Saturday's Heroes - Skinheads, Sex and Football Violence! Page 8

  After losing to Trev at pool, Paul went over to Debbie who was watching Billy playing the fruit machine.

  "Heard anything from Carol?" he asked her.

  "No, I haven't, Paul," she replied.

  Paul got the impression that she'd rather talk I about something else, but God knows nothing else had entered his mind since Carol had waved goodbye to him from the departing train.

  "I was going to give her a ring to see how she's doing," Paul added. "Do you have her number?"

  "Yeah, I do," Debbie replied, "But I don't think it's a good idea phoning her." She wanted to tell Paul that Carol was going to get married in a couple of months and what ever they had going while she was down was over with. But of course she didn't. She couldn't just blurt it out there anyway. Not with Billy and the others within earshot.

  "She told me what her parents are like, but I ain't bothered. I just need to talk to her." Then he hit Debbie with his master plan. "Maybe you could ring up, and once Carol comes to the phone, pass it to me. That way her parents will just think she's talking to you."

  Debbie was looking increasingly flustered and Paul was beginning to wonder what the fuck was going on.

  "Debs, get us another pint!" Tony called over from the pool table, and with that she left Paul to watch Billy alone.

  Fuck you then, Paul thought. Maybe Carol had said something to Debbie about him, but if she had then the least he deserved was to hear it. Which led him on to plan B. lf Debbie wouldn't give him the number, then he would get it from directory enquiries. He had her name and address and would just have to risk calling her himself.

  Billy said goodbye to his last coin and then turned to Paul. "How you feeling now, mate, after London'?"

  "Fine. My ribs are still a bit sore first thing in the morning, but the hospital reckons no permanent damage has been done."

  "Good to hear it," Billy replied. "Fancy another pint?"

  "Yeah, go on then."

  While Billy was at the bar getting the drinks in, he looked over at Paul and thanked God he was all right. lf he'd had more bottle, those two blokes wouldn't have laid into him so much, and certainly wouldn't have walked away so easily. Not that he was ever going to tell Paul, or any of the others come to that.

  "Oi! put the TV on will you Fred," Tony shouted to the barman. "The football results will be coming on."

  Gillingham were playing at Plymouth Argyle and really needed three points to keep up the pressure at the top of the table. Despite everyone's high hopes of the Gills doing the business, the newsreader could only provide a 1-1 draw. Still, better than a slap in the face, and a result at Millwall on Saturday would make all the difference.

  Before the night was out, Alan told everyone who was going to Millwall to be outside the Red Lion by ten o'clock sharp or he'd be leaving without them. Nobody wanted to miss this one though, not even Woody who it was rumoured was coming out of retirement to go over the trenches against London's finest.

  As he left work on Thursday, Tony was surprised to see Paul waiting for him at the timber yard's gate.

  "Alright, mate. What brings you here then?"

  "Bored stiff, ain't I?" said Paul. "Wondered if you'd fancy a quick pint or two?"

  "Sounds good to me. What about Millwall then?"

  As they walked along the road to the nearby pub, the two skinheads talked about nothing else. The previous night Millwall had played Luton Town in the Cup and the match had ended with Millwall fans rioting. It had been top of the bill on yesterday's News At Ten, and today the tabloids were full of pictures of Millwall fans on the pitch, ripping up seats and running the police.

  As they sat down at a table in the near-empty pub, the riot continued to fuel their conversation. "There's a bloke in the timber yard who was at the game," Tony told Paul. "Millwall daft he is, and he reckons the police were asking for it all night long. First off they kept the Millwall fans in the train station until quarter of an hour before kick-oft, and then they crammed them into a part of the ground that would have been full up with half the supporters."

  "It's the same everywhere," argued Paul. "They treat away fans like shit, but don't like it when the shit hits the fan.

  "Just wait until Saturday. There'll be more police at the game than we've seen all season. The chances of us having a go at anyone is fuck all."

