In short, his plan just did not work and he had to think of another way to proceed.
For want of a better idea, Sam travelled to Cambridge and began staking out various skinhead haunts such as pubs, clubs and neo-Nazi gatherings. But after several weeks of fruitless searching he realised that this, too, was a waste of time.
As an outsider, he was simply not welcome. Therefore, he was not privy to the vital intelligence he required, even though he did his best to search every face in every crowd.
It soon became clear he needed access to the heart of the movement so that he could pass through unnoticed and glean valuable information which might eventually lead to the man with the harelip.
But standing on the periphery, watching from a distance, was no way to do this as there was just too many locations and too many people to monitor by himself.
But if he could infiltrate the scene, become one of them, then he might just be able to find a direct line to the person he sought.
However, in order to gain their trust, Sam knew he first had to be accepted. Moreover, he had to blend in seamlessly, so that his very presence would not arouse suspicions. It would be the only way to get this tight-knit, fiercely aggressive group of individuals to finally open up to him.
With this in mind, Sam decided to take drastic action. Indeed, to reap his revenge, he was prepared to do whatever was necessary.
His first act was to find a voice coach who, after several weeks of tuition, helped him to fully disguise his American accent and speak with a more regional English one.
Next, he visited a tattooist. Most skinheads had multiple inkings and it was vital for Sam to look authentic.
A lot of the skinhead tattoos featured a swastika but that revolting symbol conjured up the last dreadful image Sam had of Claudette and for the sake of his own sanity he could not face having a permanent inking of one to serve as a daily reminder.
Seeing it indelibly drawn on others, however, fuelled his resolve.
In the end, Sam opted for a heart with a scroll underneath and the words ‘Never Forget’ written on it, which he had tattooed on his right bicep.
On his left he had a picture of a fire-breathing dragon, to represent his burning wrath, which was wound around a sword of vengeance. Both tattoos were purely symbolic, of course, but if he was going to have them for the rest of his life then he thought they should at least have some significance.
What is more, they would appear innocuous enough to the casual observer, yet remain extremely meaningful to Sam himself.
After the voice coaching and tattoos came the shaved head.
Sam stood naked in the bathroom of the squalid little flat he had rented for the sake of appearances and studied himself in the mirror.
His body was lean and hard, every muscle, every sinew, clearly defined with not an ounce of spare flesh. Yet his hair was long and his beard was bushy and both had to go.
Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he selected the No.1 setting on the hair clippers then shaved a wide, white path over the centre of his scalp; his long, blonde tresses falling haphazardly around his bare shoulders.
He continued until his scalp was completely bald, except for a minute coating of prickly stubble. Then he trimmed his beard and shaved it clean with a wet razor.
When finished, he studied his reflection again and thought himself to be almost unrecognisable. Indeed, he doubted that no one but his closest friends would recognise him as the carefree university student he had been less than twelve months before.
Now he looked hard and menacing; the haircut, the tattoos and the tough physique, all helping to perfect the exact image of a typical skinhead.
To further help him blend in, he had purchased a wardrobe of suitable clothes. Ben Sherman button-downs, Fred Perry polos, tie-dyed Levis with narrow braces and a Crombie coat.
In addition, he had also acquired a pair of the obligatory Doc Martens boots. Cherry-red and fourteen eyelet, he had bought them from a second-hand shop which gave them that all important well-worn look. But they were in good condition and he had polished them to a high shine.
When suited and booted Sam looked extremely formidable indeed. Yet that was the easy part. He now had to imbed himself within the skinhead community and adopt an attitude suitable to their way of life otherwise he would stand out like a sore thumb.
Furthermore, in order to be perceived as a violent, neo-Nazi extremist and be accepted by a group populated by drug-users and testosterone fuelled bully boys, he had to become the very embodiment of one himself.
***
Sam’s new plan was immediately effective. What is more, with his drastically altered appearance and using the assumed name of ‘John Robinson’ which he hoped suited his new persona, he was able to pass freely amongst the skinhead hordes in the clubs and pubs they frequented without so much as a raised eyebrow.
Indeed, the more used to seeing him they became, the easier it was for Sam to make acquaintances. After several weeks, everyone began referring to him simply as ‘Robbo’ and had clearly accepted him as one of them.
In particular, he became friendly with a twenty year-old skinhead named Baz McCollough who had swastikas tattooed on both earlobes and National Front self-inked in childish letters around his thick neck. He was of an angry, intolerant disposition and was racist in the extreme but was well placed within the community to be a valuable asset. He was not intelligent but what he lacked in brain power he made up for in aggression so Sam had to tread very carefully when attempting to pry information out of him.
Even in his new guise, and with the few residual scars that remained from the many surgeries that had saved his right eye, Sam was still a good-looking man. Indeed, the scars, which were very faint, gave him something of a rugged quality which only served to make him appear even more handsome.
As such, he had caught the eye of one of the female skinheads. Her name was Fiona, or ‘Fi’ but everyone called her ‘Flea’, which she seemed perfectly comfortable with.
