Read Online The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) by Garry Bushell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Garry Bushell
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kicked off outside, Trevor Richards had led from the front, jumping into eight Headhunters and showing them the business end of “Excalibur”. That was his pride and joy, a customised iron cosh liberally adorned with rusty screws. How Joey admired his uncle’s engineering skills. It was Trev who, back in the late 70s, had first come up with the idea of leaving calling cards which informed victims which particular firm had put them to sleep. “Congratulations,” they said. “You have just met Millwall Away.”
A meticulous master of detail, Trevor also planned and carried out armed heists on various security vans that deliberately invited robbery by their provocative habit of driving to the same banks and building societies at the same time every week. That, said Trev, meant they were just “gagging for a blagging”.
Trevor loved his work and he loved his play, but nothing meant more to him than his youngest son, Steven. Whenever he had been banged up, photos of his sons, Steven and Dougie, had always been fixed up just above the Millwall team picture. He adored both boys, but Steven, who had been a sickly child after a prolonged bout of pneumatic fever, was his favourite. Neither Trevor nor anyone else in the Baker circle had any idea he was gay.
Young Steven was bright, IT literate and business minded. At 14 he had been organising raves. It was Steven who had hooked the smarter of his two uncles on the Net and its unsurpassed money-making potential. Johnny had given him the readies to set up his own website, www.ftroopiway.com. F-Troop were a fictional crew of Millwall ruckers who
World In Action
had been duped into “exposing” in the 1970s. The website was a heavily coded events page for up-and-coming hooligan fixtures. Steven had visions of headcases in the near future organising via pocketsized computers – an intranet for nutters.
Like his pals, Steven had been born to be Millwall. The crowd attending his 21st could have probably filled the New Den, or that’s how it looked to Steven. There must have been, what, 100 of them in the bar, plus the birds.
Mostly in their early and late 20s, they were arrogant, swaggering yobs, foul-mouthed but frighteningly articulate. Young hounds, Johnny Too called them with something akin to paternal pride. “Look at all me young ’ounds.” The majority were white, but at least ten were black or mixed-race. Cockney blacks. Trevor had been NF through and through in the late 70s, but no one under 25 was in to race hate now, not in inner London at any rate. White powder, yes. White power? Forget it.
At 8.30 pm, Steven’s pal, Billy French, told Lucy Loud to turn down the music. “Important announcement,” he slurred. Like most of the young men present, French had an earring in his left ear. If his hair had been cropped any shorter, the Sioux would have claimed it as a scalp. “Very important announcement,” he slurred again. Then he took the mike and began to sing:
“Fuck’em all! Fuck’em all!
United, West ’Am, Liverpool,
Cos we are the MILLWALL and we are the BEST!
We are the MILLWALL so FUCK all the REST!!!!”
The whole bar erupted in song. If Johnny Too could have smiled any wider the top half of his head would have fallen off. This was going to be a great night. It had already started memorably when a couple of clearly deranged students, one female, one half-male, had come in the pub and tried to sell copies of the
Socialist Worker
. Dougie The Dog had looked at the paper.
“You support the IRA,” he’d said, stony-faced. “This is for Harry Shand!” –
The Long Good Friday
again! And he’d headbutted the greasy-haired man, knocking him out cold.
“Sorry, miss,” the laughing Dougie said to the student’s equally scruffy companion who screamed: “Don’t you ‘miss’ me, you bastard.”
“OK,” said Dougie, and he decked her too. Classic. That anecdote had spread round the party like wildfire.
Tonight, everyone was happy.
A meticulous master of detail, Trevor also planned and carried out armed heists on various security vans that deliberately invited robbery by their provocative habit of driving to the same banks and building societies at the same time every week. That, said Trev, meant they were just “gagging for a blagging”.
Trevor loved his work and he loved his play, but nothing meant more to him than his youngest son, Steven. Whenever he had been banged up, photos of his sons, Steven and Dougie, had always been fixed up just above the Millwall team picture. He adored both boys, but Steven, who had been a sickly child after a prolonged bout of pneumatic fever, was his favourite. Neither Trevor nor anyone else in the Baker circle had any idea he was gay.
Young Steven was bright, IT literate and business minded. At 14 he had been organising raves. It was Steven who had hooked the smarter of his two uncles on the Net and its unsurpassed money-making potential. Johnny had given him the readies to set up his own website, www.ftroopiway.com. F-Troop were a fictional crew of Millwall ruckers who
World In Action
had been duped into “exposing” in the 1970s. The website was a heavily coded events page for up-and-coming hooligan fixtures. Steven had visions of headcases in the near future organising via pocketsized computers – an intranet for nutters.
Like his pals, Steven had been born to be Millwall. The crowd attending his 21st could have probably filled the New Den, or that’s how it looked to Steven. There must have been, what, 100 of them in the bar, plus the birds.
Mostly in their early and late 20s, they were arrogant, swaggering yobs, foul-mouthed but frighteningly articulate. Young hounds, Johnny Too called them with something akin to paternal pride. “Look at all me young ’ounds.” The majority were white, but at least ten were black or mixed-race. Cockney blacks. Trevor had been NF through and through in the late 70s, but no one under 25 was in to race hate now, not in inner London at any rate. White powder, yes. White power? Forget it.
At 8.30 pm, Steven’s pal, Billy French, told Lucy Loud to turn down the music. “Important announcement,” he slurred. Like most of the young men present, French had an earring in his left ear. If his hair had been cropped any shorter, the Sioux would have claimed it as a scalp. “Very important announcement,” he slurred again. Then he took the mike and began to sing:
“Fuck’em all! Fuck’em all!
United, West ’Am, Liverpool,
Cos we are the MILLWALL and we are the BEST!
We are the MILLWALL so FUCK all the REST!!!!”
The whole bar erupted in song. If Johnny Too could have smiled any wider the top half of his head would have fallen off. This was going to be a great night. It had already started memorably when a couple of clearly deranged students, one female, one half-male, had come in the pub and tried to sell copies of the
Socialist Worker
. Dougie The Dog had looked at the paper.
“You support the IRA,” he’d said, stony-faced. “This is for Harry Shand!” –
The Long Good Friday
again! And he’d headbutted the greasy-haired man, knocking him out cold.
“Sorry, miss,” the laughing Dougie said to the student’s equally scruffy companion who screamed: “Don’t you ‘miss’ me, you bastard.”
“OK,” said Dougie, and he decked her too. Classic. That anecdote had spread round the party like wildfire.
Tonight, everyone was happy.
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