by Jane Goodall
‘Don’t they av black spikers then?’
‘If I knew what a spiker was, I might be able to tell you that.’ The boy crossed the road. ‘If you go down there you’ll see.’ He pointed along Lots Road. ‘That’s where they live.’
‘Who are you talkin about, man?’
‘Spikers. People that put spikes in their hair.’ The kid demonstrated, twisting the front of his hair into peaks. ‘One of em give me vis.’ He fished in his pocket and pulled out a ball of lumpy yellow stuff. ‘Rubber.’
‘Very nice.’ Aidan gave it a poke. ‘That’s dead useful, that is. I’ll see ya later then.’ He got back on the scooter and turned into Lots Road, smiling to himself and keeping an eye out for spikers, but there were none in sight.
He turned back out onto the King’s Road, which at this time of the early evening was a parade ground where the striped and capped regiments from the fashion world were changing guard with the more feral contingents of punks, zeds and local drinkers, all priming themselves for the Friday night fight that would get under way in a few hours’ time. He didn’t plan on being around for that but there was enough time for a pint or two, and hopefully a plate of pub food. Sighting a little group of spikers — two girls and a boy — going into the Man in the Moon, he followed and joined them at the bar, simply behaving as if they already knew each other.
It worked, though there wasn’t much value in it from Aidan’s point of view. They were kids who had yet to learn how to make conversation, so they made remarks instead — disconnected and increasingly incoherent as they succumbed to the combination of beer and pills they were swilling down. He asked about Flak and was told that he didn’t come in here because he’d been banned for jumping over the bar into a shelf of expensive liqueurs.
Aidan found his attention drawn to a table near the back where two very ill-assorted people were in earnest conversation. One of them had immediately caught Aidan’s attention with his half-shaved head and swastika tattoo just above the right ear. The letters SS were studded into his leather waistcoat, along with an assortment of badges that Aidan recognised from war movies with Nazis in them. His companion was a man who looked about a decade older and whose style belonged to a different world: all blue denim, with a cap to match. The denim dude was writing in a notebook.
Suddenly the one in the Nazi regalia got up and left, knocking over his chair on the way out. Aidan watched, curious that the denim guy hardly reacted at all, but went on writing in his notebook. After a while, he made his way over to the bar. Aidan drained his glass and moved to stand beside him. It took a while for either of them to get served and the man looked at his watch twice.
‘In a hurry are you?’ Aidan asked.
‘No, as a matter of fact.’ The man smiled broadly, evidently pleased to be drawn into a chat. ‘Just I’m not used to the kind of service you get in these parts.’ He spoke in an American accent. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before.’
Aidan shrugged. ‘Trying a new beat, in’t I?’
There was a pause while they got their drinks and Aidan could see the guy was checking him over, no doubt trying to suss out where he belonged in the scheme of things. He wasn’t going to have to work hard to get some dialogue going here, anyway. The American took a swig from his lager bottle with one hand and held out the other in greeting.
‘I’m Logan.’
‘Nick,’ said Aidan, giving the hand a cursory shake.
‘So, what’s your line, Nick? I’d pick you for a musician. Am I right?’
And I’d pick you for a journalist, thought Aidan. A mile off. He nodded and followed Logan to the table he’d colonised. ‘Vocals?’ Logan pulled a chair out for him. ‘Guitar?’
‘Bit of both. Know anyone that’s short of a band member?’
‘What sort of band you looking for, Nick?’
‘I used to be in a reggae band but I got bored. I’m more interested in this new wave that’s happenin.’
‘Punk,’ Logan prompted. ‘You know they pinched that word from us. Name of a magazine started up last year by a couple of high school kids in Connecticut. I used to write for it, before I got me a regular column in Beaten Tracks. So, you see, I know a bit of history on the so-called new wave. It aint so new, most of it. Started with the Ramones. And a lot of this image stuff, it’s pinched from Andy Warhol. You know who Andy Warhol is, Nick?’
‘I’m not going there, man. Yeller hair isn’t my thing.’
