Marcus Blakeston's Blog, page 8

Preview: Punk Rock Nursing Home

Every year, on the anniversary of the death of hated 1980s prime minister Margaret Thatcher, the elderly residents of State Retirement Home SY-379 hold a festival of celebration. Balloons and bunting go up, raucous punk music is played, memories are relived by those who still have all their faculties, and a good time is had by all.

With the thirtieth anniversary of Thatcher’s death coming up in just a few weeks, Colin Baxter decides to make this year’s Thatcher Day something to be remembered. He contacts octogenarian punk band Sick Bastard and books them to play live at the retirement home, promising to pay them in free beer.

There’s just one problem: how to get the band, their equipment, and the beer, past the Gestapo retirement home manager who lives upstairs?

————————————–

Colin Baxter strained to hear a Rezillos song above the incessant chatter of the other residents sitting around the communal lounge. Why everyone had to shout at each other when their armchairs were only a foot apart was beyond him. And if everyone was so deaf, or their tinnitus was so loud they couldn’t hear themselves converse at a normal volume, why did the music piped into the retirement home’s speakers need to be so quiet? It was barely audible.

Colin sighed. He looked down at his entoPAD screen and prodded the Silver Punkers Community Forum icon. He waited for a video advert to finish playing, then scrolled through the subject headings with his gnarled index finger. Most of the posts were adverts for garishly coloured mobility aids. Leopard-skin patterned walking sticks with skull and crossbones handles, pink and yellow mobility scooters with the words Boredom or Nowhere printed on the front basket. Colin wished there was some way to filter out all the nonsense to make the genuine content easier to find.

Frank Sterner shuffled by with his walking frame, making his third trip around the outskirts of the retirement home lounge that morning. Colin watched his slow, ponderous movement past a set of French doors leading out to the back yard. Frank paused in the doorway and looked out before continuing his journey.

Near the lounge door, Fiona Scott sat asleep in her armchair with her mouth hanging open. A line of saliva dripped from her chin. Sitting next to Fiona, Sharon Baker smiled at her entoPAD. She laughed, and held the screen out to Louise Brown on her left. Louise looked, smiled and nodded to Sharon, then turned her attention back to her own entoPAD.  Louise wore a pair of headphones, and her white-haired head bobbed from side to side. Her lips formed a string of obscenities as she sang along to whatever it was she was listening to.

Colin wished he had thought to bring his own headphones into the lounge, then he could listen to his own choice of music at whatever volume he liked. But he had left them behind in the dormitory when he got up that morning, and couldn’t be bothered going to fetch them. Besides, his bad knee was giving him gyp and he didn’t want to put any unnecessary weight on it if he could avoid it.

Colin looked at Greg Lomax, sitting on his right. Greg stared into space, the left side of his face drooped and immobile. The old man hummed tunelessly to himself, only pausing to take a wheezing breath.

“Oi Greg,” Colin said, “have you got your headphones on you?”

Greg stopped humming and looked at Colin. “Nrr, Err lrrft thr in thr brrdrrm,” he said.

Colin leaned forward so he could catch the attention of Tony Harris, who sat in the next armchair along from Greg Lomax.

“Oi, Tony, have you got your headphones on you?”

Tony shook his head. “No, mate, sorry.” His voice sounded muffled beneath the oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and nose.

“No worries,” Colin said. He turned to his left, where Dave Turner sat peering at his entoPAD screen through thick jam-jar-bottom spectacles. Dave’s hearing aid whistled like the feedback of an electric guitar, in harmony with Greg’s humming. Colin decided not to bother asking Dave if he could borrow his hearing aid. Once Colin finished looking through the new posts on Silver Punkers he would just hold the entoPAD against his ear and listen that way.

“Fucking smart,” Dave said to himself.

“What’s that, mate?” Colin asked.

Dave held his entoPAD out in one shaking hand. Colin glanced at it and smiled. A young child on the entoPAD screen swayed on the bottom rung of a climbing frame surrounded by soft foam mattresses. The child’s face was obscured by a full-face safety helmet with chin-guard, and Colin couldn’t tell from the thick padded clothes it was wearing whether it was a boy or a girl. Nearby, a young woman in her mid-twenties hovered with her hands outstretched to catch the child should it fall from the climbing frame.

“That’s me great-grandson,” Dave said. He grinned at Colin through gapped, yellow teeth. “He’s three, and he’s a right fucking terror.”

Colin nodded and smiled back. “Yeah, he looks it.”

Dave prodded the young woman on the screen and the video zoomed in on her anxious face. “That’s me grandson’s missus. Not done too bad for himself, has he?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Shame they’re always so fucking busy, I wouldn’t mind meeting them one day.”

Colin combed his fingers through strands of white hair on the left side of his otherwise bald, liver-spotted head. He nodded and looked back at the screen of his own entoPAD.

“Yeah. That’s the way it goes though, innit? Mine are no different. I used to look after my granny, you know? Back in the day, that is. She’s long gone now. Different times, back then. Good time to be young though.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Dave said. “The best. I wouldn’t want to swap it for what the youngsters have got now.”

Colin smiled. “Yeah. Their music’s shite for one thing. And there’s no dole, so you can’t even enjoy yourself like we did.”

Dave nodded. “Yeah, good times. You remember that fucking security guard in Woolworths? The one with the limp, reckoned he was in the SAS or somesuch?”

“Yeah, Sergeant Hoppalong. Me and my mate Bri had loads of fun with that cunt. He had a thing about Action Man, used to go fucking ballistic if you messed about with them.”

“Yeah?” Dave said. “Wish I’d known that. We used to put on fake Irish accents when we knew he was hovering around. That wound him up no end too.”

The lounge door banged open. Colin looked up and saw a bald, middle-aged man push a trolley into the room.

“Looks like another new one,” Colin said to Dave. “I bet you a biscuit he’s on the fucking workfare.”

Dave smiled and shook his head. “You must think I’m fucking daft. Of course he will be.” He looked down at his entoPAD, went back to watching family videos.

A Lurkers song started playing through the lounge speakers. Colin nodded his head in time with it while he watched the bald man push the trolley toward Fiona Scott. The bald man coughed. When Fiona didn’t stir from her sleep he shook her by the shoulders. She startled awake.

“Medication time,” the bald man said. “What’s your name, granny?”

Fiona looked up, but said nothing.

“That’s Fiona Scott,” Colin called out. “She doesn’t really say much.”

The man looked at Colin and grunted. He rifled through paper medicine bags on the trolley and picked one out. He tore it open, took out two blue capsules, and dropped them into a small plastic cup. He held the cup out to Fiona. Fiona’s mouth dropped open. The man sighed and tipped the capsules into her mouth. He pushed them to the back of her throat with his fingers and closed her mouth, then tilted her head back until she swallowed them.

Colin shook his head and looked down at his entoPAD. He swiped his finger up the screen to scroll through message headings on the Silver Punkers Community Forum. Hidden among the adverts he noticed a post with the heading Thatcher Day 30 and prodded it. Despite only being posted an hour ago, it already had over two hundred replies.

Thatcher Day celebrations, 8th April 2043. Post your memories of that fucking evil bitch here. Never forget, never forgive.

Colin checked the day’s date on his entoPAD clock. He smiled when he saw how close it was to the best day of the year.

