Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set

by Marcus Blakeston

The man, a big fat bastard in a suit with grease stains down his shirt and tie, scowls at me. “Big Mac triple cheeseburger, large fries, and a diet Coke,” he says.

  “Certainly, sir. Will you be dining here or would you like them to go?” That’s another one from the staff handbook. As if stuffing your face with grease-and-gristle-burgers could be classed as dining, for fuck’s sake. Mr Blunt even refers to the plastic seats and tables as ‘the restaurant’ if you can believe that?

  “To go,” he says. “And make it quick, I’ve got an important appointment to get to.”

  “Certainly, sir, no problem.”

  The customer is always right, apparently. Even when they’re an ignorant fucking cunt like this one. I resist the urge to curtsy, and make my way to the serving hatch. Colin’s on the griddles today. He only works part time, two days a week, he’s at college the rest of the week doing a course in car mechanics. He’s a decent enough bloke, but with all those spots and boils his face looks like someone’s taken a lump hammer to him. Put it this way, it’s not by accident he works in the kitchen, hidden away from the customers. No fucker would want to eat here otherwise, they’d be too busy puking on the floor.

  “Big Mac triple cheeseburger and large fries,” I yell through the hatch. “Make it a special, extra quick.”

  Colin grins at me and sticks his finger up his nose, twirls it about in there. I take a cardboard cup and pour out a diet Coke, put the plastic lid on and shove a straw through the hole while I wait for the rest of the order.

  “One Big Mac triple cheeseburger, extra special, and one large fries,” Colin says, passing me a tray through the serving hatch. I smile when I take it, this one genuine rather than painted on. I put the diet Coke on the tray and take it to the lard-arse standing by the counter. He’s looking at his watch, as if he’s been fucking timing me or something.

  “Here you are, sir, enjoy your breakfast and have a nice day.” Guess where that line of pure fucking bollocks comes from?

  He grunts and takes out his wallet, hands me a ten pound note. I ring it up in the till, pushing the buttons with the right pictures on them, and give him the change the till says he should get. He takes a bite from his burger and turns to leave. Colin watches through the serving hatch, and we both laugh when we look at each other.

  “What are you two laughing at?” Sally says, walking out of the toilets with a mop and bucket.

  “The bloke who just left, we gave him a special.”

  Sally smiles and shakes her head. “Fucking hell Abby, if Blunt the Cunt catches you doing that he’ll have both your arses on the grill.”

  “Nah, fuck him. He’s busy in his office, wanking off to animal porn. Anyway, we’ve got to do something to relieve the boredom, haven’t we? So are you all right then, Sally? Did you miss me yesterday?”

  “Oh, were you not in then? Can’t say that I noticed.”

  “Very funny. I just pissed myself laughing.”

  “Someone did miss you though.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s that then?”

  Sally shrugs. “Dunno, he didn’t give a name. Just asked for you, then when I said you weren’t in he said he’d call back another day.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Well duh. He wanted you, of course.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A fat bloke in his thirties. Nice clothes, no grease stains down them, so not like the usual bunch we get in here.”

  I mentally tick off the fat men I know, trying to work out who it might be. The nice clothes and lack of grease stains rules my dad out straight away, and I can’t think of anyone else who would come here looking for me.

  “So where were you yesterday then?” Sally asks.

  “At home, sick.”

  “What, sick of work you mean?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

  * * *

  At knocking off time I’m first through the door. Blunt looks at his watch and scowls at me. Fuck him, I’ve done my sentence for the day, now it’s my time. I go down to the gym and spend half an hour punching his fucking face in, at least in my head. One day I’ll do it for real and wipe the floor with that sarcastic smug bastard, but for now the punch-bag makes a good enough substitute.

  The sweat’s pouring down me now, and my arms are tired, so I call it a day and towel myself down in the changing room.

  “See you, Al,” I say as I leave. Big Al grunts his farewell and I make my way home.

