Marcus Blakeston's Blog, page 6

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 15

4 It’s All Done by Mirrors

Colin leaned against a wall outside The Juggler’s Rest while he waited for Brian to arrive. He looked down at Stiggy, who sat on the pavement by his side, breathing into a glue-bag. Colin didn’t know how Stiggy had the nerve to do it right there, out in the open where anyone could see.

“Look at my shoes!” Stiggy shouted. Fucking hell, look at my shoes!” His eyes were wide and staring, and the glue-bag flopped around in his hands as he gestured wildly at his trainers.

“Yeah, very nice,” Colin said.

Stiggy raised the bag to his mouth and spoke into it, still staring at his trainers. “My shoes have got magical powers. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Colin sighed and shook his head, wondered if that was what he had been like himself at Stiggy’s bedsit the previous night. He reached into his leather jacket pocket for his cigarettes, and was about to light one when he thought about the solvent fumes in the air around him. He didn’t know if they would be flammable or not, so he decided to be cautious and took several steps away from Stiggy first. He took a deep drag and looked down the empty street. No sign of Brian yet, and he was already fifteen minutes late. No sign of the girls either.

He turned his attention to a poster displayed in the window of The Juggler’s Rest. A hand-drawn, simplistic doodle of a nun brandishing a crucifix in a suggestive manner advertised the evening’s entertainment. Welwyn Garden City’s pranksters in revolt The Astronauts present an evening of folk in hell, it promised, for an entrance fee of fifty pence. The poster didn’t inspire Colin with confidence, and if Becky and Kaz hadn’t said they would be going he would’ve given it a miss and gone to The White Swan instead.

“All right, Col!”

Colin turned away from the poster. Brian strode toward him, his leather jacket flapping open in the wind to reveal an Exploited T-shirt beneath it.

“About fucking time,” Colin said. “We’ve been here ages.”

“Yeah well, I’m here now aren’t I?” Brian pointed at Stiggy. “What the fuck’s he doing here? Talk about fucking gooseberries.”

“Never mind Stiggy, what’s that fucking stink?”

Colin leaned closer to Brian and sniffed. A flowery, chemical smell mixed with tobacco smoke assaulted his nostrils, so potent he could almost taste it in his mouth. He wafted his hand under his nose in an attempt to disperse it, but the smell lingered, overpowering him.

“Borrowed a dab of me dad’s aftershave, didn’t I?” Brian said. “Got to make an effort now and again, haven’t you?”

“Smells like you used the whole fucking bottle.”

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

“Not seen them.”

“You checked inside?”

“No, you have to pay to get in tonight. There’s a band on.”

Brian looked at the poster in the window. “An evening of folk? Sounds crap.”

Colin smiled. “Yeah. When them birds get here I reckon we should fuck off somewhere else with them.”

“Yeah, maybe. Let’s go see if they’re inside. If not, fuck it. We’ll wait half an hour, then get our money back and go down The White Swan.”

Colin nodded at Stiggy, who was mumbling something into his glue-bag. “What about him?”

“Just leave him there, he’ll not know any different when he’s in that state.”

“Yeah, but what if some coppers see him?”

Brian shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Nah, I think we’d best take him with us. You hold his arms while I get the glue off him. They’ll not let him in with that.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

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

Preview: Meadowside

(Subject to change — I am currently looking for beta-readers if anyone is interested in helping.)

Kylie and her friends from the council estate are shoplifting in Meadowside when the shopping centre comes under attack from thousands of mindless killers with a taste for human flesh. Nobody knows where they have come from, but it soon transpires that Meadowside isn’t their only target — the whole of Yorkshire is affected, and the police are powerless to stop it. Everyone trapped in Meadowside is on their own, with no hope of rescue. Fighting to survive, Kylie must choose who is most likely to save her — an off duty policewoman, an aging skinhead in his sixties, or a psychotic football hooligan. Contains graphic violence and swearing throughout.

—–

Prologue

The man found a space in the Meadowside Shopping Centre car park and drove his silver Mercedes into it. He switched off the engine, silencing the radio’s music and stilling the car’s windscreen wipers. He listened to the torrential rain battering down on the car’s roof and peered up through the windscreen. One continuous black cloud filled the sky, stretching as far as he could see.

The man sighed. If only he had remembered his wedding anniversary a week ago, then he could have bought something online instead of battling his way through the Saturday crowds he was sure to meet inside the shopping centre. Looking back, it wasn’t as if his wife hadn’t left enough hints about it.

The man pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. Stinging rain battered down on the crown of his balding head as he slammed the car door behind him and locked it with the remote attached to his keyring. The rain dripped down his face, thudded against his back, plastered his thin white shirt to his skin like a cold, clammy sponge. It had an odd chemical taste he couldn’t quite place, a bit like licking a battery but without the mild electric shock.

Head down, the man hurried across the car park toward the shopping centre entrance. He felt a dull, throbbing pain between his temples, the beginning of a migraine coming on, and decided the chemist would be his first port of call. Some Nurofen washed down with a bottle of mineral water would soon sort him out, then he could hit the shops and find the perfect anniversary gift for his wife. An expensive necklace, perhaps, or a new evening dress. Either of those would make her stand out at the local Conservative Club, and show everyone there how much he cares for her.

The man felt a sharp stab of pain in his skull, a pain more intense than he had ever felt before. He cried out and clutched his head in both hands. Blinding flashes of stroboscopic white light filled his vision, even after he closed his eyes. A sound, like the hum of an electric generator, droned louder and louder until it drowned out all his senses. He found it soothing, and as it increased in volume the man felt his pain melt away.

The man had a sudden urge to look up at the sky, and did so. He didn’t blink. Not even when huge drops of water pounded into his eyes and splashed over his face. He stood immobile for several minutes, letting the rain wash over his face, listening to the comforting droning sound.

The sound stopped, suddenly and without tapering off, as if someone had thrown a switch. It was replaced with other sounds. Awful, harsh sounds the man had never heard before. Like the squeal of a thousand dying rats fed through an electronic echo chamber on a continuous loop, they vibrated through the man’s skull and caused him unbearable agony.

The man growled low in his throat. He sniffed the air, turning in all directions until he found the source of his pain. A large, dome-shaped, glass-fronted building nearby. That’s where the sound came from. He knew instinctively what he had to do to make it stop.

The man shuffled forward slowly, swinging his arms to keep his balance. He could sense others nearby, all heading in the same direction, some already there. He felt no kinship with them, no bonding, no camaraderie in mutual torment. Just a blind rage at those inside the building who were making that terrible noise.

 

1

Kylie knew she had to have those yellow Nike trainers as soon as she saw them on the shelf in Sportswear Direct. They were the best trainers she had ever seen, Trisha and her gang of skanks on the council estate would go mental when they saw her wearing them. They’d be jealous as fuck, and so would everyone else who saw them.

Kylie plucked the trainers from the shelf and turned them around in her hands, admiring them from all angles. She ran her finger over the logo and smiled to herself. There was no doubt about it, she would look the fucking bomb wearing those. She sat down on a nearby padded bench and kicked off her skanky no-brand trainers, wishing it could be for the last time ever. Wishing she could toss them into a burning skip, never to see them again.

The amount of ribbing Kylie got from the other kids on the council estate over those horrible trainers was unbelievable. Like it was Kylie’s fault her mother would rather spend the child allowance on booze and ciggies. She’d begged for months and months for a proper pair of trainers, then got yelled at for not being grateful when her mother came home with those awful things instead.

“Pumps”, she called them. “There’s nothing wrong with pumps from the market, they’re just as good as the ones you want. You should be fucking grateful, I didn’t have to buy them, you know, and I never got anything like this when I was your age.”

Yeah well, she wasn’t the one who had to wear them out in public. But Kylie was going to put that right soon enough. She glanced at Tom and Mike, who were running around the shop dribbling a basketball to each other, attracting the overweight security guard’s attention. That just left the cameras to worry about.

