Die Hard Mod

For all my dear Brightonian and Belfastard friends,
especially Danny for keepin’ da faith and Hannah for
checkin’ da words...

1

Steve Milliken was cruising along the
Antrim
Coast
on his Lambretta with an achingly pretty brunette behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He was fairly certain that they would shag each other’s brains out when they got to the cosy B & B in Portstewart. Oh, sweet Jeanie. What he wouldn’t give to re-live the three months of bliss that he’d shared with her the previous summer. She was a free spirit with a bit of a wild streak and they’d had a blast.

A continuous loud thudding on Steve’s front door jolted him back into the reality of a two-up, two-down terrace in rainy
North Belfast
in late June. ‘What the fuck?’ he mumbled, pushing his duvet aside with a raging hard-on poking out of his boxer shorts. He quickly made himself decent and stumbled down the stairs past his framed 1965 poster of The Small Faces. It was bound to be his housemate Doug misplacing his keys again after another night on the piss.

When Steve opened the door, he was greeted with a headbutt followed by a boot in the groin. Sprawled out on the floor, he looked up and saw Trevor McCann, UDA battalion leader and local entrepreneur. Trevor was accompanied by Donzo – a gormless-looking 18-stone tattooed skinhead brandishing a baseball bat, which was swiftly aimed at the The Small Faces.

‘Stupid lukkin’ wee cunts,’ muttered Donzo.

Trevor switched on the living room light to give his sidekick a better view of the widescreen TV, hi-fi and Steve’s other cherished 1960s Mod memorabilia which was promptly given the same treatment.

Trevor aimed another kick, this time right into Steve’s stomach.

‘Fuckin’ weirdo,’ said Trevor

‘Jesus, Trevor,’ spluttered Steve.

‘What’s this about?’

Trevor laughed from the depths of his fat gut and then spat straight into Steve’s face.

‘You fuckin’ know rightly what it’s about. You know who runs things round here but ye still go and sell dope to them students.’

Steve groped past the pain of the earlier headbutt to remember his journey home from the pub the previous Saturday. He and Doug had stumbled into a party and having shared a few joints with their hosts, they were asked if they wouldn’t mind selling some of their large lump of hash. More out of politeness than anything else, Steve had sold them a tenner’s worth without giving it much thought.

‘Ach Trevor, I’m not tryin’ to be a dealer or anythin’… I swear to fuck I’m not… look, could we not just forget it… it won’t happen again.’

Trevor had his back turned to Steve and was flicking through his 500-strong collection of vintage 45s. He pulled out
Cry Baby
by John Lee Hooker on the Fortune label. Steve had seen it on Ebay for £200 but loved the record too much to consider selling his copy.

‘What the fuck’s this shite? John Lee Hooker? What kinda fuckin’ name’s that? Was his oul’ ma a prozzie or somethin’?’

Trevor looked closer at the label and chuckled to himself.

‘Cry Baby? Aye, a bit like the fuckin’ fruit who owns it.’

With that, he turned round, stared at Steve with a grin and snapped the record in two.

‘Byesy, wysesy John Lee Hooker, was a pleasure knowin’ ye, whoever the fuck ye are.’

Moist-eyed, Steve dragged himself off the floor and slowly walked towards his tormentor, raising his arms in surrender.

‘Listen Trevor… I know I was a dick for sellin’ blow to them students. Look, if I just keep out of yer way and swear not to flog any hash to anyone ever again… c’mon mate, givvus a break.’

Trevor grabbed Steve by the throat, pulled his face toward his and eye-balled him. Steve could smell booze on his breath and there was a tell-tale deadness in his coked-up eyes

‘Don’t ever fuckin’ call me mate, right? Yer no fuckin’ mate ‘o mine with yer dopey fuckin’ haircut and yer fruity clothes and yer oul’ music that no-one’s ever heard of… but its not just about sellin’ that blow, ye know that, don’t ye?’

Steve racked his brains thinking about other possible transgressions. There was the night he was dressed up to the nines in his best Mod gear when he saw Trevor coming towards him in the street. To avoid drawing attention to himself, he’d tried staring into the middle-distance. This had prompted Trevor to say ‘who the fuck do ye think you’re avoidin’ eye-contact with, ye fuckin’ fruit?’ But he must have been feeling lenient that time because despite the intimidating words, Steve had been able to keep walking, unscathed.

‘Alright dip-shit, I’ll fuckin’ spell it out for ye. Where the fuck’s yer fleg for the twelfth?’ Steve was staunchly non-sectarian and hated the Orange Order’s marching season and their yearly commemoration of a three-hundred-year-old Protestant victory. He just hadn’t considered that he’d betray his lack of enthusiasm for the Loyalist cause by not joining his neighbours in displaying Union Jacks or
Ulster
flags at the front of their homes. ‘I, I just haven’t got round to sortin’ it,’ said Steve, his voice quivering. Trevor landed another swift head-butt on him

‘Haven’t got round to it, yer fuckin’ arse. Anyone round here with an ounce of loyalty in their bones gets the oul’ flegs out weeks before the twelfth and if they’re worth their salt they fuckin’ keep ‘em out for the rest of the summer. Don’t act the innocent with me… you’ve never bothered yer hole to put out a fleg and ye were so fuckin’ stupid that ye thought no-one would notice.’

‘I’ll get a fleg out straight away, I swear, Trevor… I’ve got a
Northern Ireland
football one, will that do?’

‘No that fuckin’ won’t do… I hate them Norn Iron flegs… far to fuckin’ Irish-lukkin’ with that Celtic cross and the shamrocks ‘n all… get a Union Jack sorted, alright?’

Steve nodded.

‘Aye Trevor, consider it done.’

