Human Punk

by John King

  –Hold my hand, dear. I won’t bite.

  Before I can sort my head out we’re on the other side of the main road and can see her house. Bev’s hand goes and there’s space between us. The light in Debbie’s room is on, curtains shut. My head is spinning and I feel stupid. Bev looks at me, smiles.

  –Thanks.

  She turns and walks away, goes indoors without looking back. I stand by the bridge thinking hard, go up the steps and on to the road. I start walking, head down, feel like a wanker, cross the road to miss two drunks coming the other way, shouting their heads off and kicking parked cars. Fucking cunt this, fucking cunt that. But it was a good night and I’ve done nothing wrong, go in and find the old man asleep in front of the telly, the same old static fizzing behind the screen.

  SOUND OF THE WESTWAY

  Chris breaks the Cortina’s front window and slides his long rubber arm inside, opens the door and waves us out of the shadows. We move fast, me and Smiles bundling in the back, Dave climbing over the driver’s seat to the passenger side, cutting his leg on the broken glass. Chris clicks the door shut and starts pissing about under the dash, while Dave tries to find the splinter digging in his knee, swearing as he runs his palm over the bone. Me and Smiles aren’t bothered about Dave getting stabbed by a sliver of glass, seeing as we’re too busy shitting it, hoping we don’t get caught. The engine roars and Chris sits up straight, releases the handbrake and juggles the gearbox till he finds first. The car leaps forward and the engine cuts out. Dave forgets his knee and knuckles Chris on the back of the head, a loud crack ringing out.

  –You fucking wanker, Dave says. You should stick to nicking lollypops and sherbet dips.

  –Fuck off, will you, that hurt. You drive if you’re so clever.

  Chris turns in his seat, ready to have a go back, but Smiles shouts and gives us all heart attacks, points to the three men pegging down the middle of the road. Chris ducks down again and the engine flares up. He crunches the gears, slams into first and the car jumps, almost stalling as it clips the van in front, banging into the legs of the first bloke on the scene, a big horrible monster who slides off the bonnet. Chris stops, digs his foot into the clutch, keeps the engine running.

  –Is he alright? he asks. I’ve fucking killed him. Is he dead?

  No, he’s alive, ugly and pressing his face into the glass inches from Smiles, shouting that he’s got a screwdriver he’s going to twist into Smiles’s brain, and he looks past him and sees me, says he’s going to rip my goolies off with a chisel. This carpenter dips into a pocket and starts jabbing at the window with a blade. Could be a screwdriver, could be a chisel, could be a knife. Doesn’t matter. It’s going to hurt.

  –He’s a nutter, Dave shouts. He’s a fucking nutter and he’s going to cut our fucking heads off.

  I shrug my shoulders and smile, try to show the bloke that nicking his prize Ford is nothing to do with me. It’s not my fault I ended up in the back seat of a car he’s worked so hard to buy, done overtime to keep on the road. It’s an accident I’m sitting here.

  –Put your foot down, Dave screams. Fuck’s sake. He’s going to do us. What are you waiting for, you stupid cunt.

  Chris accelerates down the road and it takes Dave two whole seconds to change from bottle to wind-up merchant. He rolls down his window, panic over, cocky now we’re safe, hangs his hand out and gives the men two fingers, follows it with a long, trembling wanker sign. Chris stops at the junction and waits for a car to pass, a polished Triumph doing a good milk-float impression, a zombie granny at the controls. Dave’s shouting at her to hurry up, but she’s deaf as well as blind, peering over the steering wheel trying to find her bonnet. Suddenly Dave’s back to being a shitter. I look round and the owner and his mates have almost caught up with us. They’re old and nasty, and things are looking bad. Dave winds his window up and locks the door, everyone except Chris watching the beer guts getting bigger, the faces redder, the mood darker. The look on Dave’s face is a real classic, because hanging his hand out of the window and taking the piss means he’s the first one on the menu. The rest of us don’t matter. YOU’RE GONNA GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD KICKED IN plays in my head, but I keep quiet.

  –Just go, Dave shouts. Just fucking drive.