The security guard told Tom and Mike to pack it in and get out of his shop. Tom laughed and told the man to piss off. The security guard made a grab for the basketball, but Tom and Mike ran rings around him, passing the ball back and forth between them and laughing at the fat man’s clumsy ineptitude.

Kylie smiled. It was definitely worth blowing out her dad for his weekly Saturday afternoon access time to go to Meadowside with Tom and the others. She was getting a bit too old for visits to the local zoo anyway. Who wants to go and look at miserable-looking smelly animals with some old geezer when you can have fun like this with your mates instead? Dad would just have to get used to the idea Kylie wasn’t a little kid any more.

Kylie dropped the new trainers and slid her feet into them. They were a perfect fit, just like she knew they would be. She stared down at them, rotating her ankles to get a better look. They were the fucking bomb all right. She bent down and tied the laces, then straightened up to see what the trainers were like for walking. It was like walking on air. She had to see what they looked like in a mirror.

Kylie walked through Sportswear Direct, past displays of tennis racquets, golf clubs and hockey sticks, into the clothing area. Britney was there with her Spongebob Squarepants backpack, looking a lot fatter than she had when they first entered the shop together. Britney winked when she saw Kylie walking toward her. Kylie nodded back and made for a full-length mirror. She turned around and craned her neck over her shoulder, trying to see what the new trainers looked like from the rear.

“Nice shoes,” Britney said. Kylie turned and smiled. She looked at Britney’s over-stuffed tracksuit and wondered what goodies it contained. “They look like they’d be good for running, yeah?”

Kylie shrugged and looked down at the yellow trainers, suddenly afraid of the consequences if she got caught stealing them. She remembered the last time she had been caught shoplifting. The look on her mother’s face when the police took her home. The beating she got after the police left. She didn’t want to go through all that again, but at the same time she knew she would never hear the last of it from Britney if she bottled out now.

“Yeah, I guess,” she said with a frown.

Britney winked. “Well come on then, let’s test them out, yeah?”

Britney turned and strode away. She waved to Tom and Mike, who were still dodging around the security guard with the basketball. Mike nodded, then they both lured the security guard further into the shop while Britney made for the exit.

Kylie looked up at a security camera and sighed. Her heart hammered in her chest at the thought of being caught again, but she was determined not to let her fear show. She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing until she could get her racing heart under control. She jumped at a loud clatter and looked around. Tom or Mike had thrown the basketball at a display of golf clubs and knocked them off the shelf. The security guard was shouting at them, red-faced, while he picked the golf clubs up. Tom and Mike ran for the exit together.

An alarm sounded when Britney passed through the shop’s security barrier. Its shrill, piercing siren made Kylie jump again. She ran for the exit herself, her arms pumping by her sides.

“Oi, you lot,” the security guard shouted. Kylie could hear the man’s laboured breathing as he gave chase.

Kylie ran like she’d never run before. Even on that cross-country run a few months ago when her sadistic PE teacher had been right behind her shouting abuse like some world war two army drill instructor she hadn’t run this fast. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, and a pain in her side felt like someone had stabbed her with a red-hot poker, but she didn’t dare stop running. She darted around bemused shoppers, followed Tom and the others as they veered left onto another concourse, then barged past people on the escalator down to ground level. She ran past the bronze war memorial statue and the wishing fountain where stupid people tossed their unwanted pound coins, then into the big department store near the train station exit.

Britney, Tom and Mike were laughing when she caught them up. They had slowed to a casual saunter past rows of clothing designed for old women. Frumpy purple dresses nobody in their right mind would want to be seen dead in. Silly hats like the ones the posh people wore when they went for a day at the horse racing. Awful green cardigans for grannies too senile to know any better.

Britney pulled a garish, plastic-flower-covered hat from a shelf and placed it on her head at an angle. “Look at me,” she said, spinning before Tom and Mike, “I’m a fucking lady.”

Tom laughed and shook his head. “Girl, you’re no fucking lady.”

“Piss off,” Britney said, pouting. “I am too a fucking lady.”

Kylie panted, desperate to get her breath back. She bent over and clutched her aching sides.

“Check it out, I’m a fucking lady too,” Tom said.

Kylie looked up and couldn’t help smiling. Tom had a big floppy pink hat on his head, with a matching pink woollen scarf draped over his shoulders. He pinched the chest of his Adidas T-shirt in both hands and stretched it out, forming pointy breasts.

“We should … we should get … going for the train,” Kylie said. “Before … we get caught by … that security guard.”

“Nah,” Britney said. “He’ll have given up long ago, the fat ones always do. Besides, if he chased us for too long everyone else in the shop would run off with loads of stuff so it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Even so …”

“Fucking intense, weren’t it, Kylie?” Tom said. “And them new trainers of yours look fucking smart.”

Kylie looked down at her new trainers and smiled. They’d got a bit scuffed from the run and had lost a bit of their new-shop shine, but they still looked the fucking bomb. She lifted them in turn and polished them on the back of her tracksuit bottoms.

Tom took off the pink hat and placed it on Kylie’s head. It was way too big for her, and flopped down over her eyes. “There you go Kylie,” Tom said, “you’re a proper fucking lady now, too.”

Kylie lifted the brim of the hat over her eyes and looked at Tom. That was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her, and she wanted to reach out and grab him, plant a massive kiss on those lips of his.

But Tom turned away before she could do it. “Come on then Lady Kylie, let’s get fucked off out of here,” he said, walking toward the exit. Mike and Britney followed him, hand in hand. Kylie took off the hat and put it back on the shelf when a woman at a nearby till glared at her. She smiled at the woman and shrugged, then hurried to catch Tom up.

It was raining outside, a heavy downpour that bounced off the pavement. Black clouds filled the sky.

“I ain’t going out in that, it’s fucking pissing it down,” Britney said, pulling off her Spongebob Squarepants backpack. “We’ll get fucking soaked if we go out there.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Mike said, shaking his head. “We’ll wait until it stops.”

Hidden behind Tom and Mike, Britney pulled out the clothes she had stuffed inside her tracksuit and transferred them to her backpack. She had gone for top designer brands, and Kylie sighed when she saw their labels. Britney was sure to be the envy of the entire council estate when she wore those, and Kylie’s new trainers would barely get a second glance next to them.

“Look at that daft bastard,” Mike said, pointing.

A bedraggled-looking man stood outside, looking up at the sky. Rain bounced off his face, but he didn’t seem to care.

Tom laughed. “Oi mate, you’re getting wet,” he shouted through the door. If the man heard Tom from outside, he didn’t acknowledge it. Tom shook his head, grinning, then turned to Kylie. “Well I don’t know about you, but I’m with Mike and Britney. No way am I going out in that. We’ll wait and see if it eases off first.”

“So what are we going to do then?” Kylie asked.

Tom smiled and took her hand. “Let’s go and see what’s on at the cinema. I’ve got a mate who works there, he’ll get us in for free.”

 

2

Amy Saunders couldn’t believe her luck. For over five years her and Ryan had been trying for a baby, with nothing but monthly heartbreak to show for it. Something wrong with her fallopian tubes, the doctor explained, but Amy was too busy sobbing into her hands to listen to the details. It was Ryan, stoic as ever, who asked what their options were.

The doctor suggested IVF, and Amy looked up with renewed hope, wiping the tears from her eyes. But that hope was soon dashed when the doctor said she was too old to qualify for NHS treatment. He was, however, more than happy for her to proceed as a private patient, and rubbed his hands with glee when Ryan said money wasn’t an issue.

The treatment failed, and Amy wept into Ryan’s arms when they were told none of the embryos produced were viable enough to be implanted. Most had simply stopped growing in the lab’s incubator, something Amy was told was common. Those that survived all had chromosomal abnormalities, and had been destroyed.

Undeterred, Ryan took on a second job, working a combined total of fifteen hours per day, seven days per week. With Amy’s own job, working in the offices of a meat processing plant, they hardly saw each other. They scrimped and saved, and sold anything they could do without, so they could pay for another round of IVF six months later.