  Dad’s watching Countdown when I get there, and when he turns toward me his eyes are all red and puffy. The scars on his wrists, the result of an accident at the park when I was a little kid, look inflamed. Must be his allergies playing up again, but it’s his own fault for not taking his antihistamines.

  “Your mum’s still not back yet,” dad says. His voice is croaky, like he’s got a sore throat or something. Maybe he’s getting a cold. He’d better not give it to me.

  I slump down on the settee and sigh. “Did you have another argument?”

  Dad shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so, anyway. I was watching telly when she went to work, Bargain Hunt was on. You know I like that one.”

  “And you haven’t heard anything from her since? She hasn’t phoned or nothing?” Dad shakes his head again. “Did you phone her work and ask if she’s there?”

  “Don’t know where that is.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. How can he not know where his own wife works? Yeah well, I don’t know where she works either, just that it’s some factory or other. But there’s never been any reason for me to know, has there?

  “Have you told the police?” I ask.

  “What for?”

  “What for? She’s been missing for two days now, what do you think what for?”

  “I don’t want no coppers in my house,” he says. He scratches his fingernails up and down his arm. They leave white lines criss-crossing the scars on his wrist.

  “Well go down to the station then if you don’t want them here.”

  “Can you do it, Abigail? You know I don’t like coppers.”

  Yeah well, I’m not too keen on them myself either, but fucking hell this is my mum here. It’ll make a change for the Bastards in Blue to do something useful instead of just sitting around on their arses all day watching the CCTV cameras looking for an easy collar to pull.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “If we’ve not heard anything from her by tomorrow I’ll go down there after work. Have you had anything to eat yet?”

  “No, your mum’s not here is she?”

  I shake my head and sigh. Fucking lazy bastard, I bet he hasn’t moved from that chair since I went to work this morning. “So what do you want for tea?”

  “Dunno. What is there?”

  Well how the fuck should I know? Mum usually does all the cooking. I get up and go to have a look in the kitchen. There’s not much in the cupboards, just a couple of Pot Noodles, a box of Oxo, and half a bag of sugar. My mum’s peppermint teabags are conspicuous by their absence, that’s the one thing she always keeps well stocked. There’s half a loaf in the breadbin, lying open on its side with a few stale slices hanging out. I push them back in and seal it up. I look in the fridge but there’s fuck all in there either; three eggs, some margarine, half a pint of milk that’s starting to smell, and something green and furry on a plate that could literally be anything.

  Scrambled eggs is the logical choice, but I can’t be arsed making that so I reach for one of the Pot Noodles. I put the kettle on and grind the dried noodles up with a fork while I wait for it to boil. I don’t bother stirring them before I take them in for dad, he can do that himself. The Channel Four news is on, so it’s a while before he looks at what I’ve put down on the arm of his chair.

  “Pot Noodle?” he says. “Isn’t there anything else?”

  “That’s all I could find, if you don’t want it I’ll take it away.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t want it,” he says, and grabs hold of the pot so I can�
�t take it off him.

  “You need to go down to the shops, dad. There’s hardly any food at all in the house.”

  Dad stirs his Pot Noodle with the fork I left in it. “Your mum’ll do that when she gets back.” He shovels some noodles into his mouth, then spits them back into the pot. “Ow, that’s too hot.” He blows on the surface of the noodles, then looks at me. “You not having anything, Abigail?”

  “I’m going out in a bit, I’ll get something then.”

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Just out.”

  “Oh. But you’re coming back later?”

  “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Dunno. Just wondered, that’s all.”

  4

  I’m sitting in The Black Swan, waiting for Shaz to turn up. It’s still early, and Shaz is always late anyway, so I’ve got a bit of time to kill. I sip my first Guinness of the night and play Angry Robots on my phone while I wait.

  I look up when I hear the door open, and see a bunch of loud-mouthed hooray henrys pile in. I can tell they’re already pretty tanked up by the way they sway from side to side while they stand at the bar waiting to be served. They’ve probably been drinking all day, judging by the state of them.