  They’ve reached the car and are yanking at Dave’s door, one of them drawing his fist back to smash the glass, and Chris does as he’s told, slams his foot down and shoots across the road. We zoom off, cutting up the Triumph in one long swerve, Chris straightening the car, laughing his head off like a mental case. He stares in the mirror and laughs harder, says he’s left marks on the road, now we’re driving with bald tyres, and there’s a smell of burnt rubber that quickly fades away. I look back and we’re long gone, the three men specks in the distance, hands on knees, knackered.

  –Did you see their faces? Chris shouts, pissing himself. Did you see their faces when we got away. They thought they fucking had us. And you, Dave. Talk about bricking it. You fucking slag. You could go out and build a wall with the bricks you’ve just laid. All you need is a trowel. Your face was fucking ace. I’ll never forget that as long as I live. What a fucking cunt.

  Dave’s leaning his head back against the door frame. He keeps his trap shut and looks out of the window, breathing heavy.

  –They saw who we were, Smiles says.

  –Fuck them, Chris decides. They don’t know us from Adam.

  –They could find out, Smiles says. This is Slough, not London or Liverpool.

  –Fuck off, will you, Chris shouts, getting angry suddenly, out of character, specially where Smiles is concerned.

  Smiles goes quiet. Normally he gets special treatment. With his mum and that.

  –Don’t worry, Chris says. We’ll be fine.

  –They can’t prove anything, says Dave, acting like a kid.

  Like it’s going to turn into a court case.

  –Fuck them all, Chris says, and leans into the wheel, racing past the houses and crashing a red light, missing a van coming across us by a couple of feet.

  –Let me out, Dave moans.

  –Fuck off.

  We give Chris a bollocking and he promises to stop for the reds, and we’re leaving Slough behind, passing the cider round, race past where I work, down the hill to where the Oxford Road meets the Western Avenue, the caravans and trucks parked in Denham, up the hill to Uxbridge Circus, crashing the lights by the Master Brewer, the crossroads empty, yellow lights lining the edge of the Northolt airstrip, working their way inside the screen as we share a bottle of cider, and Dave’s stuffed a tape in the cassette, the Jam’s In The City setting us up for the run into the middle of London, and Chris is really shifting now, the Cortina riding well as we pile along the outside lane, burning up better cars than this, pissing all over a shiny Rover, slowing down for the roundabout by the Polish War Memorial, speeding up again, slowing for the next roundabout and roadworks, windows open feeling the rush of fresh air on our faces, more stops and starts till we reach Hanger Lane and dip into the tunnel, back out in seconds, twenty-five minutes after we nick the car in Slough getting ready for take-off.

  –Fasten your seat belts please, Chris says, doing his best to sound like an airplane captain.

  I’ve never been on a plane, but this must be what it’s like, pelting down the runway building up speed, lifting into the sky, a gradual climb as the White City dog track eases past, the QPR floodlights in the distance, the Cortina taking us on to the flyover, and we’re high above the city here, London spreading out around us. This is the Westway, and this is the moment we’ve been waiting for.

  –Come on, Smiles says, worried Dave’s going to muck it up.

  Dave takes the cassette out and slots another one in. We wait for the Clash to stroll onstage. Mick Jones tuning his guitar and Joe Strummer testing the mic. This is what life is all about, the tingle of the cider and thousands of Mary Poppins rooftops, the concrete towers of Notting Hill and the glass blocks of the West End, the Post Office Tower lording it
over thousands of Monopoly streets. Chris guns the engine as we sing along to ‘London’s Burning’, and we’re burning up this tosser in a Jag, a poofy wanker in a boating cap and one of those funny little playboy scarves you see on telly. Didn’t know people like that really existed. The song gets a bit lost in the speakers, but it doesn’t matter, it’s just a laugh, in and out the lights, and even though the yellow lights over by Northolt are brighter these go with the song. It’s right what they say, it’s a great traffic system. We know the words off by heart and don’t miss a beat. None of us can think of a better way to spend the night, London big and exciting compared to where we live, and we’re left out in the cold with nothing to do while up here everyone’s piled on top of everyone else, a major city where there’s more of everything—rich, poor, music, shops, excitement.

