This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords edition 2012.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Also by Marcus Blakeston, available from the Amazon Kindle store:
Punk Faction: Retro-style
pulp fiction
1982, and Thatcher is busy
warmongering in the Falklands. Meanwhile, in a small Yorkshire town,
unemployed punks Colin, Brian and Stiggy are busy having a good time
getting drunk, sniffing glue, and going to see punk bands play
live.
But a simple misunderstanding with one of the local
skinheads soon escalates into an all-out war. And with tensions
between the two factions running high, it’s not the best of times
for top Oi band the Cockney Upstarts to play at nearby Shefferham.
The Cockney Upstarts are much loved by both punks and
skinheads alike, but is that enough to make them forget their
differences for just one night?
Not suitable for yuppies.
Also by Marcus Blakeston, available from the Amazon Kindle store:
The Meat Wagon:
Motorcycle gang mayhem with zombies
They are a brutal, outlaw motorcycle gang.
She is a single parent working the night shift at a petrol station.
Together they battle through
hordes of flesh eating ghouls to claim the ultimate prize.
When
civilisation comes to an end, the Warhogs motorcycle gang are too
busy partying to notice. But after their weekend of drink and drugs
fuelled debauchery is over they find themselves in a world gone mad.
Never having had anything but contempt for the law in their previous
life, they embrace their new situation and are ready to take full
advantage of it.
Holing up in a fenced off industrial estate
near Shefferham, it’s not long before they turn their thoughts to
the nearby Meadowside shopping centre and all the treasure it
contains – enough food and consumer goods for them to live in
complete luxury for the rest of their lives.
But with five
men and only one woman between them, there are more pressing needs to
sort out first...
Bonus second feature: Simon Goes Shopping
... with a baseball bat!
Warrior in Woolworths
I watched the two punks push through the Woolworths entrance door laughing to themselves, no doubt about something illegal they had just done or were planning to do. I glared at them menacingly, asserting my authority as custodian of the law in this shop, but they didn’t seem to be taking any notice of what was happening around them. If they had they wouldn’t have let the door swing shut and smack an old lady in the face as she was entering behind them. Or maybe they would. No fucking manners, these punk bastards.
I’d been watching them loitering around outside for about twenty minutes, mentally daring them to enter my lair. I can’t do anything about them being outside, you see, on account of it being a public highway. But once they come in here, things are different. This is my domain, and what I say goes. It’s my job to protect Woolworths property from thieving scum like that, and I’m very good at my job.
I hate punks, me. Hate them with a passion. They’re just a bunch of idle bastards sponging off the state while I pay my taxes to keep them in a life of luxury. Willie Whitelaw is right, a short sharp shock is what they need. If I had my way they would all be shipped off to the Falklands to fight the Argies, not lying around in bed all day. I would have been there myself in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for the shrapnel in my leg, a souvenir from my last tour in Belfast. Put these punk bastards in the army and they wouldn’t know what hit them. Hell, just get them out of bed in the morning and they’d probably faint from the exertion.
I watched the old lady struggle with the door, rubbing her cheek with one hand where it had hit her in the face, while she pulled a shopping trolley laden with groceries behind her. It was quite comical to watch, and I couldn’t help smiling. But then I saw Barbara on the till watching me intently and frowning. She’s a good ten years younger than me, so there’s not much of a chance of getting into her knickers, but it never hurts to keep your options open. There’s always the next staff Christmas party.
My eyes darted between Barbara, the two punks, and the old woman. The punks didn’t seem to have stolen anything yet, so they could wait a bit longer. I sighed, and walked over to the door, and held it open for the old woman. I glanced over at Barbara, and she was smiling at me. Result.
The old woman didn’t seem to be in any hurry to walk through the door, though. In fact she just stood there and looked at me.
“Thank you dear,” she said, and, get this, she stood her shopping trolley up and transferred it to her other hand before she walked through. And talk about walking slow. You would think she was the one with shrapnel in her leg the way she hobbled around.
I grunted at her when she eventually got around to entering the shop fully, and let the door swing closed behind her. I watched her saunter towards the pick and mix sweets, put down her shopping trolley, and lift up the lid to the tub of fruit gums. I watched long enough to make sure she didn’t pop any sweets into her mouth instead of paying for them, then turned my attention back to the two punks. They were making their way through the shop in the direction of the escalator, as if they had a god given right to be there.
Following them, I reached for the radio in my inside jacket pocket and pressed the transmit button.
“Sam, you there?”
Sam is my subordinate. He’s always slacking off somewhere, he doesn’t seem to take the job seriously at all. So it didn’t come as any surprise when he didn’t reply for several seconds.
“What’s up, John?”
“Two punks, heading up the escalator to the first floor. I’ll keep an eye on them and let you know if I need backup.”
“Roger, John. I’ll be on standby.”
Yeah, right. Like he’s ever on anything but standing by while I do all the work.
I put the radio back in my pocket, and with a final glance at the old woman to check she was putting the sweets in the correct paper bag, I made my way quickly to the foot of the escalator. They were already half way up it when I arrived, and one of them turned in my direction so I darted to one side, where the pots and pans are displayed. I didn’t think I had been seen, but it had certainly been a close call. Luckily my army training had made me quick witted, so I was able to blend into the background in time.
I picked up a chrome-plated kettle and used it as a mirror to check the coast was clear. Holding it at arm’s length and tilting it around, I was able to gain a good view of the entire escalator from top to bottom. They were snickering to themselves about something, but they didn’t look around again.