She dressed much like the other skinheads, although instead of cropped jeans and boots she wore mini skirts with tights and Doc Martens shoes as opposed to boots. Also, rather than her head being completely shaved, she had a feather-cut; short on the crown, with long fringes at the front, back and sides.
She was only slight, around five feet tall but as tough as many of the men with a tight, muscular body that was quite boyish in shape. Yet she had generous breasts and a pretty face that was marred only by two tiny tattooed teardrops beneath each of her heavily mascaraed eyes, which gave her a hard, rather menacing appearance.
Even so, Flea made it very clear that she had her sights set on Sam and initially, he tried to dismiss her advances. The very thought of being with someone else seemed like such a betrayal of Claudette, especially someone with such racist views on Asians, Jews and West Indians - whom Flea clearly despised.
She was not shy about vocalising her opinions either, all of which were truly offensive but Sam soon came to realise that Flea could greatly further his search for the skinhead with the harelip.
She was popular and had been around the scene for a long time. What is more, she seemed to know absolutely everyone so it made perfect sense for Sam to get close to her.
He just had to remember he was playing a part, nothing more, and she, and the persona he was currently inhabiting were both vital to his endgame.
After accepting this, Sam and Flea soon became an item and a short time later, at her instigation, they had sex for the first time - up against a wall in the dirty cubicle of a mens toilets where she had insistently dragged him.
In their time together that followed, they had sex frequently, but whenever they did, Sam had to forcibly become someone else.
By nature, he was a tender and considerate lover but Flea liked to play rough; liked sex to be aggressive and positively encouraged hi
m to be brutal with her in bed as it turned her on.
Furthermore, she always demanded it doggie-style for maximum penetration, which meant Sam could avoid staring at the large S.S. logo tattooed between her breasts. However, it also meant that he was forced to look at the thick, black swastikas inked on each of her round buttocks every time he fucked her.
In his opinion, they never made love. In fact, there was nothing loving or tender about Flea at all.
Yet the vile swastika tattoos fuelled his aggression, ignited his anger and allowed him to be as rough with his thrusts as she constantly begged him to be.
When the sex was over, Flea would usually relax by shooting up or gulping down barbiturates, untroubled by Sam’s constant refusal to join her. Indeed, so long as he satisfied her beforehand, she was not concerned by what he did afterwards and was content, herself, to spend the rest of the night completely spaced-out in front of the T.V.
It was a tragic, squalid existence borne from poor life choices and constant exposure to corrupting influences but Sam was not on a crusade to change anyone. He was there for one purpose only and whatever Flea did for amusement had no bearing on that, provided it did not get in the way of his ultimate goal.
In truth, their intense sexual encounters also helped him to release some of the pent up aggression that always burned through him after spending long periods of time within the skinhead community; their hatred for those of a different race or colour never failing to revolt him and make his blood boil.
But he was making progress nonetheless and on one Saturday night, shortly after getting together with Flea, she and Baz took him along to the 617 Club, which was the main headquarters of the Cambridge Skins and a place he would never have learned about had he not infiltrated their ranks.
The unlikely location of this secret skinhead stronghold was, in fact, an old cricket pavilion on the outskirts of the city which between every Friday and Sunday became a buzzing hive of activity.
Situated in the countryside, away from residential areas and sitting in the centre of a huge green field which was once a cricket ground, the 617 Club was shabby in the extreme. On the outside, its chipped white wood facade was covered with a mass of coloured graffiti. National Front and British Movement logos, together with Nazi and S.S. insignia scrawled all over it in a jumbled mixture of spray-paint and magic marker.
Inside, it was predominantly dark with the constant flashing of coloured disco lights; occasionally a strobe would play over the pulsating crowd as they surged rhythmically to the throbbing beat of the blaring music. The faded walls were bedecked with the banners and flags of various racist groups and yet more graffiti of a similarly offensive nature.
The place was jam-packed with skinhead boys and girls, either dancing to the constant pounding of the loud rocksteady soundtrack or lounging around, drinking beer and blatantly popping pills in the mishmash of battered sofas that lined the walls.
It smelled strongly of cannabis, perspiration and boot polish as Flea grabbed Sam by the hand and led him to the bar; Baz clearing a path through the heaving, sweaty masses clogging the dance floor ahead of them.
As they went, Sam noticed a door, through the darkness, on the far side of the room, with a hand-painted sign on it which read ‘Bomber Squadron’, and he absently wondered what it might mean.
After buying them all bottles of Pils, Baz then led them to an empty sofa close to the mysterious door.
As they sat down, Sam nodded to the sign. “Bomber Squadron,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din, “What’s that then?”
“They’re the elite, Robbo,” Baz yelled back, “The fuckin’ first division.”
“First division of what?” Sam queried, “I don’t understand.”
“You will, mate,” replied Baz cryptically, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger in a knowing fashion. “All in good time - if you play your cards right you might even get picked.”
