by J M Gregson
After a second of surprise, Clyde lifted his arms and stroked the top of her back, feeling the delicate shoulder blades beneath the smooth silk of her blouse. He felt the tip of her tongue against his teeth, damp and exploratory. She smelt nice. He drew his head back slowly after a moment, enjoying the soft caress of her hair against his mouth and cheek as she sank her face against his chest. He held her at arm’s length for a moment before he released her, his face breaking into a slow smile as he looked down into blue eyes clouded with desire.
When eventually she slid her hand through his fingers and left him, he went and got himself another lager, trying not to analyse for the moment what he felt about this unexpected encounter. He had never had a prolonged relationship with any girl. And he had certainly never had the running made to him by a posh girl. He tried to imagine for a moment what the absent parents he had never seen, never would see, would make of him, what they would say about any relationship between him and this fair-haired girl with the carefully rounded vowels and the expensive clothes.
His musings were abruptly terminated by a sharp dig in the middle of his back. He turned to meet a broad-shouldered youth with an open-necked shirt, fair hair, and a flushed, panting face. Clyde was twenty-three; this man was probably a little younger than him. About the same weight, but three inches shorter. The man said, “Friendly warning, pal. Lay off Tracey. She’s spoken for!”
The accent was different from what you normally heard around Brunton. Public school, Clyde thought: he had become something of an expert in these matters over the last two years at the electrical factory. The combination of this manner of speech with the blunt, working-class phrases lent a curious overtone to the words. In Clyde’s drug-heightened assessment, the effect was that of a boy trying to be a man. He smiled down into the breathless face, imitated the accent a little as he said, “That’s not at all politically correct, is it? We aren’t supposed to treat women as property any longer. Or hadn’t you heard?”
“Don’t try to be clever with me, you black bastard! I was giving you a friendly warning, that’s all. The next one won’t be so gentle!”
He glanced over his shoulder on the last words, and Clyde knew in that moment that this aggressive prat wasn’t alone, that he felt he could rely on the assistance of a group to support his threats, if it should come to it. Clyde thrust down the temper he felt rising, forced a half-smile on to his lips. “Cool it, mister! I’m not looking for a fight. You can keep your girl, if she’s silly enough to want you. I’m more into motorbikes. And for your information, it was Tracey who was making the running, not me.”
He turned and walked away, his senses alert for any movement behind him. But the pink-faced young man did not follow him. When Clyde turned, he saw him standing on the other side of the room, glaring malevolently after his adversary but making no attempt to follow. Clyde raised his right arm and waved the fingers of his hand in a slow, dismissive gesture.
He found the other three who had been invited here with him as a group and stayed with them for the next hour. The trio were all a little drunk and confused, not capable of properly articulated conversation. But there was a certain safety in numbers, so Clyde stayed with them when he was not dancing.
There were a couple of Asian youths, but he seemed to be the only black face in the house. Was he the token black invite, the role he had played too often before in liberal gatherings? He didn’t think so, now. Tracey Wallace had wanted him here for his own sake, to judge by her actions on the dance floor. He smiled a little, half at that thought and half at the dismay he had brought to the public school swain.
The party was getting noisier and more disorderly. Tracey had made the mistake of leaving the central heating on high, and all the windows in the place were open, as the temperature soared with the numbers and their activity. Half an hour after midnight, someone stumbled drunkenly into a coffee table which was covered with glasses and it overturned with a noisy crash. An ironic cheer came from the adjoining room at the noise, then spread through the house as it was taken up by the revellers. Clyde wondered where Tracey Wallace was, whether she comprehended the damage that was being done to the family home as her party lurched towards chaos.
As if responding to a cue, she appeared at his elbow. He began to speak to her, but a crash of electronic guitars from the big speakers drowned his words, and she seized his arm and pulled him on to the middle of the carpet to dance. He felt a splinter of broken glass beneath his heel as she pulled him towards her. It was time to be out of here.
But she had both his hands in hers. As the beat of the music slowed, she said, “Smoochy one, this!” and pulled him close against her, grinding her pelvis hard against his thigh as they gyrated together around the floor. He looked over her head for any sign of his earlier adversary, but there was too much smoke and too little lighting now for him to see much beyond the couples who were locked together and moving slowly in time to the music.
Clyde tried to tell her how he had been warned off, wanting to let her know for her sake as well as his, but she did not want to hear. She pressed her face against his chest. He could feel the tongue which had caressed his gums earlier finding its way between the buttons on his shirt, licking the sweat at the top of his chest. It was exciting, but it was also disquieting; he pressed her firmly against him to stop it, feeling her little giggle of pleasure and amusement as he did so.
When the music ended at last and she looked up into his face, he could smell alcohol upon her breath, though she was perfectly steady upon her feet. “Nice!” was all she said, very softly. She let his hands go reluctantly and he stood back a pace, giving her a smile which was meant to be friendly but not intimate. You never knew who was watching: he was confident he could handle lover boy, but you didn’t want a punch-up, especially with things sounding so raucous all round you and most people pissed. Not if you were black.