“Thatcher Day again soon, Dave,” Colin said.

Dave looked at Colin. His eyes widened. “What, already? Fuck me, that’s come around again quick, hasn’t it? It only seems like a few months since the last one.”

“Yeah, time’s spinning by these days. It’s the thirtieth anniversary this year. We should do something special to mark the occasion.”

“Like what?”

Colin shrugged. “Dunno. I thought maybe you might have some ideas?”

Dave scratched his head and frowned. A cloud of dandruff settled on his shoulders. “None at all, mate. We could give Thatcher a good kicking?”

Colin shook his head. “Nah, we do that every year. We’ll do that as well, of course, but I was thinking something really special. Something we haven’t done before.”

“What about setting fire to her? Like we did that first year, when the news first broke. Remember that?”

Colin smiled. “Yeah, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. We had a fucking great party that night at our council estate. Even the little kiddies joined in, it were fucking magic. Maggie Maggie Maggie…”

“Dead, dead, dead!” Dave replied, smiling.

“We’re not going to burn Thatcher though. What would we do next year without her? She’s the star of the party, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, good point. I never thought of that.”

The bald man pushed the medication trolley across the lounge and stood before Greg Lomax. “What’s your name, granddad?”

Greg looked up and spoke slowly, with deliberation. Only the right side of his mouth moved, the left drooped down in a frown. “Ir Grrr Limmurr.”

The bald man frowned. “You what?” He raised his voice, as if addressing a naughty child. “I said what’s your name, granddad. What’s. Your. Name? Do. You. Under. Stand. Me?”

“Grrr Limmurr,” Greg said, raising his voice to the same volume.

The bald man sighed and shook his head. He turned to Colin and jerked a thumb at Greg. “What’s this one’s name then?”

“Greg Lomax,” Colin said.

The bald man flicked through the medication bags and pulled one out. He tore it open and tipped two white pills and two blue capsules into the palm of his hand. He pushed Greg’s head back, prised his mouth open, and dropped all four onto Greg’s tongue. Greg spat them out into his right hand as soon as the bald man released him.

“Err cnn drr ir mrrr srll, yrr crnt,” Greg said. “Brr ir nrr srrm wrrter.”

The bald man looked at Colin.

Colin smiled. “He says he can do it himself, but he needs some water.”

“Right,” the bald man said. He picked up a water jug from the trolley and filled a small red plastic beaker. “Here. You. Go. Some. Water. For. You.”

“Frrr urrrf yrr crnt, err nrr strrpird,” Greg said. He pulled a hard plastic straw from his pyjama shirt pocket and popped it in the side of his mouth. He took the beaker and raised it to the straw, sucked up a mouthful of water and glared up at the bald man. He swallowed the four pills, one at a time, while the bald man stared down at him.

The bald man grunted, then took the beaker from Greg. He put it down on the trolley and turned to Colin.

“So which one are you then?”

“Colin Baxter.”

The bald man found Colin’s medication and handed him two blue capsules in a small plastic cup. Colin took them and rolled them around the cup’s base.

“You going to take those or do you need help with them?” the bald man asked. He folded his arms.

“I’ll need some water,” Colin said, “me throat’s dry.” The bald man grunted and passed him the beaker of water Greg Lomax had used. “You’re new, yeah?” Colin asked.

“Yeah, started today.”

“Workfare placement?”

The bald man shrugged. “What of it?”

Colin glanced at Dave and smiled. He turned back to the bald man. “Just wondering.”

“Yeah well, just take your medication and don’t give me any shit, granddad.”

Colin held the man’s stare while he tipped the two blue capsules into his mouth. He didn’t know what they were for, the only regular medication he had ever needed before moving into the retirement home was for hayfever.

The bald man glared while Colin took a sip of water to wash the capsules down. He nodded, then took the beaker from Colin and put it down on the trolley. He turned to Dave Turner and asked his name.

Colin raised a fist to his mouth and faked a cough as he spat the blue capsules out. He glanced at the bald man, saw he wasn’t watching, and transferred the capsules to his dressing gown pocket for later disposal. He looked up and saw Louise Brown watching him from across the room. She smiled and winked. Colin smiled back and nodded.

* * *

Later that night, Colin looked up from his entoPAD when he heard hobnail boots clumping down the hallway toward the dormitory he shared with the other male residents. The retirement home’s manager, the only permanent member of staff, on his regular night time prowl before retiring for the evening.

Colin glanced at the clock in the corner of his entoPAD screen, surprised how late it was. The manager was usually tucked up in bed by this time, or doing whatever it was he did up there alone in his upstairs accommodation.

Colin shuffled himself down the bed and lay on his side as the footsteps stamped their way closer to the dormitory door. He slipped his entoPAD under the bedcovers and closed his eyes just before the door creaked open on rusted hinges and the manager shone a torch into the room. The torch’s beam flicked from bed to bed, pausing on each resident in turn. When the light fell over Colin he pretended to moan in his sleep and rolled over away from it. He opened his eyes when the torch beam flicked across to Dave Turner’s bed.

“Fuck off, you cunt,” Dave mumbled. He pulled the bedcovers over his head.

“Get to sleep, Turner,” the manager said. “You too Baxter, I know you’re still awake.”

The manager made another sweep of the dormitory with his torch and turned away. The door creaked shut and his boots echoed away down the hallway. Another door creaked open.

“Louise Brown, what do you think you’re doing? Get into bed this instant!”

“Fuck off,” came Louise’s defiant reply.

Colin smiled and struggled upright in bed. He put his entoPAD face up on a table by the side of the bed and switched on his bedside lamp. He swung his legs out of bed and directed his feet into a pair of Sex Pistols slippers. He reached for his walking stick and pushed himself upright with a grunt. The muscles in his legs ached in protest, and he winced when he felt his bad knee pop. He hobbled over to Dave Turner’s bed and sat down on its edge. He reached over and pulled the covers down from Dave’s face.

“Dave, you awake?” he whispered. He nudged Dave’s shoulder when there was no reply. “Fucking wake up, you old bastard.”

Dave snorted and rolled over to face Colin. His eyes flickered open.

“What?” he asked. He peered up at Colin. His hand darted out and fumbled for a pair of spectacles on his bedside table. The spectacles dropped to the floor when his fingers brushed against them. “Fucking hell, now look what you made me do. Who is it anyway?”

“It’s me, Colin.”

“What? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”

“For fuck’s sake Dave, put your fucking hearing aid on. If I talk any louder The Gestapo will be back, wanting to see what’s going on.”

“What?”

Colin sighed and shook his head. He picked up Dave’s hearing aid and hooked it over the man’s ear. The hearing aid whistled while Dave sat up and fiddled with the volume control.

“I don’t like this thing,” Dave said, “it makes my tinnitus louder.”

“That’s because it’s a cheap piece of fucking crap mate, same as everything else they give us in here.”

“Is that you Colin? I can’t see without my glasses.”

“Yeah, mate.”

“What’s up?” Dave asked.

“I’ve had an idea.”

“What about?”

“What we can do on Thatcher Day.”

Dave rubbed his eyes and yawned. His elbows cracked when he stretched out his arms. “What the fuck time is it?” he asked.

“Never mind that. I’ve been reading the Thatcher Day posts on Silver Punkers, and you’ll never guess who was on there.”