  They give the barmaid a bit of stick, calling her a ‘fucking dyke’ when she refuses to give one of them a kiss, but she takes it in her stride like a true fucking professional. If it were me I would’ve just fucking glassed the cunt.

  One of them pays for all the drinks, some sort of fucking cocktails would you believe? All multi-coloured shite with little umbrellas sticking out of the top. They look around for somewhere to sit and pose with them, and one catches my eye and smiles. I fold my arms and glare back, but he doesn’t take the hint. He walks over and sits down opposite me, puts his lime-green drink down on the table.

  “Is anyone sitting here?” he asks.

  I shrug and pick up my phone, go back to shooting robots out of a canon. “Just some fucking posh cunt with a glass of snot.”

  “Ooh, a feisty one. I like a challenge.”

  The others watch from the bar for a while, sipping their drinks through straws like a bunch of kids at a jelly and ice cream party watching a clown perform. Then they glance at each other and stagger over, fencing me in on all sides when they sit down around the table. The stink of deodorant coming from them makes me gag. Give me the honest smell of sweat and toil any day over this fucking girly-man stench.

  “Who’s your friend, Tarquin?” one asks. He’s a tall, lanky fucker with a massive nose and a pigeon chest. He’s got that posh cunt accent with a nasal twang to it that grates on your nerves and makes you want to smack him one just to shut him up.

  “I don’t know, Kevin. She looks like a Brenda to me. What do you think, Stephen?”

  The one called Stephen looks at me, then ducks under the table to look at my legs. I snap them shut. I wouldn’t want him spunking all over the inside of his nice trousers, would I? What would his mummy have to say about that?

  “She certainly looks like a Brenda to me,” he announces. “The red knickers are a dead giveaway.”

  “So where are you from then, Brenda?” Tarquin asks.

  I put my phone away, down the rest of my Guinness, and stand up to leave. I’ve had enough of these fucking pricks, it’s time to go somewhere else.

  “Shift,” I say. I jerk my thumb at the lanky bastard when he doesn’t move out of my way. He just sits there gormless as fuck, staring up at me, so I grab a handful of suit and show him my fist. “Fucking move, you cunt.”

  The sudden look of fear on his face is fucking priceless. He shuffles his chair back and I barge past, ever so accidentally knocking his girly pink drink over with my elbow. He watches it drip onto the floor, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Where are you going, Brenda?”

  It’s that Tarquin cunt again. He stands up, tries to block my way. I get this sudden urge to boot him in the bollocks, but then I notice the barmaid is watching. I can’t afford to get barred from another pub, there’s not many left now I can still drink in and I quite like the peaceful atmosphere in The Black Swan. When it’s not full of fucking spoilt rich bastard mummy’s boys like these, anyway.

  I look Tarquin up and down and curl my top lip up into a sneer. “What’s it to you like, you fucking ponce.”

  He laughs, more like a piggy snort than anything else, and that winds me up even more. “Chillax, Brenda, I’m just being friendly. Here, let me buy you a drink.” He reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out a leather wallet with gold embossed initials on it, waves it in my face. “Some sort of black stuff you were drinking, I believe?”

  I swat the wallet out of my face with the back of my hand and he flinches and drops it. I puff myself up, stretch up onto my toes so we’re the same height, and position my face inches away from his. “Listen carefully, you cunt,” I say slowly. “Just so that we’re fucking clear. If you talk to me again I will fucking deck you. The only reason you’re still standing now is because I’m in a good mood. You fuck with me again and that will change. Got it?” He nods. “Good. Now move out of the fucking way and let me past.”

  Tarquin stands to one side and gestures at the opening with his hand, like he’s a fucking gentleman letting me on the bus first or something. I want to smack this cunt real bad, wipe that smug fucking grin off his face, but the barmaid is still watching so I just walk out without another word. I hear one of them say “Rough totty” as I open the door, followed by peels of laughter.

  Outside I punch the door and look around for something to kick, but there’s never a drunk around when you need one. I think about waiting around outside, then laying into them when they leave to see if they’ll piss themselves, but that would just be a waste of good drinking time.

