Skinhead (10 page)

Jack Piper loathed the district his parents insisted on making their home. He had been glad to join the Army just to get away from the rows of houses, the smoke-belching factories, the dirt-littered streets and the old-before-their-time people with their sad faces. He had never been able to understand why his dad wanted to stay put in the old, semi-slum home. His dad had been somebody in the Queen's Army in Africa and India – a colour-sergeant possessing medals and ribbons galore.

“Do you still follow the Hammers?” his dad asked.

Jack laughed. “When I can. They ain't doing too good lately.”

“Give 'em time, son,” The old soldier suggested placidly. “They're a young team. One of these days we'll be on top of the First Division.”

Jack lit a cigarette and held his lighter out for his dad to place his worn pipe against the flame. He didn't want to discuss West Ham's chances of ever again topping the Division. He frankly had grown away from the local team, preferring to lend his support to an Army match down in Aldershot. “Found many winners over the sticks?” he asked, tactfully switching subjects.

Charles Piper glanced in the direction of the kitchen before answering. He knew that Madge knew he had the occasional flutter on the nags but he didn't like voicing the information in her hearing. They had long ago reached an understanding on his betting, and his visit to the local. What she didn't know didn't cause friction in the house. Each of them went along without ever mentioning the small win, the quick nip, the Saturday night dart game where stout and companionship compensated for all that was vastly different from the old days.

Jack grinned. He was a good-looking man in his late thirties. When his wife said he looked like a youthful Cary Grant when he grinned she was not far wrong. Of course, he wished he had the star's money. He would be able to afford a decent home for his parents, a plush flat for his wife and a private-school education for his two kids. For himself, he would buy a Rover car, a small cabin-cruiser, a retreat far away from the London filth and his freedom from the Army. Not that he found much wrong with an Army career. The forces had treated him generously and he had no valid complaints – except one... he didn't enjoy the unnecessary bull when some big shot decided to visit the camp.

The ancient features cracked into a smile. “I've had my wins, son. A tanner each way treble is good enough for me.”

God
, Jack thought,
they still take tanner bets down here
. “Anything worth betting on today?”

Charles Piper puffed contentedly on his briar, gazing into the fire. “Could be Mister Piercer will give them all a shock,” he said with accumulated wisdom. “He's been running in low-class company. I say he's been held back for today's big race.”

Jack grinned at a dancing devil in the fire. “Ten bob each way, eh?”

His father looked up, startled. “That's a lot of money to wager, son.”

“I can afford it, Dad. Fact is, I'd like to split the proceeds – call it a father and son bet, eh?”

The old man shrugged. He loved his son, and the respect that a man his age expected from an offspring. He wondered how many men his age in this area could get the feeling of parental love that they shared. Not many, he guessed. Not many!

“I'm not certain about the horse, son...”

“I am, Dad! Agreed it's a fifty-fifty proposition?”

“Agreed, lad,” Charles Piper said, hiding the tears which threatened to spoil the gesture.

“Which bookie do you normally use?”

“Dick Hedley.”

“What time is the race?”

“Three o'clock.”

“Right – soon's Mum has dinner served we'll shoot down and make the bet.”

“Jack...” Watery eyes surveyed the son.

“Forget it, Dad! Values have changed, that's all. Tanners are fine for old age pensioners but we're paid pretty good money in the Army today.”

His mother stepped into the room. She had heard the conversation and decided it was time to rescue her husband from an overly-emotional experience. “If you gentlemen will excuse the cook,” she laughed, “dinner is ready. I'm afraid it's only bangers and mash but can guarantee the sausages are the best in London.”

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Jack said with a smile. Embracing his mother he added, “You remember how I love bangers...”

She shook her head. “No, tell me, son.”

Entering the kitchen, Jack wanted to cry on his mother's shoulder. Grandma's best china was on the table and heaped mash on his plate was probably what they both took during any given week of his absence. The six sizzling sausages for him and the three for each of them had broken the Post Office account. “It's fantastic, Mum,” he said with a gulp. “I feel like a general...”