“Sid Vicious?”

“Well yeah, there was quite a few of them. But I mean real people, not fucking nob-heads pretending to be some dead junkie. Only fucking Biffo Ratbastard. He were going on about this gig Sick Bastard did on the tenth anniversary on Parliament Square.

Says they only got through two songs before the coppers smashed everything up and carted everyone off down to the cop-shop for a kicking. Anyway, that’s what gave me the idea.”

“Which is?” Dave asked.

Colin smiled. “I sent Biffo an entoMAIL asking what the chances are of Sick Bastard coming here to play live on Thatcher Day.”

Dave shook his head. “Nah, The Gestapo would never allow that. Besides, it’s probably not even the real Biffo Ratbastard, it’ll just be someone pretending to be him.”

“Nah, mate, it’s deffo him. He’s got a verified identity icon next to his avatar.”

“Yeah well,” Dave said, “even if it is really him, why would Sick Bastard want to come to a dump like this? Anyway, I thought they’d split up years ago. Didn’t their drummer die or something?”

“Yeah, but look how many drummers they had, it was a different one on each album. They probably just got a new one.”

“So what did Biffo have to say about it then?”

“Well he hasn’t said nothing yet, I only sent the message a few minutes ago.”

Dave sighed. “Fucking hell, so why wake me up then?”

“Because if Sick Bastard do come to play I’ll need some help organising it, and there’s not many other people here with a full set of marbles.”

“Yeah well, until you hear from Biffo there’s no point even talking about it, is there? I doubt he’d be interested anyway, someone like that. They were headlining the Blackpool Punk Festival for years, for fuck’s sake, playing to massive crowds. Why would they want to come and play in a shitty retirement home in front of thirty coffin dodgers after that?” Dave took off his hearing aid, dropped it to the floor next to his spectacles, and lay down with his back to Colin.

Colin sighed and cracked his knuckles. He stood up with a grunt and went back to bed. He reached over to pick up his entoPAD from the bedside table and pulled a pair of headphones from a drawer. He prodded the entoPAD’s screen to open entoTUNES, and swiped through the shortcuts to his favourite music. He settled down to listen to The Astronauts’ It’s All Done By Mirrors until he fell asleep and dreamed of being young.

* * *

Biffo Ratbastard sat in his ground floor flat, his bare feet up on a fluffy pink foot-rest, listening to Oi Polloi on his entoPAD. The music was fed to a pair of large wireless Jammo speakers placed either side of his armchair, and was cranked up so loud he couldn’t hear his young upstairs neighbours banging on the ceiling. Not that it would have made any difference if he could hear them. What Biffo did on his own property was nothing to do with anyone else. Especially a bunch of snot-nosed students.

A half-empty can of Special Brew vibrated its way toward the edge of one of the speakers. Biffo reached out for it and took a long drink, draining the can. He crushed the can in his hand and tossed it at a round waste-bin in the corner of the room. The can hit the side of the bin and bounced off to join three more crushed cans on Biffo’s thread-bare carpet.

“Bollocks,” Biffo said, and took an electronic cigarette from his Motorhead dressing gown pocket. The end of the plastic cigarette glowed blue when he sucked on it. He exhaled the vapour with a sigh and closed his eyes as the nicotine rushed to his brain and mingled with the alcohol already swimming around in there.

Retirement life was fucking good, Biffo decided. He should have done it fifty years ago while he was still young enough to enjoy it.

Biffo was luckier than most people his age. He owned his own flat, and received regular monthly payments from entoCORP for his share of the advertising revenue each time one of his songs was streamed to a user’s entoPAD. So when the government declared State Pension unsustainable due to advances in health care and an aging population, then abolished it completely along with all other state benefits, Biffo had managed to survive with his independence still intact.

He had to cut down on his fuel bills, wrapping himself up in thick clothes and blankets through the winter months instead of turning the heating on, and could only afford to drink Special Brew once a week by rationing the food he ate, but at least he hadn’t been forced to move into one of the State Retirement Homes like so many of his generation. Death Homes, Biffo called them. Somewhere the government puts you out of the way, while they wait for you to die so they can seize whatever assets you’ve got left.

Biffo looked down at his entoPAD screen when one of Oi Polloi’s Gaelic songs started playing. He prodded an icon in the corner of the screen and the lyrics were translated in real-time into Pidgin English that made no sense. Something about frogs dancing on a scientist’s experience and systematic destruction of intercourse. Biffo sighed and put the entoPAD down on the arm of his chair. He struggled to his feet and padded into the kitchen for another can of Special Brew. As he opened the fridge door Oi Polloi were cut off mid-song and replaced with a female robotic voice.

“You have new entoMAIL. You have new entoMAIL. You have new entoMAIL.”

Biffo pulled out a can of Special Brew and cracked it open. Oi Polloi resumed from where they had left off. From the kitchen he could hear someone upstairs yell “Turn that fucking shit down!” Biffo took a long drink of Special Brew and belched, then returned to his armchair. He put the can down on top of a speaker and picked up his entoPAD. The screen flashed a message, You have new entoMAIL. Biffo prodded the entoMAIL icon and Oi Polloi were cut off once again, replaced with a video advert informing Biffo of the miracles of plastic hip replacements and how affordable they were with low monthly payments.

“Apply now and receive a free pen,” a young woman in fishnet stockings and red suspender belt and bra said with a wink. “You know you want it.”

The advert ended and Oi Polloi resumed playing. A text message displayed on the entoPAD screen, sandwiched between advertising banners extolling the joys of Viagra and live entoSEX, read:

All right mate, saw you on Silver Punkers and was wondering if you might be wanting to do something for Thatcher Day this year? 30 fucking years, can’t believe it’s been that long since the old witch snuffed it. Anyway, what do you reckon about Sick Bastard coming to play here or something? We can’t afford to pay nothing, but there’d be free beer and stuff if you want?

The message was signed Punk76, and the sender used a red anarchy symbol as their avatar. Biffo Ratbastard shook his head and sighed. Why couldn’t people use their real names? He could think of at least twelve people he knew who could have sent that message, and ticked off in his mind the ones who had died in the last few years. That left five possibles. Three if he discounted the ones with severe dementia.

Biffo read the message again and nodded to himself. Whoever it was from, the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea of being in front of an audience again. One last gig before he shuffles off forever, just like the last surviving member of the Sex Pistols did. There’d be no golden handshake, no million pound payout from entoCORP for the rights to record the gig for posterity. But free beer? Who could refuse an offer like that?

Biffo saved the message so he could reply to it later, and quit the entoMAIL app. He lowered the music’s volume and heard a few thumps on the ceiling, followed by a cry of “About fucking time, you old bastard!”

“Fuck off,” Biffo yelled, and opened the entoFACE app. He scrolled through his contacts and tapped on a photo of Steve Snitch. Connecting, the screen informed him. Biffo waited. And waited.

“This is Steve Snitch, leave a message and I might get back to you if I can be bothered. If you’re just selling something, fuck off, I’m not interested.”

Biffo sighed. “Snitchy, I’m thinking of getting the band back together. Let me know what you think when you hear this.”

He returned to his contacts list and prodded Mike Hock’s photo. Mike answered within a few seconds, and grinned out from the screen.