The second treatment also failed, so they took out a secured loan to pay for a third, putting their home up as security. This time, miraculously, it was a success, and Ryan had fussed over Amy non-stop ever since. If Ryan had his way Amy would have been confined to bed for the entire pregnancy, with doctors and nurses on hand twenty-four hours a day.

But Amy knew better. She had read all the information in the New Mother’s Welcome Pack she picked up at the chemist, and knew she could carry on working for at least another seven months, maybe even longer. Which was just as well, considering the amount of debt they were in, and all the new things they would need to buy for the forthcoming baby.

And now here Amy was, in Mothercare, looking at baby-grows, buying last minute items in preparation for the big day. Just two more weeks and the round lump Ryan had christened Bumpy would be cradled in her arms wearing one of these outfits. The nursery was all prepared, decked out with the best equipment they could afford. They hadn’t wanted to know Bumpy’s sex, they wanted it to be a surprise, so the nursery had been decorated with neutral colours, the cot mobile chosen because of its genderless dangling farm animals.

A baby-grow with green scales caught Amy’s eye and she picked it up, smiling at how cute the gurgling baby on the packaging looked wearing the outfit. The baby looked like a tiny smiling dinosaur, with built-in scratch-mitts designed to look like claws, and a hooded crown-cap with large buggy eyes printed on the sides. There was even a small tail growing out of the back of it, with a bright yellow triangle of soft material at its tip. Ryan would love this one, Amy decided. He was like a big kid himself as far as dinosaurs were concerned.

“You’ll love it too, won’t you Bumpy?” Amy said, rubbing her hand over her distended stomach. As if in reply, she felt the baby wriggle inside her. She smiled, and patted herself gently. “That’s good enough for me.”

Amy hummed to herself as she took the baby-grow to the pay desk. A movement outside the shop caught her eye and she turned to look. A small group of people ran by. Amy shrugged, and turned back to the counter. She placed the dinosaur baby-grow down in front of a young shop assistant.

“Oh, that’s so cute,” the young girl said, scanning a barcode on the packaging. “How long have you got now?”

“A couple of weeks,” Amy said, smiling. “I’ve already started having Braxton Hicks, and I can’t wait.”

The shop assistant smiled back as she placed the baby-grow in a carrier bag. Amy took out her purse and paid for it, then took the bag and turned to leave.

“Bye then,” the shop assistant said, “have a nice day.”

“You too,” Amy said, still smiling to herself.

A woman ran by outside the shop, casting furtive glances over her shoulder as she ran. She looked terrified of something. Amy stopped and watched the woman through Mothercare’s shop-front window until she was out of sight. More people ran past, shouting and screaming. Amy glanced quizzically at the shop assistant. The girl shrugged and smiled, shook her head slightly. Then her eyes widened. Her mouth hung open and she gasped.

Amy turned back to the window. A man in a wet, crumpled suit stared in at her. His hands were bloody, his face too. His eyes were wild and staring, as if he were in shock.

“Are you okay?” Amy asked, raising her voice so she would be heard through the thick glass.

The man lunged at the shop window with a snarl. Amy startled, then stepped back in horror as he hit the glass face first with a dull thud. His head bounced off the glass and he staggered back a few steps before launching himself forward again. The man’s nose shattered against the glass, leaving behind a dripping red smear when he reared back for another charge.

Amy screamed. She backed away, unable to take her eyes off the man as he repeatedly launched himself at the window, impervious to the pain he must be causing himself. Her fingers uncurled from the handle of the shopping bag and it dropped to her feet as she raised her hand to her mouth.

Blood poured down the man’s face as he continued battering his head against the window. Then he stopped, and pounded on it with his bloody fists instead. The window shuddered in its frame with each blow. The man bared his teeth and snarled like a dog. He stared in at Amy with malevolent, bloodshot eyes, then resumed banging his head against the glass.

Amy didn’t know how much more of this punishment the window would take. She didn’t understand why the man hadn’t already rendered himself senseless from the repeated blows to his head. Why he didn’t just walk through the door instead.

An ice-cold shock of fear ran down Amy’s spine. She spun to face the shop assistant in panic.

“The door!” Amy shouted, her eyes wide. “You need to lock the door!”

The young girl stared past her, open-mouthed, at the man pounding on the window. Amy walked up to her and shook her by the shoulders.

“You need to lock the door before he gets in!”

The girl shuddered, then blinked several times. She shook her head slowly. “What?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the noise the man outside was making.

“The door,” Amy yelled. “Where are the keys?”

“The … keys …?”

“Yes, the keys. Where are they?”

“I … they’re in my pocket.”

Amy released the girl’s shoulders and reached into her uniform’s left hip pocket. The girl stood immobile, staring past her, her face deathly white. Amy pulled out a bunch of keys and looked at them. They were labelled main door, alarm, store room and staff toilets. She shuffled the main door key to the fore, and turned back to the shop front.

The window shattered inwards. The man stumbled and fell into the shop. He writhed around on the carpeted floor, glass shards tearing through his clothes and slicing into his flesh. Amy and the shop assistant both screamed simultaneously. The man snarled through blood-stained teeth and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Glass sliced through his wrist and red arterial blood gushed from it. He crawled toward Amy and the girl, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.

Amy backed away, brandishing the keys at the man as if they somehow held the power to stop his advance. She sensed, rather than saw, a movement behind her. The shop assistant ran past, heading for the entrance door. She wrenched it open and ran out—

—straight into the grasping hands of another man lurking there.

The shop assistant cried out and beat at the man’s head with her fists, raked her fingernails down his face. The man snarled and lashed out at her, knocking her sideways into the window frame. A jagged shard of glass still clinging to the frame pierced her neck and her screams turned into a choking gurgle as she coughed blood. The man grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down. The glass shard tore up through the shop assistant’s neck toward her ear as it resisted for a few seconds, then came loose from the window frame and fell with her.

The man dropped down to his knees and pulled out the large sliver of glass, slicing through his own fingers as he did so. He threw the glass to one side and lowered his mouth to the gaping wound in the girl’s neck. He slurped and smacked, drinking the life-force pumping from her veins with relish.

Amy watched it all from inside the shop. She trembled in fear, frozen in place, unable to tear her eyes away from the horror outside. Her legs turned to jelly. She reached out for the counter to steady herself. Something warm and wet ran down her legs and soaked into the carpet. Amy didn’t have time to worry what that meant. A snarl came from close behind her, to her right. The man in the suit crawled toward her, a look of determination on his battered and bloody face.

“Help me,” Amy yelled when she saw someone running by outside Mothercare. But the running figure didn’t even look in her direction.

The man in the doorway looked up and hissed. The shop assistant’s blood dripped from his chin as he locked eyes with Amy. He stumbled to his feet and stepped through the broken window, his arms swinging by his sides.

Amy backed away further into the shop, unable to look away. She felt something dig into her back and cried out in alarm. She spun around, fearing the worst, expecting to come face to face with another psycho lurking within the shop. Expecting her life to end at any moment in a savage attack she would be powerless to defend herself from. But it was just a clothes rail, filled with coat-hangers displaying brightly-coloured maternity dresses.

Amy reached out and grabbed the clothes rail to steady herself. She felt it move on tiny wheels as she leaned against it. The man lumbered toward her. As he got closer he reached out with both hands, his fingers grasping. Amy backed away, edging herself around the clothes rail. When she reached its far side she pushed it as hard as she could in the man’s direction. The man hissed in anger when the clothes rail collided with him. His hands flailed at the maternity dresses, pulling them from their hangers. One wrapped around his face and he roared as he thrashed around, trying to free himself from it.

Amy ran to the back of the shop, where she saw a solid wooden door bearing the sign Staff Only. She pressed down on the door’s handle frantically. She cried out in frustration and banged her fist on the door when it refused to open. Angry snarls came from behind her, the sound of coat-hangers clashing together.

Amy remembered the keys she had taken from the shop assistant, and uncurled her fingers from them. Her hands shook as she located the store room key and inserted it into the lock. The key turned impossibly slowly, as if time were coming to a standstill. Amy wrenched down on the handle and stumbled through into the store room, almost losing her footing. She tried to pull the key from the lock but it was stuck.