  Back home there’s the pubs and a disco every now and then, the social clubs and shopping arcade, football pitches and pinball machines, the Cat Balou for the Teds and the Odeon for kids looking for a back-row snog with the girlfriend, but apart from that it’s houses and the trading estate with its maze of factories and warehouses, a new town that feeds the roads and lanes, bored teenagers stuck in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing to do if you’re young round our way, but up here, in Soho and Camden Town, there’s bands galore, all sorts of things happening, a bigger mixture of people, everything from massive estates to the sort of knobs and grand old houses you never see in real life. The kids in London get the works, training pitches with floodlights and flashy youth clubs, places to go and things to do. The houses are big, built to last, while ours are done on the cheap, quantity over quality. According to Dave, you get a lot of benders up here as well, whole pubs full of them. Don’t know why, but you don’t see any queers in Slough, that’s for sure.

  –Watch out, Smiles shouts from the back. You almost hit that cab.

  Chris turns his head and grins, but I was worried too, Jackie Stewart behind the wheel taking the bend too fast. There’s a grey-haired man behind the wheel of the cab and he flashes his lights. I can see us going through the barrier and hitting the ground down below, another sound of the Westway this Cortina smashing into a terrace. I don’t want to end up the same way as that rock ’n’ roll wanker James Dean.

  –Nobody’s going to make a poster out of you, Chris laughs. You ugly fucking cunT.

  Dave’s staring at Chris as if he’s gone mad, and there’s three of us in this car who want the rollercoaster ride to end, wishing someone would pull the plug. You get a smoother ride on the bumper cars, the smash-and-grab of the dodgems, but there’s no telling Chris. He’s been taken over by the excitement, turns the music up and slows the car down, the ride easier as we come off the flyover and glide along at street level, stopping and starting for the red lights, Baker Street tube on our left, buildings rising up on both sides, huge marble palaces fresh from a Michael Caine film, James Bond in a wood-panelled office testing a rubber johnny on Moneypenny, seeing if the poison works. We keep going, see Capital Radio, take the piss.

  –In tune with nothing, Smiles says.

  There’s a sign pointing to Camden Town and we turn left before an underpass, race past greasy walls and dusty streets full of old codgers and Jack the Ripper loonies, a high-rise estate and Mornington Crescent tube, turn down a side street. Chris parks and we get out quick, leave the car and walk off, heads down. On the main road we’re in the clear, well pleased with ourselves now, slow down, a meths drinker stepping out of a bookies doorway swinging a bottle, yelling at us, hair thick and twisted, same as a Rastaman. Her eyes are bleary and the skin on her face is peeling back, feet wrapped in newspapers, tied together with string. We dodge past her and keep going, don’t look back, heads down again, and you don’t get that in Slough, where people know each other, more local than this place, pass a pie-and-mash shop that cheers us up again, joking about chirpy cockneys and jellied eels, rhyming slang and cockles and mussels, alive alive-o, an Indian restaurant belching out curry powder, the dark cut glass of an Irish pub, the sound of banjos and fiddles inside.

  –This is where you get the IRA pubs, Dave says. Here and in Kilburn. The Paddies come round collecting for the bombers and you have to put money in or you get your head kicked in.

  –Fuck that, Chris says, gobbing on the pavement right outside the front door. You’d think someone would go and smash the place up. It’s our fucking country. Scum going round bombing people.

  There’s some good pubs up here, big boozers that have been going for hundreds of years. The history is there in the wallpaper, the carved ceilings, the old stone and wooden bars. They’re the best thing about London. After the music. The tube’s opposite now, with its criss-crossing traffic and a mob of tramps standing around outside the entrance, tapping people for change. There must be twenty of them, men and women. They sound Irish, Scottish, Northern, smell the same as a jumble sale. We keep going towards the canal bridge, more pubs along the road, over and round to our right, under the railway bridge. You can’t see in the Hawley Arms from outside, but we’ve been here before, squeeze into the packed bar.

  –It’s your round, Dave tells Smiles.

  –It’s always my round.