When the punks stepped off the escalator on the first floor, I put the kettle carefully back in its proper place on the shelf, and twisted it around so that it matched the exact same profile as all the other kettles around it. Then I took out my hanky and wiped away the greasy fingerprints I had left on it, before I stepped onto the escalator to follow them.
Stooping down slightly as I reached the top of the escalator so that I wouldn’t be seen, I stepped off and looked around the upper floor. The punks were loitering around one of the toy aisles, so I made my way casually towards them, deliberately looking up and down the other aisles so that they wouldn’t suspect they were under surveillance. They were obviously up to no good because when they did see me they quickly darted out of sight down one of the parallel rows of aisles.
Quickening my step, and cursing the Irish bastard that had shot me, I limped towards the end of the aisle in which I had seen the punks last. I paused before entering the aisle, and listened for any sounds that might give away the punks’ location. I couldn’t hear anything, so I risked a quick reconnoitre by stepping briskly to the next aisle and relying on my excellent peripheral vision.
The punks were at the opposite end of the shop, and as I walked past I saw them move into the next aisle, in the opposite direction that I was travelling in. I decided stealth was my best option if I was going to catch these two at whatever it was they were up to. I entered the aisle I had last seen them in, and stopped in the middle, listening for any sounds. I carefully parted some boxes containing Barbie doll furniture, and peered through the small gap I had created between them.
The punks were standing in front of the Action Man range, sniggering to themselves. I couldn’t see what they were doing, they had their backs to me and were standing too close together for me to see, but whatever they were doing it was sure to be something illegal.
I watched them for a minute or so, and then decided I had better investigate before things went too far. They were acting suspiciously, so I was perfectly within my rights to apprehend them so that they could be searched for stolen property. And if I got a bit rough with them I could always say I had to defend himself. The way these scruffy bastards were dressed, one look at them would satisfy the police who the real aggressors were. In fact they probably had a criminal record a mile long anyway, so they would certainly be known to the police.
My legal requirements satisfied, I saw no more need for stealth so I slid the Barbie boxes back into their correct place and made my way to the end of the aisle. When got there, the punks were gone. I limped quickly to the end of the aisle and looked down the adjacent aisles, but they were nowhere to be seen.
I was about to give up and go and inspect the Action Man toys for any damage the punks may have caused, when I heard a faint cough behind me. I spun around to face the direction of the cough, and there they were at the opposite end of the aisle I was looking into. Staring at me with stupid grins on their faces.
“Oi you two, come here,” I shouted, taking a step towards them. But the two punks ignored my direct order, and ran towards the first floor exit. I gave chase. If they got out into the rest of the shopping centre, or even worse, into one of the other shops, I would lose them. But the best I could manage was a brisk limping walk, and they were running at full pelt the way that criminals do when they know they’ve been rumbled, so I knew my chances of catching them were somewhat remote.
But wait, there they were standing in the doorway as if they hadn’t done anything wrong. I still had a chance of catching them and bringing them to justice. I thought about shouting out to them, ordering them to stay there. But they had already proved they were incapable of following simple orders. I reverted back to stealth mode and crept quietly towards them, hugging the wall as much as possible to remain out of sight until I was ready to pounce.
I got within fifteen feet of them before I saw their reflections in the glass door. They were staring straight at me, a stupid grin on their ugly faces. I realised my mistake long before they turned around and waved at me before darting out of the exit, and I cursed my stupidity. I should have circled around the shop and taken them from a different angle. I strode quickly to the door, hoping I might still be able to apprehend them, but they were already gone by the time I got there.
I hid behind a large cardboard cutout of ET the Extra Terrestrial for a few minutes in case they came back. They didn’t. No doubt they would already be half way to the second hand shop selling whatever it was they had stolen so that they could buy drugs.
With a sigh, I decided to resume my normal duties. I wondered briefly if the old woman downstairs had paid for her sweets, but realised there would be nothing I could do now if she hadn’t. Maybe I should have told Sam about her so that he could observe the woman while I was busy watching the punks. Too late now.
I remembered the punks had been doing something suspicious near the Action Man range, so I decided I had better investigate that. I would know instantly if there was any missing because I know that range very well. If only my wife had had a boy instead of a girl, then I would have been able to use them to teach him what army life was all about. Stupid woman couldn’t even do that right.
When I reached the Action Man display I was appalled by what I saw. Two of them had been stripped completely of their green camouflage uniforms and posed in a disgusting sexual way, one bent over and the other standing behind it with its pelvis thrust forward and its hands hooked around the other’s waist. Several other soldiers had been arranged around them in a rough semi-circle, their right arms raised in a Nazi salute.
Anger flared through me, and I exhaled loudly through my nose. Don’t they know that these people gave up their lives so that this country can be free? If my father had been alive to see this! I was so angry I shook with rage as I reached out to the two soldiers who had been so vilely defiled and degraded.
“Don’t worry, they will pay for this,” I promised as I parted the two soldiers and held them gently to my chest. I looked around for their clothes, found them discarded on a lower shelf, and gave them back their dignity. Standing them to attention in their correct location on the shelf, I turned my attention to the rest of their squad. I lowered their arms, straightened out any crumples in their uniforms, and arranged them in a straight line with the others. I gave them a quick salute, pivoted ninety degrees on one leg to do a smart right turn, and marched towards the escalator with my head held high.
Time to retake my optimal surveillance position near the entrance door, where Barbara can see how vital my role is to the security of Woolworths. I may have lost one small battle, but I will certainly win the war.
