Marcus Blakeston's Blog, page 5

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 24

After they were all let into the venue Colin and Brian made straight for the bar, while the others took ownership of a table nearby. Spazzo procured an extra stool from the adjacent table, and they all shuffled closer together to make room for Colin and Brian when they returned with the drinks.

“Here you go Stiggy,” Colin said, putting a pint of cider down before him. He sat down opposite and took a drink of his bitter.

Stiggy was staring at something over Colin’s shoulder. Colin turned to look, and saw the group of skinheads standing at the bar. Several had taken off their flight jackets, revealing British Movement T-shirts beneath. The large, older skinhead faced outwards, leaning his elbows on the bar. His muscular arms were covered in multi-coloured tattoos. The younger skinheads faced him, pints of lager in their hands, while the skinhead girl stood to one side sipping from a bottle of Babycham.

“What the fuck sort of cider’s this?” Stiggy said.

Colin turned back to Stiggy and watched him put down his glass and grimace. He shrugged. “I don’t know. The cider sort, probably. Why, what’s up with it?”

“Nowt. I suppose it’ll have to do, won’t it? You think me glue will be all right out there? There’s fucking two quid’s worth in that can, someone might nick it.”

“Nah, who’d want that fucking shite?” Brian said. “I wouldn’t mind that cassette recorder though if we’re out first. Got to be worth a fucking hundred quid at least.”

“I could do with a new cassette player meself,” Colin said, nodding. “Me old one’s broke.”

Over the next half hour the venue started to fill up with an even mixture of punks and skinheads, plus a few nondescript youths in casual jeans and sweatshirts. The mob of skinheads at the bar were getting louder the more they drank. They kept looking over at Twiglet and nudging each other, then laughing. One pretended to be a monkey and they laughed louder.

Twiglet stared back at them, his arms folded. “Fucking Nazis,” he said under his breath. “So proud of their white skin they cover it up with tattoos.”

Brian laughed. “Yeah. Here’s one for you. A skinhead walks into a bar. ‘Ow,’ he says.”

“You what?” Twiglet asked, looking at Brian.

Brian smiled. “They lowered the entrance bar, didn’t they?”

Twiglet shook his head and frowned. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“It was an iron bar, but it was okay because it only hit him on the head so no damage was done.”

Colin snorted. Twiglet sighed and shook his head. He turned back to look at the skinheads.

“You know what, Bri?” Colin said, smiling. “That was a fucking shite joke, your worst yet.”

Brian shrugged. “Yeah well, I only just thought of it so it probably needs a bit of work.”

“It needs a fucking lot of work if you ask me. Or better yet, just never tell it again.”

“All right, what about this one then? See that skinhead bird with the Babycham?” Colin looked and nodded. “It’s Baby-Sham69, innit? The skinhead version, as drunk by Jimmy Pursey when he were a baby.

Colin smiled. “Singing If the Babies are United.”

“There’s Gonna Be A Nursery Breakout,” Brian said.

“Hurry Up Mummy.”

“Red Nappy Rash.”

“You what?” Colin asked. “Which one’s that then?”

“You know, Red London. It was their first single.”

Colin shrugged. “Don’t think I ever heard that one.” He turned to Stiggy, who was staring at the skinhead girl. “What do you reckon Stiggy?”

Stiggy smiled when he caught the girl’s eye. The girl glanced quickly at the group of skinheads, who were busy throwing beer mats at each other, and smiled back before turning her back on him.

“You what?” Stiggy said.

“Do you know any Baby-Sham69 songs?”

Stiggy shrugged, still staring at the skinhead girl. “No, not really.”

* * *

The support group were a local punk band who introduced themselves as The Burglars.

“Smash the state!” the singer shouted, and an out-of-tune guitar started up. The guitarist stood with his back to the audience, as if he was embarrassed to be there. Bass and drums followed, and the singer launched himself into the song. He gripped the microphone stand in both hands and shook it angrily as he sang about how much he wanted to kill Thatcher.

The short song ended to complete silence from the audience. “Clap, you fuckers!” the singer shouted.

The skinheads at the bar started a slow hand clap, but nobody else joined in. The band started their second song, a cover version of an Exploited song that didn’t quite sound right with a Yorkshire accent.

“Off, off, off,” the skinheads chanted, punching the air.

Stiggy drained his glass and went to the bar. He stood next to the skinhead girl and shouted his order to the barman. The skinhead girl looked at the large skinhead, then turned away from the band to face the same direction as Stiggy. She leaned against the bar and took a sip of Babycham. Stiggy looked at her and smiled, then said something into her ear. She smiled back and looked away.

The band on stage continued to play, despite an obviously hostile audience who just wanted them to hurry up and finish.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 23

Colin squinted up at one of the seemingly endless blocks of high-rise flats that comprised Shefferham’s landscape. He shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to imagine what it would be like to live so high up in the sky.

“So where do we go now?” Brian asked.

Twiglet pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. “The Maples, Fitzholme Street,” he read out loud.

“Where the fuck’s that?” Colin asked.

“How should I know?” Twiglet said with a shrug.

