Undoubtedly, she was an attractive woman. Age had not been unkind. She could still favourably compare with women ten years her junior. She had a slender appeal most men found exciting. Her breasts were still firm, her thighs solid and softly cool to the touch. Her touch. Mankind had yet to sample those delights in a comfortable bed. She had a pleasant face with warm, green eyes, a slightly sensuous mouth and silken honey-blonde hair. She was neither tall nor short and her clothes always were bought to please the opposite sex.
She had definite likes and dislikes and her political leanings sometimes shocked those liberals she was compelled to associate with as a youth club organiser. She did not believe the permissive society had to be encouraged. In fact, she did her utmost to foster old-time family pangs in the hearts of her converts.
Perhaps, she thought wearily, that is why I am still a spinster; why those with whom I could gladly fornicate refuse to consider me an object of lustful dalliance...
*
Joe heard about the club in a roundabout way. One evening, as he relaxed in Terry’s old Mayfair hangout, he happened to get drawn into a conversation dealing with Terry’s sentence.
“You were his pal,” a brash loud mouth said as he downed a pink gin. “Didn’t you know he was a drug addict?”
Joe contemplated Vera’s hidden navel and wondered if he should make the grade with her that night. She gave every indication of being available, willing, excited by the prospect of being his “mate”. Their Tarzan-Jane mental clashings had aroused in him a desire to find out if she performed as well as she suggested she would. And yet...
“Terry wasn’t addicted,” Joe informed the group. “He never took drugs. A friend of his coaxed him into a one-time deal and it went sour.”
“Come off it,” loudmouth exploded. “People don’t get coaxed into sordid things like narcotics.”
“Have it your way,” Joe sighed and signalled Vera for a refill.
“Do you take drugs?” the man asked next.
Joe swung on his stool. “Mister, leave me alone!”
The man inched backwards, eyes suddenly alert to his danger. Joe looked positively menacing. “Kids,” he said covering his inability to match Joe’s ferociousness. “Man, I wouldn’t have a job trying to sort them out these days. I know of a club of drop-outs in Marylebone. It’s supposed to make saints out of sinners but that’s debatable.”
Joe suddenly found himself interested. He had been searching for a youth club, or some fraternity catering for the modem society. He asked: “Where is this club?”
Loudmouth scoffed: “Don’t tell me you’re a do-gooder, too?”
“I’m not against progress,” Joe answered in his best “Totter” retort.
Shrugging, the man dived into a pocket and withdrew a bunch of business cards. Sorting through them he singled out one. “That’s it,” he said nastily, reaching the card to Joe.
Committing the address to memory, Joe smilingly returned the card saying: “Thanks. I don’t believe it’s my scene...”
*
Marissa Stone studied the new arrival with a jaundiced gaze. She did not particularly like the mode of dress nor the supercilious air with which the newcomer considered her group. Getting to her feet, and making excuses she approached the youth and asked: “May I be of some assistance?”
Joe sensed her animosity towards him and smiled. He invariably enjoyed a clash of personalities. He didn’t give a damn what she thought of him nor did he have to belong to this outfit. That’s what made his attitude harden. “That’s doubtful,” he said. “I came expecting something more lively.”
Marissa refused to let her feelings get the better of her. “What precisely did you expect, Mr “Joe Hawkins.” Leaning on his umbrella he affected an upper-class frostiness – or what he hoped was the icy blast he sometimes got in the Mayfair bar. “I had an idea this would be some sort of sports club with nightly dances.”
“Oh,” Marissa said coldly. “We do have sporting activities and dancing but not every night. We try to act like responsible adults. All play and no work makes for weak characters.”
“Tell that to the House of Lords,” Joe sneered.
“Are you a communist?”
Joe laughed. “Do I look like a Morning Star reader?”
“People who answer questions with questions are usually afraid of their own convictions,” Marissa said primly. “Mr. Hawkins, just what are you doing here?”
“I heard about this place and came to look it over,” Joe replied with honesty.