Preview: The Meat Wagon
Lynn Fletcher hated her job in the tiny, self-service petrol station on the outskirts of Shefferham. Hated it with a vengeance. Three years in university and this was all she had to show for her engineering degree. Sitting in a tiny cubicle twelve hours a day, eight pm to eight am, seven days a week. Sitting and waiting for someone who was still wealthy enough to come and buy some petrol.
Don’t worry about the student loans, they had said, you only need to pay those back when you earn more than £20,000 per year. She should have guessed that was a lie, just like all the other lies the coalition government had told, and that she would end up paying back nearly a quarter of her meagre income from a dead-end minimum wage job less than five years after graduating.
The changes to low income benefits hadn’t helped either, especially when they took away help with childcare expenses. There was no way she could afford to pay anyone to look after her three-year-old son Tommy all night while she was at work. So she had to take him with her and make up a small bed for him in the corner of the tiny kiosk she worked in.
She looked over at Tommy’s sleeping form, his thumb firmly lodged in his mouth, a habit he still hadn’t grown out of, and she smiled. Hard to believe she had been planning to abort him when she first found out she was pregnant. His father hadn’t wanted to know, of course, and being one of the six million long term unemployed there was no chance of ever getting any financial assistance from him.
Sure, it was hard bringing him up on her own, but he would be starting nursery school next year and that would make things a lot easier. For one thing she would be able to get a few hours sleep during the day instead of having to keep herself going with caffeine-filled energy drinks. But then there would be all the extra expense of school dinners and uniforms, and he would still need to sleep at the petrol station at night while she worked.
She sighed, and glanced at her watch for the thirtieth time in the last hour. Not long to go now until Sharon got there to take over the day shift. She thought about waking Tommy up and getting him ready to go home, but he looked so peaceful she decided to let him sleep a little longer.
A solitary car drove past, its windscreen wipers darting back and forth rapidly to combat the sudden downpour of rain. Lynn watched its tail light disappear around a bend, and sighed again. This job was boring her to death. There had only been three customers the whole night, and the portable black and white TV she usually watched was on the blink. If only it had been one of those bigger petrol stations that sold books and magazines, then at least she would have had something to do.
She watched the rain spatter onto the forecourt, blown in by the wind. She hoped it would stop raining before Sharon got there to relieve her. No way was she taking Tommy out in that, but she couldn’t stand being at the petrol station a minute longer than she needed to be. Maybe Sharon would bring an umbrella that she could borrow, she could return it when she relieved her for the next shift.
She saw two figures staggering along the road towards the petrol station, their arms flailing by their sides as if they were having trouble keeping their balance, and squinted at them through the rain. As they approached her kiosk, she recognised one of them from his long, scraggly brown hair, now even more unkempt than usual due to the rain. He was one of her regular customers, though he never really spent much. His name was Alan, and he was always stoned out of his head every time he visited the petrol station, out on a munchie-run for his squat-mates before they crashed out for the day. He was usually alone, but this time he had a friend with him. Judging by his friend’s vacant expression and stumbling gait, he was just as stoned as Alan.
She smiled through the glass window at Alan when he arrived at the counter and leant his hands on it. “Hello, Alan. The usual?” She turned away and scooped up four packets of cheese and onion crisps from a shelf behind her before returning to the counter with them.
Alan pressed his face against the window, staring in at her with glazed eyes. His mouth hung open and drool dripped down the glass, leaving smears. His friend joined him, jostling for position in the small window, and put his hand on it, his fingers grasping as if he were trying to reach inside to pick something up.
Lynn frowned. Great, just what I needed. Why couldn’t they have waited another half an hour? Then they would have been Sharon’s problem.
“Three pounds eighty,” she said, sliding open the payment slot.
The two men pressing up against the glass ignored her request for payment. Alan started to moan, his mouth opening and closing like a fish suffocating in oxygen as he stared in at her. His friend joined in, and after a while he started to bang on the glass loudly with the palm of his hand.
Lynn backed away, irrationally fearing the man might break the glass, even though she knew it was shatterproof safety glass designed to stop a bullet. Her eyes darted fearfully towards her son curled up asleep in the corner. He was starting to become restless, the noise breaking through his dreams to disturb him.
“Alan, stop it. You’re going to wake Tommy up.”
She thought briefly about calling the police. Alan and his friend were obviously out of their heads, tripping on something, and she was worried they would frighten Tommy if their noise woke him up. But she didn’t really want to get Alan into trouble. She knew what the police did to nonconformists these days, and she didn’t want that on her conscience. In fact she secretly looked forward to his early morning visits to the petrol station, and the attention he gave her, but this time he was even more stoned than usual and Lynn feared what he might do next.
Over the heads of the two men now furiously pounding on the glass, she saw another figure walking along the road past the petrol station. He was dressed in a blue three-piece suit, and Lynn recognised him as another of her regular customers, a local businessman who sometimes stopped off to buy cigarettes on his way into work.
Thank god, Lynn thought. She switched on the outside tannoy system and spoke quickly into its microphone, calling the man over. When she saw him veer off onto the forecourt towards her, she smiled, turned her attention back to Alan and his friend, and put her hands on her hips defiantly.
“You’d better stop it now, there’s someone coming.”
When the newcomer reached the two men huddled around the kiosk window, he put a hand on each of their shoulders and prised them apart, squeezing himself between them. He stared in at Lynn, open-mouthed, and gave out a low, feral moan.
Lynn screamed, a long, piercing scream that echoed through the sleeping village. Tommy awoke with a start, and not knowing what was happening, he started to cry.
* * *
The annual Smoky Bears Picnic and Music Festival in nearby Derbyshire was drawing to a close for the year. Organised by, and for, England’s biker community, it took place in an old disused aircraft hangar in the middle of nowhere, far away from civilisation. Surrounded on all sides by farmland, it was the perfect place for a weekend of drink and drugs-fuelled debauchery away from the prying eyes of law enforcement.