Spazzo sighed. “You cunts are fucking useless. I knew I should have gone with Johnno instead.”

“Yeah, right,” Stiggy said with a sneer. “And them fucking skinheads he’s mates with. So what’s that about then?”

Spazzo shrugged. “Dunno. Johnno seems to know them from somewhere.”

“Yeah well, anyone who hangs around with skinheads is a fucking cunt as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, I’d go along with that,” Colin said, nodding. He saw an old woman across the road and called out to her. “Scuse us, missus.” The old woman looked, then hurried on. Colin ran across the road to intercept her. “Scuse us, missus,” he repeated.

“I haven’t got no money,” the old woman said. She stopped and raised her palms to Colin. Her hands shook as she stared at him wide-eyed.

“Neither have I,” Colin said. “Do you know where there’s a place called The Maples?”

“Never heard of it,” she said, and turned and walked away.

“Hold up, missus. Oi Twiglet, what’s the name of that road again?”

“Fitzholme Street,” Twiglet shouted.

Colin caught up with the old woman and stood before her. “Scuse us, missus. Do you know where Fitzholme Street is?”

“Oh heck, you’re miles off,” she said, pointing back the way they had come. “It’s up that way, about a mile or so past the train station.”

Colin sighed. “Cheers, missus,” he said. “We’re going the wrong fucking way,” he shouted to the others.

* * *

After asking a few more people for directions along the way, they arrived at Fitzholme Street a little under forty minutes later to join the end of a lopsided queue trailing down the outside of The Maples.

Stiggy glared at a group of twelve skinheads in front of them, and Colin saw his fists were clenched. He hoped Stiggy wouldn’t start anything because they were vastly outnumbered. One of the skinheads, heavily built and standing a good six inches taller than the others, looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had his arm draped around the shoulder of a small, much younger girl with a shaved head and a long pink fringe. The other skinheads, all male, were closer to the girl’s age than his, and he ordered one of them to go to the front of the queue and see what the hold-up was.

“There’s a pair of fucking gorillas on the door,” the young skinhead said when he returned. “They’re searching every cunt that goes in.”

Colin looked at Stiggy, wondering if he had any more weapons hidden away.

When they neared the front of the queue, Colin saw two black bouncers. They both had short cropped hair and were dressed in identical grey suits, both sporting a pair of dark sunglasses and the same scowl on their faces. People were let through the door one at a time and frisked. Confiscated items lay in a pile by the side of the door, mostly studded wristbands and bullet-belts, though Colin did see at least one knife glittering amongst them.

When it was the large skinhead’s turn he raised his arms and glared at the two bouncers. One of the young skinheads, the next in line, started making monkey sounds. The bouncers waved the large skinhead through and beckoned for the younger skinhead to enter. He walked toward them swinging his arms from side to side and grinning. He stood before the bouncers and raised his arms, still grinning. One frisked him from behind while the other stood before him, glaring down. When the skinhead had been searched, the bouncer in front raised his foot and stamped down on his toes.

“Ah, you cunt,” the skinhead cried, hopping on one leg. “What did you do that for?”

The bouncer shrugged. “Testing for steel toe caps. Now on your way, you little shit.”

When they searched Stiggy one of the bouncers found his can of glue and tossed it at the pile of confiscated items. It landed on the tiled floor with a dull thud and rolled to a halt near an expensive-looking cassette recorder. Stiggy made as if to retrieve it, but the bouncer blocked his way.

“You can pick it up on your way out,” the bouncer said. “Either now or at closing time, I don’t care which.”

Stiggy stood his ground. He stared at the bouncer and clenched his fists. The bouncer stared back, unfazed.

“Hurry up mate, we want to get in before the band comes on,” a young punk standing behind Colin said.

“Yeah come on, Stiggy,” Colin said. “You won’t need it in there anyway, you can pick it up when we leave.”

Stiggy held the bouncer’s stare a moment longer before turning away. He looked at his glue, then turned back to the bouncer. “It had better be there when I come back out. And I know how much is in it too, so don’t think about pinching any.”

The bouncer laughed humourlessly and shook his head. “On your way, freak.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 22

“Fucking hell Stiggy, you can’t do that on here,” Colin said when he saw Stiggy pull out a can of glue.

Stiggy shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because it will fucking stink,” Brian said, “and the train guard will chuck us all off.”

“Yeah well,” Stiggy said, “not if I open a window it won’t.”

“Can’t you do it in the bogs or something?”

“Nah, fuck that. I’m sick of hiding away, it’s not like it’s illegal or nothing.” Stiggy unscrewed the lid and poured a blob of glue into a bag.

Brian frowned. “Yeah, well, you can fuck off to the other side of the carriage with it. And when the train guard catches you we don’t know who you are, right?”

Stiggy shrugged and rose to his feet. He walked along the carriage to the exit door and pulled down its window. He leaned out, turned his head to face away from the wind, and raised the glue-bag to his mouth.

“Fucking dick,” Brian said, shaking his head. Colin turned to watch Stiggy.