  I go with Smiles and we worm our way to the bar, wait for him to get served, weighing up the crumpet. There’s some good-looking girls in here, most of them seventeen and over, out of our price range but nice to look at and dream about, quite a few punk birds with leather jackets and spiky hair, jet black or peroxide, but mostly it’s everyday people, specially the blokes.

  –How old are you? the barmaid asks, and Smiles puffs up, stands on his toes and drops his voice.

  –Eighteen.

  –You sure?

  Smiles nods and she serves him four light and bitters, fills each pint past the halfway mark, being generous after showing him up. It’s bad news being asked your age like that, and I feel sorry for Smiles. She didn’t need to do it really. Nobody heard, the pub noisy and people with better things to do, but sometimes you think the whole world’s looking at you. There must be a lot of under-age kids in here.

  –Fucking slag, Smiles says, when we get back to Dave and Chris.

  We stand by the wall and sip our drinks, served in straight glasses that feel funny, like they’re going to slip out of your hand. I drink quick, so I can empty and dump the light-ale bottle. There’s a couple of old boys in front of us, standing next to three girls in bondage trousers, sipping their bitter, don’t know what’s hit them. I wouldn’t say no if the girls were offering, but they’re the sort who probably go shopping down the King’s Road, and they’re older as well. We’ve got no chance. You’ve got to have money to dress like that. I’ve never been to the King’s Road. It’s funny how the papers go on about the clothes all the time, because nobody I know dresses in plastic trousers. We’re not complaining. It’s a good job these sort of girls are around. There’s enough talent in here for five years of non-stop wanking.

  –Look at the state of that, Dave roars.

  The perfect woman squeezes past in the crush of bodies, more and more people jamming in the pub. She’s about twenty, with peroxide hair, black fishnet stockings and a rubber miniskirt. Her top is red and black, her tits rock solid. She’s wearing thin black gloves and a stud in her nose. Her eyes are painted black, same as a badger, and her lips are bright red. She’s got high cheekbones, a pretty face, but I can see she’s tough as well. She’s not cocky, play-acting or anything. She’s one hundred per cent, the sort of girl you dream about meeting. She disappears into the Ladies.

  –Un-fucking-believable, Dave says.

  The girl sticks in my head, and I keep looking down the pub to try and see her again, music thumping out, all the best songs, but we’re more interested in the girls, from inner and outer London, out to the new towns, a bumpkin accent and something that sounds Scottish passing us. Doesn’t matter where you come from, it’s what you are, how you think. I reckon that’s important, and punk does well in the charts whe
n it’s not really chart music, dips into every corner of the country.

  –Look at the arse on that, Dave says.

  We follow another girl with our eyes, this one with jet-black hair and a motorbike jacket. Proper leather by the looks of it, not your cheap copycat gear. Can’t see us getting up to the bar for a while. Don’t see how anyone else can squeeze in, but one bloke does, carrying a football bag, selling fanzines I think. That’s another thing you get in London that you can’t find in Slough. If you want donkey porn, no problem, you can have pigs, chickens and goats thrown in as well, a long line of women getting their faces creamed in a Devon farmyard, but try finding Sniffin’ Glue.

  –Anyone interested in badges?

  –What have you got? Smiles asks, trying to look in the bag.

  –The lot, and the bloke wedges it on the shelf behind us.

  Smiles forks out for GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. Wouldn’t mind one myself, but we’re wedged up against the wall, and I can’t get a look-in. The badge-seller is feeling the pressure. Smiles pays and he moves on.

  –Put it on then, Chris shouts over the din.

  Smiles does as he’s told. It looks alright. I should’ve bought one.

  –Not bad, Chris admits, leaning over.

  It almost shines in the dim light. Same as the peroxide hair of the most beautiful woman in the world who’s coming back down the pub, easing herself through the press of bodies, classy in the way she moves, in control. She passes us, the others concentrating on the badge as I watch her go. She gets lost at the other end of the pub, before the table football where a mob of older boys is playing, tipping the table up, Mott The Hoople’s ‘All The Young Dudes’ slipping out of the speakers. I wash the drink around my mouth. It’s going to be a good night.