Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set

by Marcus Blakeston

  I shrug. “What difference does it make?”

  “Yeah well, you’d best not lose that job. There’s the rent to pay, remember. We can’t afford to keep you for free, you know. We’re not a charity.”

  Can’t afford not to sponge off me, he means. You’d think he’d be proud of me getting a job, it’s not like there’s many of them to go around, and I don’t think he’s ever worked in his entire life. It might be just minimum wage but it’s a fuck sight better than the alternative. But no, all dad cares about is the handouts he gets off me every pay day. “To pay for your board and keep,” he says, then sends my mum off to the shops with it for a crate of beer.

  “Are you listening to me?” dad yells.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Like fuck I am. It’s always the same bollocks from him. Fat waste of space that he is. Fuck knows why mum puts up with him the way she does, I know I wouldn’t if I had the choice. One day I’ll get together a deposit for a bedsit, then I’ll be straight out of the fucking door. Let’s see where he gets his beer money from then.

  Dad’s still nagging away when the weather forecast comes on, but I’ve had enough so I get my boots from the hallway and put them on.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” he demands to know.

  “Out,” I say.

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know yet, just out.”

  “What about my dinner?”

  “What about it?”

  “I haven’t had nothing all day and your mum forgot to make me something before she went out to work.”

  “Can’t you just make a sandwich or something?”

  Dad shakes his head. “There’s no bread left. Can you get me some from the shops?”

  “Go on then,” I sigh. Anything for a quiet life.

  “And a packet of fags from Mike down the road. Oh, and a bag of chips to go with the bread.”

  “Anything else?” A stupid fucking question I know, and I regret asking it the minute it rolls off my tongue.

  “A couple of cans of Special Brew from the offy would go down a treat.”

  “And I suppose you want me to pay for it all?”

  “You’re a good ’un, lass.”

  Yeah, right. When I’m splashing the cash. Any other time he’s always moaning about what a fucking disgrace I am. The lazy cunt’s never done a day’s work in his entire life, but I’m the fucking disgrace? Yeah, whatever.

  Well I get him his stuff, because I’m soft like that. I go round to Mike’s house for the knockoff ciggies, then down the chippy, then call in at the beer-off on the way back for the booze and bread. The ungrateful bastard doesn’t even say thanks when I hand them to him, just shuffles off into the kitchen with a grunt. I don’t know why I fucking bother.

  The cunt’s got me all worked up now, so I need to let off a bit of steam. I leave the front door open, hoping some mad axeman will take the hint and do my dad in, and make my way to the gym. It’s a bit of a fucking dump, just your average back street dive, yeah? All peeling paint and graffiti on the outside, a stink of blood and sweat on the inside. Just my kind of place.

  I push through the door and nod toward Big Al, the owner. He grunts at me and turns his attention back to the two lads sparring in the ring. They’ve got those stupid padded helmets on and they’re just standing there taking turns to hit each other, like they’re fucking robots bolted down to the canvas or something. No real flair for the sport, you see. Unlike me. I reckon I could take them both on at once, no fucking bother.

  I head into the changing room at the back of the gym. I open up a locker and strip down to my sports bra and pants. I stuff my street clothes into the locker and pull out a vest and shorts. I slip them on, then bang the locker door shut and turn the key.

  When I turn around Big Al’s standing in the doorway, watching me. Fuck knows how long he’s been there, but if he wants to perv over me I couldn’t care less. That’s probably the only thrill he ever gets these days, since his wife died, so I don’t begrudge him it. As long as he sticks to just looking, anyway. If he ever touches me I’ll break his fucking arms and legs. I frown at him as I brush past, just to drive the point home, and his face goes red.

  I go straight to one of the punch-bags and smack the fuck out of it, imagining it’s my dad that I’m whacking. Dad lurches back with each blow, then swings toward me on his chain. I dodge out of his way and punch him in the face again.

  “You up for a bit of sparring, Abby? Show these lads what you’re supposed to do?”

