Free The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) by Robin Barratt Page A

saw, for a split second, was the sole of his shoe going up past my nose and the wind of the fastest, strongest sidekick I’ve ever been in front of. It gave a blow-wave to the front of my hair. Terry didn’t even break stride, just kept walking. I nodded and smiled. I looked at the gathered gang, all standing there gobsmacked.
    Terry sauntered back over to me and quietly said, “Just go and tell them nicely to leave now, John. We’re closed.”
    “Enjoy your night, lads? Time to leave now,” I said, with a friendly smile.
    “Yeah, yeah, we’re goin’. Listen, who are these guys who just came in?”
    While I discreetly pointed each of them out, and their credentials, the mob went pale.
    “I was told to tell you that if this EVER happens again [pause for effect], then there’ll be the greatest practical demonstration of martial arts you’ll ever see. Goodnight now.”
    This episode we called, “The art of fighting without fighting.”
    That’s the way we worked the doors back then – interlocking, all for one.
     
     
    The four men stood before the black door in the wide alleyway. The hackney cab waited at the corner, its diesel motor running.
    On the other side of the door, four of us waited.
    I knew something serious was going to go down by the performance from the night before when two large, mature strangers had rocked up on a quiet Wednesday night. The boss had been down, talking to me, and he’d let them in. The look of them and the smell of hashish off them sounded big warning bells in my head as I saw them swagger up the stairs. “I shouldn’t have let them in, should I?” says the boss.”But it’s a quiet night so it should be OK.”
    I just shrugged.
    About thirty minutes later the sound of screams and smashing glass had us charging up the stairs into the club itself.
    One of these thugs had just KO’d a young woman because she wouldn’t dance with him.
    I grabbed, spun and leg-swept him. Grabbing the back of his jacket, I dragged him through the double-doors to the top of the stairs.
    As he tried to get up I jumped on top of him and tobogganed him down the stairs, banging his head as often as I could on the way down. He was out cold when we stopped at the bottom. I dragged him into the alley for some Afghani soccer with my steel toe-capped shoes. I can’t stand men who hit women – lowest of the low in my book.
    His mate came bowling down the stairs, looking worse for wear, thanks to several of the locals. He was screaming that we were all dead and that they were going to trash the place, mentioning the name of my playmate as though we should all know it. He came back with his car and loaded his pal in. They took off, screaming and cursing. “I think we’d better take this one seriously,” says the boss.
    So here we were, the four of us; Gary, Jimmy, Rolo (another mate) and me. Stand by, stand by …
     
     
    My earliest memories were of sexy Auntie Fran, Mum’s other sister, who also lived with us for a while until she got married. She was a big-busted, hip-swinging, red lipstick, suspender belt and nylons with black lines running up the back kind of woman. And I loved her for it … I was three at the time!
    I used to sit under the table while she had her breakfast, sucking my thumb, with my hand up her skirt, playing with her suspender nylon fastener! At first, of course, she tried to stop me. But looking under the table into my big, brown, loving eyes, she couldn’t say “No”.
    It became a ritual, sitting down for breakfast, not looking under the table.
    “Morning, Johnny.”
    “Morning, Auntie Fran.”
    “Happy down there, Johnny?”
    “Ummm.”
    “That’s good.”
    Things started to get out of control, though, when she wasn’t around. I was standing at a bus stop with Mum. Another young lady came and stood next to me. She looked down and smiled. I smiled back and put my thumb in my mouth. As she looked away my hand just went naturally up her skirt, looking for the