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

“sussi” belt. The scream nearly turned my hair grey. It took a week to get my eyes back in my head.
    I can still remember the look of shock/horror on Mum’s face. Profuse apologies followed from Mum, with sideways glares at me. The young woman had an amused look on her face. It seemed like I’d won another lady over with an innocent look and a soft touch.
    My happy habit was brought to an abrupt end, however, when I got separated from Mum while shopping in a big department store in the city centre. I thought I’d just wait for her in the shop window, with one of the mannequins. They found me in the usual pose of thumb in mouth, hand up skirt, all in front of an amused crowd of onlookers. Poor Mum went home in shame again and tied a pair of gloves on me, and that was the end of that little avenue of pleasure.
     
     
    The bangs on the door weren’t the usual polite knocks. I looked back at the others. “This might be it, all ready?” I opened the door enough to see out.
    I’d made three phone calls after the visit by the two thugs. The first call was to Gary, at work. He was a New Zealand Maori, winner of literally hundreds of bloody episodes, who told me once that his introduction to white people was his grandfather giving him an ankle bone to chew on! He was cool, calm and deadly in violent events. He also had a wicked sense of humour. One night a huge black guy, who was a known troublemaker, came to the door that Gary was working. Gary refused him entry.
    “You’re only not letting me in ’cause I’m black.”
    “Look mate, I’m not racially prejudiced, I like Al Jolson!” Gary replied.
    This huge man blinked, mouth opened, shut, turned and left, nowhere to go but home.
    Second call was to Jimmy. My best mate. Gary had introduced us and got Jimmy a job on my door, back-stopping me on the weekends, though sometimes it seemed the other way round.
    On the first night we worked together alone after the “gang of thirty” night, I was politely explaining to four inebriated young fellas why I wasn’t letting them in. Jimmy was on the next stair up from me, against the wall. As they were arguing/pleading/ threatening, Jimmy leaned over the top of me and, wild-eyed, screamed “FUCK OFF!” at them and slammed the door. Just before it slammed I witnessed four gobsmacked guys who’d died in the arse.
    I was rolling around inside for ten minutes trying not to laugh out loud. He looked like Charles Manson, or the other way round, bigger and scarier to look at, with a wicked sense of humour. “You gorra have a laff in this game, lah, or you’ll go rats!” says Jimmy, with a grin.
    Gary told me that legends abounded about him. He was a seaman when he was younger. Whilst in a bar in South America he’d stabbed seven locals who weren’t keen on seeing him leave the place alive. He was jailed for mutiny in Spain and when in New York he’d had a T-shirt made: “Mug me I dare you.”
    Nobody touched him.
    First time I saw him in action we’d finished for the night and gone to where Gary was working. As we entered, Gary asked if we’d stay loose in the foyer – trouble brewing inside – no problem. A few minutes later Gary and Terry go through the double-doors into the disco. The next thing – BANG – this guy comes flying through the doors, like Clark Kent who hadn’t had time to put his Superman costume on.
    I straightaway side-stepped, dropped into a good strong stance, guard up, good to go, while Jimmy side-stepped the other way, with his coat still over his left arm. His right hand caught the back of this guy’s head and, while still in the air, ran it straight into a poker machine behind him. The guy was unconscious before he hit the ground and Jimmy’s heart rate wouldn’t have increased one beat. That’s a natural. I learnt many things from ol’ Jimmy.
    My third phone call was to Rolo. Ultra dependable Rolo. Gary had introduced us a year before and he’d become a firm friend. We’d shared a