Logan gave the laugh of a man with no real sense of humour. ‘What about swastikas? They your type of thing?’
Aidan drank some more and took his time replying. ‘I saw you with the SS man. Looked like he got a bit riled, flouncing out like that.’
Logan gave him a knowing look. ‘Oh yeah. He’s right on the edge, that one. Got himself in a role without reading the script. I guess he liked the costume.’
22
Sharon lifted the sleeping cat off the heap of clothes in the corner and began raking through them, looking for something she could wear to the concert tonight. The rubber trousers were too hot and the tartan skirt — her favourite — had yellow smears all down the front. Not that she minded the look of it. But it had occurred to her that whoever was coming and going in that workshop downstairs might not be too pleased if they knew she’d got in there — which they’d realise instantly if they saw her wearing the traces of the accident with the paint. She’d noticed that Zig hadn’t worn her rubber vest since then, either, although she claimed she really liked the yellow splash across the chest. Maybe she’d had the same thought about being found out, but somehow neither of them was prepared to talk about it.
Zig had been going off on her own a lot over the past week, so they really only saw each other back at the squat at night, when there were other people partying all over the furniture. Right now Sharon was enjoying having the place to herself for a few hours. She tossed the clothes around, picking out the remains of her school uniform and doing some extra work on them with a pair of long-bladed scissors. The shredded strands of fabric down the sides could be knotted to make criss-cross panels, which was a nice effect she decided — though she’d need to wear something under it. At the bottom of the heap was a collection of old petticoat slips of the kind she’d always been embarrassed to see on other people’s washing lines — pink things with ribbons and straps and lace edging. She tried one on with the uniform over the top and went through to the mattress room to check it in the mirror. The cat ran ahead of her but diverted its course to shoot down the stairs.
The mirror was on the inside of the wardrobe door, which was always stuck fast, so you had to brace the whole wardrobe with one hand while you tugged at the handle with the other. As the mirror image swung in front of her eyes, Sharon registered something that wasn’t right. There were two people in there: herself and a man she hadn’t seen before, who met her eye in the reflection. She froze, staring back. The man had wavy fair hair and his face seemed to glow against the fur of the cat, which he held on his shoulder.
*
Aidan pushed his way out through the door of the Triangle, dodging a flying bottle that was thrown from the stage. The floor was covered with broken glass, and some of the people at the back of the hall were scraping it together with their feet to make piles, then jumping on it to see who could make the loudest crunch. One of them had cut himself right through the sole of his canvas shoe and was marching around showing off his gory footprints. It was the amphetamines. Everyone was behaving like naughty little kids at a birthday party.
Well it hadn’t been much of a concert even by their standards. The Suddens failed to show up, the Crunch played so fast they shot through in ten minutes, and that left the Knackers with too much time so they started repeating songs that weren’t worth performing in the first place. And there was no one selling fanzines, so from Aidan’s point of view it was all a bit of a waste of time. He sat on the wall by the petrol station watching the crowd oozing out onto the street. Like all crowds it was a co
llection of smaller units that reformed themselves as the main mass broke up. Funny how for all their advertised love of sex and kinky gear, the tribe gravitated into little safety cliques just like any other clump of teenagers: girls with girls and boys with boys.
Now he’d been in amongst them for a week, Aidan was able to recognise a fair number of these cliques. The ones that liked promenading down the King’s Road in the afternoons were mainly the art students and experimentalists, linked into the new alternative fashion trade that was developing its own unofficial star system focused on the shop at number 430. Then there were the World’s End locals, who didn’t go in so much for display games and look-at-me outfits. They were a more mixed bunch that included Indians and Pakis, Africans and West Indians, but few girls. The local contingents drifted between the music shops, the working men’s pubs and the punk meeting grounds. Then there were the skinheads and cosh boys who often came in from other parts of the city, sniffing around for a fight.