Stiggy let out a roar and leaned out further. He stretched up on his toes and shuffled his stomach across the window edge, then roared again. He raised his arms out sideways as if they were wings, and the glue-bag flew out of his hand. His feet rose from the ground.

“Fucking hell, quick,” Colin shouted as he jumped to his feet. He ran to the door and grabbed one of Stiggy’s ankles. He could feel something hard in Stiggy’s sock, but didn’t have time to think what it might be. Stiggy’s other leg kicked out wildly at him, narrowly missing his face. Stiggy clamped his hands against the outside of the train when Colin tried to pull him back into the carriage.

Brian rushed forward and took hold of Stiggy’s other ankle. They both tugged, fighting against Stiggy’s apparent desire to jump out of the train. With both of them pulling together, Stiggy’s hands began to slip, and with a final roar he fell face down on the floor of the train carriage.

Colin bent down and lifted up the bottom of Stiggy’s combat trousers to see what was hidden in his sock. It was a knife with a vicious looking six inch blade, fastened to Stiggy’s ankle with black masking tape.

“Fucking hell Bri, look at this!”

Brian’s eyes widened when he looked at the knife. “Jesus fucking Christ. I told you that cunt was trouble. What the fuck’s he doing with something like that?”

“Help me get it off,” Colin said, pulling at the masking tape.

Between them they were able to remove enough of the tape to twist the knife loose, and Colin tossed it out of the train window.

Stiggy stumbled to his feet and made straight for the window. Brian grabbed his arms and held him in place while Colin closed it.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Stiggy yelled. He struggled in Brian’s grip.

“Why do you fucking think, you mad bastard,” Brian said. “You can’t take a fucking knife to a gig.”

“What’s going on here?” A voice thundered from nearby.

Colin spun toward it. A six-foot, well built man of African descent wearing a train guard uniform glared at him.

“Nothing,” Colin said. “Um … he’s not feeling very well. Travel sickness, you know.”

“So why are you holding his arms like that then?” The train guard looked at Brian. Brian let go of Stiggy and shrugged. “Well?”

Brian glanced at Colin, then looked at the train guard. “Um… so he doesn’t fall over? He got a bit dizzy.”

“Is that right?” the train guard asked Stiggy.

Stiggy shrugged and glared at Colin. “Yeah,” he said.

The train guard grunted. “Right, okay. Let me see your tickets.” They presented their train tickets and he punched holes in them with a clipper. “Right. Now go and sit down, you’re blocking the gangway here. And no more trouble or you’ll be off the train at the next station. Clear?” They all nodded. The guard stood to one side and gestured for them to pass.

Colin and Brian sat down in the nearest vacant seat. Stiggy walked to the opposite end of the carriage, where he remained for the rest of the journey to Shefferham.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Happy Thatcher Day everyone!

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 21

5 I’m an Upstart

Colin leaned against the side of a Moon Cresta machine in the train station buffet and watched Brian perform a docking manoeuvre to join two spaceships together. Brian jabbed the fire button and waggled the joystick from side to side, his movement becoming more frantic as the ships got closer together. He banked too far to the left, and one of the spaceships exploded in a ball of pixelated flames. Brian swore and thumped his fist down on the control panel.

“All right, Col,” Stiggy said from the doorway.

Colin looked around and raised a hand. Brian continued playing the Moon Cresta game, frowning while he tried to avoid multi-coloured blobs falling diagonally across the screen toward his remaining spaceship. Stiggy looked over Brian’s shoulder, sighed, and sat down at a nearby table.

“I thought you said there was loads of people going?” Stiggy asked.

“They’re not here yet,” Colin said. “Shouldn’t be long though. I think they were going to the football this afternoon, maybe they had extra time or something. The train’s late anyway.”

As if in confirmation, the train station tannoy announced the next train to Shefferham would be approximately twenty-three minutes late.

When Brian finished his game, he and Colin joined Stiggy at the table. They both lit cigarettes. Stiggy frowned and wafted smoke away from his face.

A few minutes later Twiglet and Spazzo arrived, along with another youth dressed in casual gear that Colin didn’t recognise. Colin looked toward the door, and when nobody else entered he asked where Mike was.

“He got nicked down at the footie, didn’t he?” Twiglet said with a shrug as he sat down at the table. “The daft cunt only went and nutted a fucking copper.”

“What did he do that for?” Brian asked.

“Pissed up, weren’t he? Anyway, all of a sudden there was loads of fucking coppers everywhere lashing out at anyone who stood still long enough. The rest of us fucked off sharpish and melted into the crowd.”

“Aye,” Spazzo said, running his fingers through his bristly green hair. “Mike got a right fucking smack round the head, split it right open. Next thing there’s three of the bastards on top of him and more of the cunts running toward us. Fucking mental, it were.”

* * *

Trog looked up at a black and white display hanging over platform 3B and frowned.

“The fucking train’s late,” he said.

Don stood by the edge of the platform, bent over with his hands on his knees. He gasped for breath, having run up the stairs from the subway under the train station. He coughed, and spat a glob of mucus between his feet.

“Just as … fucking well or we’d have … missed the cunt.”