“Are you seriously interested in joining?”
“That depends.” He did not particularly care for the young people seated across the huge barn-like room. They gave him the creeps. Each one looked like a goodie-goodie – especially the girls.
“You think we might be too tame for you, is that it?”
He nodded. The woman appealed but he did not reckon her as a source of pleasure. Her type seldom indulged in extra-marital excursions. Anyway, she was old enough to be his mother. Belonging to an acceptable organisation had advantages but one had to weigh every aspect of a situation before being committed. There must be clubs where a preponderance of the members were full of fun and not a bunch of sour-faced mummies.
“I’d like you to try your strength against Brian over there,” Marissa said softly. “I should inform you he boxed for this club against the best German competition last year.”
Joe sneered. Who the hell did she think he was? Boxing didn’t appeal any more than wrestling. If he got into a fight it would be on terms he dictated, not rules laid down by some moth-eaten old earl long since dead. Anyway, he wasn’t a muscle boy. He had worked as a coal-heaver and developed hard, durable biceps. But being able to throw sacks of coal didn’t necessarily make a man another version of Samson. He preferred to toss a bird around a bed and nurse his energies through a night filled with passion.
“I’m not a boxer,” he said. “I can fight but not for fun.”
“If you’d care to join us you might be agreeably surprised,” Marissa said finally. Something about Joe attracted her. At first, she had felt nothing but detestation for his cocky perusal of their club. She didn’t like his outlook but then, she very seldom found new members making a big hit with her. She was always willing to let a youth’s personality grow on her. Surface values were not measurable guides to what lay inside. Many people presented a hardened exterior to shield themselves from the hurts a mercenary world invariably dished out.
“Alright, but don’t expect me to like it,” Joe said as he followed the slender woman across the room.
*
Basically Joe Hawkins had a “feeling” for violence. Regardless of what the do-gooders and the socialists and psychiatrists claimed, some people had an instinct bent on creating havoc and resorting to jungle savagery. Joe was one of these. Being part of a club which tried to foster a live-and-let-live fellowship did not weaken his desire to unleash brutal assaults on innocent folk. The club was a front to cover his deep, dark nature. A requirement for his suedehead cultism.
Unknown to Marissa Stone and the other adult workers, the Marylebone premises housed a growing collection of addicted youths. Joe found himself invited to join in extra-curricular activities which would have meant immediate castigation had Marissa heard the slightest whisper of what went on. It was as if Joe had been guided to the barn-like old warehouse. As if he had been fated to meet those others sharing his unsocial feelings.
Jeremy French came from a middle-class family shattered by scandal. Divorce and a succession of parental mistresses had sent him down the wrong road until, as a skinhead, he had been brought before a court and given a suspended sentence.
Larry Miller had always been on the “wrong side of the tracks” according to his story. His mother had been a gypsy, his father a lazy loafer unable to hold down any job for more than a month. When they moved into London from their native Birmingham, Larry had taken up with a gang and been its leader until the Uxbridg
e police had finally laid a trap and nicked them all with the sole exception of Larry. Since then, he had kept his nose clean but had not deviated from a life of minor crime.
Walter Spencer had never belonged to a gang and had never seen his home ruined by infidelity. He had always been treated fairly and had been given the best possible education. Nevertheless, he had graduated into cultism from a sense of loyalty to his fellow teenagers and had grown to hate those things for which his family had stood. Decency, democracy, dedication to ideals sponsored by community committees held no appeal to his fertile brain which was totally devoted to the destruction of all that the elder generation considered “dear”.
John Moore neither cared for life nor brotherliness. He hated because he did not get along with others. Although he formed an association with Joe, Walter, Jeremy and Larry he did not have any loyalty to them. No more than he felt it necessary to treat Marissa Stone as a benefactor. His entire attitude was one of “screw you, Jack – I’m okay.” And he was okay, too. He had a highly paid position with an advertising agency, shared a flat with a sexy bird who loved him and got knocked about for her trouble, and had seven hundred pounds in the bank – a result of following form in The Jockey. John was no mug punter. He studied his nags, studied what the experts had to say and made an assessment from this. When he bet he could be sure of at least third place.