The music that year had been the best that Vinnie could remember since the festival first began, with several well-known biker bands attending. The Anti-Nowhere League had performed on the first evening, sending the crowd into a frenzy when they played So What for the second time that night as an encore. The singer, Animal, had stayed behind for the rest of the weekend, hanging out and chatting with the other bikers, admiring their bikes and showing off his own gleaming black Triumph Rocket. He had even brought his own tent and pitched it in the same field as the other festival-goers, foregoing the event organisers’ offer of free bed and breakfast in a nearby hotel.
But the surprise highlight of the weekend had been Sunday night, when they wheeled out a decrepit-looking Lemmy to blast out all the old Motorhead classics for one last time. He had forgotten some of the words, and he had to take regular breaks to breathe into his oxygen mask, but that didn’t really matter to the audience.
Neither did the sudden downpour of rain after the concert had ended, because the festival organisers had let them all sleep inside the aircraft hangar for the night. Not that anyone was in a mood for sleeping that night. They were all far too wired for sleep, and even a steady diet of pills, booze and dope throughout the night did little to counteract that. Someone hooked up an mp3 player into the PA system, and they partied all night long.
The following Monday morning, people started to slowly drift away. A few people who lay passed out and comatose around the sides of the aircraft hangar were prodded with sticks by the festival staff to ensure they were still alive, and when they responded with a grunt they were left to sleep it off.
Mad Dan, wearing his official festival T-shirt, staggered to his feet and yawned, stretching. He gently kicked Vinnie’s prone body in the side to rouse him from his slumber.
“Time to wake up.”
Vinnie groaned, and curled himself up into a ball on the concrete floor. “Fuck off,” he mumbled when Mad Dan prodded him again.
“Come on Vinnie, it’s all over for another year. Back to reality. I’m opening up the shop today, I’ve got some shit to parcel up for the post. And you’ve got work as well. Them meat pies won’t make themselves.”
“Tell them I’m sick.”
“Yeah, like they’d believe that.”
With a sigh, Mad Dan sat down next to his friend and leant his back against the wall. He pulled a mobile phone from the side pocket of his jacket and unlocked the screen. Seventeen missed calls, all from his mother. He sighed, and wondered what the old witch had wanted that was so important. Probably forgot how to use the Sky Plus again, or couldn’t find her glasses, he decided.
They’re on top of your fucking head like they always are, you stupid old bag.
He opened an internet app and checked his Facebook profile. There had been nothing new posted on his timeline since Sunday evening, but that wasn’t really surprising since all his internet friends knew he would be at the festival this weekend. He typed a status update with his thumbs on the onscreen keyboard to let everyone know he was on his way back home, and promised to update his profile with the photos he had taken during the weekend later, after he had sorted out all the mail-order sales that had come in while he was away. He was about to check his Ebay listings for any questions that might need answering, when his phone beeped and displayed a low battery warning. With a frown, he switched it off and put it back in his pocket. He turned to Vinnie, who had resumed snoring, and prodded him in the back with his finger.
“Wakey wakey.”
“Fuck off.”
He shook Vinnie violently by the shoulder. “Vinnie, someone’s nicked your bike!” he yelled.
Vinnie shot bolt upright and looked around him in alarm. “What?”
“Now you’re up,” Mad Dan said with a grin, “let’s get going. I’m fucking starving and I need some coffee.”
“Bastard.”
On leaving the aircraft hangar, Vinnie looked down, away from the glaring early morning sun, and sneezed. His head was throbbing, and his ears were still whistling from the loud music of the previous night. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to the ride home. It hadn’t been a lie when he had said he was ill. Hangovers like this were only ever cured by a bottle of beer and a few hours in bed. Neither of which seemed very likely in the near future.
Ratboy, Steve Downing, and Stan Mollett were already up and about in the rain-sodden field, packing away their tents and other belongings. A youth on a Kawasaki 500 was showing off to his girlfriend, making donuts in the mud with his back wheel, until his front wheel slipped sideways and he toppled over, the bike landing on top of him.
Stan laughed at the red-faced youth struggling to free himself from the motorcycle and called out to his girlfriend, who looked to Stan to be about fifteen years old at the most.
“Here darling, if you ever fancy a real man for a change, let me know.” He gestured at her with his groin, to emphasise his meaning.
The girl ignored him and rushed over to her boyfriend. She tried to lift the heavy bike from him without any success. Stan laughed even louder when he watched the girl lose her footing in the mud and land face first in a puddle.
Belongings tied securely to the back of their bikes, with the overflow luggage stashed in the rear-end of Mad Dan’s custom-built VW trike, they made their way slowly out of the field, feet dangling down at the sides in case of any sudden wheel slippage in the mud.
When they reached the twisty B-road leading out of the disused airbase, they opened up their throttles and roared away into the distance. Vinnie took the lead, followed by Steve Downing, Ratboy and Stan Mollett all racing each other down the road. Mad Dan, as ever, took up the rear because of his need to take corners at a much slower speed.
* * *
Vinnie pulled into a tiny self-service petrol station on the main road of a small village on the outskirts of Shefferham. His low petrol warning light had been blinking on and off for the past four miles, and now glowed a steady amber. Like Mad Dan, he was also in desperate need of some coffee, and he hoped there would be a drinks machine inside to fulfil his body’s craving for caffeine.