Trog looked at Don and hitched up his bleached jeans. “Mate, you’re out of fucking condition. We’ve only been running a few minutes.”

Don straightened up and stretched his arms out behind him. He reached into his flight jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Yeah well, looks like that were a waste of fucking effort anyway.”

Trog hooked his thumbs in his pockets and polished the toes of his boots on the back of his legs, one after the other.

A bored-sounding male voice, adding unnecessary emphasis to random words, made an announcement over the tannoy.

“The next train to arrive at platform 3B will be the late running eighteen-thirty service to Shefferham. We apologise for the late arrival of this train, which is now due to arrive in Shefferham at nineteen-fifty-five approximately. Passengers are advised that the smoking carriage is at the rear of this train, and smoking in any other area of the train is not permitted. Platform 3B for the late running eighteen-thirty service to Shefferham.”

“There you go,” Trog said, “looks like we’re just in time.”

A group of punks wandered out of the buffet. The gobby student, his two mates, and a couple more Trog hadn’t seen before. With them was someone he knew from work.

“All right, Johnno?” Trog called out. “You off to the Cockney Upstarts then?”

“Aye up, Trog,” Johnno said, nodding. “Yeah, Spazzo here were going on about it at the footie, it sounds a right laugh. So how’s it going then? I haven’t seen you in the showers for a while.”

“I’ve been working the afternoon shift.”

“Yeah? Can’t say I’m looking forward to that myself, I reckon I might put in for permanent days when I turn eighteen.”

Trog smiled. “Yeah, you and thousands others. It’s not so bad really, you finish just in time for the pubs opening. It’s the night shift that’s the real killer.”

“Yeah, that’s what my dad says too. He’s a right grumpy old bastard when he’s on nights.”

“Did you hear about Ian?”

Johnno nodded. “Yeah, it were in the local paper, it said he took a right fucking beating. How is he?”

“Still unconscious. You heard anything about who did it?” Trog glanced at the student punk and his two mates. They glared back at him.

Johnno shook his head. “No, mate. But if you find out, let me know and I’ll help you sort the bastard out. He were a good bloke, Ian.”

“He still is,” Trog said.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 20

Outside on the street, Brian held his arms out straight before him and moaned, “Urrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhh.” He held his head at an angle, his mouth gaping open, and shambled toward Kaz like a zombie.

Colin put the record inside his leather jacket and tucked a corner into his jeans. He zipped his jacket up and raised his own arms, then lumbered toward Becky.

“They’re coming to get you, Rebecca,” he said in a drawn out, gormless-sounding voice mimicking a character from an old black and white film he had watched on TV.

Becky squealed and grabbed Kaz’s hand. They ran down the street together, twin pairs of monkey boots clattering down the pavement. They kept glancing behind them at Colin and Brian, who shambled after them. Their loud moans drew attention from a group of trendies passing by on the other side of the road.

“SID’S DEAD!” one shouted.

Colin gave them a two-finger salute and continued following Becky, who had stopped with Kaz a short distance away to look at the trendies. Brian lumbered toward Kaz, moaning, and closed his arms around her back. He turned his head and made a chomping sound against her neck. Kaz jerked her head to one side and screamed. Brian jolted away and clamped his hand over his ear.

“Ahhh, I’ve gone deaf,” he cried.

“What?” Colin asked.

“I’ve gone deaf.”

“What?”

“I’ve gone … oh, fuck off, you cunt.”

“Poor Brian,” Kaz said, laughing, and looped her arm through his. They walked down the road together.

Colin glanced at Becky and followed them.

* * *

At the bus station they all sat on a long, wooden bench while they waited for Kaz and Becky’s bus to arrive. The girls lived in a different suburb to Colin and Brian, and their bus was due to arrive a few minutes before their own. Brian and Kaz held hands and chatted away to each other.

Colin sat next to Becky and looked down at his shoes. He wondered if Becky would punch him in the face if he tried to kiss her, and decided it wasn’t worth the risk. He looked up at her. She smiled and brushed against him with her shoulder. Colin bit his lip and looked away.

The bus arrived with a hiss of hydraulic brakes. Becky and Kaz jumped up and walked toward it. Colin and Brian waved goodbye and started to shuffle off to their own bus stop. Becky stepped in front of Colin, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips. Colin winced when she crushed the cut on his lip, but the surge of emotion coursing through him as he tasted the Pernod, blackcurrant, and cheese and onion crisps on her tongue sent his head reeling. He raised his arms to return the embrace, but as suddenly as she appeared, Becky was gone. She sidestepped his grasping hands and jumped onto the bus after Kaz.

Colin watched as they stomped their way across the floor of the bus to the back seat. He waved idiotically while they blew kisses through the back window as the bus pulled out from the station.

“We should have got on that bus with them,” he said to Brian when the bus disappeared from view.

“It’s the last one, how would we get back home?”

Colin shrugged. He felt like he was walking on air. “What would that matter?”

