What the hell. After a summer in which all the tabloids had spent their time running stories which claimed that the Sex Pistols cut up dead babies onstage and that your average punk was just as likely to bottle you in the face as say hello, hardly surprising that the cops would believe almost anything of someone who wore all the bondage gear. Was he guilty? Well, it seemed like he was their best bet …
Davis turned on the television, but there wasn’t anything on the news about the killings.
New Faces
on LWT. Couldn’t stomach that so he turned it over and got the last ten minutes of
Dr. Who
on BBC1, followed by Bruce Forsyth and the bloody
Generation Game.
Still, at least in the film slot there was a double bill later on of
House of Dracula
and Corman’s
Fall of the House of Usher,
kicking off just after 10 p.m. Saturday night, though. What did they expect? Sometimes it looked as if they felt that anyone over the age of about fourteen or under the age of sixty would definitely be out and about having a wild time, so why bother?
He turned off the TV. All right then, if all else fails, do some work. Went to the fridge, dug out a beer, and sat down in front of the Olivetti manual typewriter. The neighbors never liked hearing the clatter it made, but then fuck ’em; their kids had been playing the sodding
Muppet Show
album all week at huge volume on what appeared to be continuous repeat, and when the father ever succeded in commandeering the record player it changed to the fucking Allman Brothers and
The
Fucking
Road Goes On For
-fucking-
ever.
All of it. Several times. In the same evening.
Jesus wept.
No, a little typing at 7 p.m. was hardly enough to repay them for that kind of abuse.
The punk film article was done and dusted, due to hit the newsstands in a week or so, but he still had a piece to write for some arty French cinema magazine which was right up itself but paid surprisingly well. He supplied them with stuff written in English, which they then translated and printed in French. Who knows if they did a good job or not. He didn’t care, and no one he knew ever saw the stuff. Mostly they wanted pretentious toss of the worst kind, and he was happy to oblige, under a pseudonym. This time, though, he’d sold them on the idea of a subject that actually interested him. Still, better not run this one under his real name either, all the same. Okay, the magazine only sold about 20,000 copies a time, virtually all of them across the channel, but you never quite knew who might be reading it, putting two and two together.
Another swig of beer. Light up a fag. In with a new sheet of paper. Here we go:
CHELSEA ON FILM
Next time you’re in London on holiday, take a walk down
the King’s Road. Now notorious for the exploits of some
of Britain’s new ‘punk rockers,’ it also has much to interest
the student of film history.Did you know that Stanley Kubrick shot parts of
A Clockwork Orange
right here in the neighborhood? Try
catching the underground to Sloane Square station, then
walk down the King’s Road until you reach number 49,
the Chelsea Drugstore. Malcolm McDowell’s character,
Alex, picks up a couple of girls in the record shop here
before taking them back to his flat for an orgy. Then, if
you continue in the same direction up the road, turning
left onto Oakley Street, you’ll come to the Albert Bridge. It’s here, in the pedestrian underpass which runs beneath
the northern end of the bridge, that McDowell is given a
severe beating by a gang of tramps toward the end of the
film.While you’re there, look back along the Chelsea
embankment about a hundred feet and you’ll see an
imposing Georgian house which is number 16 Cheyne
Walk. It was in one of the upstairs bedrooms that
Diana Dors was smothered to death with a pillow in
Douglas Hickox’s hugely entertaining 1973 horror film,
Theater of Blood,
starring Vincent Price as a homicidal
Shakespearean actor.Retracing your steps back to the Chelsea Drugstore,
turn off at the road leading down the side of it called
Royal Avenue. Another fine Georgian house, number
30 Royal Avenue, was used as the location for Joseph
Losey’s 1963 film,
The Servant,
in which Edward Fox
treats his manservant Dirk Bogarde almost like a slave,
until the latter starts to get the upper hand …
He paused and sat back in his chair, consulting his notes.
Blow Up
,
Killing of Sister George
,
The Party’s Over
… Yeah, there were enough other ones to pad out the article. Shame to waste all that research.
And anyway, how many coppers could read French?
L
ove it. Fuckin love it.
No other feelin in the world like it.
Better than sex. Better than anythin.
There we was, right, an there they was. Just before the Dagenham local elections. Outside the community center. Community center, you’re avina laugh. Asylum-seeker central, more like. Somali center.