He rode up to the solitary petrol pump and dismounted his bike, waving to Ratboy as he tore past on his jet black Honda Fury. Ratboy turned his head in Vinnie’s direction and waved back, slamming on his brakes and coming to a halt a few hundred yards past the petrol station. Looking over his shoulder he did a quick U-turn and joined Vinnie on the forecourt just as Stan Molett arrived on his BMW.
Steve Downing arrived moments later, pulling up outside the petrol station next to Stan Molett, and they both revved their bikes impatiently as they watched Vinnie unlock his petrol tank and pick up the pump nozzle. Mad Dan arrived last on his trike, and drove it onto the small forecourt. A group of four people standing by the pay kiosk turned in his direction and stared at him, open mouthed.
“What are you cunts fucking looking at?” Mad Dan growled at them, pulling down his flying goggles and stepping off his trike.
One of the group, a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit, broke away from the others and started to slowly walk towards Mad Dan. The others, a pair of hippies and an overweight woman in a red dress, turned back to the kiosk window and pressed their faces against it. They all pounded on the glass and moaned loudly.
“Are they open?” Vinnie asked, looking at the petrol nozzle in his hand. He squeezed the trigger, but no petrol came out.
Mad Dan glanced in his direction quickly, and then turned his attention back to the suited man who was approaching him. “I don’t know, but this cunt’s gonna get a fucking smack if he doesn’t back the fuck off right now.”
Vinnie turned and watched the scrawny-looking man walking towards Mad Dan. He smiled and put the petrol nozzle back on its holder. This looked like it was going to be fun.
Ratboy kicked his bike into gear and circled around the petrol pump, coming to a halt behind the suited man to cut off his retreat. The man glanced in Ratboy’s direction when he dismounted his bike, but otherwise ignored him and continued lumbering towards Mad Dan, a vacant look on his face.
Mad Dan puffed out his chest and flexed his muscles, but the much slimmer-built man didn’t back down as he had expected. Instead, the man reached out his hands towards Mad Dan, and a low moan escaped from his mouth.
Mad Dan side-stepped the man’s grasping hands, and in a movement surprisingly fast for his stocky build, gripped one of the man’s arms and twisted it savagely behind his back.
“Don’t fuck with me, cunt,” he growled in the man’s ear, and sent him reeling forward towards Ratboy.
Ratboy swung his gloved fist at the man as he stumbled towards him, the plastic knuckle-protectors slamming into his face. Ratboy laughed when the man hissed at him angrily like a cat that had had its tail trodden on. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he said, shaking his head.
The man reached out towards Ratboy and clawed at his helmet visor, a low gurgle coming from his throat. Ratboy grabbed the hand, twisted his arm ninety degrees, and brought his fist crashing down on the man’s elbow, breaking his arm with a loud crack.
Ratboy turned and walked briskly back to his motorcycle, but the man followed him, the broken arm swinging uselessly by his side. With another angry hiss, he reached out to grab the sleeve of Ratboy’s leather jacket.
Ratboy spun around, his fist rising instinctively, and swung a punch at the man’s forehead, sending him reeling backwards. Mad Dan, standing close behind, stuck out his foot as the man stumbled back towards him, tripping him over and sending him sprawling to the ground. Ratboy was on him instantly, kneeling on his chest and pummelling his face mercilessly, turning it into a bloody pulp.
“Time to get fucked off,” he said through panting breath, after he had finished venting his rage on the man.
“Fucking hell,” said Vinnie, shaking his head. “You could have waited until I’d got some petrol first.”
Mad Dan slipped his goggles back into place and walked quickly towards his trike. “Yeah well, it was him that started it, not us. I gave him a chance to back off, he should have taken it. Cunt’s got nobody to blame but himself. But Ratboy’s right, we need to get fucked off before the filth arrive.”
Vinnie frowned. He still needed petrol, and there was no telling how far they would need to travel before they found another petrol station that was open. He looked at the man lying on the forecourt, blood pooling around his head. The man wasn’t moving, and Vinnie had a sudden shock of fear that he might be dead. He quickly put on his helmet, mounted his bike and pressed the ignition switch, revving it loudly.
“Wait,” an amplified female voice said over a tannoy speaker built into the side of the garage wall. “Are you normal?”
Vinnie turned towards the pay kiosk and saw a young woman inside, her face pressed up against the glass, staring out at them. On the outside, one of the hippies pawed ineffectually at the glass, as if not understanding why he couldn’t get to her.
Vinnie stopped revving his bike and lifted up his visor to get a better look at the woman. She was young, probably no older than Ratboy, and what he saw of her looked pretty good from where he was standing. He smiled his warmest smile, even though he knew the woman wouldn’t be able to see his mouth through the helmet’s chin-guard. “Depends on what you mean by normal, darling.”
The woman’s voice faltered. “Wh—What’s going on? Everyone’s gone mad. I’ve got a little kid in here. What’s happening?”
Vinnie stepped off his bike and took a few steps towards the kiosk, but Mad Dan called him back. “It’s just a trick to keep us here until the filth arrive. Just ignore the bitch.”
Vinnie shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, man. There’s something not right here. You wait there, I’ll go and have a quick look. If you hear sirens get fucked off right away and I’ll catch you up later.”
Vinnie strode towards the kiosk and stopped a few feet away from the three people surrounding it. He could see the young woman’s anxious face staring back at him through the glass. She had been crying, and mascara had run down her cheeks in solemn vertical lines.
“What the fuck are you all doing?” he asked the people huddled around the kiosk window.
Not receiving an answer, Vinnie took a step closer and took hold of the arm of one of the hippies, spinning him around to face him.
“I said, what the fuck are you all doing?” he said, louder, and with obvious malice in his tone.