The man was close. Very close. Amy was sure she could feel his breath on the back of her neck as he hissed and snarled at her. She screamed and tugged at the key. She glanced over her shoulder. The man was even closer than she thought, only a few feet away. Wide-eyed and hysterical, Amy wrenched the key from the lock and slammed the door behind her just as the man lunged at the doorway.

But the door wouldn’t close. The man’s fingers curled around its edge, trapped in the doorway, flexing and unflexing. Amy pulled the door open a few inches and slammed it back. Bones crunched and the fingers stopped moving, but the door still wouldn’t close fully. The man hissed again. Amy heard scratching sounds, as if he were trying to claw his way through the wood. She leaned her shoulder against the door and pushed with all her might, barging it into place. A severed finger slithered down the door and dropped by her feet. The others hung down from flaps of skin holding them in place for a few seconds before they fell to join it. The man pounded on the door, his guttural snarl turning into a wail of anger.

Amy inserted the key into the lock and twisted it. She leaned back against the door and slumped down to her knees, sobbing with her head in her hands while the man’s pounding vibrated through her back. Her stomach tightened, like the worst menstrual cramps she had ever felt. She cried out and clutched her stomach. Tears ran down her face as she panted through the pain, knowing there was a lot worse to come.

 

3

Kylie had seen 18 rated movies on TV, but none of them had been as intense as the one showing in Meadowside’s cinema. She didn’t understand why Tom was more interested in playing on his phone than watching the movie. He’d been tapping away on it all the way through, giving a running commentary on what he found people saying about the movie on Twitter.

Bare Knuckle Bitch, the movie was called. The poster outside the cinema described it as a romantic comedy with lashings of ultra-violence, the perfect date movie for feral underclass. Kylie found that an accurate description. Abby, the movie’s main character, was certainly one tough bitch who took no shit from anyone, but she had her gentle side too. Abby’s best mate, Shaz, reminded Kylie a bit of Britney the way she acted around boys sometimes, and Abby’s skinhead boyfriend had a little bit of Tom’s loveable goofiness about him.

Britney seemed to be enjoying the movie too, and cheered Abby on as she stuck the boot into some toffee-nosed students who had been giving her some lip earlier on. Mike laughed and sneered, saying three blokes, even wimpy ones like those, would be more than a match for such a skinny looking bird as Abby. But Kylie knew better. It wasn’t strength that mattered in a street fight, it was what you did with your fists. Kylie’s arms and legs twitched as she imagined herself in the movie, punching and kicking someone unconscious just like the girl on the cinema screen.

Then Tom nudged Kylie in the ribs and broke her concentration. “Check it out,” he said.

“What?” Kylie whispered. She didn’t want to look away from the screen. The posh students were covered in blood, lying groaning in the street while Abby rifled through their pockets and stole their wallets.

“There’s some sort of riot going down in Shefferham,” Tom said, holding up his phone. “Check it out.”

Kylie glanced at Tom’s phone and shrugged. “Yeah, so?” She turned her attention back to the movie.

“Let’s get down there,” Tom said.

“What for?”

“For the looting, what do you think what for? Shit’s just there for the taking when there’s a riot going on, I’ve seen it on the telly.”

“Yeah?” Britney said, leaning forward to look past Kylie at Tom. “I could do with a new phone, my old one sucks.”

“I don’t know if we should,” Kylie said, shaking her head. “There’ll be coppers everywhere, and people fighting, we wouldn’t want to get caught up in all that.”

“Nah,” Tom said, “the coppers aren’t doing fuck all, Twitter says so. People are just smashing stuff up and getting what they can. Come on, let’s get down there before all the good stuff’s gone.”

Britney picked up her Spongebob Squarepants backpack and shuffled to the exit, closely followed by Mike.

Kylie frowned. “But I want to watch the rest of the movie,” she said to Tom. “Don’t you want to see how it finishes?”

“Nah, it’s boring. I’ll download it for you later, you can watch it on my laptop.”

Kylie sighed. She didn’t really want to go, but it seemed like everyone else had already made their mind up. And she had always wanted a laptop of her own, so maybe she could get one from the riot?

“Well okay, if you’re sure it’ll be safe.”

Tom smiled. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. We’ll just go down there, get some stuff, then get fucked off out of there before the coppers change their mind and start laying into everyone.” He stood up and looked down at Kylie. “Come on then, let’s get going.”

Kylie took a final look at the cinema screen and made her way to the exit door, where Mike and Britney were waiting. They pushed through into the lobby and headed for the main exit. Tom stepped through first, and collided with a man running past outside. He was knocked off his feet and sprawled to the ground. The man continued running without looking back.

“Are you okay?” Kylie asked. She reached down to help Tom up.

“Yeah. Some people have just got no fucking manners.” Tom glared after the running man and shook his head. “Fucking wanker.”

They set off in the same direction as the running man, past the food hall where delicatessens and salad bars competed with burger joints and tea rooms, and back into the main shopping centre. More people ran by. Someone screamed in the distance. Kylie cast a worried glance at Tom, but he just shrugged and led the way to Meadowside’s train station exit.

A young woman, her hair and clothes drenched from the rain, staggered toward them swinging her arms. A small baby strapped to her chest in a harness made an odd rasping sound and raised its tiny arms. Its eyes were wide and staring, its face screwed up in hate. Its mouth opened and closed, making the gurgling, hissing sound undulate. As the woman stumbled closer she bared her teeth and hissed too. She raised both hands and reached out, her fingers grasping like claws.

Kylie stepped back out of the way just as the woman lunged for her. The woman spun around with a snarl, and made a grab for Britney’s tracksuit top. Britney cried out and swung a fist at the woman’s mouth. The woman’s bottom lip burst and blood dripped down her chin, spattering onto the baby’s head. The baby thrashed wildly against its restraining harness, seemingly desperate to get at Britney itself, but its arms weren’t long enough to reach her. It hissed in frustration.

Mike tried to wrestle Britney from the woman’s grip, but she clung on tight, her fist clenched around Britney’s tracksuit top. He struck the woman’s arm with the blade of his hand, but all that did was drag Britney closer to the woman’s gnashing teeth. Britney yelled and pushed out with both hands, kicked out at the woman’s legs. The woman snarled and jerked her head forward, clamped her teeth over Britney’s arm. Britney screamed. Blood gushed from between the woman’s jaws.

Tom rushed forward and grabbed a handful of the woman’s hair, then yanked her head back. She came away with a lump of Britney’s flesh in her mouth and thrashed her head from side to side trying to free herself. Britney fell to her knees, clutching her arm, blood pumping between her fingers from a gaping wound. Her face was deathly white as she stared at the struggling woman wide-eyed in fear.

Tom dragged the woman away by her hair while Mike knelt down and reached into Britney’s backpack. He pulled out one of the designer shirts she had stolen from Sportswear Direct and tied it around her arm, wrapping it around several times in a makeshift bandage.

Tom dragged the woman up to a shop window and smacked her forehead into it a few times, then spun her around and shoved her in the back. She stumbled a few steps, then toppled forward with a sickening crunch. Almost immediately the woman rolled over and sat up. The baby hung limp from its harness, its head flopped to one side, blood dripping from its ears. The woman bared her teeth and hissed. Tom stared down at her and backed away, horrified at what had happened to the baby. The woman leaned forward and dropped onto her hands and knees, then started to crawl toward him with the baby’s limbs dangling lifelessly beneath her.

Tom looked at Mike, his eyes wide and staring. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he shouted, and ran.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 14

3 Reality Asylum

Colin’s grandmother hadn’t been as upset about the visit to his grandfather’s grave as he expected, so after they got home Colin checked she was still okay to be left, and when she assured him she was, he got a bus into town. Nobody was in any of the regular hangouts, so he made his way to Stiggy’s bedsit on the outskirts of town.

It was right in the heart of the local red light area, and as soon as Colin entered the street he was approached by a middle-aged woman in a low-cut black top and PVC mini-skirt. She had sunken, staring eyes, accentuated rather than hidden by her liberal use of makeup. She scratched her left arm and picked at a scab.