“All right Biffo, how’s it fucking going?”

“Not bad mate, how’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. Well I can, but there’s no point is there? No fucker cares.”

“No, mate,” Biffo said. “Anyway listen, I got a message from someone putting on a gig for Thatcher Day. What do you reckon about getting your bass out of storage and giving it another thrash for old time’s sake?”

“Sounds good to me. Is Snitchy up for it?”

“Couldn’t get hold of him, but I’ve left him a message.”

“Yeah, he’ll be tucked up in bed by now. You know they moved him into a retirement home?”

“No I didn’t. Shit, when did that happen?”

“Fuck, it must be about six months ago now? He had to pay for emergency surgery and fell behind with his rent. They kicked him out and the rozzers picked him up sleeping rough and stuck him in a retirement home.”

Biffo shook his head slowly and sighed. “Man, that’s fucking bad news. I hope he’s okay.”

“Yeah he’s fine,” Mike said, nodding. “In fact he’s fucking loving it. Says there’s a few old Sick Bastard fans living there, he strums his guitar for them every night and they just lap it up.”

“Good to hear. You kept up your playing too? Only we probably won’t get much of a chance to practice before the gig.”

“When is it?”

“Thatcher Day.”

Mike laughed. “Just like old times, eh? It’s not on fucking Parliament Square again, is it? I’ve still got the scars from that one.”

“Yeah, me too. No, it’s at one of the Death Homes. Not sure which one, I haven’t confirmed it yet. Just wanted to sound you guys out first.”

“Well I’m definitely in, and I’d be surprised if Snitchy wasn’t too. You got a drummer lined up, or is it going to be an acoustic set? Old Vile would be a hard act to replace.”

“Fuck acoustic sets, they’re for dead hippies. I’d rather slit my fucking throat. We’re a punk band, not a bunch of fucking Morris Dancers. You just leave finding a drummer to me and get practicing on that bass of yours. I’ll send you the details when I’ve got them, and we’ll get together somewhere for a practice.”

“Look forward to it mate,” Mike said. “Laters, then.”

“Yeah. See you soon, Cocky.”

Biffo quit entoFACE and cranked up the volume on the Oi Polloi song. He reached for his Special Brew and took a swig before opening the Silver Punkers Community Forum. Mike was right, Peter Vile would be hard to replace. He wasn’t Sick Bastard’s original drummer, but he was their longest running one and the best they had ever had. When he died five years ago, after contracting an infection following open-heart surgery, it had effectively ended the band’s musical career. Drumming was a dying art, quite literally, with so many of the remaining punk bands having to resort to using electronic, computer-controlled drum machines instead.

Biffo composed a new message asking if anyone knew of any drummers in the Shefferham area who would be available to play on Thatcher Day. Own kit essential. Experience, don’t give a fuck either way.

He drained the rest of his Special Brew and threw the can at the waste-bin. This time he hit it dead-centre and the can dropped in with a clatter.

————————————–

Paperback UK

Paperback USA

ebook UK

ebook USA

Cover images for Punk Rock Nursing Home

Front Cover:
 

Back cover:

 

Marine Boy — Howard Cunnell

A bit different this one. It’s one of them literary books for interleckshals what don’t have no plot or nothing, so don’t go expecting skinheads beating Asians up and raping hippies at the seaside. It’s more about family relationships and living up to other people’s expectations. It is a good book, but the way the skinheads lie around on the beach smoking dope all day they’re more like bald hippies than anything else.

It’s set in the 80s or maybe late 70s (it doesn’t say which, but it’s definitely not late 60s/early 70s like the book blurb makes out).  The main character comes home from boarding school for the summer to find everyone he knows has gone from punk to skinhead. His older brother is the skinhead leader, and deals drugs at the seaside town where they all live. There’s a rival gang of rich Persians who also deal drugs in the town, and this results in the brief fight scenes. There’s also an old Hells Angel who both the skinheads and Persians buy their drugs from.

It’s let down by a lack of proofreading, like most books these days, and the prose is a bit too flowery and rambling at times for my liking, but overall I liked it. I doubt I’ll read it again, and I’m unlikely to look at any of his other books, but I’m glad I noticed this one.

Amazon UK

 

Scraper – a novel about punk — James Gilberd

This is another punk book set in a different country, this one being New Zealand during South   Africa’s Springbok rugby tour there in 1981. It’s told (mostly) in first person present tense by a young punk who forms a band. He’s anti-Springbok, his father is pro-Springbok, which leads to tension between them.

Other than the Springbok stuff, which takes a back seat until the protests start, this is universal enough be set anywhere. So a quick look on Wikipedia will give you enough background information you need. Everything else is pretty much the same as it was in England around that time, fights with skinheads, trendies, etc. No mass unemployment though, everyone seems to have a job or is at college.

About a third of the way through another narrator is introduced (his girlfriend, who also becomes the band’s manager). This is a bit jarring at first, and it takes a while to figure out who is who, but you soon get used to it.

Seems to be ebook only, but it’s only 77p and worth at least three times that much.

Amazon UK

Molotov Hearts — Chris Eng

I must be going soft in my old age, but I really liked this book. I first read it when it was a blog serial, and sad bastard that I am each new episode quickly became the highlight of my week. Now it’s out in paperback, and I’m looking forward to reading it again all in one go.

Don’t let the romance tag put you off. While it probably is a romance at heart, it never gets too soppy and there’s plenty of other stuff going on to keep the interest. It’s set in present day Canada and centres around a young girl’s entrance into the local punk scene. Her mother’s a bit of a nut-job, so she keeps it all secret from her as long as she can. But when the mother finds out she’s been staying overnight at a squat full of punks it all comes out in the open.

Good book, well written.

Amazon UK

Just a bit of fun …

… but all my titles are available on Kindle, Android and iTunes as well as Sony, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, etc. Except for Bare Knuckle Bitch, which Apple took exception to for reasons that only make sense to them.

 

Preview: Bare Knuckle Bitch

This ain’t no fucking Chick-Lit!

Best friends Abby and Shaz like nothing more than sticking the boot into some mug after a night out on the piss. That look of sheer terror on the bloke’s face when he first realises what’s coming his way. The way he begs for mercy right up until the moment he loses consciousness. It’s the best buzz ever.

The money in their wallets is just a bonus, a means to an end. Men are just walking pricks with money there for the taking. Treat them as anything else and they’ll walk all over you.

At least that’s what Abby used to think, until she met the skinhead. He taught her men aren’t all the same, and showed her a different way to live. A way to make some serious money from doing what she loves best – hurting people.

There’s just one problem – what will Shaz have to say about all this when Abby starts spending more and more time with the skinhead instead of her?

 ————————–  

1

So I’m in the local night club with my mate Shaz, yeah? The Zone, it says on the big fuck-off neon sign above the door, but most people call it The Meat Market. It’s the place you go to around these parts if you want to find random people to fuck without having to worry about any of that soppy romance bollocks. I’m sure you know the sort of place I mean; you’ve probably been to one yourself a fair few times, right? Low lights so you can’t see how fucking ugly everyone is, loud music so you can’t hear how fucking boring they are. The perfect pick-up joint for freaks of all ages, yeah?