He was still grinning two hours later, laid in bed, wide awake and bursting with energy while a record played quietly in the background. It was the Cockney Upstarts gig tomorrow night, and he would be seeing Becky in town in the afternoon, so it looked like it was going to be the perfect day.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 19

Stiggy lurched out of the toilet and staggered toward Colin’s table. He stumbled into the back of a chair and changed direction, the chair’s occupant turned and glared at him. Stiggy shrugged and carried on walking, then came to a swaying halt. He looked around, seemingly lost. Colin waved to get his attention, Stiggy nodded and veered off toward him. He flopped into his chair and picked up his half-empty glass of cider. He looked over the rim at Colin.

“What?” Stiggy asked.

Colin laughed. “Nothing, mate. We thought you’d gone home.”

Stiggy put down his glass and tapped his chest. “No, not yet,” he said, shaking his head.

Colin laughed. Brian and Becky did too. Stiggy looked at them with a puzzled expression.

“What?” Stiggy repeated.

Colin smiled and shook his head. “Nothing, mate.” He picked up the record and showed it to Stiggy. “Here, look what Becky bought me.”

Stiggy cocked his head to one side as he looked at it. “What is it?”

“A record. It’s by that band that were just on.”

Stiggy blinked and rubbed his eyes with his fists. “Yeah? Can you tape it for me?”

Colin shook his head and put the record back down on the table. He took out a cigarette and lit it. “I can’t mate, me tape recorder’s broke. But I can borrow you it if you want? Then you can tape it for Brian as well.”

Stiggy nodded. “Yeah, cheers.”

“I’ll fetch it round to your bedsit tomorrow afternoon, we can do it before we go to Shefferham.”

“Why, what’s in Shefferham?” Becky asked.

“Cockney Upstarts are playing,” Brian said. “We’re all going down there on the train.” He turned to Kaz. “You fancy it? It should be a good one.”

Kaz frowned. “No, my dad won’t let me. Anyway, I don’t like skinhead bands, and I don’t think you should go either. It won’t be safe.”

Brian shook his head. “Nah, there’s loads of us going, we’ll be okay. Anyway they’re not a skinhead band.”

“Do you have to go?” Kaz put her hand on Brian’s chest and stared into his eyes.

Brian shrugged. “Well yeah. They’re from that London, they don’t come down here very often so it’ll probably be the only chance we get to see them.”

Kaz frowned again. She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest, glowering at Brian. Brian looked away and toyed with his half-empty beer glass. Kaz sighed and turned to Becky. “I need a wee. Are you coming, Becky?”

Becky smiled. “Yeah okay.” She turned to Colin. “You’ll wait for us, won’t you?”

Colin nodded. He grinned at Brian and took a drag on his cigarette. “I need a wee wee, are you coming Brian?” he said in a high pitched voice, mimicking Kaz.

Kaz glared at Colin and stamped off, arm in arm with Becky. Brian sniggered, and took a long drink from his beer. He belched at Colin and rose to his feet. “Come on then. But no peeping at me cock.”

“Fuck off,” Colin said, and turned to Stiggy. “You watch our stuff for us?”

Stiggy nodded and picked up the record.

In the toilet, Brian and Colin took up positions either side of the urinal. Colin threw his cigarette end into the middle and it landed in the water with a hiss. He aimed his urine at the cigarette end, pushing it toward Brian. Brian smiled and aimed his penis to push it back, shuffling closer to Colin for a better aim. Colin’s bladder emptied first and his urine turned to dribbles while Brian’s was still in full flow. The cigarette end hit Colin’s end of the urinal and Brian bellowed in victory.

“Cheating bastard,” Colin said, zipping up.

Back in the bar, Stiggy was reading the song titles from the back of the record sleeve when Colin approached him from behind.

“Have they gone?” Colin asked, looking around the pub. Most of the other customers had already left.

“Have what gone?” Stiggy asked without looking up from the record cover.

“Becky and Kaz.”

“Who?”

Colin sighed. “Them birds you’ve been sitting with all night.”

Stiggy shrugged. “Still in the bogs, aren’t they? What time is it anyway?”

Brian looked at his watch. “Half-ten.”

“What?” Stiggy looked up at Brian, wide-eyed. He dropped the record on the table and stood up. “I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow night at the train station.”

After Stiggy rushed out, Brian looked at Colin and shrugged. Colin looked over at the women’s toilet door. “What do you reckon they’re doing in there?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Brian said. “Probably escaped out the window so they don’t need to look at your ugly mug any more.”

“Fuck off.”

Brian laughed. “Well whatever they’re doing they’d better hurry up or we’ll miss the bus home.”

They lit a cigarette each and smoked them. Becky and Kaz were still in the toilet when they stubbed them out. Colin looked at the toilet door and sighed. “Fuck this,” he said, and rose to his feet. He banged on the door with his fist. “Oi Becky, are you in there?”

A muffled voice answered him. “Yeah, won’t be long.”

Colin looked at Brian, who tapped his watch with his index finger. Colin shrugged and pushed open the door.

Becky and Kaz stood before a large mirror, dabbing their faces with balls of cotton wool. Colin watched them from the doorway for a few seconds, then asked what they were doing.

Kaz looked up at Colin’s reflection in the mirror. “Oi get out, you can’t come in here,” she said.

