out of that bastard!”

  *

  Hymie Goldschmidt was a Jew. His father owned an empire of rag-trade outlets near Aldgate and they lived as his grandfather had lived in Prussia – in squalor conditions. He refused to belong to his native nation – preferring, always, to sponsor the Israeli cause and plough his gains into bonds for a foreign country. He did not sympathize with his English relatives nor would he ever bend a knee to accept the dogma that England, as a Christian land, could have anything he wanted... unless, of course, one took into account the plentiful supply of cash in this God-forbidden island. In all his business dealings, Solly Goldschmidt acted on the belief that an Englishman was a sucker and that the Jew-boy was supreme when it came to making money. He spent very little on family luxuries, accepting Council charity in the form of a home subsidised by the non-Kosher ratepayers, and devalued the worth of the security he had by possessing a British passport.

  Where Solly was Orthodox, Hymie said “to hell with all that crap” and – when his father was working – helped himself to large ham sandwiches, bacon and eggs and anything else he figured would drive his mother insane. Many a time his grandmother scrubbed out their refrigerator to cleanse it after Hymie had deliberately insinuated ham into its Kosher depths.

  As for Israel – well, Hymie must surely have been on the “most wanted” lists of their Secret Service. He hated Israel with Arabian loathing; he cursed the day Palestine had been handed over to “those European misfits” and offered proof that “no evidence existed to back the Jewish claims to the occupied territories they now controlled.”

  Hymie was, to all his friends, a non-Jew; a dis-believer; a semi-Christian. He even went to the extent of attending Mass with some of his mates or looking in on a service in St. Paul’s Cathedral whenever arguments at home drove him to emphasise his Anglicized nationality. Occasionally, when the Rabbi forced him, Hymie would attend his Synagogue – but always under protest and always dragged by his father.

  In a household dedicated to the accumulation of money and subjected to the belief that the Jews were God’s “chosen children” – which he denied fervently – Hymie was, without any doubt, the greatest throwback in history. He was intelligent – knew every aspect of British history; could place spots on a global blank map with the accuracy of a Marco Polo; quote from Burns, Shelley, Wilde and Keats; argue politics and religion with great authority; bedazzle accountants with a natural Jewish flair for profits-versus-overheads.

  Yet, notwithstanding, Hymie was also a skinhead – a violent little thug devoting his energies to the dismemberment of those who professed to love, adore and understand.

  When Ronnie Goodman was sentenced to six months Hymie believed he could assume command of the mob. Believed...

  His ego was shattered when the mob refused to obey his leadership edicts. He felt betrayed.

  When Don came to see him, Hymie was more than willing to throw-in his lot with yet another Gentile commander and reassess his situation. He didn’t make his feelings evident; he always hid his thoughts.

  “Alright, “he told Don, “Joe Hawkins has a name – but is he capable of leading a big mob?”

  Don glared at the Jew. Personally, he could have chopped the hook-nosed bastard to bits but he remembered how Joe would have acted. He forced a smile, and said, “Sure he can! Arsk anyone in Plaistow.”

  Hymie mentally agreed that Joe Hawkins had a name. There were enough people running scared to make him a suitable stand-in for Ronnie. Anyway, he wanted to set up a situation that would be resolved when Ronnie came out of prison. He wanted to watch the two leaders fight it out for supremacy. If either, or hopefully both, flopped then – maybe – he stood a chance of assuming ultimate command.

  “We have twenty-five in our mob – how many are in yours?”

  Don hesitated. Hymie knew, like everyone, the exact count. He tried to get around the issue. “That’s not the point...”

  “How many?” Hymie insisted sadistically. He had already decided to enlist the support of as many adherents as possible but he still had to place Don, and through him that bastard Joe Hawkins, on a spot.

  “Seven...”

  “Just seven?”

  Don tried to make sense of his mental fingers. His worst subject at school had always arithmetic.

  “Fifteen...”