One thing Joe’s crowd had in common was football mania. They did not support the same teams but they did stick together. Saturday was brutality day for each of them – be it at Upton Park, Stamford Bridge, Highbury or White Hart Lane.
A memory of getting “done” tormented Joe as he eased into Stamford Bridge behind Larry. They had agreed – no “Shed” today. They did not fit in “The Shed”. Their clean-cut clothes, their aloofness, their lack of colours flying in the breeze would have invited automatic jibes – and worse. Chelsea’s skinhead supporters had not lessened in their desire for trouble-making although great efforts to curb their vicious effectiveness was beginning to have results. The old days of outright slaughter had vanished as surely as bovver boots were a dying symbol of a passing phase.
Joe was happy to mingle with a more elite crowd than had been his normal Saturday afternoon wont. An umbrella did not stick out like a sore thumb here. Nor did those greying skies and weather forecast mean police suspicions as they entered the ground.
“There’s a bunch of Chelsea fans, “John exclaimed, pointing.
Walter grinned and gripped his umbrella as a General would his sword preparing to engage the enemy. “I see space behind them.”
Larry and Jeremy were already pushing their way through the chanting crowd, climbing the steps to get on a level with the unsuspecting fans they had spotted. Yard by yard they advanced making room for John, Walter and Joe to squeeze through in their wake. Once, a woman screamed abuse as Larry trod on her foot but a growled oath soon stopped her cold. There was something threatening in those cold, detached faces to make her suffer in utter silence.
“This’ll do,” Jeremy announced.
Joe studied the position. When he had his gang his word had been law. No longer. The group he now found himself with refused to follow a leader. Each member was an individual, each permitted to voice his opinion without fear of contradiction by a “king”. In the three weeks plus a few days they had been together they had agreed to remain loosely linked whilst keeping personal identity and personal choice. Their only concession to a union had been in a name for themselves. That had been Joe’s suggestion although the name had come from Larry’s mind.
“Marylebone Martyrs” sounded like an ancient rebellion in Joe’s ears but the others agreed it was fitting. After all, as John had said:
“In ten years time there’ll be dozens of gangs aping us. Maybe we won’t make headlines but somebody will get to hear about us. They always do.”
“The nearest exit is in the next aisle,” Joe said softly.
Larry grunted and glanced over his shoulder.
Walter grinned, brought his umbrella up and removed the false tip which effectively hid its lethalness. Now he was a General with sword in hand!
John unscrewed the handle of his umbrella and withdrew a wicked little blade from the body. “Six inches of joy,” John called his hardened steel toothpick.
“Watch where you jab that bloody thing,” Jeremy snarled. “I don’t want to be accused of murder.”
“I can handle it,” John replied indignantly.
The Chelsea supporters were beginning to howl as their team took the field. A scattering of Newcastle United fans sent up a valiant roar as the Geordies came into sight.
A police helmet moved back and forth across Joe’s range of vision and he wished he had the guts to pig-stick the copper. The glare of publicity he had once adored did not appeal, however, and he concentrated his blind fury on the nearest Chelsea fans.
“Two... four... six... eight, who do we appreciate,” a supporter hollered.
“Chelsea!”came the answer from a thousand throats.
Tension mounted within the packed stands. Newcastle won the toss and elected to play with the breeze behind them. The season was young and the teams suspect. According to last year’s form, Chelsea should have an easy game but Newcastle were never a team to roll over and play dead for London clubs. They could fight hard and more than once took full honours back North.
Joe’s umbrella snaked out and found a target. The man’s anguished yell rose above his chanting comrades. By the time he turned, hands clasped to back of thigh, Joe was leaning on his umbrella with an innocent expression ignoring the other’s hate-directed gaze.