“Are you looking for business?”

Colin felt his face flush. He shook his head slowly and walked past without speaking.

“Fuck you then,” the woman shouted after him.

Colin entered Stiggy’s front yard and squeezed past a broken washing machine to reach the front door. It opened without a key and he stepped into a communal hall. The boom boom boom of a heavy dub reggae bassline seeped through the door of Flat One as he passed. Colin walked up to Flat Two and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Stiggy shouted from behind the door a few seconds later.

“It’s me, Colin.”

The door opened a tiny crack and Stiggy peered out. He grinned and opened the door fully. “All right, Col? What you doing here?”

“All right, Stiggy. Just thought I’d come and see you.”

Damp, decay and stale glue wafted out of the dingy room. Stiggy stood to one side and Colin squeezed between him and an old armchair just behind the door. Inside, taking up most of one wall, was a small unmade bed with no headboard, a single brown blanket strewn across it in a rumpled heap.

Stiggy sat down in the armchair and toyed with a tuft of stuffing hanging out of one of the arms. Colin looked around and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Opposite him was an unvarnished wooden chest of drawers with a battered old music centre perched on top of it. A few dog-eared records stood next to it, propped up by a haphazard pile of hand-written cassettes.

On the wall above the music centre, surrounded by peeling off-white paint, was a black and white poster of a severed hand caught on barbed wire bearing the slogan ‘Your country needs you.’ Colin guessed from the criss-cross of regularly spaced creases it had probably come free with one of Stiggy’s records. The floor of the room was covered by a threadbare carpet that had once had a vibrant pattern weaved into it, but was now just a dingy brown colour, stained and caked in mud and assorted spillages that hadn’t been cleaned up over the years.

Stiggy drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair, completely out of step with the thumping reggae bass-line coming through the wall. “I got the new Discharge album the other day if you want to hear it?” he said, jumping up. He walked over to the music centre and switched it on.

“Not really,” Colin said. “They’re just a load of noise.”

Stiggy grunted as he lifted a cracked Perspex lid up on its hinges. “Are they fuck. What about this one then? They’re new.”

Stiggy turned around and held up a red and black single sleeve. Colin stood up and moved closer, tilted his head to read the band name printed down the side.

“Varukers? Never heard of them, what are they like?”

“They’re fucking smart mate,” Stiggy said. He pulled out the record and placed it on the turntable. He sat down in the armchair and tapped his foot rapidly to the music, mouthed a few of the words, and glanced at Colin for his reaction.

Colin frowned. They sounded even worse than Discharge. He scooped up Stiggy’s records and took them back to the bed, spread them out before him. Most of them were by bands Colin had never heard of, and he wondered where Stiggy had bought them from. Colin certainly hadn’t seen any of them in the local record shop.

“Haven’t you got any Cockney Upstarts records?”

Stiggy shook his head. “Nah, they’re shite.”

“Well if you don’t like them why are you coming to Shefferham with us?”

Stiggy shrugged. “I want to see them throw a pig’s head at a skinhead. It’ll be a laugh. Anyway there’s nowt else to do, is there?”

Colin smiled and shook his head. How could anyone be so gullible they would believe what they read in a newspaper? According to newspapers, punks liked to spit on old grannies and stuck safety pins through practically every part of their body. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Stiggy stood up and walked over to the bed. He pointed at one of the singles. “That one’s good,” he said.

Colin picked up the cheaply-printed wraparound record sleeve and peered at it. A black and white screaming face stared out at him, surrounded by seemingly random images. He tilted it to read the stencilled lettering around the face, then flipped it over. A punk sat before a pile of dead bodies. He unfolded the cover to see what was printed inside, and a Crass single fell out. Colin picked the record up and folded the sleeve around it. He shook his head and tossed it back onto the bed.

“I don’t like Crass,” he said.

Stiggy leaned over and picked up the single. “It’s not by Crass, it’s just on their record label. Like Flux of Pink Indians was.”

Colin looked up at Stiggy and nodded. “Oh, okay.”

Colin had been surprised when he first heard Tube Disasters at one of Twiglet’s parties and been told it was by a Crass band. He had bought a Crass single once, on a whim because it was very cheap. He hated it. There had been no tune to it whatsoever, just a noise with some woman ranting about Jesus. Colin didn’t bother playing the other side, he just threw it in the bin and vowed never to buy anything by Crass ever again, no matter how cheap it was or how many people said how great the band was.

“They’ve got an album coming out soon,” Stiggy said, putting the record on the turntable. “I bet it’ll be fucking great.”

While the song played, Colin looked through the other records spread over Stiggy’s bed. He didn’t care much for the single’s title song, it was too slow and ponderous for his tastes, but he did like the more upbeat B side even though its lyrics were somewhat depressing.

Colin made a mental note to ask Stiggy to tape it for him once he got his cassette player fixed. A Ramones tape Brian made for him a few weeks earlier had got caught up in the mechanism and was now inextricably wound up inside it, having snapped off when Colin tried to pull it loose. He would need to take a screwdriver to the cassette player and open it up to get the remaining tape out, a job he wasn’t particularly looking forward to.

Colin picked out a few more records for Stiggy to play. The Tube Disasters EP, singles by Anti Pasti and The Exploited he was already familiar with, and a few others he chose because their sleeves looked interesting. After playing them, Stiggy picked up an album by Crass with what looked like a blow up sex doll on the cover.

“Oh fuck off, do you have to put that shit on?” Colin asked, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I want something a bit longer.” Stiggy unfolded the cover and took out the record to put it on the turntable. Colin sighed and shuffled further onto the bed so he could lean his back against the wall. He decided the next time he went to Stiggy’s bedsit he would take some of his own records along with him, show Stiggy what he was missing out on.

While the woman on the Crass album screeched through the first song, Stiggy pulled open a drawer and took out a roll of sandwich bags and a half-litre can of Evo Stik. He tore a bag from the roll and held it out to Colin.

Colin smiled. “Don’t tell Brian,” he said, and leaned forward to take the bag.

Stiggy shook his head and smirked. He tore off another bag and rolled down its edges, then balanced it on his knee while he poured a large dollop of glue into one of the corners. He passed the can to Colin and breathed into the bag, massaging the glue-filled corner between his index finger and thumb. His eyes glazed over.

Colin poured a small amount of glue into the bag and lifted it to his mouth. He glanced over at Stiggy as he took a few tentative breaths, saw he was already away with the fairies. He thought about ditching the glue-bag, hiding it under Stiggy’s bedcovers. Stiggy wouldn’t know any different. Then he decided to take a few more breaths, just to see what the attraction was.

Colin closed his eyes and sighed, concentrated on the rustling sound the plastic bag made as it inflated and deflated. It seemed to echo, sounding impossibly loud. Crass echoed too. Their music darted around the room like hummingbirds looking for an escape from Stiggy’s bedsit, the screaming woman chasing them with a buzzing chainsaw. Crass seemed so much better than Colin remembered them being before. Maybe it was because the hummingbirds taught them how to play?

As if they had somehow heard Colin’s thoughts, Crass decided they were going home and left behind just a regular ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk as the hummingbirds pecked away at Colin’s skull.

Colin opened his eyes. Stiggy stood before him, waving his arms around in a blur. Long yellow teeth stretched down from Stiggy’s mouth and curled around his chin. The hummingbirds scattered away with a flutter. Stiggy’s teeth retreated back into his mouth.

“You have a good one?” Stiggy asked.

Colin looked around him, unsure of his location. He shook his head. “Fucking … hell,” he said. He handed Stiggy the dried up glue-bag and glanced at a clock by the side of the bed. An hour had passed that he had no memory of. The Crass record had finished long ago, the record player’s stylus stuck in its lead-out groove. Stiggy walked over and lifted the tone arm, silencing it with a loud thrrrrup. He lifted the record and flipped it over, put it back on the turntable.

“You want some cider?” Stiggy asked over the jangling guitar intro. “It’ll keep you buzzed longer.”