The hippy glared at Vinnie through vacant, bloodshot eyes. His eyes widened, as if registering Vinnie’s existence for the first time, and he roared as he clawed at the helmeted face before him. Vinnie pulled the man’s head down by his long, scraggly brown hair, and brought his reinforced knee up swiftly into the hippy’s face. The hippy stumbled backwards, colliding into the other hippy and the overweight woman, knocking them to one side. They both turned around slowly, and when they saw Vinnie they lunged towards him with a roar.
Vinnie, taken by surprise, lost his balance and went down when they slammed against him, landing heavily on his back. His body armour absorbed most of the impact, but before he could struggle to his feet the overweight woman flung herself on top of him and clamped her mouth down on his arm. Vinnie could feel the woman trying to bite him through the leather, and he cried out, more in surprise than in pain. He swung his gloved fist at the side of the woman’s head, but the woman’s jaws were clamped tightly to his arm.
He felt someone lift up his foot and twist it savagely to one side. He kicked out his free leg to dislodge this new attacker, but then that too was gripped. He felt another mouth clamping down on his leg, and he started to panic. He flailed his arms at the woman on top of him, and tried to twist his body to tip her off.
Mad Dan, Stan Mollett and Ratboy rushed towards the scuffle when they saw Vinnie go down. Mad Dan picked up a fire extinguisher on the way, and brought it crashing down onto the back of the woman’s head. Blood splattered onto Vinnie’s leather jacket as the woman’s head split open, and she slumped down on top of him.
Stan and Ratboy took out the two hippies holding onto Vinnie’s legs, sending them both reeling backwards with a perfectly choreographed simultaneous punch to their faces. They helped a wide-eyed Vinnie back to his feet, and turned around to finish them off.
The hippies were already advancing on them, arms outstretched, and Stan and Ratboy glanced at each other quizically. Ratboy grinned to himself, and took off his helmet. He held it by the strap, and swung it at the nearest hippy’s head. The hippy staggered forward a few more steps, dazed, and Ratboy swung his helmet down in a crushing blow to the top of the man’s skull. The hippy fell to his knees, and Ratboy kicked him in the face, knocking him to the ground, where he lay still as blood poured from his mouth and nose.
Ratboy turned to face the remaining hippy, but Stan Mollett already had him on the ground and was busy stamping on the man’s outstretched legs with his size ten motorcycle boots, splintering the bones within.
Ratboy turned towards the petrol station kiosk and saw a young boy and a woman, both staring at him, open-mouthed in shock. He pointed a shaking finger at the two hippies lying on the ground. The one with the broken legs was thrashing around, trying to sit up, the other lay perfectly still on the tarmac, either dead or unconscious.
“They started it, right? You saw them, yeah? It was self defence.”
The woman nodded quickly, her eyes wide. The boy started to cry, and hid his face in his mother’s chest.
Vinnie looked down at the dead woman lying on the ground, her brains spilling out from a crushed skull. His hands started shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes widened in fear. “Oh fuck, you’ve killed her. What the fuck are we going to do now?”
Mad Dan threw the fire extinguisher down, and the sudden loud clatter made Vinnie cry out in alarm. “Vinnie, you need to get a fucking grip. We need to go, right now, so get your fucking shit together.”
Vinnie took a step backwards, his eyes still staring at the dead woman before him. “We should get an ambulance,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Mad Dan gripped him by his shoulders and shook him roughly. “Mate, it’s too late for that. We can’t stay here, the filth will be on the way by now.”
“No they won’t,” said the woman behind the window. “I phoned them a few hours ago, they said all their officers were busy with some riot that was going on in Shefferham.”
Mad Dan turned to face her. “Yeah well, we’re going anyway. And you say anything to the filth about us and I’ll come back and kill your fucking kid. You got that, lady?”
The woman nodded. “I won’t say anything,” she said sheepishly, looking away.
Mad Dan grunted and turned back to Vinnie. He put his arm around Vinnie’s back protectively, and led him gently back to his motorcycle. Vinnie was shaking his head, not believing what had just happened. They would get thirty years for this, he would be an old man before he got out.
“Wait,” the woman called out in alarm when she realised they were leaving. “Take us with you.”
Mad Dan turned and looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“You can’t leave us here on our own.”
Stan Mollett grinned at her and licked his lips. “Lady, do you know what you’re asking? The only way you’re coming with us is if you agree to be our Mama.”
“My son is here.”
Stan shook his head slowly. “Not that kind of Mama.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ll do anything you want, but just don’t leave me here. Please.”
“Okay bitch, your choice. But pack up your brat quick, because we’re leaving, right now.”
“One other thing,” Ratboy added. “We all need petrol. So how about you switch on that pump over there so that we can fill up before we go? On the house, of course.”
Preview: Punk Faction
1
Colin Baxter strode towards the empty bar of the Queen’s Head public house, a slight stagger to his step from the cans of beer he had consumed outside while waiting impatiently for opening time.
“Two pints of bitter please,” he said to the middle aged barmaid, his eyes straying over to the pinup girl on the peanut dispenser behind her. The young blonde woman in the picture had one bag of peanuts hanging over each breast, and grinned back at him seductively. Buy my peanuts and I’ll show you my tits, she seemed to be saying. Colin thought about buying a bag, wondering if the barmaid would give him a choice between left or right.
The barmaid stood her ground, hands on hips, and glared at him. She didn’t welcome scruffy looking punks in her nice respectable pub, and this one only looked about sixteen. The other one taking up a seat next to the jukebox didn’t look much older either.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Nineteen,” Colin lied, expecting to be asked for proof.
