“What about...?” Joe began and hesitated when Jeremy gestured him to be silent.
Once Walter departed, Jeremy laughed softly. “You could have caused a stinking’ bovver, Joe. He’s in a bloody-minded mood.”
“Since when is he anything else?” John wanted to know.
Larry grinned. “Sore because he doesn’t like advertising bods?”
“Watch it, mate.”
“Shit! I’m not...” Larry shrugged. “Okay. Okay. Let’s all behave like good little girls.” He winked at Joe. “Any more Scotch, fellow Martyr?”
“Where’s your money?”
“Do we have to fork out for drinks?”
“Bloody right. I’m not a charity. Two bob...”
“Ten New Pence,” John corrected.
“Stuff those,” Joe snapped.
“Right into my pocket,” Jeremy joked. “I’ll have one, too. A large one, Joe!”
“And that’s three bob, mate.”
“How long’s it going to take you to finish those cards?” Larry asked Jeremy, as Joe attended to refilling their glasses.
“A week – once John lets me have a design for our M.M. crest.”
“M.M., “Larry mused. “That gives me an idea. A pair of lovely tits and the initials M.M...”
“Monroe’s dead,” Joe called as he went heavy on his drink.
“She’s still something in my mind,” Larry said thoughtfully.
“Can you do Old English lettering?” John asked their artist.
“Naturally!”
“Good. I’ll give you a rough sketch tomorrow night.” He took his drink, paid Joe and tossed it back. “I’m going home. I’ve got a hot woman waiting for me.”
“When do we get to meet her?” Joe asked.
“Why do you want to?”
“Not to screw her, that’s for sure,” Joe replied fast. He didn’t want John getting wild again.
“Why then?”
Joe thought he detected a trace of mischief-making in the repeated question. He shrugged and collected from the other two. With his back to John he said: “Only because we’re all mates, John. If you ever wanted her to come along with us it’d be nice if she knew us by sight and name.”
John scowled. He protected his bird jealously. He didn’t trust any of these bastards. Not with anything and least of all with a woman. Under no circumstances would he ever invite Doris to join them. She was over-sexed and liable to get the bright idea of taking them all just for kicks.
“Get home to your woman, John,” Larry said. “Leave us pathetic do-withouts to our booze.” He grinned and waved a farewell which John accepted sullenly.
“Now we are three,” Jeremy announced as the door closed.
“I’m bleedin’ randy,” Larry sighed.
“Who isn’t?” Joe asked.
“We could visit Marissa and rape her,” Jeremy suggested.
“Would she nark?”
Jeremy smiled at Joe. “What do you think? She’s getting older and hotter between those lovely legs of hers. No, I don’t think she’d grass. Fact, I honestly believe she’d appreciate what each of us could do for her.” He appeared in deep contemplation, his pencil darting across another sheet of paper as his imagination went into high gear. When he finished the sketch he held it out and breathed fast. “God, if she really looked like that...”
Larry and Joe got to their feet and went behind Jeremy’s chair. Joe felt sweat burst out on his forehead. If this was the nude Marissa Stone then he would definitely be interested in taking her to bed. Jeremy’s talent was positively pornographic. The face belonged to Marissa. The body, too – from what they knew of it clothed. But what she was doing did not fit... or did it?
*
As Joe dressed, he glanced at Jeremy’s masterpiece. The artboard was a good twenty-four inches long by twelve wide. At the top was a self-portrait of the artist flanked by photographically accurate sketches of Larry, John, Walter and Joe. Under this came the Marylebone Martyrs’ crest – an elaborate creation faithfully reproduced from John’s design showing a shield, quartered, with crossed umbrellas in the upper left field; five sets of nipples in the bottom right field; five hands reaching for a bottle of Scotch in the upper right field and a refuse bin with five pairs of bovver boots showing in the last, lower left field. Rampant above the shield were a man and woman – naked and definitely about to copulate. Below, curled like a banner, were the words: IN UNITY – NOTHING.