Anyway, we’re checking out the studs lined up along the bar, trying to decide which ones are worth bothering with. Most of them are fat bastards in their thirties with huge fucking beer guts flopping down over their belts like an old woman’s tits, so there’s not much to choose from. There is one reasonable looking guy at the end of the bar though. He wouldn’t win any beauty contests, mind. He’s dog fucking rough in the face department and his clothes look like he’s slept in them for a month, but he does have this massive bulge sticking out of the front of his trousers that catches my eye.

“See anything you fancy?” Shaz yells in my ear.

Shaz is the same age as me, but she looks a few years older. We grew up on the same council estate and went to the same shitty schools together, so we’ve known each other pretty much forever. My dad calls her a trollop and says she’s a bad influence on me, but he doesn’t know the half of it.

“That one’s quite cute,” I shout back, nodding my head towards bulge-guy. It’s like he can hear me over the loud thumping music or something, because he looks straight at me and winks.

Shaz shakes her head and sighs. “Fucking hell Abby, try looking beyond his cock. He’s fucking skint, you can tell that a mile off. You’d be lucky to get a drink out of him, never mind anything else.”

“Well what about that one then?” I point at one of the fatties, choosing him at random.

“Are you kidding? Look at his shoes. Fucking Hush Puppies? Get real, Abby.”

“Well which one would you go for?”

Shaz smiles, and points her finger at one of the other fatties. “Armani suit, not cheap in that size. You need to get them made especially, you can’t just pick one up off the fat cunt rail in Tesco. See those shoes? Paul Smith brogues, three hundred fucking quid a pop. And look at the way he’s standing, you can tell he’s used to ordering people around. Probably middle management at least, but more likely some sort of fucking company director. Either way he’s fucking loaded.”

“Right,” I say. I’ll have to take her word for it, I know fuck all about men’s clothes and the way he’s standing doesn’t look any different to the way all the other fat bastards are standing. “So who’s having him then, you or me?”

“You can, I’ll pick one of the others.”

“Right, okay. See you later then, yeah?”

I walk up to the bar and squeeze myself in next to the one Shaz pointed out. The barman looks at me and nods, asking if I need serving. I shake my head and he walks away to serve someone else. The fatty on my left looks in my direction and smiles, thinking he’s in with a chance. I scowl at him and he looks away sharply, his face turning the colour of a slapped arse.

I turn my head to look at the over-stuffed Armani suit on my right. He stares straight ahead at the optics behind the bar but it’s obvious he knows I’m here from the way his hand shakes when he picks up his drink. Great, he’s one of those fucking shy bastards. That means I’ll have to make all the moves instead of just standing here looking pretty. I nudge him with my elbow and watch the rolls of fat ripple for a few seconds until they settle down again.

“Hi,” I yell when he doesn’t look in my direction. No reply. I can see sweat breaking out on his forehead. Fucking hell, he’s not going to make this easy for me, is he? I stroke the back of his hand with my fingertips. He jumps as if I’ve just fucking scratched him or something, and turns towards me.

“Hi,” I yell again. I flash him my warmest smile and hope he doesn’t make a run for it. If he does I’ll have to go back to Shaz and start the selection process all over again.

He turns towards me. “Um… hello. Do you come here often?”

I laugh. Well at least he can fucking talk, even if what he does say is corny as fuck. “Yeah, I come here all the time. You going to buy me a drink then or what?”

“Um… sure, what’ll you have?”

“A pint of Guinness and a whisky chaser.”

He pulls out a brown leather wallet and I can’t help noticing how stuffed full of money it is when he plucks out a tenner and waves it at the barman. There must be a few hundred quid in there, easy. I turn and give Shaz a double thumbs up while he’s distracted with the barman. She smiles back at me in that smug bastard way people do when they know they’ve been proven right.

He buys my drinks and I down half the Guinness in one go, then wipe the froth from my mouth with the back of my hand.

“So, um, what do you do for a living?” he asks. As if he gives a fuck what I do or who I do it with. But I might as well humour him, it’s only polite.

“I work the till in a burger joint. How about you?”

“I’m a stockbroker.” He says this as if I’m supposed to be impressed, but I’ll be fucked if I know what one of those is. Probably something to do with warehouses, or making sure a supermarket’s shelves don’t run empty.

“Oh yeah?” I shout. “That’s nice.”

“My name’s Alan.”

I shrug and pick up my Guinness, draining the rest of it. The whisky follows it down, and I get a warm glow spreading down my throat and into my chest.

“So what’s yours?” he yells, looking at me.

“I’ll have another pint of Guinness, Alan.”

“No, I mean, um, what’s your name?”

“Abby.”

“Pleased to meet you, Abby.”

He holds out his hand and I look at it. Who the fuck wants to shake hands when they’re picking up some random woman at a bar? He holds it there a few more seconds, then takes the hint and reaches for his wallet. He orders himself an alcohol-free beer, obviously worried whether he’ll be able to perform or not when the time comes.

The fat cunt on my left peels himself away from the bar and waddles off to the toilets like a hippo that’s just learnt how to walk on two legs, so I put a bit of space between me and my new friend Alan. He’s sweating like a pig, but it’s not the nice, heady aroma of a proper man, it’s the sort of greasy chips and curry stench you always get from fat blokes. I lean back against the bar and take another long drink.

“So, um, you fancy going somewhere a bit quieter, Abby?” Alan asks my tits.

I answer on their behalf. “Nah, I like it in here. Besides, I’m barred from most of the pubs in town.”

“I, um, wasn’t really thinking of another pub.”

Here it comes. Two measly fucking drinks I’ve had from the cunt and he already thinks he’s fully paid up. What the fuck is it with men these days? I’d need at least ten pints before I even considered having that lard-arse pounding on top of me. I’d need the anaesthetic for when he crushes my fucking ribs.

“Maybe later,” I yell. “The night’s still young and all that.” I drain the rest of my pint and hand the glass to Alan. “Your round, yeah?”

While he gets the drinks in I look to see what Shaz is doing. The bulge-guy is sitting with her, yelling something into her ear. Shaz is laughing.

I frown. All that bollocks she came out with about him being skint, and all along she just wanted him for herself.

“Is something wrong, Abby?” Alan must’ve picked up on my annoyance with Shaz, so I smile to reassure him everything’s fine.

“Nothing at all, Alan.” I raise my pint glass towards him. “Cheers.” He picks up his alcohol-free beer and chinks my glass, smiling back.

I look back at Shaz, trying to catch her eye to show her how fucking pissed off I am, but she’s too busy throwing herself at bulge-guy. His arm is round her shoulder, and her hand is resting on his thigh, brushing the tip of his bulge with her thumb. He leans in for a kiss and gropes her tits. I hope it’s just a fucking rolled up sock he’s got stuffed down his pants, it’d serve Shaz right for lining me up with this fat sweaty bastard and keeping the best guy in the whole fucking place for herself.

I turn back to the bar and try to think of something to say to Alan. I mean, what do you say to someone you have absolutely nothing whatsoever in common with, and who makes your fucking skin crawl just thinking about him? I can’t think of anything, so I just ask the obvious question.

“So, Alan, have you got any rubber johnnies on you?”

Fuck it, straight to the point, that’s me. Well it certainly gets Alan’s attention anyway. He stares at me with his mouth open as if he can’t believe what I’ve just said. His face flushes red, and his hands start to tremble. He fiddles with the knot of his tie.