His mother laughed. “Get away with you, Jack Piper. Your generals eat caviar and smoked salmon and sirloin steaks. I remember once when Dad and I were in India and Sir John Clacksley came to the mess for dinner. He had a dozen oysters, a pheasant, soup, a Bombay duck and sweet with black coffee. And do you know what he said about the dinner afterwards?”

Jack shrugged. “What?”

“He said, ‘Why is it always a sparse meal when one is entertained in India?'”

Jack gazed at the table before him. “I think Sir John was a bloody bore! This meal is fit for a Prince of Wales and I don't give a damn if Wales like sausages or not.”

Jack Piper didn't pay much attention to the coal delivery men when they interrupted the meal. His father went to attend to the necessary arrangements for removing the wooden slat they had across the coal bunker and came back to finish his meal. Then, when the knock sounded, Jack leant back and waited until his father settled the bill, unconsciously adding this amount to what he would give the old man when he finally went back to his unit.

He half-heard his father's quavering voice contest the cost of coal, and figured it for another increase the old man hadn't heard about until...

“
Pay up or else, you old bastard...
”

Jack stiffened. In this district people addressed one another with what amounted to blasphemy, he knew. But this... He jumped to his feet, marched stiffly to the back door and stared at the cocky kid with a coal sack over one shoulder.

“Or else what?” he asked.

Joe Hawkins glared at the stranger. He hadn't expected the old couple to have visitors – certainly not one wearing the uniform of an army sergeant, “'E's refusin' to pay up,” he said defiantly.

“Jack – look at this...” Charles Piper held out the altered bill to his son.

Jack took one fast look and laughed. “Sonny – your arithmetic is haywire. This says five times sixteen bob is five quid. That isn't right.”

“Look, mister,” Joe snarled, refusing to back-pedal. “I collect wot it says on the bill. I want five nicker or else.”

“Or else what?” Jack said softly.

“I takes the coal back, is wot,” Joe snarled, again.

“You'll leave it where it is,” Jack said. “I'll phone the office...”

“You'll fuck off!” Joe shouted.

Jack studied the bill closely now. He sighed. “Seems this has been altered.”

Joe tensed. He could handle old age pensioners but a soldier... those boots matched his for effect! “Do you want bovver?”

“Yeah, sonny,” Jack said, smiling coldly.

Joe didn't hesitate. His right foot lashed out seeking a vulnerable spot.

Jack Piper grinned, catching the foot, flipping the rest of Joe on his back. It was so simple when one took into account all those experienced instructors who trained men in the art of self-defence.

Joe came to his feet, caution forgotten. He had always made an extra quid at this house and he didn't want any clever soldier to spoil his untaxed income. He shot forward, hands slashing air, feet trying to find a solid groin to dig into... finding only a hard fist to the jaw, a knife-edged hand to the Adam's Apple and a boot in the bollocks to send him gasping amongst the newly-delivered coal.

“Tell the office to send the bill by post,” The soldier growled. “If it's right we'll pay. If it isn't we'll take it up with the accountant.”

As Joe struggled to climb off the shifting coals, Jack Piper guided his father back into the house, and locked the door in Joe's face.

All the fury of his encounter burst like a bomb inside Joe's mind. He had been relegated to an inferior position and this riled him; more – it positively went against his grain. He wanted to make the bastard pay for the indignity of being sent on his arse in the coal; for being shown to fabricate delivery slips.

Shaking his fist at the Piper house, Joe swore: “You'll pay for this, you bastard!” He glowered at Jack's grinning face in the kitchen window and stomped off to berate his mate for not coming to his side in a time of extreme peril...

“'Im an' 'is mates,” Joe concluded as he fondled his latest weapon – an ancient, rusted iron bar with sharp teeth serrating one edge. No doubt it had once been a gear-activator, a sliding set of teeth to regulate an obsolete device.

“It don't pay to bash-up soldiers,” Don remarked more to himself than Joe.

“'Ere,” Billy interrupted with sudden enthusiasm, “did you read the paper tonight?”