June, a warm night, if you’re interested.
Anyway, we’d had our meetin, makin our plan for the comin election, mobilizin the locals off the estate, we come outside, an there they was. The Pakis. The anti-Nazis. Shoutin, chantin—Nazi scum, BNP cunts. So we joined in, gave it back with Wogs out an that, Seig heillin all over the place. Pakis in their casual leathers, anti-Nazis in their sloppy uni denims, us lookin sharp in bombers an eighteen-holers. Muscles like taut metal rope under skin-tight T-shirts an jeans, heads hard an shiny. Tattoos: dark ink makin white skin whiter. Just waitin.
Our eyes: burnin with hate.
Their eyes: burnin with hate. Directed at us like laser death beams.
Anticipation like a big hard python coiled in me guts, waitin to get released an spread terror. A big hard-on waitin to come.
Buildin, gettin higher:
Nazi scum BNP cunts
Wogs out seig heil
Buildin, gettin higher—
Then it came. No more verbals, no more posin. Adrenalin pumped right up, bell ringin, red light on. The charge.
The python’s out, the hard-on spurts.
Both sides together, two wallsa sound clashin intaya. A big, sonic tidal wave ready to engulf you in violence, carry you under with fists an boots an sticks.
Engage. An in.
Fists an boots an sticks. I take. I give back double. I twist an thrash. Like swimmin in anger. I come up for air an dive back in again, lungs full. I scream the screams, chant the chants.
Wogs out seig heil
Then I’m not swimmin. Liquid solidifies round me. An I’m part of a huge machine. A muscle an bone an blood machine. A shoutin, chantin cog in a huge hurtin machine. Arms windmillin. Boots kickin. Fueled on violence. Driven by rage.
Lost to it. No me. Just the machine. An I’ve never felt more alive.
Love it. Fuckin love it.
I see their eyes. See the fear an hate an blood in their eyes.
I feed on it.
Hate matches hate. Hate gives as good as hate gets.
Gives better. The machine’s too good for them.
The machine wins. Cogs an clangs an fists an hammers. The machine always wins.
Or would, if the pigs hadn’t arrived.
Up they come, sticks out. Right, lads, you’ve had your fun. Time for us to have a bit. Waitin till both sides had tired, pickin easy targets.
The machine falls apart; I become meself again. I think an feel for meself. I think it’s time to run.
I run.
We all do; laughin an limpin, knowin we’d won.
Knowin our hate was stronger than theirs. Knowin they were thinkin the same thing.
Run. Back where we came from, back to our lives. Ourselves.
Rememberin that moment when we became somethin more.
Cherishin it.
I smiled.
LOVED IT.
D’you wanna name? Call me Jez. I’ve been called worse.
You want me life story? You sound like a copper. Or a fuckin social worker. Fuckin borin, but here it is. I live in the Chatsworth Estate in Dagenham. The borders of East London/Essex. You’ll have heard of it. It’s a dump. Or rather, a dumpin ground. For problem families at first, but now for Somalis an Kosovans that have just got off the lorry. It never used to be like that. It used to be a good place where you could be proud to live. But then, so did Dagenham. So did this country.
There’s me dad sittin on the settee watchin Tricia in his vest, rollin a fag. I suppose you could say he was typical of this estate (an of Dagenham, an the country). He used to have a job, a good one. At the Ford plant. Knew the place, knew the system, knew how to work it. But his job went when they changed the plant. His job an thousands of others. Now it’s a center of excellence for diesel engines. An he can’t get a job there. He says the Pakis took it from him. They got HNDs an degrees. He had an apprenticeship for a job that don’t exist no more. No one wants that now. No one wants him now. He’s tried. Hard. Honest. So he sits in his vest, rollin fags, watchin Tricia.
There’s Tom, me brother, too. He’s probably still in bed. He’s got the monkey on his back. All sorts, really, but mostly heroin. He used to be a good lad, did well at school an that, but when our fat slag bitch of a mother walked out, all that had to stop. We had to get jobs. Or try. I got a job doin tarmacin an roofin. He got a heroin habit. Sad. Fuckin sad. Makes you really angry.