Colin shook his head. “Nah, I feel a bit wrecked as it is, so I reckon I’ll just get off home.”

“You sure? Glue makes you crash if you don’t top it up with booze.”

“Nah, you’re all right. I’ll get a can of beer from home or something if I need to.”

Stiggy shrugged. “Fair enough. See you at The Juggler’s Rest tomorrow then, yeah?”

Outside, the prostitute approached Colin again and asked if he was looking for business. Colin smiled and shook his head.

“No, sorry.”

—

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 13

Trog had finished work for the day and headed into town for a quick pint in The Black Bull. His heart sank when he saw Mandy talking to Don at the bar. The way they both fell silent, the look on Mandy’s face when she caught Trog’s eye. He had been hoping last night wasn’t just a one-off, a mad fling on Mandy’s part, but there was no smile to welcome him. It looked more like Mandy was going to tell him to fuck off.

“Trog,” Mandy said. “Did you hear about Ian?”

Trog shrugged, relieved it was about something else. “Why, what’s he done now?”

“He got attacked last night,” Don said, “he’s in a really bad way.”

“What?” Trog wheeled on Don, his eyes wide.

“The coppers came for me this morning, wanting to know if I knew anything about it. They said Ian’s mum gave them my address. I’m surprised they didn’t go round to yours too.”

“I’ve been at work,” Trog said, “I haven’t been home yet. So what happened then?”

“Dunno. He missed his bus, that was the last I saw of him. I said he could crash at mine, but he said he fancied some chips anyway so he’d walk home.”

“So where is he now?”

“He’s in the hospital.”

“Well let’s get down there, then, and find out who did it so we can fucking batter them.”

“Hold on,” Mandy said, “I’ll close up here and come with you.”

* * *

Trog stared down, open-mouthed, at the figure lying before him. Bandages covered Ian’s face and upper body like an Egyptian mummy. A clear plastic tube inserted into Ian’s throat pumped oxygen from a machine by his bed. A drip hanging above led to a catheter in his left arm. Another tube in the side of his chest drained brown fluid into a bag hanging from the side of the bed. A machine on a trolley next to the bed beeped regularly, the only sign Ian was still alive, his only movement the faint rise and fall of his chest in time with the oxygen machine’s bellows.

“Fucking … hell,” Trog said.

Don slumped into a nearby chair and held his head in his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Mandy shook her head slowly.

“Can I help you?” a nurse asked. Nobody had noticed her approach until she spoke.

“How is he?” Trog asked.

“Are you a relative?” the nurse asked.

“Yes, we all are,” Mandy said, before Trog had a chance to reply.

The nurse smiled faintly at Mandy and shook her head. “He’s not good, I’m afraid. He’s got a fractured skull and two broken ribs, one of which punctured a lung. We repaired the damage, but it’s the injuries to his head we are most concerned about. Until he regains consciousness we won’t know if there is any long term damage.”

“What, like brain damage?” Don asked. He stood up and glared at the nurse as if it was all her fault.

The nurse looked at Don and shook her head slowly. “It’s too early to say. I’ll get a doctor to explain it to you properly, but we’ll need to run some tests when he wakes up.”

“How long do you think it will take for him to wake up?” Mandy asked.

“I can’t really tell you at this stage. Like I say, I’ll get a doctor to…”

“How long has he been unconscious?” Trog asked.

The nurse looked at Trog, then looked away. “Since he arrived last night.”

“Why is his face all bandaged up like that?” Mandy asked.

The nurse’s face paled. She shook her head. “It was a very savage attack. Whoever did this cut his face up pretty bad. “He…” Her voice faltered when she caught the cold glare of the two skinheads. She looked away before continuing. “He’ll need reconstructive surgery further down the line. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on another patient. I’ll send a doctor to talk to you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Don repeated after the nurse left. “So what now?”

Trog leaned over Ian’s prone figure and shook his head. “I don’t know, Don. But some cunt is going to fucking pay for this.”

“Yeah but until he comes round we won’t know who did it.”

“Someone will know,” Trog said. “I’m going to find out who did this. And when I do I’m going to fucking kill them.”

* * *

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 12

“No fucking way,” Brian said when he opened the toilet door and looked in.

Colin pushed past him to see for himself. Stiggy stood before a wall-mounted hand dryer, holding his Discharge T-shirt under it. His camouflage trousers were draped over a nearby sink, dripping water onto the floor. Stiggy’s socks were stuffed inside his canvas trainers, which lay by his bare feet.

“Oi, shut the fucking door, you’re making a draft,” Stiggy said. The dryer stopped, and he pushed a button with his forehead to restart it.

Colin closed the toilet door and stood with his back against it while Brian made his way to the urinal. Stiggy put his T-shirt on and reached for his trousers. He wrung them out in the sink and held them under the dryer.

“Aren’t you going to dry your underpants?” Colin asked. Brian laughed. He looked over his shoulder from the urinal.

“I did them first,” Stiggy said.

“Fucking hell,” Brian said. “I’m glad we waited before coming in now. You’d have put me off me piss stood there with your arse out.” He walked across to the sink and washed his hands, then splashed cold water on Stiggy’s bare legs.

“Fuck off, you cunt!” Stiggy shouted.

“You what?” Brian said, flicking more water at him. “Can’t hear you over the dryer.”

Stiggy swung the wet trousers at Brian. Brian dodged out of the way, laughing.

“Come on Col,” Brian said, “let’s leave him to it. I’m off home for me tea anyway. You out tomorrow?”

Colin shook his head. “Nah, I said I’d take me Gran to the cemetery to visit me Granddad, that always ends up upsetting her so I’ll probably stay in after that.”

“Ah, okay. I’m helping me dad all day Friday, so I guess I’ll see you at The Juggler’s Rest after tea then.”

Colin nodded. “Yeah. You reckon them birds will be there?”

Brian shrugged. “Don’t see why not, it was their idea.”

“Who’s this you’re on about?” Stiggy asked.

“Couple of birds we met earlier,” Colin said.

“What, punk birds, you mean?”

“No, mod ones,” Brian said. “Of course they were fucking punk birds. Who else would look twice at an ugly cunt like that?” he added, pointing at Colin.

Stiggy laughed.

“Fuck you,” Colin said with a grin. “It were me they fancied.”

“They felt sorry for you, more like.”

“So have they got a mate then?” Stiggy asked.

* * *

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 11

“Fucking hell, look at the state of that cunt.”

Colin swivelled in his bucket seat to see what Brian was pointing at. Stiggy lurched between the tables in the Woolworths café, heading in the direction of the toilets. His ripped Discharge T-shirt clung to his chest, his baggy green camouflage trousers were caked in mud. Water dripped from his uncombed mass of hair.

“All right, Stiggy?” Colin called out.

Stiggy looked in their direction, nodded, then veered toward their table. He took up a seat next to Brian, who wrinkled his nose at the strong chemical solvent odour on Stiggy’s breath.

“All right, Col. Giz a drink, I’m fucking freezing.” Without waiting for a reply, Stiggy reached out for Colin’s tea mug and cupped his hands around it. Colin saw his knuckles were bruised and scuffed. Stiggy lifted the mug to his mouth and breathed into it a few times before he took a drink.

“What happened to your hands?” Colin asked.

Stiggy put the mug down and stretched out his hands, palms down, on the table. He looked puzzled for a few seconds, then grinned and nodded. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Me and Mike found a skinhead on the way home last night and did the cunt. Battered him fucking senseless. You should’ve heard him beg, it were funny as fuck.”

“I wish I’d been there to see it,” Colin said. “What did he look like?”

“Like a fucking mess after we’d finished with him.”

“No, I mean before. Was he short?” Colin held out a hand. “About this high?”

Stiggy shrugged. “Dunno, can’t remember. Does it matter?”

“Well yeah.”

“You’ll need to ask Mike about it then, I were out of me fucking head last night.” Stiggy ran his fingers through his wet hair, then wiped them on the front of his T-shirt.

“Is it raining out?” Brian asked.

Stiggy shook his head. “No, why?”

“You’re all wet.”