Then came their creed...
WE THE MARYLEBONE MARTYRS DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT WE HATE, AND ABOMINATE...
QUEERS
CHILDREN
LESBIANS
LANDLORDS
SOCIAL WORKERS
COMMUNISTS
SKINHEADS
CONSERVATIVES
HELL’S ANGELS
LABOURITES
PRIESTS
LIBERALS
RABBIS
ANARCHISTS
FUZZ
RUSSIA
BLACKS
AMERICA
VIRGINS
CHINA
RUGBY
EMPLOYERS
HIPPIES
BLOOD SPORTS
SERVANTS
PROTESTERS
CRICKET
WINE
YIPPIES
MAGISTRATES
MARRIAGE
TRADE UNIONISM
It’s not right, Joe thought. It’s stupid wasting time on something so infantile. It could have said: “We hate everything” and be done with it. That’s what we do hate – everything, and everybody except ourselves.
Taking ten quid from his hiding place under the carpet, Joe wondered where he was going to get some extra loot. Totter had successfully blocked Joe’s request for a salary increase. The profit from Terry’s drug haul was fast evaporating. In a few weeks he would be back down to living on the pittance he earned which did not please nor even pay the rent. He had to find another source of income. An illicit one, too. He could not afford taxation on “capital gains”... He laughed softly. He should be so fortunate in finding a woman like John had – one paying her share and giving her all every night. That’s what he wanted. Not a wife – they were burdens. A girl who liked what they did together and had a steady income. A girl he could boot out of the flat when she began to bore him.
Maybe... He sprinkled after-shave on his face and used the deodorant spray under his arms. He felt fresh after his bath – clean enough for the fastidious Marissa Stone!
Now there was a woman with money. Could he talk her into sharing a flat together?
His image in the mirror scowled. “You’re a silly twit,” he told the reflection mentally. “Marissa wouldn’t dirty her belly for you!”
The hell with Marissa, and the Marylebone Martyrs. To hell with everything. He would visit the club, take a walk down Regent Street into Leicester Square and pick up a queer. They still hung out there, like they always had. If he went to the toilet – the public one in the Square – he was sure to be accosted. He’d play the game and nobble the bastard once they reached where the queer lived. No hotels for Joe Hawkins. That didn’t let him see how much there was to steal. None of those fast masturbations in a locked toilet, either. He wanted money – not homosexual thrills.
God, what the hell kick do the bastards get out of men? he asked his conscience. We like girls, don’t we?
His little man in the chest cavity did not answer.
Selecting his brown tie with the artistic squiggles on it, he finished dressing. The flat came complete with a cheval mirror and he studied his presentation with a critical eye. Not bad, he allowed generously. Terry will never know how much he has done for me!
His hair had grown and looked like pure suede which was hardly surprising since he’d been having a Mayfair barber treat it at an exorbitant cost. Even Vera had once remarked how caressable his hair looked. Not that it got her into his bed. He had refrained from pursuing cheap tarts since seeing a television programme de
aling with V.D. The sight of a male organ ravaged by disease had scared the living daylights out of him. Now, he selected his bedmates with a fine toothcomb efficiency which left him frustrated more than relieved.
“Shit on girls,” he exploded, and then, smiling into the cheval mirror, postured to get the full impact of his gear.
No umbrella tonight. No bowler, either. Just his suede hairstyle, brown shirt, brown tie, tweed jacket and cavalry trousers. He thought his orange socks did something for the outfit. Like the Oxfords did, too.
But the hidden glory was his underwear. God, if those sexy birds could see his mauve jockey shorts and specially dyed emerald green vest!
He felt naked without his umbrella and gloves, but Marissa had asked why he thought it necessary to carry his symbol of City gentlemanliness when he was supposed to be relaxing at the club.
I’m a gas, he thought as he went to the door. I’m a real gas! He had been listening to Mason Williams records and reading American private eye literature recently. He liked to affect Trans-Atlantic accents and dialogue. The East End words no longer jumped straight into mind when he was confronted by weird situations. He had matured and believed in his abilities to handle each and every problem in a sensible, unhurried way.