He said, “I’ll have to be off soon,” and made it a leave-taking from her, turning swiftly and moving away into the hall without looking back. There were couples on the stairs; other pairs were climbing clumsily over them to disappear into the bedrooms. The music blared out from the speakers as loudly as ever, but there were fewer people dancing now.
Clyde Northcott went into the family room, found his leathers amidst a pile of coats, and began to pull them on. He did not allow himself the sensual pleasure he usually derived from the slow donning of this tightly fitting armour, but simply slipped into it and zipped it up as quickly as he could. Without knowing the reason why, he found himself wishing he had left an hour earlier. There was no sign of Tracey when he went back into the hall. That was a relief. He went swiftly out into the welcome coolness of the night air.
The Yamaha was untouched. He wheeled it out with a small sigh of relief from the shadow of the huge garage where he had left it, and prepared to mount it and depart. He was reaching into the holder for his helmet when a voice said harshly, “Time of reckoning, nigger!”
It was not the fair-haired youth who had confronted him earlier. That man stood beside the speaker, who was a good two inches taller than him. This man had a shaven head and a baseball cap with a National Front logo above the Union Jack. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting combat trousers above his boots; his forearms gleamed bare in the residual light from the house.
Clyde Northcott stood with his helmet in both hands in front of him. Three of them, at least. The cocky sod who’d just spoken had his earlier challenger on one side and another, slighter figure on the other. The third man stood two feet behind National Front, too deep in the shadows for him to see more than an outline. Twenty yards behind the trio, on the steps of the house, he saw Sam Cook, who worked on the next bench at the factory, who had got him the invitation to come here. Sam paused on the steps, then turned back into the house. Cowardly bastard!
Clyde called over the heads of his enemies, “Get the others, Sam! Bring them out here!” Then, as calmly as he could, he said to the man in front of hi
m, “Let’s just leave it, shall we? It’s been a decent rave, this. No call to end the night with a punch-up, is there?”
The man who had challenged him earlier in the evening had looked over his shoulder when Clyde called for help. Now he whirled back and said viciously, “I warned you to lay off Tracey, Sambo! You chose to ignore it, so now you’re going to get what’s coming to you!”
The face which had been pink in the overheated house was white with fury now. The public-school accent sat oddly on the crude threats of violence. For a second, Clyde found himself threatened by an unexpected desire to laugh at the incongruity of it. He watched the oblong of light which was the open front door. No. one appeared in it. He heard a tiny tremor in his voice as he said, “I told you, I never made the running with Tracey. I’m telling you now, I don’t intend to take it any further with her. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
National Front spoke again, grinding his fist into his palm, mocking Clyde’s words in a high, effeminate tone. “‘Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?” He moved forward a pace, and the other two followed as if drawn on strings. “No! We won’t leave it at that, you black bastard! You’re going to pay for putting your dirty paws on Mark’s girl.”
It looked as if Sam Cook wasn’t coming back. Either he hadn’t gone looking for the others, hadn’t found them, or they had decided collectively to keep out of this. Clyde said, “Look, I don’t want a rumble. Someone could get hurt. If you let me ride away quietly, you won’t see me again.”
National Front smiled. “Someone is going to get hurt, Sambo. But it isn’t any of us.”
The music was louder than ever through the open windows of the house. Someone was singing raucously along with it. There were shouts from within. Laughter. Another crash of glass. But no one came out. No one was suddenly silhouetted against the orange oblong of light.
Clyde Northcott said decisively, “I’ve had enough of this! I’m going.”
“Not yet you’re not, nigger!” shouted National Front, and launched himself upon the lone figure by the big motorbike.
He was a heavy man, and Clyde, side-stepping his bull-like rush even as he hurled his helmet at the man called Mark, avoided him easily and landed a glancing blow on the shaven head as he passed. The man who had challenged him earlier in the evening, however, caught the helmet and flung it aside, then followed his companion in with surprising force and speed. His knee caught Clyde, who had been watching his fists, in the side, partially winding him. Not Queensberry Rules at all from the public schoolboy.
The third man seemed to have disappeared, but National Front was back on his feet in an instant, an enraged bull now. He came at Clyde with a massive grunt, reaching for him with both hands, looking to hug him to his great chest, transformed in an instant from ox into angry gorilla. His idea was to hold the black man whilst his companion put in the blows which would down him, but Clyde realised this. His leathers were a help: fitting tight against his body, they gave the opposition nothing to get hold of as their hands flailed the air.
Their contest shut out all other sights and sounds, every other consideration but inflicting pain upon each other. None of them even heard the wail of the sirens in the distance. But the third of Clyde’s adversaries had heard it, and melted away into the darkness.
Clyde managed to land a heavy blow into mouthy Mark’s face: he felt bone crunch under his knuckles an instant before the yell of pain hit his ears. More fortuitously, he managed to get a knee into the groin of National Front as he whirled to confront him. His enemies weren’t done yet, but there were two of them, not three, and both of them were hurt. “Come on then, you buggers!” he yelled, furious now, crouching with his fists in front of him. “Who’s next for the nigger to chop?”