“Yeah well, I fell in the river, didn’t I?”

Brian laughed. “What, glued up again?”

Stiggy shook his head again. “Nah, were I fuck.”

“Come off it, I can smell it from here,” Colin said.

“Well, yeah, I were a bit,” Stiggy said. He looked down at the table, then looked back up at Colin. “But I weren’t tripping or nothing, so I knew what I were doing.”

Colin caught Brian’s eye and grinned at him. “So how did you end up falling in the river then?”

“Well, there were this bloke, and …”

“What, and he pushed you in the river?” Colin tried to keep a straight face, but it wasn’t easy when he saw Brian’s expression.

Stiggy shook his head vigorously, sending water spraying in all directions. “Nah, he had this big sack and he chucked it in the river, I don’t think he saw me at all.”

“So how did you end up in the river then?” Brian asked.

Stiggy looked at Brian blankly for a few seconds before replying. “Well I thought it might be some cats, didn’t I?”

“Some cats?” Colin asked.

“Yeah. It were all lumpy, like.”

“Why would someone put cats in a sack and throw it in the river?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brian said, shaking his head. “There’s some really cruel people about.”

Colin shrugged. “Well yeah, but you’d hear them wouldn’t you? The cats, I mean. They’d make a right fucking noise.”

“Not if they were dead,” Stiggy said.

“Well if they were dead it wouldn’t really matter if they got chucked in the river would it?” Brian said. “Anyway, that still doesn’t explain how you fell in.”

“I were trying to get them out with a stick.”

Colin leaned forward over the table. “What, the dead cats?” He grinned at Brian.

“Yeah.” Stiggy nodded. “Then I went and leaned over too far, didn’t I?”

“You daft cunt,” Brian said. “What did you want with a sack full of dead cats anyway?”

“I didn’t say they were dead cats, I said I thought they might have been cats. Could have been anything really.”

“So what was in the sack then?” Colin asked.

“I don’t know. I fell in the river didn’t I?”

“Didn’t you have a look while you were in there?”

“I never thought of that. I just wanted to get out of the water, it were fucking freezing.”

Brian shook his head and sighed. “For fuck’s sake.”

Stiggy leaned on the table and rose to his feet, then shuffled himself out of the bucket seat. “Yeah well, I’m off to the bog. You two waiting here?”

Colin nodded. After Stiggy left Brian burst out laughing. “That guy’s a fucking head case,” he said.

Colin smiled and shook his head. “Nah, Stiggy’s okay when you get to know him. And if anything kicks off at the Cockney Upstarts gig he’ll be a good bloke to have on our side.”

Brian grunted. “He’s off his fucking head on glue most of the time. All that bollocks about bags of cats in the river and throwing pigs’ heads at people?”

“That’s just the glue talking, he’s pretty sound when he’s not on it. And he’s a right vicious cunt in a fight, you heard what he said he did to that skinhead last night.”

Brian frowned. “You think there might be some bother at the gig?”

Colin shrugged. “Dunno, maybe. They do have a big skinhead following. So the more punks who go along the better, really.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Brian took out his cigarettes and lit one. He blew smoke rings across the table at Colin. “He’s taking his time in the bogs, what do you reckon he’s doing in there?”

“Knowing him, probably getting glued up.”

“What, in Woolworths? He’ll get us chucked out.”

Colin smiled. “Well there’s only one way to find out.”

* * *

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 10

Later, Colin and Brian were in a record shop on the first floor, looking in the bargain bin for anything interesting among the ex-chart singles. Two punk girls flicked through albums on a rack nearby. One kept looking over her shoulder, but every time Colin caught her eye she looked away.

“Nothing here worth having,” Brian said.

“Speak for yourself,” Colin said. He nodded at the two girls.

Brian looked and smiled, then walked up to them. “All right?”

The girls looked around and nodded to Brian, then looked at each other and smirked. One pulled out a punk compilation album and flipped it over. Colin walked over and peered over her shoulder at the band names printed on it.

“Looks pretty good,” he said. “You buying it then?”

“Nah,” the girl said. “Can’t afford it.” She put the album back in the rack and turned to Colin. “So what happened to your face then?”

Colin felt his cheeks burn, and subconsciously touched the still-tender lump on his forehead. He thought about telling her the truth, then changed his mind. She’d probably think he was a wuss.

“Got it while I were dancing.”

Brian snorted, but didn’t contradict him. The girl’s eyes widened. “What, you got all that from dancing?”

Brian nodded. “Yeah, he’s quite the dancer. You should see him in action some time.”

“Nah, you’re all right.” She turned to leave. “Come on, Becky.”

“Beki?” Colin asked. “What, like as in Beki Bondage?”

Becky smiled. “No, as in Rebecca.”

“What’s your mate’s name then, Becky?” Brian asked.

“Kaz.”

“Bye then, Kaz,” Brian said, waving. “See you, Becky.” As they left he shouted after them. “I’m Brian. The ugly guy is called Colin.”

“Fuck you,” Colin said, grinning. He turned to the album rack and flicked through them while Brian went to have a look at new single releases.

When they left the record shop Becky and Kaz were leaning over the balcony outside, pointing and laughing at shoppers below. Brian sang the opening lines to Last Rockers as he and Colin walked past them. Becky looked around and smiled.

Colin and Brian wandered around the upper level of the shopping centre without any specific destination in mind. Brian paused outside a hifi shop and looked through the window. Colin knew neither of them could afford any of the prices being asked, but that didn’t stop Brian pointing out which ones he was planning to buy in the near future. Colin leaned his back against the shop window and sighed. He was about to take out his cigarettes when he saw Becky and Kaz dart into a nearby shop. As he continued watching, Becky peered out from the shop doorway and ducked back out of sight. Colin smiled to himself and turned to look in the hifi shop window.

“I think them birds are following us,” he said.

Brian turned and looked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s go and talk to them.”

Brian shook his head. “Nah, I’ve got a better idea.”

Colin and Brian walked on. They kept an eye on reflections in shop windows to make sure they were still being followed, and veered off into Woolworths. They passed aisles of children’s clothes, then toys, and rode down the escalator to ground level.

A fat security guard glared at them from the kitchenware area, then ducked down to hide behind some boxes. Colin waved to him, he scowled back. Colin knew they would be carefully watched until they left Woolworths, with the security guard trying to hide his massive bulk behind whatever was to hand every time they turned around. Normally they would have some fun with him, at least until one of the other security guards showed up and they were escorted off the premises, but Brian seemed to have other ideas.

Colin looked up, saw Becky and Kaz duck out of sight at the top of the escalator. He shrugged to himself and followed Brian to the music section near the ground floor exit. Through strategically placed anti-shoplifter mirrors he saw the security guard limping after him.

Brian stood by a life-size cardboard cut-out of Abba advertising a forthcoming greatest hits compilation. “Hurry up, get behind here,” he said when Colin approached.

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Colin glanced over his shoulder. The security guard dodged into a shopping aisle and peered out from its edge. Colin joined Brian behind the Abba cut-out and crouched down beside him.

“You know he’s already seen us?”

“Who?” Brian asked.

“Fucking Sergeant Hoppalong, he’s been following us since we came downstairs.”

Brian placed a finger over his mouth and cocked his head to one side. Colin heard Becky and Kaz talking nearby.

“They must have gone out,” one said.

“Yeah well, they can’t have gone far,” the other replied.

Brian nodded to Colin. “Now,” he mouthed silently, and leaped out from behind Abba with a roar. The girls jumped and squealed, spun around to face him. Colin walked out and stood beside Brian.

“You looking for us?” Brian asked.

“As if,” Kaz said with a shrug.

“Yeah,” Becky said. “We were wondering if you were going to The Juggler’s Rest on Friday? There’s a band on this week.”

“Who’s on?” Colin asked.

“The Astronauts?”

“Never heard of them, are they any good?”

Brian elbowed Colin in the ribs. “Does it matter? Yeah, of course we’ll be going.”

Becky smiled. “Might see you there, then,” she said, and they both turned and walked away.