  Hymie ignored the difference. He liked Don although he knew the other hated his guts. That, he told himself, came from the East Ender’s inherent belief that all Jews were bloodsucking moneylenders and slave-employers... a fact he could not deny without bringing in statistics to show that there were others – Gentiles – equally guilty of the same charge.

  “Where is Joe?”

  Don beamed success. “I’ll take you to ’im...”

  Hymie laughed inwardly. Dropped Hs spoke of servility and inferiority in his book. He went with Don...

  *

  “Alright,” Hymie said. “We join mobs!”

  Joe smiled. He didn’t particularly like the Jew-boy but he did respect Hymie’s abilities and his promise to bring Ronnie’s mob in with his.

  He thought of that bastard Piper.

  “Look, mate,” he told Hymie, “we’re goin’ to visit a house near ’ere tonight. I want a soldier done...”

  “That’s fine with us, Joe,” the Jew replied nonchalantly.

  “Bring your boys to the...” he thought, then said, “Greengage at seven-thirty eh?”

  “Right!” Hymie shook hands, sealing the bargain. It was official now – Joe’s mob had grown into a force worthy of his leadership.

  *

  Jack Piper got from his comfortable chair and glanced at his mother. She was snoozing, head propped on hands to make it appear she was interested in the television programme. Jack smiled, shook her, and said, “Mum – go to bed. It’s an awful show.”

  The old woman shook herself awake, trying to smile. “I’m sorry, son...”

  “Don’t be, mum – go to bed. Dad’s asleep too.” He motioned to his father who was curled in his end of the sofa with eyes tight shut and snores gently issuing from compressed lips.

  “He’s a silly old B,” Mrs. Piper said lovingly. “Can’t stand these late shows, he can’t.”

  Jack grinned. I
t was not quite nine-thirty and he knew their need for sleep. “Mum, I’m going to the boozer. I’ve got a key so why don’t you and dad go to bed?”

  “What about your supper when you come in, son?”

  “Mum...” He placed an arm round her shoulder, helping her to her feet. “Forget that! I’m not a child now. I can make something to eat when I come home...”

  “You’re sure?” she asked with a true mother’s feeling every son was absolutely helpless.

  “I’m sure, mum. The army taught me to fend for myself.”

  She laughed, throwing her arms around him. “Jack...” she sighed. “Jack... you’re a wonderful boy!” She kissed his cheek, then eyed her husband. “Isn’t he a soppy date?”

  They shook the old man awake and helped him upstairs. Jack knew that the Scotch – Teacher’s from the off-licence – had taken its toll. His father wasn’t used to a treat and, especially, for six glasses neat. Jack had wondered about the amount consumed. He believed in the Teacher’s edict: Moderation has its rewards... or words to that effect. He didn’t knock Teacher’s Scotch whisky. He firmly held it as a friend of mankind. Providing one always held to the code of moderation, nothing gave such a feeling of well-being and relaxation as a good old Teacher’s did. For himself, he never drank Scotch unless the label had the distinctive name on it.

  When his father was safely in bed and his mother preparing to climb in beside him, Jack slipped from the house. Walking down the street, Jack felt that familiar desire to set fire to the slum properties. In his estimation – after seeing some of the places the army had to offer in far-flung regions of the globe – this district was sadly in need of an arsonist’s expertise. He couldn’t stand the run-down factories, the shops with their cheap goods, the overall impression of poverty and low income buying.

  He was feeling in a bitter mood as he reached the local. He didn’t honestly wish to enter. It was always the same these days when he came home on leave. He felt so bloody sorry for the old men sitting around the lonely bar. It wasn’t too bad for the dockers and the Ford workers. They got a bloody good screw. But the pensioners – shit! he thought savagely, they’ve been robbed of decency begging to a Welfare system that demands they queue in sterile, unfriendly offices and go down on bended knee to some supercilious Civil Servant who only knows the rule-book method of handling people. Men like his dad who fought for their country didn’t deserve to be treated as names in a book, rubber stamps on triplicate forms. They were men, and women. Solid people. The honest backbone of Britain. They deserved much better than a socialist free-for-all and begging for supplementary benefits.