  Paul took another gulp from his beer. "Just make sure nobody wears any Gillingham colours. Not even Gillingham boxer-shorts. Then once we've parked up the van, we can see what the score is without picking up an escort."

  "We'll be wasting our fucking time," Tony replied. "Soon as they clock a skinhead mob we'll attract Old Bill no matter how quiet we are."

  Paul could only nod in agreement. Although he wasn't going to say so, maybe that was for the best anyway. After the Luton game, you could guarantee that Millwall would be packed with nutters the following Saturday, all claiming to have been at the game and all looking for an action replay. And there was every chance that the MSS would end up taking a severe hiding. Especially if some of those who said they were going now dropped out because of the media coverage given to Millwall's antics.

  "I reckon our best bet is to wait until just before kick-off time, when most people will be inside the ground, including the Old Bill," said Tony, who had obviously been giving it a lot of thought. "And then we can smash up one of their top pubs. That way, we still get to make our mark and will have them going barmy after the game, but don't run the risk of getting lifted by the police."

  "Sounds good to me," Paul said, finishing his drink. "Fancy another'?"

  "Better not, mate," Tony responded. "I'm driving and I said I'd go over and see Debs tonight."

  "Has she heard anything from Carol, do you know?"

  "Don't think so. You still heard nothing?"

  "Nah, fuck all."

  "Do you fancy going to a party with me and Debs tomorrow night?" Tony asked, trying to get Paul thinking about other birds. "It's one of her work-mate's 21st birthday bash and should be a laugh."

  "Yeah, okay," Paul replied, thinking he had nothing better to do.

  "Right, that's settled then. We'l1 pick you up about eight o'clock okay, my son?"

  The one pint he'd had with Tony gave Paul the courage to do what he'd wanted to do all week. He had got Carol's number from the operator after leaving the pub on Tuesday, and now he was standing in a phone box ringing it. In for a penny, in for a pound, Paul thought as he heard the ringing out sound from the telephone.

  "Hello."

  "Hello, Carol?" Paul couldn't believe his luck when he heard her voice.

  "Yeah?"

  "It's me, Paul! How's it going?"

  There was a slight pause before Carol answered. "I'm fine . . . What are you phoning for?"

  "Because. I wanted to talk to you! I thought you were going to write . . . Did you get my letters?"

  "Yeah, thanks . . . I've just been really busy at work and haven't had time to write back."

  "So will you write to me tonight?" Paul asked.

  "I'll try. Look, I have to go . . ."

  "I really miss you, Carol," Paul said, hoping for some sort of response.

  "Yeah, okay then. Bye."

  And with that she was gone. Paul didn't know what to think. He certainly wouldn't be needing the handful of pound coins he was hoping to feed into the coin slot. Maybe it just wasn't easy for her to talk to him, especially if her parents were within earshot, but it was beginning to dawn on him that maybe she just didn't want to talk to him full stop.

  As he walked home, he kept wishing he had been able to talk to her properly. Doubts about her kept ebbing into his mind, but they were quickly sent packing by other thoughts that told him birds weren't like blokes. To them sex wasn't just about having a good time. It was about love. Or so he was always led to believe anyway. Blokes were the bastards, not girls. And he just couldn't believe that their days together could be simply forgotten, dismissed like a casual one-night fling after three pints too many
on a weekend trip to Margate.

  Where all this left him, he didn't know. Certainly none the wiser anyway. If she'd told him to get lost, then at least he would have known where he stood. But she didn't. She could have, but didn't. And in Paul's mind, that counted for something.

  Carol kissed Ray goodnight and then climbed out of his car. As he pulled away, she returned his wave and then walked along the pathway that led to the back door.

  "Is that you Carol?" her Dad called as he heard the back door open and close.

  She walked through the kitchen into the lounge to where her parents were watching TV. "Yeah, that's me back."

  "Did you have a good time then?" asked her Mum.

  "Yeah, it was okay. I'm off to have a bath. Is there any hot water left?"