Joe studied his closest confederate, wondering what bright-eyed inspiration was forthcoming. One could never tell about Billy. He read every edition of the
Standard
– practically devoured each word a dozen times over – and although most of the articles and news went way over his head, he did have a knack for recounting specific items by heart.

“They arrested Ronnie Goodman larst night!”

Joe was aware of a tightening in his chest, a butterflying sensation deep in his stomach. “And?” he asked eagerly.

“Six months!” Billy said proudly.

The tightness developed into a steel band round Joe's chest. He could hardly breathe.

“'Is mob...”

Joe snapped, “'Is mob needs a new leader!”

Billy grinned. “Yeah!”

“I know Hymie Goldschmidt,” Don offered.

“Ronnie's lieutenant,” Billy cut in.

“Christ,” Joe barked, “don't I know it, too!” He waved aside Don's open mouth and allowed wonderful thoughts to trickle through his mind. If Goodman had been put away for six months he might just be able to swing the command of his mob. It would take diplomacy; no single group of skinheads ever willingly joined forces with another yet... they were both West Ham supporters and both lots came from Plaistow. It may not be so difficult...

“Don, find Hymie an' arsk if he'll talk to me.”

Billy rubbed his hands gleefully. “Cor, mate – won't it be sumfin' if'n we can get 'em in with us?”

Joe stared at his pal. How the hell
he
ever read so much and spoke so badly was a mystery. Even Joe felt he had a better command of the Queen's English than Billy. “You're a cunt...” he flung at Billy.

The youth grinned. “That means I'm useful, eh Joe?”

Ignoring the standard remark, Joe swung on Don. “Find Hymie. Tell 'im I want a meeting.”

“Wot about the soldier?”

Joe smiled evily. “If Hymie an' Ronnie's mob join us we can beat the 'ell out of that bastard!”

*

Hymie Goldschmidt was a Jew. His father owned an empire of rag-trade outlets near Aldgate and they lived as his grandfather had lived in Prussia – in squalor conditions. He refused to belong to his native nation – preferring, always, to sponsor the Israeli cause and plough his gains into bonds for a foreign country. He did not sympathize with his English relatives nor would he ever bend a knee to accept the dogma that England, as a Christian land, could have anything he wanted... unless, of course, one took into account the plentiful supply of cash in this God-forbidden island. In all his business dealings, Solly Goldschmidt acted on the belief that an Englishman was a sucker and that the Jew-boy was supreme when it came to making money. He spent very little on family luxuries, accepting Council charity in the form of a home subsidised by the non-Kosher ratepayers, and devalued the worth of the security he had by possessing a British passport.

Where Solly was Orthodox, Hymie said “to hell with all that crap” and – when his father was working – helped himself to large ham sandwiches, bacon and eggs and anything else he figured would drive his mother insane. Many a time his grandmother scrubbed out their refrigerator to cleanse it after Hymie had deliberately insinuated ham into its Kosher depths.

As for Israel – well, Hymie must surely have been on the “most wanted” lists of their Secret Service. He hated Israel with Arabian loathing; he cursed the day Palestine had been handed over to “those European misfits” and offered proof that “no evidence existed to back the Jewish claims to the occupied territories they now controlled.”

Hymie was, to all his friends, a non-Jew; a dis-believer; a semi-Christian. He even went to the extent of attending Mass with some of his mates or looking in on a service in St. Paul's Cathedral whenever arguments at home drove him to emphasise his Anglicized nationality. Occasionally, when the Rabbi forced him, Hymie would attend his Synagogue – but always under protest and always dragged by his father.

In a household dedicated to the accumulation of money and subjected to the belief that the Jews were God's “chosen children” – which he denied fervently – Hymie was, without any doubt, the greatest throwback in history. He was intelligent – knew every aspect of British history; could place spots on a global blank map with the accuracy of a Marco Polo; quote from Burns, Shelley, Wilde and Keats; argue politics and religion with great authority; bedazzle accountants with a natural Jewish flair for profits-versus-overheads.

Yet, notwithstanding, Hymie was also a skinhead – a violent little thug devoting his energies to the dismemberment of those who professed to love, adore and understand.