But his answer seemed to satisfy the barmaid, because after a loud sigh she pulled first one pint, and then the other, plonking them down on a soaking wet yellow bar towel in front of Colin.
“One pound sixteen,” she said, holding out her left hand. She sighed again impatiently while Colin rummaged through the pockets of his leather jacket.
Colin pulled out two crumpled pound notes and deposited them in her outstretched hand. She took them to the till without speaking, and returned a few seconds later with his change.
Colin took a last thoughtful look at the girl on the peanut dispenser, then took a glass in each hand and walked slowly to the table Brian Mathews had chosen to sit at, being careful not to spill any of the precious beer.
Brian shuffled out of his studded black leather jacket as Colin approached, and draped it over the backrest of his seat. He was wearing a Cockney Upstarts T-shirt, and he flapped it up and down a few times, as if he were shaking biscuit crumbs from it, before letting it drop down over his green combat trousers.
Brian had recently died his short, spiky hair red, and his father had taken to calling him Swanny, short for Swan Vesta as a result. “You look like a matchstick,” he had said when Brian had emerged from the bathroom. “You’re just jealous,” Brian had replied, “because you haven’t got any hair.”
Colin placed the drinks on the scratched wooden table and pointed at Brian’s T-shirt. “I thought you’d have saved that for the weekend,” he said, perching himself on a bar stool opposite his friend. The jukebox was quietly playing an old Motown record, and its red and yellow lights flashed enticingly, but Colin knew there would be nothing on it that would be worth spending money on.
“Nah, I’ll get me Mam to wash it before then. Or wear something else. I’ll look a bit of a cunt if everyone else is wearing the same one.”
“You mean more of a cunt. You could always wear your Star Trek shirt, that wouldn’t clash with anyone.”
Brian’s face reddened slightly as he picked up his beer and took a short swig. “Fuck off, I grew out of that years ago, and you know I did.”
Colin smirked, but didn’t comment further. While it was true that Brian hadn’t worn his ‘Live Long and Prosper’ T-shirt for over three years now, Colin knew he still secretly watched Star Trek because he always made some excuse to go home early when it was on TV.
“Oi Bri, you want any nuts?” Colin asked after a brief pause, taking off his leather jacket and stashing it on the foot-ledge under the table. He was wearing a Vice Squad T-shirt, and he stood up momentarily before pulling the shirt down to flatten out the creases, tucking the bottom into his tartan trousers before sitting back down.
Brian pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Nah mate, you’re all right.” The cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth as he spoke. “It’s not that long since I had me tea.”
Taking Brian’s lead, Colin lit a cigarette of his own, and blew a few smoke rings across the table. He looked around the empty pub with contempt. “What did you want to come in here for? The place is fucking dead.”
Brian took another drag on his cigarette, and smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke. “It’s still early, innit? Nobody else will be out yet. Anyway, the beer’s cheap, so we might as well have a few in here before we meet Mike and Twiglet down the Swan.”
“Not much cheaper. Anyway, it were my round.”
“Yeah but it’ll be mine next, and I’m skint. It’s all right for you, you got your giro the other day. I don’t even sign on until tomorrow.”
The entrance door swung open, and Colin turned to face it. An elderly couple in their early sixties walked through, the man holding the door open while the woman ducked under his arm.
The barmaid smiled at them as they approached the bar. “Evening, Sid. The usual?”
“Yes please, Sharon. And a small sherry for me new bird.”
“Oh Sid, don’t be so daft,” the old woman said, taking off her head-scarf and revealing long, faintly tinted blue hair with grey roots. “I’m Deirdre. Pleased to meet you.”
Sharon poured them half a bitter and a small glass of sweet sherry. “So how did you two meet?”
“Down the bingo,” the man said. “I only needed one more number, then she went and won the bloody jackpot.”
“That’s eighty-five pence then, Sid.”
“Here you go. Can we have the dominos as well please, Sharon?”
“Dominos,” said Colin with a smirk. “This place gets more exciting by the fucking minute.”
The old man must have heard him, because he turned around quickly towards the source of the voice. “You fancy a game then, lad? Penny a spot?”
“Nah mate, I don’t think I could cope with that much excitement. Maybe in another fifty years.”
“Suit yourself.” The man and woman made their way to a secluded corner table at the far end of the bar and started sharing out the dominos.
Colin emptied his glass in three swigs and belched, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Drink up, it’s your round.”
Brian still had an almost full glass of beer. “Fucking hell Col, slow down a bit, you’ll be smashed out your head at that rate.”
Colin shrugged. “There’s no point drinking otherwise.”
“Yeah well, I’m making mine last. I’m skint, remember?”
“I’ll get me own then,” Colin said indignantly, rising to his feet and heading for the bar. He returned moments later with another pint of bitter and took a long drink from it.
Brian shook his head slowly and hissed through his teeth. Great, just what I need, another night babysitting Colin while he rolls around in the gutter.
* * *
Over the course of the next hour, a few more customers arrived at the Queen’s Head, the youngest being a forty-year-old man who stood leaning on the bar chatting up Sharon in between short sips from a pint of lager. Sharon, having got through three double vodkas by this stage, hung on his every word and was visibly annoyed every time one of the punks approached the bar to be served.
“What?” she said to Brian when she got fed up of him standing there waving his money at her.
“Two pints, darling.”
“Bitter, lager or arsenic?”
“Er … bitter?”
She pulled two pints and slammed them down on the bar, spilling some of their contents. “One-sixteen.”