“Um, no. But I could, um, get some from the machine in the toilets?”

I smile and wink at him, and a huge soppy grin spreads over his face. Like a little kid on Christmas day who’s woke up to a room full of presents, or a twelve year old boy who’s just lost his virginity.

“Yeah, you do that. And make sure they’re ribbed, yeah? Oh, and get those strawberry flavoured ones too if you can. I don’t like the taste of rubber.”

I never thought it was possible for a face to go as red as his. I wouldn’t be surprised if his head just fucking exploded right there in front of me.

“Oh. Um, yes, I– of course I will.”

I smile to myself as he scoots off to the toilets to buy the johnnies. I lean back on the bar to watch, and shake my head at the comical way he walks. I look for Shaz to give her an update, but she’s not there. And neither is bulge-guy. Great, just my fucking luck.

Alan strides back, patting his breast pocket and grinning like a fucking loon. “I got them, Abby,” he says when he reaches me. “Where do you want to do it?”

“Hold your horses, lover. How about another drink first?”

My head’s starting to get comfortably mashed from the Guinness, but a few more won’t hurt. I wonder if Shaz is having a good time with bulge-guy, whether he’s one of those fumble and shoot types or if he’s one of those fucking marathon-men who last for hours. I hope it’s the former.

Alan gulps down his alcohol-free beer, but I take my time and sip my Guinness, all the time keeping an eye out for Shaz. She’s taking her fucking time, she’s had long enough now to bang the entire fucking night club never mind just one bloke. Lucky cow.

I’ve still got half a pint left when Alan starts talking to my tits again, telling them it’s time to go somewhere quiet. Fuck it, might as well make my move. Shaz can’t be much longer, surely.

“Hundred quid,” I say. The look of pure innocent shock on his face is fucking priceless. I wish I had my phone ready so I could take a photo, but it’s too late now.

“Um… sorry?” he says, looking at me wide-eyed.

“Hundred quid. In advance, yeah?”

“But I bought you all those drinks,” he splutters.

“Yeah, and?”

“Um… okay. Just so that we’re clear, what does a hundred pounds buy me?”

I shrug, playing it cool. I’d been expecting him to haggle, or maybe even just tell me to fuck off when he found out it wasn’t going to be free, but the glint in his eye tells me he’s definitely interested. I give him a coy smile. “Whatever you want it to buy you, Alan.”

I can practically hear those cogs in his head grinding against each other. He grins and reaches for his wallet, peels off five twenty pound notes and thrusts them into my hand. I pull out my low-cut top and stuff the money inside my bra for safe keeping. Alan leans forward to get himself a good look at his investment.

“Wait there, I need to go to the toilet,” I tell him. “This Guinness has gone straight through me.”

He’s obviously not as daft as he looks, because he follows me to the ladies. “I’ll wait for you here,” he says as I push open the pink door. “Don’t be long, will you?” I can feel his eyes burning into my arse as I let go of the door and it swings shut on him.

Both the cubicles are full, and I have to stand there with my legs crossed so I don’t piss myself while I wait. It takes fucking ages, but eventually I hear a bolt slide open on one of the cubicle doors. Some middle-aged tart with smudged makeup staggers out and heads towards the mirror.

I’m in the cubicle like a fucking shot. I hitch up my miniskirt and pull down my knickers before I’ve even got the door shut. I don’t bother locking it, there isn’t enough time. I squat down on the toilet and sigh in relief while the piss gushes out of me.

I look for some toilet paper to wipe myself with, but the bog-roll dispenser is empty, just a cardboard tube to taunt me with. Fucking great. I bounce up and down on the toilet seat to shake off as may drops as I can, then use the palm of my hand for the rest. I pull up my knickers and open the cubicle door. I go to the sink and turn the tap on, rinse my hands under the cold water.

The old tart is still here, standing in front of the mirror trying to repair her makeup. But she’s so fucking pissed she just makes it look even worse than it did before. She looks like something from a fucking horror movie, and I pity whichever poor sap has to bang that monster tonight. With a final pout at the mirror, she staggers past me towards the exit. Alan holds the door open while she walks through it, and stares in at me.

“Are you going to be much longer, Abby?”

I look at my reflection in the mirror and sigh. “Another five minutes and I’ll be all yours, yeah?”

I splash cold water onto my face and hear the door thump shut. I spin round, expecting to see Alan with his pants round his ankles waddling towards me with his cock out, but I’m all alone in here. I rub the water off my face and shake my hands over the sink. There’s no paper towels, and the electric dryer has an Out of Order sign on it, so I’ll need to drip-dry.

I go back into the cubicle and lock the door behind me. I put the toilet lid down and sit on it, taking out my phone. I unlock it and prod Shaz’s picture in my contacts, then put the phone to my ear.

It rings out to voicemail.

I shake my head, hang up, and try again. This time she answers, out of breath. I can hear loud, rhythmic grunting sounds in the background.

“Where the fuck are you, Shaz?”

“I’m– ah! Harder! I’m a bit– ah! Busy at the moment Abby, can you call back later?”

“Are you fucking someone?”

“No. Ah! I mean yes, faster! That’s it, you fucking bastard.”

“For fuck’s sake Shaz, I’m ready to go with that fat bastard and I need you to watch my back. Where the fuck are you, anyway?”

“Ah! Ah! Hold on Abby, I won’t be long. I’ll come and find you when I’m done.”

“Yeah well tell your fucking stud to hurry up, I can’t wait forever.”

I look at my phone as it grunts and squeals at me. I hear a slapping sound and Shaz cries out. Her stud moans, shooting his load, and I put the phone back to my ear.

“Shaz? Have you finished?”

It’s a while before she answers, and she’s still out of breath. “I’m on my way Abby, where are you now?”

“I’m in the women’s toilets. You need to get here now, I don’t think he’ll wait much longer.”

“I’m only next door in the gents, I’ll make my way outside now and wait for you there.”

In the gents? Fucking hell, you wouldn’t catch me doing it in there. Those cunts are just fucking animals the way they piss all over the floor.

“Right,” I say. “Let me know when you’re outside, yeah?”

“Will do, Abby. See you, Steve.” I hear a man’s voice mumble something, then the sound of someone pissing into water fades into the background. “Just on my way out the door now, no sign of your friend though. Maybe he changed his mind?”

I end the call and open the toilet door. Alan stares in at me. He takes me by surprise, but it doesn’t take me long to compose myself.

“Sorry I took so long,” I say, smiling and looping my arm through his.

“That’s okay Abby, you’re here now.”

I lead him out of the night club and steer him towards the back alley that runs behind it. Shaz watches us from across the road, her face flushed under the orange glow of a streetlamp.

Alan stops abruptly. “I have a car just down the road, it’s got a really comfortable back seat.”

Shit, think fast. No way am I getting in a fucking car with him, he might be some sort of fucking psycho for all I know.

I spin around and stick my tongue down his throat to give myself a bit more thinking time. Fuck me, when was the last time he brushed his teeth? His mouth tastes fucking rank, like he’s been eating dog shit or something.

“I like it rough, and I want you to fuck me down here,” I say, pointing towards the alley. “Away from the cameras, yeah?”

“Ah, okay. Good thinking.”