“What bleedin’ bastard stabbed me?” the man asked. Two of his fellow Chelsea mates were also facing Joe, anger darkening their heavy jowled features.
Joe tried to control a twitch in his left eye. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ll beg for bloody mercy you little...”
“Hey, Harry – look!”
The injured man tore his gaze from Joe. John stood with umbrella body clutched in one hand, wicked blade plainly seen in the other.
“It was ’im!” the third man yelled, surging forward.
Like greased lightning Larry sent a foot into the Chelsea fan’s belly, his umbrella slashing upwards... cutting across the grunting throat in a perfectly executed motion.
Joe, not to be outdone, stabbed at the already injured individual, catching him in the forearm, drawing blood.
By now, the entire section was alerted to trouble. A sea of angry faces looked away from the pitch – Chelsea colours prominent on each neck or lapel. Jeremy, John, Walter and Larry were each engaged in unsporting contest – their umbrellas taking terrible toll on the opposition. Joe found himself pushed back as his companions fought a retreating action. In harmony, his weapon slashed and jabbed as the Chelseaites showed confusion in their solid-packed ranks. Joe didn’t blame them. He would not have wanted to thrust himself onto a lethal blade or a rapier-pointed sword-stick.
“Exit fast,” John howled.
Joe caught sight of the coppers. He took one final look, felt his umbrella bury itself in a soft buttock and pulled it free before hurrying after his fleeing Marylebone Martyrs...
CHAPTER TEN
Before he rebelled against society, Jeremy French had studied art. He had an ability which could have taken him to the top of the commercial profession but since dropping out, he had forsaken his sketching for a less ambitious position in the City. One evening, as the gang sat watching television in Joe’s flat, Jeremy idly selected a pencil and paper and began to create a true likeness of Larry. In minutes, the gang forgot the TV and posed – one by one – for Jeremy’s talented pencil.
“Can you letter, too?” Larry asked as excitement flushed his already highly-coloured face.
“Of course,” came the egotistical reply.
“Then let’s get together and make a code of ethics for the Marylebone Martyrs,” Larry suggested. “You know the kind of thi
ng... We, the undersigned, believe.”
“We, the undersigned, hate...” John corrected.
Walter sighed: “You advertising bods give me a fat pain.”
“My boss would love to caress your pained area,” John quipped. “He’s as bent as hell.”
“Did he sample yours?” Walter asked viciously.
John got to his feet, eyes narrowing.
“No fighting among ourselves,” Joe said. “I don’t want my pad ruined.”
“Another remark like that and something will be ruined – his sex life!” John growled. “I don’t...”
“Crissakes, shut up!” Joe screamed. “Let’s concentrate on what we hate.”
“Queers,” John said pointedly.
Walter smiled, still provoking; “Advertising bods!”
“Skinheads,” Larry voiced.
Joe glared at him. “That isn’t... oh, yeah, I see. I hate social workers.”
Jeremy sucked his pencil for a few moments and then said: “Marriage.”
In rapid succession they had second thoughts, then third, fourth until, finally, John scowled and set his pencil down. “That is all. To cover this lot I’ll need a bleedin’ great sheet of board.”
“Five boards,” Larry reminded. “One each.”
“How about a crest for the Marylebone Martyrs?” John asked with a watchful eye on Walter.
“You’re the ad man,” Joe said quickly. “Why don’t you design something?”
“Agreed,” Walter said sleepily. He was bored with the game. He felt in the mood for excitement followed by a good dose of sex. He’d taken a lot of booze on board that day and only fresh air, a dark alley confrontation and a bird in that order would bring him back to near normal. He did not give a damn about John or their efforts to avoid trouble between themselves. He would just have willingly slashed John’s throat as some other unfortunate guy’s. Drink made him particularly nasty and he realised this. Yet, it never stopped him from over-indulging his taste for liquor. “I’ll see you blokes at the club tomorrow. I’m splitting.”
Suedehead Page 8