So many changes had worked their individual miracles on Joe since leaving prison, his old mates would have found it impossible to link the two personalities. Joe Hawkins, skinhead, had been an uncouth, uneducated lout drifting on a sickening tide of violence, drink and cheap tarts. Joe Hawkins, suedehead, was semi-educated and capable of affecting a partially-polished front whilst enjoying the charade of decent citizen even as he battered some innocent’s skull to a pulp. Exterior-wise, the two did not match. The brash, cheaply clothed bovver boy certainly had no place in the City world of elegantly garbed, expensively clad Mister J. Hawkins.
Also, Joe Hawkins as a skinhead had been a member of a recognisable cult with strict limitations on what to think, what to do – and how to do it.
Joe Hawkins, the suedehead, did not belong to any classifiable fraternity, good or bad. His sort hated each and every amalgamation, belief and modus operandi. A genuine suedehead had neither creed nor association. He could form a loose friendship with those sharing his lonely existence and run riot in company for a brief space of time. He could not be a member of a gang, nor belong to a permanent process. The Marylebone Martyrs were, in fact, against what suedeheads held dearest – personal freedom to come, go and think as a hate-filled individual.
What had really altered Joe was his new-found penchant for books. He thirsted for knowledge and although profound novels and historical yarns went over his head, he did manage to broaden his mind – in a minor way – by devouring anything with a sex-violent theme coming from the States.
The mere fact he bothered to read was, in itself, a drastic change. A gigantic improvement.
Taking two large drinks he began to whistle. This was his night!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marissa Stone lived in a suburban house with her own private entrance. She had resided there for three years and not once had she missed rent day by a second nor been accused of causing undue noise. She liked padding around in her stockinged feet immediately she got home. She kept her television or radio turned down to a whisper and although her bed creaked, she had taught herself to remain in one position all night.
When she allowed herself the luxury of playing the 1812 on her outdated record player she invariably got to thinking about her stereotyped existence. Having to care for those underneath her flat was not the way people were supposed to live. Always being considerate of others had never been returned. She could recall many parties down below to which she had not been invited and which had gone noisily into the small hours of a working morning.
Thoughtfulness should have been a two-way pleasure. It wasn’t. And she knew she was considered a foolish old woman by her landlord. If only I could alter my basic character, she often told herself as she lay in her lonely bed and listened to a late film blaring its gunshots into the silence of her night.
As she opened the door of her upper flat, she wondered if Joe would take kindly to removing his shoes. Then, she smiled as her feet found each dark stair with Joe’s progress behind her coming as a series of stumbles and muttered oaths in the lightless stairwell. She had intended asking the owner to have a light fixture in the upper hall – one she could switch on from the door. But her intentions usually melted into nothingness when it came time to make her request.
She reached the kitchen and switched on a light. She saw Joe’s outstretched hand feeling for the side walls, his foot raised and poised in hesitation.
“I’m sorry about that, Joe,” she said as he came steaming up the last five steps.
“It’s dangerous,” he told her. “Can’t you get a tiny nightlight fixed down at the front door?”
She had not considered that possibility and made a mental note to have an electrician fit one. It shouldn’t be difficult. And it could operate from the bell’s battery. That way, she would not be breaking her tenancy agreement. Nor place herself in a position of eviction.
“I hope you like my home,” she said, hands extended for his jacket. She wanted him to feel relaxed, completely at ease.
There was an atmosphere of female occupation which did not grab Joe too kindly. He preferred a totally masculine brutality in his home. Frills, lace and pastel colours were not exactly his cup of tea. He had to admit what he saw in a few glances put his parents’ abode to shame. His mother had never known how to mingle colours nor did she have an artistic sense. In fact, Joe could truthfully state that his mother had been utterly devoid of taste all her life. Her idea of something smashing in the house was a cheap, garish table bought in Brighton one Saturday afternoon. Or plastic horses purchased in the local Woolworth.