Colin watched them pass the security guard on their way to the exit. The man seemed torn between following the girls or resuming his vigil of Colin and Brian.

“You got any money?” Colin asked.

Brian shrugged. “Not much, why?”

“I’m fucking starving. Let’s go back upstairs and get a Criss-Cross and a pot of tea.”

* * *

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 09

It was half-past one, a much more civilised time to be up and about. Colin’s hangover was almost gone, thanks to a fry-up and several more mugs of tea, and he was sure he’d be able to shrug the rest of it off once he got outside. His hair was standing proud and erect once again, and he wore a fresh set of clothes. It was an Exploited and tiger-print trousers day, he felt it as soon as he woke up for the second time that day.

“Bye Colin,” his grandmother called out from the living room. “Don’t forget it’s your Granddad’s birthday tomorrow, you said you would take me to see him.”

Colin had forgotten, but he didn’t let on. “I will,” he shouted, and closed the door behind him.

To Colin, Granddad was just an old black and white photograph on the living room sideboard. A photograph Colin was never allowed to touch without being yelled at to leave it alone. His grandfather died less than a year after he came home from the war, just before Colin’s mother was born. He was trapped in a cave-in down the local coal mine, and it took his co-workers three days to dig him out. By then he had suffocated to death.

Colin knew he had died a long time ago, but didn’t find out the circumstances of his death until the day his grandmother caught him filling in an application form for the National Coal Board, soon after he left school. “You’re not working there,” his grandmother said when she saw the form, and tore it up in front of him.

Colin caught a bus into town and headed into the shopping centre. He found Brian sitting on a bench outside Woolworths, reading Sounds.

“About fucking time,” Brian said, looking up from the newspaper. “Have a good lie in, did you?”

Colin shrugged, then sat down next to him. “Felt a bit rough so I went back to bed. Why, how long you been here?”

“Fucking ages. I went to sign on this morning, didn’t I?”

“Anything interesting this week?” Colin asked, nodding at Brian’s newspaper.

Brian turned back a few pages and held it up. “There’s a Beki Bondage interview, it says they’ve got a new album coming out soon.”

“Yeah? I’ll have to start saving up then. What’s Pressbutton up to this week?”

“Dunno, I haven’t got that far yet. I was reading the gig reviews, there’s one for Cockney Upstarts in Camden.”

“It say anything about pigs’ heads?”

Brian laughed. “Nah, does it fuck.” He closed the newspaper, then folded it up and balanced it on his knee while he took out his cigarettes.

Colin reached out for the newspaper and turned to the back pages to read the cartoons. He laughed. “Fucking hell, it gets madder. There’s a woman with light bulbs for tits. I don’t know what that Curt Vile is on, but I wouldn’t mind having some.” He folded the newspaper up with the comic strip on top and handed it back to Brian.

“Nah, drugs are for fucking hippies,” Brian said. He smiled and shook his head while he read the comic strip. After he finished he rolled the paper up and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

A three-year-old girl skipped past, then turned and stared at Colin and Brian. She pointed excitedly. “Look, mummy! Mummy, look! Look at the funny men!”

Colin pulled a face at the child, then raised his arms and roared. She stepped back and squealed in delight. A woman grabbed the girl’s arm and shook her. “That’s naughty,” she said, “don’t point at strange men.” The girl looked back over her shoulder as she was pulled away. Colin poked out his tongue at her.

“So what are we doing today then?” Colin asked.

Brian shrugged. “Dunno. Just hang out here, I guess. Not much else to do.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PS: If you want to read the Alan Moore comic strip from Sounds, you can do so here:

http://s95378737.onlinehome.us/alan_moore_sounds.html

The Pressbutton one started on 12 July 1980.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 08

2 Bored Teenagers

Colin felt something wet slithering across his face. He groaned and turned away, pulled the bedcovers over his head. Something pounced on him, dug at the covers and pulled them down. The wet thing was back, leaving trails of slime on Colin’s cheek.

Colin’s eyes fluttered open. Bright sunlight streamed through a gap between the bedroom curtains and made him squint. His head throbbed, and his mouth felt like someone had fitted a shag-pile carpet in there while he slept. The dog licked him again.

“Fucking hell Prince, get off me,” he groaned, and pushed the brown mongrel dog off his bed. He rolled over to go back to sleep. The dog jumped back onto the bed and licked him again.

“Fuck off, you mutt!”

Colin pushed the dog’s head away from his face. The dog grabbed Colin’s pyjama shirt sleeve and shook it, growling. Colin pulled back. The dog squatted down on its hind legs to tug harder.

“All right, fucking hell. I’ll get up.”

Colin threw back the covers and sat up, then looked at a clock on the bedside table. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, far too early to be awake. Colin groaned and stood up. The dog bounded around his feet, jumping up to lick his face. Colin sidestepped the dog and darted into the bathroom for a piss.

“That you Colin?”

Colin heard the faint voice from the living room over the sound of a blaring TV set as he descended the stairs. The dog followed close behind.

“No, it’s a burglar,” Colin shouted back.

“Make us a cup of tea and a sarnie then.”

“Okay, Gran.”

Colin went into the kitchen and made two bread and dripping sandwiches and two mugs of tea. He put one sandwich on a plate and stuffed half the other one into his mouth and ate it while he waited for the tea to brew. He finished off the rest, then carried the plate and two mugs into the living room.

Colin put the plate down on the arm of his grandmother’s chair, then balanced a mug next to it. He took the other mug and sat down on the settee with a sigh. The dog bounded up next to him.

“So what time did you roll in last night then?” his grandmother asked, without looking away from the television. A coloured man wearing spandex leapt around on the screen, encouraging viewers to join him for their morning exercise.

“Don’t know,” Colin said. “Probably late.”

He could dimly remember being sick on the bus, and both he and Brian being thrown off by the irate bus driver, but the long walk home was still a blur. He had a distant recollection of climbing over the park fence and lying on his back on the roundabout while Brian spun him around, but wasn’t sure if that was a dream or not. It seemed a daft thing to do when the world would already be spinning out of control due to excess alcohol, but it probably made sense at the time.

“What’s happened to your face?”

Colin looked up, saw his grandmother peering at him. He shrugged and looked away. “Been dancing,” he mumbled. “Caught a few elbows in the face.”

She grunted, then laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know, you punk rockers you’re all as daft as brushes.” She picked up her sandwich and bit into it. “Of course, we had proper dancing in my day,” she said.

“Yes Gran,” Colin said, and tuned out while his grandmother related one of her stories about her youthful exploits. He had already heard them all countless times. How you could buy just about anything you wanted with an empty jam jar or pop bottle, how nice and polite everyone was in the old days, and how much better everything used to be.

Colin had lived with his grandmother for as long as he could remember. His father left soon after he was born, saying he couldn’t handle the responsibility of another mouth to feed. His mother left a year later, when one of her boyfriends gave her an ultimatum – him or the kid. She chose the boyfriend, so Colin was dumped on his grandmother and he never saw her again. Colin was too young to know anything about all this, of course, and didn’t remember either of his parents, but this was what his grandmother told him had happened, and he had no reason to doubt her.

Colin drank his tea and pushed the dog from his lap. “I’m going back to bed,” he said.

His grandmother looked up sharply. “What? You’ve only just got up.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel too good. Must’ve had a bad pint or something. I’m gonna go and lie down for a bit.”

Upstairs, Colin shut the bedroom door before the dog had a chance to dart through it. The dog whined and scratched at the door for a few minutes, then gave up. Colin spread his wet cigarettes out along the windowsill and got back into bed. He closed his eyes and relived the events of the previous night. He didn’t understand why the skinhead had attacked him. If it had been a trendy it would make sense, trendies were always keen on punk bashing. But a skinhead? They weren’t vastly different from punks themselves, they even liked the same type of music. It just didn’t make sense.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

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

Stabby Abby Christmas Special

 

http://www.punx.co.uk/stabby-christmas-markus-blakeston

A heart-warming tale of mistletoe and Santa for the festive season, featuring the characters from Bare Knuckle Bitch.