Colin slid through the door and let it close behind him. “Too late, I already did.”

Becky smiled and continued wiping her cheek with a cotton wool ball. Kaz spun to face Colin. “Get out,” she said, pointing at the door.

Colin looked around the spotlessly clean toilet with amazement. The place smelled of flowery perfume instead of shit and piss, and there wasn’t even any graffiti on the walls. He watched Becky’s reflection in the mirror, and when he caught her eye she smiled back at him.

“Are you going to be long?” Colin asked. “Only me and Brian need to go for the bus soon.”

“Come on Becky,” Kaz said. She brushed past Colin and left through the door.

Becky dropped a cotton wool ball into the sink and turned to face Colin. She leaned back against the sink with her hands, her chest pushed out.

“Do we need to go right now?” she asked, looking into Colin’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Colin said. He turned to the door and followed Kaz through it.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 18

Colin turned to face the stage area when he heard a high-pitched whine of feedback. The long-haired man tapped his fingers on a microphone. A guitarist tuned up, while a bass player crouched down to adjust dials on a small amplifier. The drummer sat behind his drum kit, drinking from a bottle of lager.

“One two, one two,” the long haired man said.

Someone from the audience, a local punk with ripped purple trousers and an unruly mess of purple hair to match, strode up to the stage area.

“Go on, Marco,” a female voice shouted from one of the tables near the stage.

The youth said something to the long-haired man, who smiled and stood to one side, then gestured at the microphone. The youth grabbed the microphone stand, tilted it toward himself, and scowled at the audience.

“Fuck Thatcher,” he shouted. “You took us into this fucking war but nobody knows what we’re fighting for some fucking sheep some fucking land what the fuck do we want that for you fucking skank you fucking—”

He continued shouting for several minutes, to the accompaniment of blasts of feedback and an occasional beat on the drums. As one poem ended he started another before anyone could react, until with a final scream he walked off the stage and retook his seat.

“Well I hope the band is better than that,” Brian said.

“I thought he was cute,” Becky said, smiling. She craned her neck to see where the youth had gone.

The long-haired man tapped on the microphone again. “Right. Hello, I think we might be ready to start now. I’ll just take my pullover off, it’s a bit hot in here.”

“Fucking hippy,” someone shouted from the bar. Colin smiled and looked to see who it was, and saw the two skinheads standing there. His heart sank. He nudged Brian and nodded to them.  Brian turned to look.

“Thank you for that contribution,” the long-haired man said.  He smiled and flicked his hair back over his shoulder with a jerk of his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brian said, “they’ll not do anything with this many people here.”

“What are you on about?” Kaz asked, looking toward the bar.

“Nothing,” Brian said. “Let’s watch the band.”

“Right. Okay,” the long-haired man said.  “Well I’m Mark and we’re The Astronauts, and we sound a bit like this.” He counted in the band, adding emphasis to the final digit. “One two three four, one two three four.”

* * *

Trog turned his back on the band when they started to play. He clapped his hand on Don’s shoulder to get his attention and leaned over to shout into his ear.

“I still reckon that student cunt knows something about it.”

Don nodded. “Yeah, so do I. Not much we can do about it tonight though, just the two of us, so we might as well get fucked off. This fucking hippy music’s doing me head in anyway.”

Trog picked up his lager and drained the glass. He turned and watched the singer cavorting around the microphone stand like some demented ballerina. He turned back to Don and put the empty pint glass down on the bar.

“Yeah, drink up then. Hopefully Ian will come round soon, and he can tell us who it was. Then we’ll get a fucking army together and do the cunt proper.”

Don drained his glass in one go and belched. He thumped the glass down on the bar and walked away. Trog took a final look at the band, shook his head, and followed Don through the door.

* * *

The music took Colin by surprise. From the long hair of the singer, and the promise of folk music on the poster outside, he had expected something like Pink Floyd or one of those other ghastly bands of that ilk, and had been ready to walk out as soon as they started. But while being a lot more melodic than Colin’s usual taste in music, the songs were certainly catchy and the tales of urban decay told by the lyrics were definitely something he could relate to.

Colin looked at Brian, intending to ask if he wanted to get up and dance with him. Brian had his arm around Kaz’s shoulder. He turned to face her and shouted something into her ear. Kaz smiled and shouted something back. Colin sighed and nudged Stiggy.

“Come on, Stiggy.”

Stiggy looked at Colin, but remained seated until Colin pulled him to his feet and dragged him by the arm into the midst of a few punks who were shuffling around before the band. He let him go, then swung his arms and jumped about in time to the music. Stiggy caught the back of Colin’s hand across his face when he didn’t move out of the way in time, and shoulder-barged Colin in retaliation. Stiggy kicked out his feet and leaped around, flailing his arms at anyone who got too close to him. Colin kept his distance, having seen Stiggy dance lots of times before and not wanting to get any fresh bruises to go with the ones he already had.

A few songs later, Colin’s energy started to sag. He squeezed his way out of the make-shift dance area and returned to his seat. He sat down and lifted the front of his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face, then took a long drink to cool himself down.