“Coffee or tea, Joe?”
Her voice brought him back with a mental jerk. “Er... I’d like something stronger – if you have it?”
She refused to look shocked. “I have sherry somewhere.”
Joe withheld comment. Sherry suited her fine but left him colder than yesterday’s leftovers. “That’ll do.”
She switched on the light in her lounge and ushered him in. The colour television caught his eye immediately. He had not expected that extravagance. The room had a lived-in warmth to match her friendliness. Those green eyes, her silken honey-blonde hair and slender – yet desirable – figure went perfectly with the subtle shades and soft furnishings she had. He sank into a low, large, embracing sofa and sighed.
“I’m not much on entertaining at home,” Marissa said. She crossed the room, kicking off her shoes automatically. “Do you like good music?”
“Not really. I’d take The Stones any day.”
God, how awful!, she thought.
“Have you heard the latest...?” Joe started to ask.
“I seldom get to hear pop, Joe,” she interrupted. Her hands caressed the sherry bottle. It had been seven... or eight?... months since she last had a drink. Maybe she should not let it go so long in future. All the kids seemed to imbibe with a frequency rate that amazed her.
“You’re missing terrific stuff,” Joe said unabashed.
“We all miss something in life.”
“I try not to,” he grinned, studying her figure with every intention of enjoying yet another of life’s pleasures shortly.
“I envy you and yet I don’t,” she replied mysteriously. She carefully poured two glasses, wondering if she was exceeding the limit or being miserly.
“That’s a rotten answer.”
She handed Joe his glass and noted his frown. Too little, she thought. Too late now to add more. Oh well – he’ll surely accept a refill!
“Joe may I say something honestly?”
He gestured with a generosity he did not feel.
“Those socks...” She shuddered visibly. “Must you wear them so loud?”
“Loud?”
“Orange!”
The word came spitting from her mouth.
“I like ’em. I’ve got others brighter than these.”
“Lord...”
He sipped the sherry. It was a cheap brand bought from the keg. He could tell his palate did not appreciate it... his only criterion on things other than beer and Scotch.
“Do you have a job or do you have a lot of money in the bank?”
She laughed. Trust Joe Hawkins to ask questions like that and expect an honest reply. She hedged. “Do you think I’m wealthy, Joe?”
“You’ve got a pile set aside,” he allowed.
“I’ve got precisely two thousand pounds and I do work.”
Joe rubbed mental hands. Two grand. That was worth chasing. “Are you an executive?”
“Not exactly, Joe. I’m in charge of a typing pool. I’m classified as a supervising typist.”
“Does it pay much?” He took another sip of his sherry and placed the glass on a nearby table. He didn’t want much more of that. It tasted sweetly sick to his tongue.
“Why are you interested?”
“No reason,” he lied. “Just conversation.”
“I get twenty-seven pounds a week after deductions.”
He whistled aloud. “That’s a lot.”
“I’ve been with the firm many years, Joe.”
“Is the boss a friend of yours?” he grinned slyly.
“That’s unfair!”
“Sorry, I’m being jealous...” He let the remark sink in before adding: “I like you a lot, Marissa.”
She tensed. Marissa, indeed. She got set to let go at him, but noticed his eyelids partially close as he stared pointedly at her bosom. Oh, God – is this the one? she asked in silent prayer.
“I’d like to kiss you, Marissa...”
She didn’t speak. Instead, when he took her in his virile arms she let him drape her along the sofa so that he now assumed a masterful position above her. She watched his mouth come closer... touching... then... He took her sherry glass and placed it next to his on the table. He placed a hand deliberately on one breast and, as she moaned very softly, his open mouth closing over hers.
All her nightmares, her erotic dreams came surging to the conscious surface when his tongue invaded her mouth. She could not restrain her desire to experiment with this brazen, unmitigated young lecher. The doors she had kept so tightly shut burst open.
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