  "Should be plenty, love," her Mum answered.

  Laying there in a piping hot bath, Carol thought about what she was going to do. She had known she was definitely pregnant for three days now, but still hadn't told anyone. What was there to tell anyway? With any luck it would all be a mistake and the next time she went to the doctor's he would tell her as much. She could hardly tell Ray she was in the club when she knew full well that the chances were it was Paul's baby she was carrying. And her parents would kill her if they found out.

  It was good to hear Paul's voice earlier that evening, even if he did phone when Ray was sitting there, listening to every word she said. She had wanted to forget all about him and concentrate on her future with Ray. That's why she hadn't bothered answering his letters, even if she did feel guilty every time another one arrived. He had now written six times in three weeks. But hearing his voice reminded her what a great time she'd had with him down in Kent.

  With the wedding just three months away now, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to forget about Paul altogether, but that little pregnancy test kit had changed all that. If things had been different, maybe her and Paul would have got it together, but too many plans had been made to think about him now.

  As far as she was concerned, if she wanted to have the baby, then she had to convince Ray that the baby was his. That wouldn't be too difficult either. Since she had got back from staying with Debbie, they had been at it like rabbits, with. Ray keen to do the business whether he had come suitably equipped or not. Tonight, on the back seat of his car, he didn't even get the chance to put a Durex on. Carol told him she preferred it without and her frantic whispers for him to come inside her meant he hadn't bothered to waste time putting one on.

  Carol was surprised that Tony or Debbie hadn't told Paul about her getting married in the near future anyway. Whatever, she was sure he'd soon get the message that she wasn't interested in him when he still didn't get any reply to his letters.

  Chapter 10

  FRIDAY morning, and Paul was up at the crack of dawn. He was at the market before most of the stall holders had even started setting out, and he had to wait a good twenty minutes before Alan's van pulled up.

  "Alright, my son," Alan said, as he jumped out of the driver's side. "Come to do a decent day's work have we'?"

  "Yeah, if there's any work going," said Paul, looking to Alan's Dad.

  "Course there is," replied the old man. He had a soft spot for Paul, and knew he always got a full day's work out of the boy. "And you can start by getting us all a hot cup of tea. It's bloody freezing today!"

  "Tell me about it," replied Paul as he headed off to the catering van. "I've been stood here freezing me balls off waiting for ya!"

  Despite the cold, the market was jam packed and the stall had one of its best days since Christmas, and when it came to three o'clock and pay time, Paul was well pleased to find three brown notes shoved into his hand. Thirty quid for a day's work wasn't bad in anybody's book, especially when the tax man wouldn't be seeing a penny of it.

  "Thanks a lot, Mr. Green."

  "No worries, son," replied Alan's old man. "Now you two behave yourselves and I'll see you later."

  The two skinheads watched as the van pulled away and then headed towards a pub on Rochester High Street. A few beers and a cheese and pickle roll was just what the doctor ordered after a day on the market.

  As they walked in to be greeted by the pub's warm air, Paul saw Carl Wallis sitting by himself up at the bar.

  "Alright, Carl," he said patting his mate on the back. "What you doing here this time of day?"

  "Alright, Paul," Carl replied, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face in a virtually empty boozer. "Me boss heard about me going to court and sacked me."

  "That's a bit steep ain't it?" said Alan. "Surely he can't sack ya for something you did outside of work?"

  "Yeah, well I told him I was at the dentist when I was at court. Then he read about it in the Evening Post, didn't he."

  "You soppy bastard," Paul said, shaking his head. "Here, what are you drinking?"

  "Pint of lager please, Paul."

  The three friends spent another hour or so in the pub before Alan decided it was time he was making a move. "I've got a hot date tonight with this bird who lives in the same street as me," he boasted. "And fuck, can she go!"

  "Take it easy then, mate," Paul said. "And save some of that energy for tomorrow!"

  "No worries. Catch you two later!"

