Skinhead Away

By Marcus Blakeston

They wanted a romantic weekend by the sea ...

They weren't looking for a fight ...

But you have to defend yourself ...

Right?

A ska festival draws thousands of skinheads from across the country to the sleepy seaside town of Cleethorpes. Local residents and day-trippers look on in horror as the town is taken over by shaven-headed masses wearing boots and braces. But much to their surprise, the weekend unfolds peacefully.

That is, until a group of drunken bikers think it would be a good laugh to smash up a few scooters, thinking they must belong to mods. Revenge is swift and vicious, but the bikers have friends too. Friends who are more than eager to settle the score.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcus Blakeston
• Release date: Jul 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476097329

Book preview

Skinhead Away

Copyright © 2012 by Marcus Blakeston. All rights reserved.

Cover photo derived from an original work by Dean Ashton.

Smashwords edition 2012.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental. But if Cleethorpes really did exist it would be the best fucking seaside town in the world.

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Also available by Marcus Blakeston

Meadowside

Punk Rock Nursing Home

The Meat Wagon

Bare Knuckle Bitch

Punk Faction

Biker Sluts versus Flying Saucers

1

Trog felt the bed lurch to one side with a screech of rusty bedsprings, then bounce back up when Mandy climbed out. He moaned, still only half awake, and rolled over to occupy the space she had vacated. It was warm, and still carried her scent. Trog smiled and clutched the pillow, then drew it toward himself imagining it was Mandy as he breathed in the musky aroma. His eyes flickered open just in time to see Mandy bent over before him, picking up her bra and knickers from the floor. Trog grinned, suddenly wide awake.

Fuck me, what a sight to wake up to.

Mandy turned and smiled down at him as she clipped her bra on back to front around her waist.

Go back to sleep, it’s still early.

Mandy spun the bra around and lifted the cups over her breasts, then shuffled her arms through the shoulder straps. Trog yawned and stretched out his arms, enjoying the view.

Why, what time is it? he asked.

Just gone six.

What? Well what are you doing up then? Get back in here.

Trog pulled back a corner of the bedcovers and looked up at Mandy expectantly. When she didn’t respond he patted the mattress next to him, sending up a small cloud of dust.

Mandy sat down at the bottom of the bed, setting the springs off creaking again, and manoeuvred her feet into her knickers. She stood up and bent down slowly, giving Trog another quick flash before she pulled them up and snapped them into place around her waist.

I can’t sleep, I’m too excited, she said.

Yeah well, you’re not the only one after that performance. Anyway, who said anything about sleeping?

Mandy turned to face him. Her eyes lingered on Trog’s erection poking up through the bed covers and she smiled.

Didn’t you get enough of that last night?

Does it look like it?

Yeah well, you’ll have to wait. I want to try on some clothes for Cleethorpes. I haven’t worn my skinhead gear for years now, and I need to check it still fits.

Trog ran his hands across the short stubble over his crown and clasped them together behind his head. He propped himself up on a pillow to get a better view of Mandy posing before the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door. She was brushing out her feather-cut, the only part of the skinhead look she still kept from her youth.

What made you give it up? Trog asked.

Mandy glanced quizzically at Trog’s reflection in the mirror while she continued brushing. Give what up?

Your skinhead gear.

You don’t think I’m too old?

Nah, don’t be daft. You’re only, what, twenny-five?

Twenty-six.

"Yeah well, same difference. Anyway, you know what they say, you’re only as old as the man you feel."

Mandy laughed. She put the hair brush down on a nearby dressing table and picked up a small cordless battery operated shaver. She flicked it on, and it buzzed in her hand like an angry wasp.

So how old does that make me then?

Trog’s face reddened. He had assumed Mandy knew how old he was, and hoped his answer wouldn’t put her off him. It had started out as a bit of a laugh when Mandy had first come onto him in the Black Bull, following a bust up with his girlfriend. Trog had been egged on by his mates, who taunted him that he would never be able to pull a fit old bird like Mandy. But over the few weeks they had been together he had grown quite fond of her, and didn’t want it to end just yet.

Nineteen, he said. He looked down at his toes and wiggled them under the bedcovers, then looked back up at Mandy to check her reaction.

Mandy’s eyes widened as she stared at him through the mirror. After a short pause, she shrugged and looked away.

Put some music on, yeah? But not too loud, these walls are paper-thin and I don’t want the old couple in the next flat complaining to the landlord again. We probably kept them awake half the night as it is.

Trog smiled to himself as the memories flooded into his mind. Mandy was certainly an energetic lover, and it was a toss up between which made the most noise, the rusty bed springs or Mandy’s yells and squeals.

It had been the first night Trog had slept over at Mandy’s bedsit, and it had been her idea for him to stay the night. It would mean they could make an early start for the trip to Cleethorpes, she had said. Not that Trog needed any convincing. He still couldn’t believe his luck that Mandy had chosen him out of all the other skinheads who frequented The Black Bull. It wasn’t as if he was anything special to look at.

He peeled back the bed covers and sat up, feeling self-conscious about his naked body in the cold light of day. He was a bit overweight, he knew that, with the beginnings of a beer belly threatening to take over his physique. But what he was embarrassed about the most was his lack of height. At just over five foot tall, he was shorter than everyone he knew – including Mandy, though she herself was only a few inches taller.

But Trog would never let his insecurity over his height show in public. To everyone else who knew him, and certainly to those who didn’t, he was a cock-sure skinhead who took no shit from anyone, and was always the first into battle when any trouble kicked off.

He spun his legs out of bed and pushed down on his penis with the palm of his hand, but his raging hard-on

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