Returning to his seat, Brian looked towards the door and noticed two women hovering there. They were in their mid-thirties, faces heavily made up, and wearing low cut tops and mini-skirts. They were looking around the pub, obviously deciding whether to stay or not.
Brian nudged Colin, who was resting his head in his hands, elbows on the table, staring intently at a beer mat. “Ay up, I told you it’d be worth staying here.”
Colin looked around, blurry eyed “What?” He was seeing double, and couldn’t focus on the women until he placed a hand over his left eye. He belched, and slurred his words. “Mate, I know you’re desperate, but fucking hell they’re ancient. Anyway, what about them birds we’re meeting on Friday?”
“No harm in looking, is there?” Brian said, waving his fingers at the women with his best imitation of a warm smile. “Like you would say no if you got the chance anyway.”
The women, attracted by Brian’s waving, glanced in the direction of the two young punks before they walked back out into the street.
“That solves that dilemma then,” Colin said with a wide grin as he watched them retreating through the door.
“Aye,” said Brian, taking a long drink of his beer.
Colin drummed absentmindedly on the table with his fingers, tapping out the beats to a Vice Squad song. “So are we going somewhere else then?”
“Yeah, might as well. Maybe we could catch up with them tarts, get them to buy us a drink.”
“In your wet dreams.”
Hearing the entrance door swing open again, Brian and Colin turned towards it simultaneously, thinking the two women must have changed their minds. But it wasn’t the women, it was a young man with close cropped hair and an angry scowl on his face. He was wearing a pale brown shirt under a green flight jacket with a Union Jack patch sewn above the left breast, and a pair of faded denim jeans from which hung a pair of red braces. The legs of his jeans had been turned up six inches to show off his highly polished cherry red fourteen-hole Doc Marten boots. He was short, just over five foot tall, and was slightly overweight. He swaggered through the door, a sneer on his face when he caught sight of the two punks, and made his way to the bar.
“Ay up, it’s the Munchkin Gestapo,” Brian said, making Colin snort with amusement.
The skinhead turned around and glared at them, leaning against the bar for support, but didn’t say anything. Still smiling at Brian’s joke, Colin picked up his beer and started to gulp it down.
“Sieg Low, Sieg Low, Sieg Low,” said Brian with a fake German accent.
Colin spluttered beer through his nose and mouth, spraying it across the table at Brian, and coughed violently. His nose tingling, he blew it onto the floor to clear it, holding his thumb over first one nostril and then the other.
“You dirty bastard,” Brian said slowly, switching to a Cockney accent. “You dirty fucker.”
Colin grinned when he recognised the famous quote. He caught a movement in his peripheral vision and turned his head towards it. “What a fucking rotter,” he said, trying his best to imitate Brian’s London accent but not quite succeeding.
The movement Colin had seen was the skinhead walking behind him, a pint of lager in one hand, and a bag of peanuts held to the side of the glass with his thumb. His other hand was by his side, a thumb latched into his hip pocket.
The skinhead stopped dead in his tracks in front of Colin and stared straight into his eyes without speaking, his cheek twitching slightly. Colin waited a few seconds for the skinhead to speak, and then smiled up at him.
“All right, mate. You joining us?”
The skinhead stared a few seconds longer and shook his head slowly, still maintaining eye contact with Colin, before turning and walking away. He took up a seat at an empty table near the toilets, peeled off his combat jacket, and took a big gulp from his lager.
Suit yourself, Colin thought. With a mental shrug, he turned back to his own beer and tried to wash away the sour taste that still remained in his throat. He turned to Brian, and announced in a loud voice, “Hey, I need to go to the bog before I piss myself, watch me beer for me.”
Brian belched in the affirmative, nodding his head a couple of times as he lit another cigarette.
Colin pushed the stool back with his legs, grating it along the wooden floor as he stood up with the aid of the table, swaying slightly when he let go. On his way to the toilet, he passed the table where the skinhead was sat.
“All right mate,” he said, and nodded his head at the skinhead. The skinhead didn’t reply or make eye contact, he just stared at his lager, not even acknowledging Colin’s existence until he walked away.
When Colin entered the gents, the skinhead took a long drink of his lager, draining half of it in one gulp, and put the glass down on the table. He rose to his feet and stretched out his braces, pulling them into position over his shoulders.
Inside the toilet was a large stainless steel urinal taking up the entire far wall, its trough dug into the floor. Discarded cigarette ends floated gently towards the blocked drainage hole on the right hand side.
Colin stepped quickly towards the urinal, rushing now because his bladder was becoming impatient and he could already feel a few drops leaking out. He heard the toilet door push open behind him, but was too busy with his zip to look around and see who it was. He didn’t think anything of it, even as he heard the sound of metal segs tap-tap-tapping rhythmically on the tiled floor, becoming faster as they approached him.
As Colin pulled down his zip and reached inside, he felt a swift push to the back of his head, and a blinding white pain as his forehead crashed into the unpainted brick wall with a dull thud that sent his senses reeling and alcohol filled urine running down his legs.
2
Before he could recover his senses, Colin felt a hand grab his right shoulder and spin him around. Colin looked down at his attacker, wide eyed in surprise as a fist flew towards him, bursting his lip. He put his hand up to his mouth instinctively, looking down in shock at the blood that was flowing from it, and felt two hands on his chest, pushing him back against the wall of the urinal.
“What the fuck are– ”
A sudden punch to the stomach sucked the wind out of Colin before he could finish his question, doubling him up in pain. His legs buckled from under him, and he slid slowly down with a faint squeak of wet clothes on steel, until he was sat among the discarded cigarette ends and stale piss in the urinal trough.
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(Pages 1-27 show above.)