  With Alan gone, Paul asked Carl what he had planned for the evening.

  "Nothing much," said Carl who had planned to carry on drowning his sorrows until he ran out of cash.

  "How do you fancy coming to a party then with me and Tony. You remember Tony don't you?"

  "Yeah, course I do," replied Carl, thinking back to their school days. " Sounds good to me!"

  "Right, let's shoot back to my place for something to eat and I can get out of these clothes."

  As they approached the front door of Paul's flat, both knew something was wrong. The door wasn't closed properly and the door frame had been smashed where the lock should have held it shut.

  Flinging the door open, Paul rushed into the flat, calling out to his Mum. "Mum! Mum! Are you alright?"

  He burst into the kitchen and found his Mum sitting at the table, sobbing into a handkerchief.

  "What the fuck happened?" he said, looking around at the walls. Everywhere had been sprayed with aerosol paint. FUCK YOU! screamed two big red words above the fridge and other obscenities covered every spare bit of wall surface you could see.

  "I came back from the shops this afternoon," his Mum said, "And we'd been broken into. They took the TV and video and some of my jewellery."

  Carl came into the kitchen just in time to hear Paul's mother explain what had gone on. He had already been into the living room and it was in a real state. Not content with robbing the place, the bastards had smashed up a display cabinet and everything inside it too. It was mostly worthless stuff, but no amount of money could replace the years of memories that had been destroyed in what must have been minutes. The spray-can artist had been at work in there too, leaving his mark on the walls, the three piece suite, the carpet, everything.

  "Did you call the police Mrs. West'?" Carl asked, trying his best to be of some help.

  "Yes, they came and took some details, but said it was the seventh burglary they've been called to in as many weeks on the estate and don't expect to get anything back."

  "It ain't the TV that matters!" Paul said with real anger in his voice. "Look what the bastards have done to the place!"

  "It'l1 be kids looking for money for drugs," Carl said. "They do the same over my estate."

  Paul couldn't stand to see the place looking like this. His Mum had worked hard to keep this council flat looking like a real home since his Dad had died, and some bastard decides to ruin it as part of an afternoon's thieving. He walked past Carl and headed for his a bedroom.

  "Fucking bastards!" he shouted as he opened his door. His room had been ransacked and his Gillingham poster had been ripped from the wall and left in shreds on the floor. And as a final insult, someone had done a shit on his bed.
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br />   Carl soon appeared at his bedroom door and surveyed the mess. "Any idea who has done this, mate?" he asked.

  "Take your pick! This estate is crawling with drug-taking scum who would steal from their own mother to get a fix. Come on, let's get out of here!"

  Leaving his Mum alone to face up to the aftermath of the break-in wasn't the kindest thing Paul could have done, but he just couldn't stand being in that flat a second longer. Even after downing two pints in record time, he was still feeling as frustrated as he had when he'd seen the mess the bastards had made of his home. Frustrated that there was fuck all he could do to put it right.

  Carl came back from the bar with more drinks. "When you find out who done it, mate, give me a shout and we'll get them sorted."

  Paul smiled at Carl. He was grateful for his company and appreciated the offer, but he shouldn't have to rely on Carl for back up. His own skinhead crew should be there for him, but when it came down to it, they never were. Just like in London when he took that kicking in the pub toilets. How nobody noticed what was going on still bothered him, not that he'd said anything. And why the fuck weren't Tony and Debbie helping him with Carol? Some fucking mates they were turning out to be. The more he thought about it, the more he began to think that he was wasting his time in the Syndicate.

  "One thing's for sure," Carl continued, "the Old Bill won't do fuck all. Even if they catch them, they'll be out on bail within a day or two doing more houses."

  "You ain't wrong there," Paul said as he started on his new pint.

  It was a strange conversation to be having. Few people would have expected two yobbos with criminal records to be giving it the big one about law and order, but all the same Paul knew Carl was right. If justice was to be done, he would have to administer it himself Anyone who thought different was away with the fairies.