Tarmacin an roofin. Off the books, cash in hand. With Barry the Roofer. Baz. Only when I’m needed, though, or seasonal, when the weather’s good, but it’s somethin. Just don’t tell the dole. I’d lose me jobseeker’s allowance.
It’s not seasonal at the moment. But it’s June. So it will be soon.
So that’s me. It’s who I am. But it’s not WHAT I AM.
I’m a Knight of St. George. An proud of it. A true believer. A soldier for truth.
This used to be a land fit for heroes, when Englishmen were kings an their houses, castles. A land where me dad had a job, me brother was doin well at school, an me fat slag bitch of a mother hadn’t run off to Gillingham in Kent with a Paki postman. Well, he’s Greek, actually, but you know what I mean. They’re all Pakis, really.
An that’s the problem. Derek (I’ll come to him in a minute) said the Chatsworth Estate is like this country in miniature. It used to be a good place where families could live in harmony and everyone knew everyone else. But now it’s a run-down shithole full of undesirables an people who’ve given up tryin to get out. No pride anymore. No self-respect. Our heritage sold to Pakis who’ve just pissed on us. Love your country like it used to be, says Derek, but hate it like it is now.
And I do. Both. With all my heart.
Because it’s comin back, he says. One day, sooner rather than later, we’ll reclaim it. Make this land a proud place to be again. A land fit for heroes once more. And you, my lovely boys, will be the ones to do it. The foot soldiers of the revolution. Remember it word for word. Makes me proud all over again when I think of it.
An I think of it a lot. Whenever some Paki’s got in me face, whenever some stuck-up cunt’s had a go at the way I’ve done his drive or roof, whenever I look in me dad’s eyes an see that all his hope belongs to yesterday, I think of those words. I think of my place in the great scheme, at the forefront of the revolution. An I smile. I don’t get angry. Because I know what they don’t.
That’s me. That’s WHAT I AM.
But I can’t tell you about me without tellin you about Derek Midgely. Great, great man. The man who showed me the way an the truth. The man who’s been more of a father to me than me real dad. He’s been described as the demigog of Dagenham. I don’t know what a demigog is, but if it means someone who KNOWS THE TRUTH an TELLS IT LIKE IT IS, then that’s him.
But I’m gettin ahead. First I have to tell you about Ian.
Ian. He recruited me. Showed me the way.
I met him at the shopping center. I was sittin around one day wonderin what to do, when he came up to me.
I know what you need, he said.
I looked up. An there was a god. Shaved head, eighteen-holers, jeans, an T-shirt—so tight I could make out the curves an contours of his muscled body. An he looked so relaxed, so in control. He had his jacket off an I could see the tats over his forearms an biceps. Some pro ones like the flag of St. George, some done himself like Skins Foreva. He looked perfect.
An I knew there an then I wanted what he had. He was right. He did know what I needed.
He got talkin to me. Asked me questions. Gave me answers. Told me who was to blame for my dad not havin a job. Who was to blame for my brother’s habit. For my fat slag bitch mother runnin off to Gillingham. Put it all in context with the global Zionist conspiracy. Put it closer to home with pictures I could understand: the Pakis, the niggers, the asylum-seekers.
I looked round Dagenham. Saw crumblin concrete, depressed whites, smug Pakis. The indigenous population overrun. Then back at Ian. An with him lookin down at me an the sun behind his head lookin like some kind of halo, it made perfect sense.
I feel your anger, he said, understand your hate.
The way he said hate. Sounded just right.
He knew some others that felt the same. Why didn’t I come along later an meet them?
I did.
An never looked back.
Ian’s gone now. After what happened.
For a time it got nasty. I mean REALLY nasty. Body in the concrete foundations of the London Gateway nasty.
I blamed Ian. All the way. I had to.
Luckily, Derek agreed.
Derek Midgely. A great man, like I said. He’s made the St. George Pub on the estate his base. It’s where we have our meetins. He sits there in his suit with his gin an tonic in front of him, hair slicked back, an we gather round, waitin for him to give us some pearls of wisdom, or tell us the latest installment of his masterplan. It’s brilliant, just to be near him. Like I said, a great, great man.