“I can see how you got your bruises now,” Becky shouted. “Do you always dance like that?”

“Yeah. Why, what’s up with it?”

Becky smiled. “Nothing. So what do you think of the band then? Glad you came?”

Colin nodded. “Yeah, they’re pretty good. I wish I’d bought that record now.”

Colin turned to watch the band. Stiggy was still jumping around haphazardly, lurching into the other punks and sending them stumbling away from him with his fists.

The band announced their final song, and three minutes later it was all over. Dancers drifted away from the stage area, bruised and happy. Some headed for the bar, others returned to their seats and made ready to go home. Stiggy went into the toilet.

Becky stood up and approached the stage area, said something to the singer. He bent down to listen, nodded, and reached for the bag of records. He pulled one out and handed it to Becky. Becky paid him and returned to Colin.

“Here you go,” she said, smiling.

“Er … thanks,” Colin said, and took the record from her.

Becky stood before him and swung her shoulders. She smiled. “Buy me a drink?”

“Er … yeah, sure.” Colin looked to the bar, expecting the two skinheads to still be there. But all he saw was a smattering of punks and a few old hippies. “What do you want?”

“Pernod and black.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 17

The long-haired roadie finished setting up the band’s equipment and picked up a Sainsbury’s carrier bag that was propped up against a wall behind the drum-kit. He reached inside and pulled out a twelve inch record with a black and red cover, then walked up to the nearest table with it. He leaned over to talk to the people sitting there, a pair of hippies in their late twenties, and when one of them nodded he handed over the record and took some money for it. He moved on to the next table.

“Anyone want to buy an album?” the man asked when he reached Colin’s table. He held one out for them to see. Its stark black and red cover image showed two stencilled figures, a businessman and a court jester, staring at each other across a diagonal divide.

Colin read the lettering printed around the edges of the record sleeve and saw it was by The Astronauts, the band who were playing later. He took the album from the man and flipped it over to look at the song titles printed on the back. The first track was something about seagulls, the second a Dixieland blues song.

“Nah, you’re all right, mate,” Colin said, shaking his head, and put the record down on the table.

Becky leaned forward and picked it up. “How much are they?” she asked.

“Three pounds,” the long-haired man said.

“Giz a look then,” Brian said, and snatched the record from Becky’s hand. Kaz leaned over to look at it with him.

“You want to buy one?” the man asked.

Brian shrugged and handed him the record back. “Nah, not really.”

“Okay, fair enough. Catch you later, yeah?” The man turned and walked away to try his luck at the next table.

Colin finished off his beer and looked toward the bar. The two skinheads were still standing there, staring at him. One made a gun from his fingers and pointed it at Colin, then raised it to his mouth and blew imaginary smoke from it. Colin looked away.

“You want another drink?” he asked Becky. Becky smiled and nodded. Colin turned to Brian. “Get the drinks in, yeah? I’m just off to the bog.” He took out two pound notes and gave them to Brian.

Brian sighed, then rose to his feet. “You coming to help me carry them, Kaz?”

“See you in a bit,” Colin said, nodding to Becky.

Stiggy stumbled out of the toilet door just as Colin approached it, and staggered toward the bar. Colin went inside, frowned at a strong smell of solvents, and headed for one of the two cubicle toilets. After his experience in The Queen’s Head he didn’t want to take any chances, and bolted the door behind him.

He lifted up the seat and urinated into the toilet with a sigh. He zipped up and wiped his hands on his trousers, then slid back the bolt and opened the cubicle door.

The two skinheads scowled in at him from the doorway.

Blood rushed to Colin’s face. The earth lurched beneath him. He reached out for the cubicle wall to steady himself and gasped for air. His eyes darted from one skinhead to the other.

“What do you want?” Colin’s voice came out with a squeak.

One of the skinheads, the short one who had attacked Colin in The Queen’s Head, took a step toward him. “What do you know about our mate?” he asked in a gruff voice.

Colin took an involuntary step back and felt the toilet bowl press against the back of his legs. The short skinhead stepped into the cubicle. The taller one stood guard in the doorway, staring in. Colin wondered what his chances of pushing past them both and escaping back into the bar would be.

“Er … you what?” Colin asked.

The skinhead grabbed Colin’s leather jacket and pulled him out of the cubicle. Colin lost his footing and stumbled. The skinhead held him tight, pulled him back to his feet and dragged him across the toilet. He swung Colin around to face him, pressed him up against a wall, and raised a fist. It hovered before Colin’s face, ready to strike.

“I said, what do you know about our fucking mate?”

The taller skinhead stood behind him, a look of fury on his face. He clenched his fists and puffed out his chest, his eyes blazing.

Colin felt his knees weaken. His hands shook when he held them out before him.

“Look, I, um …”

“Well?” the short skinhead asked, and pulled back his fist.

Colin flinched and closed his eyes. “I don’t know nothing,” he said, quickly. When no blow came he opened his eyes. “Why, what’s happened?”

“One of our mates got done over. We think you know something about it.”