It hadn’t been difficult to identify Flak because he tacked between these contingents, pulling focus and dominating the conversation in all of them. So far, Aidan hadn’t approached him. It was tricky, because he could tell from the glances thrown in his direction that Flak had registered him as a new presence, and the sizing-up was mutual. Aidan figured that if he hung around in the right places, sooner or later Flak would make the approach, and that would work a whole lot better. But this hadn’t turned out to be the right place. Not tonight.
He started walking up the King’s Road, hoping at least for a few more lights and a bit more action before beating a retreat to the hutch in Gunter Grove. If the action was missing from the Triangle tonight it must have gone somewhere else. But where?
As he approached SEX, Aidan saw that the place was lit inside and the door was open. Some people were just leaving, so he slowed to see who came out: four men and the girl with the beehive hairdo, who stopped to lock up. One of the men separated from the group and crossed the road. Logan. Well, Logan was a journalist, and journalists were supposed to find things out, weren’t they? That put the two of them in the same boat, really.
He crossed after him and caught up. ‘Hey Logan! Howzit going? We met at the Man in the Moon, remember?’
‘Oh yeah. Nick. How are ya?’
‘Not too thrilled. Just been down there.’ He gestured back towards the Triangle. ‘Concert. It was a tragedy, man. Mainline act didn’t show up for work.’
‘Don’t tell me. The Suddens. They’re making a habit of the no-show.’ Logan began to count on his fingers. ‘The Nashville, Marquee — even the 100 Club. Playing hard to get.’
‘Yeah?’ Aidan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘How hard do they have to play that game before everyone just lets them drop off into nowhere land?’
‘You seen one of their acts yet? I don’t know where those guys are headed but it’s somewhere, I tell you that. Somewhere with a capital S, but I doubt it’s where any normal folks would wanna be. I was sent over from New York to see what they do, and when I report back no one’s gonna believe me.’
‘So what is it they’re not going to believe?’
‘The atmosphere those hoodoos generate.’ Logan shook his head. ‘Heavy heavy heavy. Everybody’s angry round here, you know? But it’s like the Suddens go beyond anger. There’s something not even human about the energy they put out. The fact you can’t see their faces — that’s part of it, of course. You know, I’m starting to get the inside story there. I found out who makes those faces. Quite a little story in itself.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Ah, now — don’t try and get me to spill, Nick, because I got an important career move happening here. But if you’re lucky I’ll give you a copy of my piece when I’ve written it. You still trying to get in on a band?’
‘Not any of them bands I heard tonight. Suddens or the Pistols are the only outfits worth getting into. I’ve been lookin to have a word with Flak — ’
‘I could tell you where you might find him, if you really want to put yourself in the way of some trouble. I’m sure there’s plenty of kids want to get into that band, but I know one that wants out.’
‘The pantomime Nazi.’
‘Actually — I’m supposed to protect my sources.’ Logan’s tone had changed. ‘Especially when they’re shit-scared. Just bear that in mind if you find yourself getting an entry pass to Signor Flak’s fun park. I’m told he likes to hand em out from time to time.’
‘Sorry?’ Aidan frowned in exaggerated puzzlement. ‘You lost me there.’
Logan was silent for a while as they crossed Beaufort Street and walked on towards the town hall.
‘Where are we going exactly?’ asked Aidan.
‘Little place up here that stays open real late. I go there pretty regular, and I’ve seen Flak in amongst it. Not his type of a place, you might think, but I seen him in there more than a coupla times.’ Logan stopped and turned to face him. ‘Okay. This much I’ll let on, Nick. Seeing you look like a nice guy. The Suddens have a few regular members. Let’s say three.’ He held up his hands, palms out. ‘Now don’t ask me about that, because I’m not about to tell you what I know and what I don’t know. The point is they use extras — ring-ins — to be part of the act sometimes. You can do your own figuring about who told me that bit of the story, but it fits with something else I learnt. Flak used to be in vaudeville — music hall, I think they call it here in the UK — doing magic acts. You probably know they always call up an audience member to be a witness in those types of acts, and I’m guessing that’s part of the idea. Flak’s a real professional show-off. He likes to make sure he does what he does right under people’s noses and he’s pretty damn good at making sure they only see what he wants them to see. If they happen to see anything he doesn’t want them to see, they’re in big trouble. You with me? Anyway, that’s about what I got to say, because where I’m going is just around the corner there in Garrett Street. Little nightclub. If you wanna come, that’s up to you.’