  I hit the leather bag one more time and turn toward Big Al. He holds up a pair of boxing gloves. I look at the two lads playing patty-cake in the ring and smile.

  “Yeah, can do.”

  I take the boxing gloves and put them on, turn back to the punch-bag to try them out for size.

  “Go easy on them Abby, it’s their first time,” Big Al says.

  “Yeah, no worries,” I say, walking up to the ring.

  “Aren’t you going to put a helmet on?”

  I turn back to Big Al and smile. “Yeah, like I’m going to need one of those.”

  “Okay listen up, lads,” Big Al says. He thumps the palm of his hand down on the boxing ring’s canvas to get their attention. “Abby here is going to show you how it’s done.”

  The two lads stop what they’re doing and look at me. One smirks to himself. I step through the ropes into the ring and take up my boxing stance. Gloves up, skipping from one foot to the other, I glide toward the centre of the ring and show them a few moves by punching the air just short of their faces. They look at each other, suitably impressed, and one raises his gloves in front of his face. I dart in underneath them and punch him in the stomach. He folds over, groaning. I dance back, looking at his mate. He stands there with his arms by his sides and stares at me wide-eyed.

  “Go on son, she won’t bite,” Big Al says.

  But the lad doesn’t look too convinced about that. He backs away toward the ropes, shaking his head. It’s the other one that comes for me, his eyes blazing. He takes a swing and I duck beneath it. He stumbles forward when his fist hits nothing but thin air, and I dart around behind him. In a street fight I’d whack him on the back of the neck and send him sprawling, but in the ring it’s different rules. I hop from one foot to the other and wait for him to turn to face me again.

  He lurches forward, takes another swing. I block it with my left and jab with the right. His padded helmet takes most of the impact, but I can tell from the look on his face that I hurt him. He steps back, gloves raised. I dance toward him and feign another blow to the stomach. The gloves drop, his upper body leans forward, and I take advantage of the opening he’s given me to get a few quick jabs into his face before he realises his mistake.

  “Okay, that’s enough Abby,” Big Al says just as I’m starting to enjoy myself. “Now listen up, lads. Did you see the way she kept moving the whole time? That’s what I want to see you doing. And use your gloves for defence, not just attack. Thanks Abby,” he adds when I climb out of the ring and hand him the boxing gloves.

  There’s someone watching me with a dopey-looking smile on his face. He’s about the same age as me, maybe a few years older, but his clothes look like something out of a fucking 1980s documentary about skinhead street fashion. Bleached denim jeans with red braces hanging down the sides, massive fuck-off boots that go half way up his legs, and a white T-shirt with the words Argy Bargy printed on it. He’s got short-cropped hair, and a blue borstal spot tattooed on his cheek. There’s some proper tattoos on his arms, naked women and bulldogs, that kind of thing, and a spidery home-made one on his neck that’s probably supposed to be barbed wire but just looks like a scribble.

  I can feel his eyes follow me across the gym as I return to the punch-bag. I’m not angry any more, I’ve already worked that out of my system, so I just slap it around half-heartedly for something to do.

  “Cool moves for a chick.”

  I spin around to pummel the cheeky
bastard and he backs away with his hands raised, that same dopey smile still on his face.

  “You ever think of doing it professionally?” he asks.

  Well that’s the lamest fucking pick-up line I’ve ever heard, and I can’t help smiling at how bad it is. But he must think I’m smiling at him, the daft cunt, and he holds out his fist for me to bump. Predictably enough, it’s got HATE tattooed on the knuckles in shaky blue ink.

  “I’m Dave,” he says.

  I shrug and look him up and down. “Yeah, so?” Like I give a fuck what he calls himself.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

  I turn back to the punch-bag and start smacking it around again. “What’s it to you?” I say between grunts.

  “I could make you some serious money.”