He follows me eagerly now, and when I reach the alleyway I glance over at Shaz to make sure she’s still there. She gives me a thumbs-up in reply. I take Alan a few yards into the alley and find a good spot behind a large industrial-size dumpster and pull him towards it.

He pins me against the wall, groping my tits while his mouth goes to work on my neck. It feels like a slug crawling across me, and I shudder in revulsion. Alan takes that as a sign that I’m ready for action, and pulls down his trousers. He hitches up my miniskirt and smears cock-snot all over my thighs as he yanks at the elastic on my knickers. I snap my legs together and push him away with both hands.

“Put a johnny on, yeah?”

He blinks at me for a few seconds, and nods. He pulls one out of his breast pocket and bites the foil seal open, spitting out a sliver of silver foil. He plucks the rubber out and shows me it, grinning. It’s bright fucking red and there’s a smiley face on the end of it with the little spunk-bubble forming the nose. It looks like something a fucking clown would wear to an orgy, and I can’t help wondering if it will squeak if I squeeze it hard enough. He sticks it over the end of his cock and starts rolling it down with his thumb and forefinger.

Shaz is creeping up behind him like a pantomime villain, up on her toes with her arms outstretched at the sides for balance.

“Is that you Abby?” she says, quietly.

Alan jumps and spins around in shock. Shaz’s eyes drop down to the bright red rubber-coated cock smiling at her, and her eyes widen in disbelief. Alan pulls his trousers up and spins back to me, his face turning the same shade of red as the cock poking out of his fly.

“All right Shaz,” I say, unable to keep the grin off my face. I love this part.

“Is this pervert bothering you?” she says, straight-faced. I don’t know how she does it. Practice, I suppose, but I know I wouldn’t be able to manage it without sniggering. She must be in a good mood about something if she wants to play this line instead of just kicking the fuck out of him. It’s been a while since we’ve used it, and I’m probably getting a bit too old for it now, but I might as well play along.

“No, he’s my fella.”

Alan turns to Shaz and nods his head vigorously. Shaz looks him up and down with a sneer, her gaze lingering on his cock. “You do know she’s only fourteen?”

Alan looks at me and his mouth gapes open. “Um… god, no, I didn’t. Are you sure?”

“Hey baby,” I say, reaching out for his cock and giving it a gentle squeeze. “What difference does my age make? I’ve still got all the right parts, and they’re all in full working order.”

He looks at me as if I’m some sort of fucking monster, and his cock shrivels up. He stuffs it into his trousers and zips up, then backs away from me with his hands held out, warding me off. I bet if he had a fucking crucifix he’d be holding that up too. Get thee behind me foul wench, or some bollocks like that.

“Look, I’m, ah… I think I should just go,” he says.

“Not so fast, Romeo,” Shaz says, heading him off. She takes out her phone and makes sure he sees it. “I should really report this to the police.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “There’s no need for that, I’ll be on my way.”

“We can’t have fucking pedos walking the streets and raping little kids, it’s not right.” She thumbs the digit nine on her phone.

Alan looks like he’s about to shit himself. “No, please, my wife will kill me,” he whines. He reaches for his wallet and pulls it out. “Look, I’ll pay you anything you want, just don’t call the police okay?”

Shaz’s thumb hovers over the phone, ready to dial the next number. “I don’t know about that, it’s my public duty to report a crime when I see one taking place.”

Alan pulls notes from his wallet and holds them out to Shaz at arm’s length. His hands are shaking so much I can’t even see what denomination they are, but there’s a fucking lot of them. Shaz hesitates, and then sighs. A bit theatrically if you ask me, but Alan is too relieved when she takes the money to notice.

“Thank you,” he says, and turns to leave.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a really fat man run, but it’s pretty comical to watch and I can’t help laughing as he shambles away with his arms flailing.

Shaz waits until he’s out of sight before she shares out the takings. I don’t tell her about the hundred quid I’ve got stuffed inside my bra, I deserve a bit extra for all the worry she put me through when she left me on my own. All in all, my share comes to a hundred and ninety quid, not bad for a couple of hours work. That’s a lot better than what I make working at the burger joint for a whole fucking week.

“So what do you want to do now?” Shaz asks. “Back in The Meat Market and get tanked up?”

I shake my head. I’ve already had enough booze, all I want now is a bag of chips to soak it up and then fuck off home to bed. “Nah, I’ve got work in the morning. I need to get some kip or I’ll be like a fucking zombie all day.”

“You fucking lightweight,” Shaz says with a sneer. “Go on, one more drink won’t hurt.”

I sigh. Fuck it, she’s right. Just one drink though, and that’s my lot. After that it’s straight home.

“Go on, then,” I say. “So what was that guy like that you were fucking? Was his bulge genuine then, or was it just for show?”

Shaz smiles and taps on her phone. “God, yeah. I’ve got a photo of it here, see for yourself.”

She tilts the phone towards me and I look at it, frowning. Great, just my fucking luck.

————————– 

Paperback

Amazon UK

Amazon USA

Ebook

Amazon UK

Amazon USA

Smashwords

Blow up Thatcher doll

She fucked you and your community in the 1980s …

Now you can fuck her back.

Comes with free puncture repair kit for those times when you just can’t resist stabbing her.

Bare Knuckle Bitch

 

I wrote this in response to Richard Allen’s Knuckle Girls. You can read what I thought of that particular book here:

http://marcusblakeston.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/knuckle-girls-%e2-richard-allen/

Very briefly, what pissed me off the most was that there was too much about boring middle-aged social workers and not enough about young women smacking fuck out of people. My version doesn’t have any social workers in it.

It’s about 30,000 words of mayhem and it’s at final edit stage.

 

 

Fluffy Dog and the Bastards in Blue

“Woof woof woof,” said Fluffy Dog, running towards the front door of the house.

Little Timmy looked up from his toys and frowned. “Shut up, Fluffy Dog,” he warned, “or Mummy will get mad at you again.”

There was a knock on the door, and Fluffy Dog rose up onto his hind legs, mouth at the letterbox, ready to bite anyone who tried to pass through it.

“Grrrrrr,” he growled, showing his teeth.

“Mummy, there’s someone at the door!” Little Timmy yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

Mummy was upstairs playing a game with Mr Kevin from next door. Little Timmy wasn’t sure what game they were playing, but they had music on and didn’t seem to hear him. He thought about going upstairs to tell them there was somebody at the door, but Mummy had said Little Timmy wasn’t allowed to bother them while they were playing their game. So Little Timmy didn’t know what to do.

There was another knock on the door, and the letter box flap opened. Fluffy Dog growled and bit down on the letter box flap, shaking his head from side to side. Little Timmy heard bad words from the man outside, words that only grown ups like Mummy were allowed to say. He picked up his Buzz Lightyear Blaster and loaded three balls into it before approaching the door. He had lost the other balls that came with the gun, so he hoped three would be enough if it turned out to be a monster trying to get in.

“Who is it?” Little Timmy asked.

“Open up, it’s the police.”

Little Timmy stretched up onto his toes and put the chain on the door. He knew from his story books that monsters often pretended to be nice people so that you would let them in, and he didn’t want to take any chances. Fluffy Dog let go of the letterbox flap and dropped down onto four legs, positioning himself between Little Timmy and the door.

