Read Online Skinhead by Richard Allen - Free Book Online Page A

around. “There ain’t goin’ to be hippies out in this.”
    â€œIf we walk towards Roedean we’ll find ’em,” Joe said with authority.
    Don laughed to himself and finally said, “My old man used to tell us about the time he was stationed down ’ere durin’ the war. They was in Roedean an’ they ’ad a notice on the gates sayin’ RING FOR A MISTRESS...” His laughter erupted anew; a lonely laugh the others failed to appreciate. Perhaps it was the way he told it.
    â€œI’d like a bleedin’ mistress now,” Billy said hopefully.
    â€œMe too,” Tony quipped. He glanced at Joe. “’Ow about it, mate. Can’t we find a coupla birds an’...”
    â€œAfter we find a few hippies!” Joe remarked adamantly.
    He was consumed with hatred and anxiety. What if, he found himself thinking, they didn’t locate any hippies? What would they do then? His leadership depended on getting the boot in.
    They walked along the spray-swept front, past the marina, the motor museum, the rows of cold, unfriendly houses perched high on the hill. Hotel signs glowed faintly in the greying sky, offering some warmth and companionship behind their bland facades.
    Out to sea, tossed as a cork in a violently disturbed bathtub, a small coastal vessel battled the frothed waves. When the breakers swooshed up the shore, row-boats rattled and shifted at anchor. And, always, there was the restless sound of stone under water as the sea rearranged the composition of the beach once again.
    â€œIt’s bloody cold!” Billy wasn’t thinking of birds now. The biting wind had long since whipped away desire, leaving him wishing for the warmth of a log fire and the sanctuary of a pub.
    Up ahead, where their paths rose to meet the road to Hastings, a small group of figures detached themselves from a shelter and started walking down to the beach. Joe stiffened. Even at that distance he could see long hair caught in the freezing wind and could make out gear that wasn’t worn by ordinary people.
    He grunted, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Hairies!” he snarled.
    Billy yelled and felt for his tool. The coldness of metal did not shock him; his senses were attuned to violence and the thought of laying into a bleedin’ hippie made him feel suddenly hot.
    Don and Tony too, had withdrawn their crude clubs – Don’s had once been an axe handle while Tony believed in using a tyre iron cut down to right size in Ford’s workshops.
    Joe didn’t have a weapon. He’d come to Brighton for the pleasure of kicking hippies – not bustin’ their skulls with a tool. His boots were weaponry enough and, anyway, he wanted the satisfaction of feeling his toe sink in deep.
    â€œDon’t let ’em see we’re looking for aggro,” Joe warned. “Let it be a surprise, eh?”
    From their vantage point, the five hippies saw the others approaching. They were cold, hungry, unafraid. They didn’t consider an attack on a day like this as even a remote possibility. That they had roughed it for the last week didn’t mean their natural enemies – skinheads and Hell’s Angels – would brave the bitter weather and venture to Brighton’s storm-tossed icebox.
    It was afternoon and the last meal they’d been able to cadge had been in Eastbourne the previous night. They had some pot left, some cigarettes and tomorrow, Monday, the Social Security office would give them enough to take care of immediate problems.
    â€œTurn back, Roger...”
    Roger was a tall man with flowing dark hair and a small beard. His mandarin moustache had never quite succeeded in becoming Chinese and formed a wispy coating above firm lips. “What’s wrong, Cherry?” he asked, unable to comprehend her.
    â€œI don’t like the look of those boys,” The girl replied, fear suddenly tugging at her heart. She was