  I stop punching the bag and turn back to face him. I mean, come on, who the fuck can ever resist those magic words? I’ve been skint my whole fucking life, yeah? I grew up with fuck all, and now I’m working my dad pinches half my wages so I can’t even afford a decent piss up more than once a week. Not without the little extras I make with Shaz at The Meat Market, anyway. The idea of making some serious money, even some fucking silly money, is very enticing.

  “Doing what?” I say, suddenly suspicious.

  “Doing what you do best.”

  I scowl at him. “Fuck off, I’m no prossie. And even if I was I wouldn’t work for no fucking pimp.”

  “No, no,” he says quickly, palms facing me. “I mean fighting.”

  “What, like amateur boxing you mean? I looked into that once but it pays fuck all unless you turn pro.”

  He laughs. “No, I mean fighting. I know a guy who pays three hundred quid per fight, win or lose.”

  I look at him for any hint that this is just some sort of fucking wind up, but I can’t see any. I mean, three hundred quid? That’s a lot of fucking money, I could get a deposit on a bedsit for that much. But it all sounds too good to be true.

  “What sort of fight would pay that much?”

  He grins. “Not here. Meet me at the café on the corner of James Street in an hour if you’re interested.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Laters then,” he says, walking away. As he reaches the door he calls out over his shoulder, “So what’s your name then?”

  I ignore him and go back to punching the bag. I’ll listen to what he’s got to say, but if he turns out to be full of shit I’ll kick his fucking head in for wasting my time.

  * * *

  The skinhead’s already at the greasy spoon when I get there, scoffing down a plate of egg and chips. He looks up and waves at me like an excited kid who’s just seen the fucking queen or something, and I make my way to his table. I slide into the bucket seat opposite and snatch a chip from his plate.

  “Oi, that’s me dinner,” he whines, but he doesn’t make any attempt to stop me pinching another.

  A waitress comes over in an apron covered in stains from fuck knows what and I order a cheese and tomato sandwich and a mug of strong tea. I sit back and look at Dave while I wait. His table manners are worse than my dad’s. He slides his fork under the fried egg and lifts it up to his mouth, but it falls off halfway there and splats down onto the table. There’s runny yolk all over the table when he picks it up with his fingers and puts it back on his plate. He picks up a chip and rubs it around in the yolk on the table.

  My sandwich arrives wrapped in clingfilm, and I tear it open. I lift off the top half of the bap to have a look, there’s about twenty strands of grated cheese inside, and one measly slice of soggy tomato. There’s probably more margarine smeared on the side of the cracked mug she plonks down beside me than there is on the sandwich, but at least the tea looks strong enough.

  “You gonna eat that or just stare at it all day?” Dave asks.

  I put the lid back on the sandwich and take a bite. The soggy tomato comes out whole and flops down my chin, hanging from my teeth. I pull it out of my mouth and put it back inside the sandwich where it belongs, and wipe the seeds off my chin with the back of my hand. Dave smirks, but he’s got no need to talk with egg yolk all over his face. But I guess we do make a good pair of slobs between us, so I can’t help smiling.

  “So what’s this about fights then?” I ask after I’ve swallowed down the cheese and bread.

  Dave leans forward. “Mate of mine organises them,” he says. “He’s always looking for new talent. You interested?”

  “What kind of fights are they?”

  He shrugs. “The unregulated kind. You know, the ones that don’t exactly get advertised anywhere?”

  I don’t know what he’s going on about, for all I know he’s just making it all up to get in my knickers, but I decide to play along just in case.

  “What, and they pay three hundred quid even if you lose?”

  “Yeah. Win or lose, that’s what you get. Three hundred quid.” He leans back and grins at me. He can probably tell from the look on my face he’s already reeled me in. But it still sounds a bit too good to be true.

  “So where do these fights take place?” I say, picking up my sandwich. I bite down on it hard to make sure the tomato doesn’t fly out again.

  “In a barn.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s a secret.”

  “Well how am I supposed to get there if I don’t know where it is?”

  “So you’re interested then?”

  “Dunno. Maybe. I’d need to know a bit more about it first.”