Trevor and his goon looked around the room and seemed pleased with their handiwork until Donzo spotted a black and white photograph of Steve’s late parents on the mantelpiece. He picked it up for closer scrutiny. ‘Hey look, Trevor, this must be his ma and da… luk at the gear they’re wearin’.’ The photo, taken on their honeymoon in 1968, had particular sentimental value for Steve as they both sported the archetypal 60s clothes and hairstyles that he’d come to love when he became an obsessive Paul Weller fan as a teenager in the 90s.

Trevor grabbed the picture, stared at it and then looked at Steve.

‘Yer man here’s a friggin’ head-the-ball… he wants to luk just like his oul’ ma and da did forty fuckin’ years ago… the fella’s a freak.’

Trevor dropped the picture on the floor and ground his heel into the glass.

‘Alright then, I think he’s got the message, Donzo. Let’s get outta this shite-hole.’

As he followed Donzo out the door, Trevor turned to give Steve a parting shot.

‘By the way, fuck-head, we bumped into yer bum-chum Doug earlier. Had a nice wee chat with him too even though we did most of the talkin’, if ye catch my drift. Just thought ye should know that ye might not recognise yer mate next time ye see him.’

2

Steve managed to drag his bruised body upstairs to his bedroom and slept fitfully but during his last dream before waking, he was back with Jeanie again. She was kissing his forehead, running her fingers through his hair and whispering sweetly. ‘I’ve missed you too darlin’, you’ll never know how much… I’m sorry I just disappeared like that without explaining… everything’s gonna be alright now, I swear it is.’

Steve woke with a smile but after a few seconds the previous night’s events shot back into his consciousness and a sense of dread swamped him. He lay and pondered his predicament. He’d always had his doubts about buying a house in such a rough area but it was the best he could afford on a construction worker’s salary and with the recent surge in
Belfast
’s fortunes, he hoped it would one day be more than a no-hope Loyalist ghetto. Five years on he was more realistic about the chances of this ever happening.

While the outside world looked on approvingly at how the peace process was transforming life in the city, Trevor and his fellow paramilitaries had maintained a grip on their patch and were still getting away with their drug-dealing and extortion because nobody would risk their skin bearing witness against them in court.

There wasn’t much to keep Steve in
Northern Ireland
. His parents had died in quick succession when they were still in their early sixties. Heavy smoking and a typical
Ulster
diet of daily fry-ups, copious red meat and a fair amount of hard liquor hadn’t exactly helped them to fend off the Big C. He had an elder brother, Joe, a God-botherer living in Ballymena with his wife and kids, but Joe took a dim view of his kid brother’s heathen ways. The last time they’d seen each other was at their mother’s funeral three years before.

Since the short-lived but intense relationship with Jeanie, there had been no woman in Steve’s life either. And the goodbye note she’d put through his letterbox (‘Steve, I’m so sorry if this hurts you but I’ve got to get away for a while. It’s nothing that you’ve done, I promise. Take care, love, Jeanie’) had hardly brought him closure.

As Steve lay there feeling sorry for himself, he was thinking that it was alright for his flatmate. After his beating from Trevor and Donzo, Doug would at least have been able to crawl round to his girlfriend Suzie’s flat which was only a few streets away. She was a nurse and would be able to attend to his wounds and give him some TLC. Steve pictured Doug recuperating in bed while Suzie brought him a nice big
Ulster
fry and a mug of tea.

Steve was dreading having to survey the previous night’s damage but knew he’d have to eventually. He got up and looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He was relieved that what Jeanie had once jokingly called his ‘ageing pretty boy kind of good looks’ remained unspoilt and he was able to rearrange his thick fringe to cover the huge throbbing bruise on his forehead.

Next to the mirror, Steve had a framed print of George Best from 1967 to which he attached almost religious significance. Best, with the ball at his feet and a haircut not dissimilar to Steve’s own, imperiously beckoned to a brutish opponent to try to take the ball off him. Looking at the picture always gave Steve a lift. He reckoned it got to the core of what it meant to be a
Belfast
boy. A stubborn, contrary, defiant brand of underdog individualism. ‘Don’t let the bastards grind ye down, eh Geordie?’ said Steve as he left the bedroom. ‘Fuck the lot of ‘em.’

Downstairs, the place was a mess. Flinching at the memory of the violence Trevor and his henchman had handed out, Steve fetched a dust pan and brush and set about clearing up the broken glass. After some hoovering and tidying-up, the place looked a lot better but his TV and stereo were unsalvageable. He brought a portable CD player down from his bedroom, got a beer from the fridge and put on
Otis Blue
by Otis Redding. ‘Otis knew a bit about suffering’ thought Steve as he curled up on his sofa in the foetal position.

The last track on the album came on and it made Steve think about Jeanie again. ‘
You don’t miss your water ‘til your well runs dry
… aye, yer fuckin’ right there, Otis’ he thought. As the song faded, Steve could feel his belly rumbling and he got up in search of some comfort food. He made himself a curry-flavoured Pot Noodle and a couple of slices of thick white toast dripping with butter.

With his hunger satisfied, he felt in the mood for some comfort viewing too. The movie that did it for him every time was
Quadrophenia
which he’d been obsessed with since he first saw it as a fifteen year-old. No matter how many times he watched it, he felt the same vicarious thrill as the cavalcade of scooters sped down to
Brighton
for the Mods’ Bank Holiday adventures. And as for his hero Jimmy’s knee-trembler down a back alley with the gorgeous Stef, it was still one of his favourite masturbation fantasies. ‘One for the wank jukebox, eh Steve?’ Doug always said. Steve stared mournfully at the hole in the middle of his telly before discovering that his
DVD
player worked perfectly well once he connected it to the portable he usually kept in the kitchen. ‘Up yours, Trevor’ whispered Steve as he settled down.