  Fuck it, I’ll go down to The Black Bull. It’s rough as fuck in there, but at least I’ll be among my own kind of people. Tarquin and his gang of ponces wouldn’t last five seconds in there. It used to be a skinhead hangout when my mum and dad were my age, and it’s always had a bit of a bad reputation ever since. When I first started going out on the piss with Shaz my mum warned me to stay well away from that place. Said she used to go out with the landlord there when she was my age and he was a right bastard to her. Reckons he smacked her in the face when she found out he was two-timing her.

  So of course The Black Bull was the first pub me and Shaz ever went in. Just to see what mum’s old boyfriend looks like, yeah? The way she always goes on about him I expected some sort of fucking monster. He’s a bit rough-looking for an old geezer, not someone I’d expect my mum to go for, but he seems sound enough to me.

  That first time at The Black Bull was a bit of a let down if I’m honest. Not one single fight the whole time we were there, and every fucker in there was at least twice my age. I did meet a bloke there, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time. He worked on a construction site or something, and we had a drunken bunk up round the back at closing time. Built like a brick fucking shithouse he was, muscles the size of footballs, but his cock was a bit of a let down.

  I send Shaz a text to let her know about the change of plan. I don’t bother telling her about the ponces, I’ll save that for when I see her. She’ll only want to smack them around, and I can’t be bothered with that tonight. I just want to get pissed up and have a good time. I’m not even looking for a shag, never mind a punch up with a bunch of fucking toffs.

  There’s a bald guy in his early fifties standing outside The Black Bull, puffing away on a cigarette. “All right, darling,” he says in a gruff voice as I walk past. I’ve seen him here plenty of times, so I nod and smile. I think he’s one of the old-time regulars or something, I know he’s a mate of the landlord anyway, so he’s one of the people you don’t piss off if you want to carry on drinking at The Black Bull.

  I push through the door. There’s something rowdy playing on the jukebox and the place is half full of people. There’s all ages in tonight, from
youngsters hovering around the pool table to more bald blokes in their fifties, like the one outside, sat at a table near the door. I look around for Shaz, but she’s not here yet.

  The landlord nods toward me when I approach the bar. He walks over with a limp.

  “Pint of Guinness,” I yell over the music. He nods again and picks up a glass, fills it from a bottle. He’s got tattoos on his arms, everything from bulldogs to dragons all mingling together to cover every inch of skin. On one side of his neck there’s a love-heart with a blood-soaked dagger stabbed through it with the name Mandy in a scroll underneath.

  He puts the Guinness down on a soaking wet bar towel and holds out his hand, I give him the money and wait for my change. The baldy from outside must’ve finished his fag because he’s walking toward the bar when I turn to leave. He nods at me, I nod back. I can feel him staring at me as I walk away.

  “Now then Trog, you fat bastard,” I hear him say to the landlord. “We having a fucking lock-in or what?”

  I take my drink to an empty table and sit down, watch the door for Shaz. It’s not long before some chancer comes over on the pull.

  “Hi,” he shouts, and sits down opposite me. He’s not too shabby looking, so I don’t tell him to fuck off straight away. “Abby, right?”

  I look at him a bit closer, wondering where he knows me from, and nod.

  “Remember me?”

  I take a sip of my Guinness and study him over the rim of the glass. “No, sorry,” I say, and shake my head.

  “It’s Bob,” he says. He points at his chest and smiles. “We were at school together.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember.”

  But I don’t really. Bob? Bob who? But he starts going on about some of the teachers, and those fucking bastards I definitely do remember. I laugh when he recounts the tale of when Mr Jenkins flipped out and started crying because we were all making a humming noise and he couldn’t work out where the fuck it was coming from. If this Bob, whoever he is, knew about what we did to Old Jenkins, then he must have been in the same class as me? So who the fuck is he then? I think back and start to tick off all the boys’ names in my head while he prattles on.