Aidan’s acquaintance with the area was only recent, but he knew the location of most of the pubs and clubs from a map stuck up on the wall in the CID room. The Garrett Street dive was called the Hot Stepper and featured strip acts. A panda car sailed past and turned the corner ahead of them.
‘Hope they’re not going to spoil the party,’ said Logan. ‘It’s kinda cute down there, when the girls get warmed up. You know, I like to go somewhere a bit different, this time of night. I like to get in the comfort zone, leave the wildlife in the World’s End to do their worst in the dark hours. I can think of better company than a bunch of ferrets when it gets near my bedtime.’ Logan’s talk was drowned out by the growing volume of the music as they neared the entrance to the Hot Stepper.
He led the way down the stairs into a basement area with tables set out on a black and silver floor. In the centre was a round stage, raised a couple of feet above the ground and just big enough for one dancer to do her stuff. Right now it was occupied by a girl wearing a short glossy scarlet wig, silver high heels and nothing else but a lot of glitter, sprayed on densely around the pubic area. She pulsed with the beat coming through the amplifiers, bending deep, arching and pouting, flicking her tongue.
The two men sat, drinking steadily and staring at the lit circle beside them as a succession of girls in different wigs and shoes performed more or less the same routine. Aidan made his drink last longer than he wanted, but otherwise gave himself up to the situation — due compensation for the punishment all his senses had taken in the earlier part of the evening. He didn’t even notice the guy sitting at the table on the other side of the dancers’ platform, or register his approach.
In one of the short intervals between the acts, Flak had made his way over and was standing behind Logan, staring at Aidan.
Logan turned, following the direction of Aidan’s gaze. ‘Hey! What d’ya know?’ He pulled out a chair. ‘Hope you’re enjoying the entertainment, signor.’
‘I like the on
e with the snakes but she isn’t on tonight so I’m getting bored.’ Flak looked at Aidan again. ‘You have a way of turning up, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, well.’ Aidan sat back in his chair and held the eye contact. ‘Matter of fact I turned up at the Triangle, but you didn’t.’
Logan gave Aidan a matey smack on the shoulder. ‘Nick’s on the lookout for a good gig, aren’t you, Nick? What’d you say you do? Vocals?’
‘Is that so?’ Flak’s eyes remained dead but the lower half of his face developed a crooked smile. ‘How lovely.’
The music started again, and it was evident from the added razzamatazz and build-up that the next act was the finale. The girl appeared wearing a floor-length black cloak with a silver lining, from which she produced three short sticks. After getting selected punters to light them for her, she threw off the cloak and began to juggle with them, faster and faster till they formed a wheel of flame that spun around her naked body like a hoop. To finish, she extinguished the flaming batons one by one in her mouth. Flak yawned ostentatiously through the applause.
‘Shite,’ he commented as she made her exit in a swirl of black and silver.
‘Seemed pretty impressive to me.’ Logan was beaming all over his face. ‘What are you drinking?’
Black Label was Flak’s poison. Aidan decided to copy him, since admission to the tribe often depended on such things. He should have known better.
‘Black Label for you, Black Label for me, stirrin up the racial har-mon-ee. You know the best way to achieve that? Burn each other’s faces off. How do you think that’d go down in this sweet little place?’ Flak was grinning.
Aidan took a swig of his drink, but offered no comeback.
‘Thing is,’ Flak continued, ‘how do they keep the tick on their licensing arrangement when they’re doing that stuff? You know what? They told me they’ll close the show down at the Triangle if I light so much as a sodding match. I found that seriously annoying. So I told them to sod off. We got the best fire show in London, and nowhere to roll it out except Highgate cemetery.’