I went there along with everyone else the night after the community center ruck. I mean meetin. There was the usu-als. Derek, of course, holdin court, the foot soldiers of which I can proudly number myself, people off the estate (what Derek calls the concerned populace), some girls, Adrian an Steve. They need a bit of explainin. Adrian is what you’d call an intellectual. He wears glasses an a duffelcoat all year round. Always carryin a canvas bag over his shoulder. Greasy black hair. Expression like he’s somewhere else. Laughin at a joke only he can hear. Don’t know what he does. Know he surfs the Internet, gets things off that. Shows them to Derek. Derek nods, makes sure none of us have seen them. Steve is the local councillor. Our great white hope. Our great fat whale, as he’s known out of Derek’s earshot. Used to be Labour until, as he says, he saw the light. Or until they found all the fiddled expense sheets an Nazi flags up in his livin room an Labour threw him out. Still, he’s a true man of the people.
Derek was talkin. What you did last night, he says, was a great and glorious thing. And I’m proud of each and every one of you.
We all smiled.
However, Derek went on, I want you to keep a low profile between now and Thursday. Voting day. Let’s see some of the other members of our party do their bit. We all have a part to play.
He told us that the concerned populace would go leafle-tin and canvasin in their suits an best clothes, Steve walkin round an all. He could spin a good yarn, Steve. How he’d left Labour in disgust because they were the Pakis’ friend, the asylum-seekers’ safe haven. How they invited them over to use our National Heath Service, run drugs an prostitution rings. He would tell that to everyone he met, try an make them vote for him. Derek said it was playin on their legitimate fears, but to me it just sounded so RIGHT. Let him play on whatever he wanted.
He went on. We listened. I felt like I belonged. Like I was wanted, VALUED. Meetins always felt the same.
LIKE I’D COME HOME.
The meetin broke up. Everyone started drinkin.
Courtney, one of the girls, came up to me, asked if I was stayin on. She’s short with a soft barrel body an hard eyes. She’s fucked nearly all the foot soldiers. Sometimes more than once, sometimes a few at a time. Calls it her patriotic duty. Hard eyes, but a good heart. I went along with them once. I had to. All the lads did. But I didn’t do much. Just sat there, watched most of the time. Looked at them. Didn’t really go near her.
Anyway, she gave me that look. Rubbed up against me. Let me see the tops of her tits down the front of her low-cut T-shirt. Made me blush. Then made me angry cos I blushed. I told her I had to go, that I couldn’t afford a drink. My jobseeker’s allowance was gone an Baz hadn’t come up with any work for me.
She said that she was gettin together with a few of the lads after the pub. Was I interested?
I said no. An went home.
Well, not straight home. There was somethin I had to do first. Somethin I couldn’t tell the rest of them about.
There’s a part of the estate you just DON’T GO. At least not by yourself. Not after dark. Unless you were tooled up. Unless you want somethin. An I wanted somethin.
It was dark there. Shadows on shadows. Hip hop an reggae came from open windows. The square was deserted. I walked, crunched on gravel, broken glass. I felt eyes watchin me. Unseen ones. Wished I’d brought me blade. Still, I had me muscles. I’d worked on me body since I joined the party, got good an strong. I was never like that at school. Always the weak one. Not anymore.
I was kind of safe, I knew that. As long as I did what I was here to do, I wouldn’t get attacked. Because this was where the niggers lived.
I went to the usual corner an waited. I heard him before I saw him. Comin out of the dark, along the alleyway, takin his time, baggy jeans slung low on his hips, Calvins showin at the top. Vest hangin loose. Body ripped an buff.
Aaron. The Ebony Warrior.
Aaron. Drug dealer.
I swallowed hard.
He came up close, looked at me. The usual look, smilin, like he knows somethin I don’t. Eye to eye. I could smell his warm breath on my cheek. I felt uneasy. The way I always do with him.
Jez, he said slowly, an held his arms out. See anythin you want?
I swallowed hard again. Me throat was really dry.
You know what I want. Me voice sounded ragged.
He laughed his private laugh. I know exactly, he said, an waited.
His breath was all sweet with spliff an alcohol. He kept starin at me. I dug my hand into my jacket pocket. Brought out money. Nearly the last I had, but he didn’t know that.
He shook his head, brought out a clingfilm wrap from his back pocket.
Enjoy, he said.
It’s not for me an you know it.
He smiled again. Wanna try some? Some skunk, maybe? Now? With me?