“Picked for what?”
“Like I said, mate,” grinned Baz, “all in good time.”
Sam smiled and shrugged, he still did not understand but now he was definitely intrigued. “What’s he on about?” He said to Flea.
She just winked and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.”
“Fair enough,” he replied, as if it was no big deal but his interest was piqued nonetheless.
For the next few hours they drank, talked and danced. Once in a while, Baz or Flea would also pop a pill or two.
To Sam, there constantly seemed to be a frisson of violence about the place, an undercurrent of danger, as if at any moment trouble could ignite.
The packed multitude of skinheads all drunk, hopped up on pills and dancing in an aggressive, lurching style that often saw them banging into one another, spilling beer and dropping glasses, always threatening to escalate into a fight.
Indeed, whilst Sam exuded a relaxed sense of calm, he remained on guard all evening, prepared to defend himself if the need should arise.
Fortunately, however, it did not.
As time rolled by and the effect of the alcohol and pills took over, both Flea and Baz began to wane. Baz was zonked out at the opposite end of their sofa, his head slumped on his chest and his eyes closed, whilst Flea’s head was resting on Sam’s shoulder, yet she, too, was completely gone.
As for Sam, he was eager to get home, this excursion into the countryside had been fruitless and the whole pointless night yet another infuriating waste of time with still no sign of the man he was after.
Indeed, as 2am came and went, and with tiredness taking over, Sam also began to drift off.
However, he had no sooner closed his eyes when the mysterious door opened.
Immediately he was alert and watched as eight burly skinheads emerged from the room beyond.
Sam assumed these men to be this so-called ‘Bomber Squadron’, although their backs were to him as they marched out.
Nonetheless, they were quite obviously revered by the unruly mob packing the dance floor who simply parted like the Red Sea to allow the eight men to stride arrogantly through their massed ranks.
Sam strained to get a clearer view as he could not make out any of their faces; he was even tempted to follow them in order to get a better look, but he could not for fear of making a scene.
Yet, as the crowd started to close behind the men after they had passed through, the last of the Bomber Squadron suddenly paused and looked back.
He stared directly at Sam and their eyes locked together for the briefest of moments, yet it seemed much longer. Sam’s pulse started to quicken as adrenaline pumped through his veins in preparation for whatever might happen next.
But then the skinhead simply looked away, his gaze moving onto Flea and then Baz, as if appraising them for a second or two.
After appearing to come to some sort of conclusion, he shrugged, almost indiscernibly, then turned back and followed his companions.
A moment later he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
But Sam was still staring, his eyes fixed on the place where the man had just been, disbelief written all over his face.
Because he had just come face to face with the man with the harelip.
He had found The Hare at last.
Chapter Twelve
Sam’s first instinct was to jump up and charge after The Hare; to leap onto his back and knock him down, then repeatedly slam his face into the scuffed wooden floor until nothing was left of it but a bloody pulp.
But he could not, for the sure knowledge that no one in the club would meekly stand by and allow it to happen. He, himself, would undoubtedly be brought down instead ending any chance he might otherwise have had.
So he had to wait. However, he now knew where to find The Hare and with Flea and Baz’s help, he would soon know everything about him and this Bomber Squadron h
e was associated with.
Nevertheless, he took heart from the fact that he had finally found the man for whom he had been searching.
The other positive he took from the encounter was that he had not been recognised as the person The Hare and his gang had left for dead on that fateful day by the River Cam. Which confirmed that his masquerade as a skinhead was an effective disguise.
Now though, Sam had to get in closer. Close enough to kill.
***
They remained at the 617 Club for another hour or so but clearly the Bomber Squadron had left for the night and would not be coming back. But now Sam knew where to find them he most definitely would be.
After saying goodnight to Baz, Sam and Flea eventually got back to his flat in the early hours and went straight to bed. However, over the course of the next few days, and with a little gentle prompting, Sam gradually learned all about the Bomber Squadron and, more importantly, the true identity of the man he had, until then, only known as The Hare.
His name was William Merton, known by one and all as ‘Psycho Billy.’
It also transpired that he was Flea’s ex-boyfriend and the best friend of Baz’s brother, Dean, or ‘Deano’ as he was known.
Flea told Sam that she and Billy had split up only a short time ago having dated for several months. Although she wished she had never gone out with him in the first place as he was violent and prone to losing his temper without warning. Even in the bedroom, where Flea liked to play rough, Psycho Billy liked it rougher still and had, she said, been brutal in the extreme, leaving her battered and bruised on numerous occasions.
He was also the one who had introduced her to heroin for which she now had a mild addiction.
It was abundantly clear, however, that Flea was now afraid of Merton and she admitted to feeling very uneasy whenever she was in his presence as he was unpredictable and likely to lash out.
Baz, on the other hand, obviously idolised Billy - although not so much as he did his own brother, Deano, who at twenty-eight was apparently the leader of the much revered Bomber Squadron.
Perfect Day Page 12