Colin shook his head. “Look, I …” He swallowed hard to clear his dry throat. “I don’t know nothing about it, honest. It wasn’t me.”

The short skinhead laughed. “Yeah, I guessed that. But I reckon you know who did do it, and I want you to tell me. Now!” He pulled back his fist again.

 “Look, mate …” Colin began, holding up his hands. He heard the toilet door open and looked toward it. Brian and Stiggy stood in the doorway, looking in.

“You all right there, Col?” Brian asked.

The two skinheads looked around. The short one released Colin and stepped away from him. They both turned to face Brian and Stiggy, their fists clenched by their sides. Colin sidestepped away from them toward the urinal.

“Is there a problem?” Brian asked, looking at Colin.

The two skinheads looked from Brian and Stiggy to Colin and back, then glanced at each other. The short one shook his head slowly.

“No problem here, mate. We were just having a chat, weren’t we?” He glared at Colin.

“Is that right?” Brian asked. Colin shrugged.

Brian walked up to the urinal, keeping his eyes firmly on the two skinheads the whole time. Stiggy stayed by the exit, and when the two skinheads walked toward him he held the door open for them.

“Fucking yeti,” the taller skinhead said under his breath as they left. Stiggy let the door close behind them.

“What was all that about?” Brian asked.

Colin shrugged. “They said one of their mates got done over, they wanted to know if I knew who did it.”

“You didn’t tell them, did you?” Stiggy asked. He looked toward the closed toilet door.

“Nah, did I fuck. But I don’t think they’ll let it go, so you’d best watch your back from now on. And don’t go bragging about it to anyone else.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 16

Just inside the doorway, a man dressed in black sat behind a small table.

“Evening, lads,” the man said. He picked up a lidless Quality Street tin and rattled loose change around in it. “Fifty pence to get in.”

Brian put a fifty pence coin down on the table and pushed through a door into the bar. Stiggy followed him without paying. The man looked at Colin.

“Fifty pence each, that is. You paying for your mate then?”

Colin sighed and shrugged. He unzipped his leather jacket pocket, took out a pound note and handed it to the man, then followed Brian and Stiggy into the bar.

A few local punks and older hippies sat around small tables placed in front of a make-shift stage area near the toilets. A tall, thin man with long hair threaded cables across the carpet and taped them down, getting everything ready for the band. Colin nodded to a few people he recognised and headed for the bar to join Brian.

“Any sign of them birds yet?” Brian asked.

Colin shook his head. “Not seen them. Where’s Stiggy?”

“He went in the bogs, probably getting glued up again. He’d better not get us chucked out before we get our money back.”

The barman approached and they ordered a pint each, then took them in search of a spare table to sit at so they could watch the entrance door. They skirted around the long-haired man in the stage area, who was positioning a microphone stand to the right of a small drum kit. All the tables immediately in front of the stage area were full, so Colin and Brian headed into a small secluded area in the corner. Becky and Kaz sat there, sipping from glasses of Pernod and blackcurrant. They both smiled and waved.

“All right. Been here long?” Colin asked. He put his pint down on the table and sat down opposite Becky.

“No, not really,” Becky said. She sat up straight in her chair and pulled down her pink mohair jumper to smooth out invisible creases. Colin stared at her green fishnet stockings and nodded absentmindedly.

“Budge up,” Brian said, and squeezed himself between Becky and Kaz. “You fancy getting off somewhere else after this?”

Kaz shook her head. “No, we want to see the band. We’ve never been to a gig before, and we already paid to get in.”

“What, never?” Colin asked. “How come?”

Kaz shrugged and looked away.

“Kaz’s dad won’t let her,” Becky said, “he says it’s too dangerous. He’d have a fit if he knew she was here.”

“That’s just daft,” Colin said. “We’ve been to loads and we’ve never seen any trouble.”

“So far,” Brian said.

* * *

“What the fuck are we doing here?” Don asked, looking at a crude drawing of a nun in the window of The Juggler’s Rest.

“There’s a fucking punk gig on tonight,” Trog said. “Word is that student cunt I battered the other night will be there and I want to have a word with him, see if he knows anything about Ian.”

“What, you reckon it was him that did Ian over?”

Trog laughed. “Nah. He’s all talk that one, but he might know who did. Here, did I tell you he pissed himself when he saw me?”

Don looked at Trog and smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, straight up. He turned round, saw me, then fucking pissed his pants.”

Don shook his head and laughed. “Mate, I wish I’d been there to see that. Fucking hell, what a classic. Come on then, let’s go and see what the cunt’s got to say for himself.”

* * *

“That’s the cunt there,” Trog said, pointing from the bar. “The one with the bleached sticky-up hair, looks life a fucking scarecrow. That’s his mate, he’s probably weak as piss too.”

Don nodded and took a sip of lager. “The bogs’ll probably be our best bet. More secluded, less chance of being interrupted by the other yetis.”

While Don spoke, the student punk turned and locked eyes with Trog. He stared for a few seconds, open-mouthed, then looked away.

“You see that?” Trog asked. “The fucking cunt just gave me a right look.”

“Fuck him,” Don said, “he’ll get his soon enough.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.