  “I can take you to one of the fights, if you like? Then if you’re up for it I’ll introduce you to the boss and you can take it from there.”

  “So what’s in it for you?”

  He flashes his teeth again. “What, you mean other than having a pretty girl on my arm for the evening?”

  Christ, what a fucking slimeball. Does he really think lines like that actually work on women? I smile. “Yeah, apart from that.”

  “I get a finder’s fee. That’s what I was doing in the gym, looking for fresh talent. I reckon you’d be a natural, certainly better than those two clowns in the ring. They were just shite.”

  I laugh. “Yeah well, you’re not wrong there. But you haven’t even seen me fight, have you?” I show him my fists. “You fancy going a few rounds, see how good I really am?”

  “Nah,” he says. He leans back and smiles. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Christ, there he goes again. He certainly loves himself, that’s for sure.

  “So are you paying for dinner then, lover boy?”

  His grin falls. He looks around for the waitress. She’s behind the counter wiping cups out with a dirty towel. “Well actually,” he says, barely a whisper when he turns back to me, “I were just going to do a runner.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Nah, fuck that. I’m knackered from my workout in the gym, I don’t fancy having to leg it. Tell you what, I’ll pay the bill. You can pay me back when you’ve got the money.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says, the grin back in place. “There’s a fight this Saturday, I’ll pay you back then if you come with me. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up in my motor.”

  “What, you’ve got a car?”

  “Yeah, a Cortina.” He says this like it’s a fucking Rolls Royce or something, and I can’t help smiling. He leans forward, waiting for an answer from me. “So what’s your address then?”

  “I’ll meet you outside the chippy on Sandalwood Road. What time’s the fight start?”

  “Eight o’clock. It’ll take about half an hour to get there, so be there at half-seven?”

  “Yeah, will do.”

  Half an hour to get there? That means it must be pretty far away. Say an average fifty miles an hour once you get out of town, that makes it at least twenty miles away. And if it’s in a barn it must be in the countryside somewhere, so it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out where it is.

  “Right, well,” I say. I stand up and stretch my arms. “I’m gonna get
off then. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

  I go to the till and pay the waitress. It turns out Dave was on his second plate of egg and chips when I arrived so it costs a bit more than I expected it to. When I turn to leave, Dave’s standing behind me and I almost bump into him.

  “You still haven’t told me your name,” he says.

  “Abby.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you on Saturday then, Abby.”

  3

  “What time do you call this?”

  That’s my boss, Mr fucking Blunt, the rhyming slang manager of the burger joint I work at. Sarcastic bastard, he knows full well what time it is, it’s ten past nine. So I’m a bit late, big fucking deal. Better late than not turn up at all, yeah? I could’ve easily took another day off sick, Mr Cunt wouldn’t be able to do fuck all about it.

  But instead of being grateful I’ve dragged my arse into work he’d rather moan about me being late. It’s not like I haven’t got a good excuse either. My mum didn’t come home last night, and my dad was frantic this morning. Said he’s worried sick about her, but more likely he’s wondering who’s going to do the shopping, cooking and cleaning for him.

  “Sorry Mr Blunt, it won’t happen again.”

  “Yes well, young lady, you see that it doesn’t. There’s four million people who would do anything to have your job, and don’t you forget that.”

  As if he would ever let me. Everyone else I was at school with is on what they laughingly call training schemes now, doing jobs just as shitty as mine, except they don’t even get paid for it. Thank fuck for the anti-obesity lobby that got fast food joints excluded from that particular scheme, yeah?

  Blunt flounces off to his office, no doubt to write a report about me being late to send to head office, and I force my mouth into the regulation happy-face expression when a customer approaches the counter.

  “Yes sir, how may I serve you this fine day?”

  They make me say that, it’s in the staff handbook and it’s a sacking offence if I don’t. I’ve said it that many times now I don’t even smirk when I say it anymore. I just play it deadpan, like I actually fucking mean it.