Little Timmy twisted the Yale lock and pressed down on the handle to open the door. It opened a few inches until the chain drew tight, and Little Timmy peered through the gap. Fluffy Dog poked his nose through the door and snarled at the three men dressed in blue uniforms. A large monster dog that was at least three times larger than Fluffy Dog growled back.

One of the men crouched down to Little Timmy’s height and asked, “Is your mum or dad in?”

Fluffy Dog tried to bite the man, but couldn’t fit his head far enough through the door to reach him. Little Timmy nodded his head. “Mummy is upstairs playing with Mr Kevin. She said not to bother them.”

“You need to go and get her, son,” the policeman said, smiling.

Little Timmy shook his head. “Mummy will get mad if I bother her while she’s playing her game with Mr Kevin.”

“Look, kid,” the man said, his smile turning into a frown, “you either get your mother now or we’re going to break this door down and get her ourselves.”

Little Timmy backed away from the door, covering it with his Buzz Lightyear Blaster. Fluffy Dog shouted at the men and curled his lips up to make his teeth look bigger.

“Take out the dog,” one of the men said, and Little Timmy heard a short hiss, like when Mummy sprays on her perfume. Fluffy Dog yelled out and ran towards his basket. He was crying, big doggy tears streaming down his face. Little Timmy had never seen Fluffy Dog cry before. He was usually a brave dog, and everyone knows that brave dogs don’t cry. Fluffy Dog rubbed his eyes along the blanket in his basket, like the way he does when he’s been rolling in something smelly and Mummy has to shout at him and give him a bath.

The policemen outside were kicking the door, making it shudder against the chain. Little Timmy sighted down the barrel of his Buzz Lightyear Blaster and readied his finger over the trigger. The door flew open, slamming back on its hinges, and the three policemen rushed in. Two were brandishing large black sticks, the other held back a snarling monster dog straining at its leash. Little Timmy fired his Blaster at one of the men with the sticks and a green ball shot out, bouncing off the man’s chest. The policeman glared at Little Timmy and raised his stick above his head.

“Put the weapon down,” he demanded.

Little Timmy fired again, aiming at the man’s head. The man said some bad words when the ball bounced off his nose, and swung his stick down at Little Timmy’s gun. The impact jarred Little Timmy’s hand, and the Buzz Lightyear Blaster fell to the ground. The policeman kicked it away and pointed his stick at Little Timmy.

“Face down on the ground,” he said. “Now!”

Little Timmy looked at Fluffy Dog, hoping he would spring to his rescue, but the dog was still crying and rubbing his eyes on the blanket.

“Mummy!” Little Timmy yelled, his own tears starting to fall.

“On the ground, now!” The policeman shouted, taking a step towards him and raising his stick.

Little Timmy sat down on the carpet and sobbed.

“Face down on the ground, hands behind your back,” the policeman commanded. Little Timmy did as he was told, and the policeman put some handcuffs around his wrists. “You two, upstairs,” he said to the other policemen. They clumped upstairs together.

Little Timmy turned his head to see what the monster dog and the policeman who stayed downstairs were doing. The policeman was looking in drawers and cupboards, emptying things onto the floor and making a mess. The monster dog was sniffing everything. The policeman found Mummy’s nasty grown up soda pop and grunted, smiling to himself as he read the label. He twisted off the cap and took a drink, straight from the bottle.

Little Timmy hoped the policeman’s mouth would burst into flame, just like his had when he tried some of Mummy’s nasty soda pop one night. Mummy had fallen asleep on the settee after drinking half a bottle, leaving some in a glass on the coffee table. It looked like lemonade, but without the bubbles that made your nose feel funny. Little Timmy took a sip and his mouth burst into flame and continued burning even after he spat the nasty soda pop out onto the carpet.

But the policeman’s mouth didn’t burst into flame like Little Timmy’s had; he just swallowed the nasty soda pop down and sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mummy’s music stopped playing, and Little Timmy heard her shouting bad words at the policemen upstairs. Little Timmy felt like saying some bad words himself when he heard a loud slap and Mummy cried out in pain.

“It’s nothing to do with me,” Mr Kevin said, “I don’t even live here.”

One of the policemen told him to shut up with some more bad words, and Little Timmy heard a stick swish through the air followed by a loud thump against the ceiling and both Mr Kevin and Mummy and the two policemen shouting at once.

The policemen came downstairs, pushing Mummy and Mr Kevin in front of them. Mr Kevin had his hands handcuffed behind his back, just like Little Timmy did, and his face was bleeding. The policeman stretched out Mr Kevin’s arms behind him, making him bend forward as he stumbled down the stairs, and blood dripped onto the stairs carpet.

The other policeman held Mummy around the throat with one arm, and gripped Mummy’s elbow with his other hand. Mummy didn’t look very happy, she was crying and one side of her face was red like the way Little Timmy’s legs got when he was naughty and had to be slapped. The policemen pushed Mummy and Mr Kevin from the bottom step, and they stumbled and fell next to Little Timmy.

“Where is it then?” one of the policemen demanded to know. Mummy said some bad words, and the policeman kicked her in the ribs.

“Woof, grrrrrr,” Fluffy Dog said when Mummy cried out, but he stayed in his basket. His eyes were closed, and he shook his head.

“I’ll ask again,” the policeman said, putting his foot on Mummy’s face and holding her head flat against the carpet. “Where is it?” Mummy said some more bad words. The policeman laughed. “Suit yourself, we’ll just have to tear the place apart then won’t we?”

He used his foot to roll Mummy onto her stomach and knelt on her back while he handcuffed her. The other two policemen emptied drawers onto the floor and kicked the contents around with their boots. The monster dog sniffed around the settee and a policeman tipped all the cushions onto the floor. He put his hand down the back of the settee and pulled, ripping the fabric open. He reached inside and pulled out foam stuffing, throwing it onto the floor with the cushions.

“Nothing here,” he said when he had finished destroying the settee.

The monster dog lifted his leg against one of the cushions and wet it, then sniffed his way towards the stairs. The policeman followed, saying “Good boy, go find it boy.”

“Woof,” the monster dog said, and its tail swished from side to side. Its nose pointed up the stairs.

“Up here, is it boy?” the policeman said, and started to climb the stairs. The dog followed, stopping to sniff each step.

Downstairs, Little Timmy could hear the two policemen in the kitchen, throwing food out of the fridge. He heard eggs breaking against the linoleum, cartons of milk being emptied onto the floor, plates being smashed. He turned his head towards Mummy. She was still crying.

Upstairs, Little Timmy heard the ladder to the loft being pulled down and boots clanking up it. He heard the loft hatch being opened, and a muffled voice shout “Found it!”

The policeman came back downstairs clutching Mummy’s favourite houseplant, the monster dog following proudly behind him with its tail in the air. The two policemen returned from the kitchen eating Little Timmy’s favourite biscuits.”

“Good work, Rotherford,” one said, biscuit crumbs flying from his mouth. “You bag that up while we get these two into the van.” He looked at Little Timmy. “We should probably call Social Services too, there’s a child at risk here.”

“Grrrrr,” said Fluffy Dog from his basket.

Little Timmy agreed with Fluffy Dog, but he knew there was nothing either of them could do as he watched Mummy and Mr Kevin dragged through the door.