It was at that moment that he caught the glint of steel in the gloom, saw the long arms of National Front down by his knees, as he crouched and moved stealthily forward through the darkness. “Don’t be a bloody fool!” Clyde yelled, but the big man only grunted and moved closer to him, too concentrated now even to hurl his insults. Mark was still doubled up with his face in his hands, trying to feel what damage had been done to him as the blood ran between his fingers.
There was only one to worry about now, but he had a blade.
Clyde feinted to go at his adversary’s left side, then grabbed the arm holding the knife with both hands as the man thought he saw an opportunity to stab at his chest. Clyde’s eyes were glued to the steel as it flashed above him, his every effort directed to protecting himself from that deadly blade. He could see it clearly now, not more than six inches from his face, held in the bare arms of a gorilla who was suddenly very strong.
There was an instant when the two of them were poised crazily against the night sky, each grunting with the effort of their contest of strength. Then Clyde slid a smooth leather-clad calf behind the balancing leg of his opponent and threw him heavily to the ground, with a shout of triumph. In an instant, his knee was on the arm of National Front; he threw his full weight like a hammer upon the bicep, yelling in triumph as he saw the helpless fingers release the knife, exultant as his ears caught the scream of pain from his defeated enemy.
Clyde snatched up the knife triumphantly, realising only in the moment of his victory just how frightened he had been. “What next, then, nigger-baiter?” he yelled into the gorilla’s face, holding the blade against the throat of his terrified adversary.
“The next thing is an arrest,” said a cool voice from the darkness behind him. “Drop the knife and turn round. Very slowly, please.”
Clyde Northcott felt the knife slip through fingers that were suddenly nerveless. He turned and saw four uniformed policemen with truncheons at the ready. The bright blue lights of two patrol cars blinked blindingly from the darkness behind them.
They put Clyde in the back of one car, National Front in the other. He heard a policeman radioing for an ambulance for Mark and his broken nose.
The last thing Clyde heard as they shut the door upon him was National Front saying, “We was going home quietly when the nigger pulled a blade on us.”
Ten
Sunday, January 27th
Percy Peach had never quite believed in the worthiness of lace. To be fair, he had never given it a lot of thought. Now he was convinced in an instant of its value.
He did not often change his mind so quickly on important issues. But these circumstances were quite exceptional. The lace around the periphery of Lucy Blake’s new green bra and pants was probably of a very high quality. He could not be certain about that. What Percy was certain of was that lace had never had such a setting to display its virtues.
He allowed himself a soft moan of pure pleasure, found he liked the release it afforded him, and repeated it at greater length.
“Please don’t endanger your elderly frame by such painful excesses of desire,” warned Lucy Blake, without turning round. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror of her wardrobe, brushing her lustrous auburn hair methodically with long, unhurried strokes and humming softly. Very Edwardian, thought Percy. He didn’t mind that; they liked their women to be curvaceous rather than skinny, the Edwardians, and Percy was right with them there.
He lay beneath the duvet on the double bed and watched the delicate movements of the lace around the bottom that he felt had now been made more desirable than ever. With difficulty, he recovered the power of speech. “H-h-hand made, is it, that lace?” he said tremulously.
“Lace? Oh, that. I hadn’t really noticed the lace. Yes, I expect it is.”
“They’d have been extra-careful, if they’d known where it was going,” said Percy. He liked an intellectual conversation.
Lucy laughed; transferred the brush to her left hand; resumed a more vigorous and slightly less co-ordinated brushing. Percy allowed himself another moan, then a gasp of pure lust as she dropped the brush and had to retrieve it. “Bloody ’ell, Norah!” he panted. It was an expression he had used a lot lately.
&nbs
p; “I’m beginning to be quite jealous of this Norah,” said Lucy. But she went on humming as she moved about the familiar bedroom. It felt different with Percy in it. Less private, but she didn’t object to that. She finished brushing her hair, turned towards the bed and kicked off her slippers. This time Percy’s moan had a clear note of anticipation.
“You’re making me self-conscious,” she said. “I can’t concentrate on an orderly retirement with you huffing and puffing, you fool!” She reached out and switched off the bedside light.
It was a mistake. Percy had her wrist in an expert grip in an instant, and she was beneath the duvet and within his arms in one continuous movement. It was the way he had taken many a slip catch. The secret when you swooped was not to snatch, but to let the ball settle into your eager fingers, rather than clutching at it. Percy took this particular catch one-handed, letting the mound beneath the green pants settle firmly into the fingers rather than the palm of his right hand, closing the fingers with perfect timing when he knew the catch was secure.
“Ooooh! What a happy accident!” he muttered into an ear he found near his mouth.
“That was no accident, that was my lace gusset!” a muffled voice said from somewhere beneath his chin.
The lace proved as rewarding to the touch as it had been to the eye, and with considerable interest he traced its lines around the perimeter of these garments which stretched thin as gossamer between him and paradise. “Built-in foreplay, this is,” he said happily to the ear; he hoped it was still approximately where it had been.