Free Skinhead by Richard Allen Page A

– an illiterate Cockney with a fantastic sense of humour but nothing else to qualify him as Joe’s mate. Joe worked his fiddles with a recklessness that increased the thrill of robbing old age pensioners and old women too timid to object to his overcharging. He had a standard method of getting a few bob from every customer – he simply altered their half of the delivery slip to read a higher amount. If they argued, which was seldom, he argued back – and usually won. If they threatened to telephone the company he’d back down with a grin and explain that some stupid bastard of a clerk had made a mistake.
    There were a few calls where fiddles were strictly verboten – like when they had a delivery to Mrs. Marrinor. He always let his mate heave the coal into her basement. And, naturally enough, he never appeared again until he had satisfied the middle-aged nympho’s craving for a “dirty coalman to jump on top of my lily-white flesh”.
    Oh, there were perks galore for delivering coal!
    Another non-fiddle place of call was on the estate. Mrs. “bleedin’ heart” Bassault, the French bird whose husband always seemed to be away on some ship or another. Joe knew all about her. She was the Point professional fuck. Any man with enough ready cash left after a night in the local boozer could stop off at her flat to avail himself of her excellent services regardless of whether or not he could, or could not, perform with a skinful on. Mrs. Bassault had never been known to fail when she was paid for relieving frustrations. One way – or another – she guaranteed results.
    This Monday they had six bags for Mrs. Bassault.
    â€œLook, mate,” Joe told his driver, “she’s due for it. Let me ’ave it today?”
    The older man screwed his piggish eyes into slits and considered Joe’s request. He had been thinking how nice it would be for himself. He hadn’t been getting his share off the old woman for weeks and he was overdue to make a personal delivery to Mrs. Bassault’s bedroom. “I dunno...” he said.
    â€œA quid if you let me...”
    â€œShit! I’d pay twice that to call at night.”
    â€œOkay, two quid!” Joe felt generous. He’d made forty-seven shillings that morning already. And, he had what was left of the robbery in his wallet, too.
    â€œDone! Ram her for me, eh?” the driver chuckled as he eased his lorry into the Point driveway and parked directly behind the Bassault block.
    Mrs. Bassault didn’t question Joe’s urgent knocks. She looked at him and said, “Coal today?” She stood back and added, “I’m short of cash but...” Her robe fell open displaying knickers and brassiere and expanses of creamy flesh.
    Joe crudely pulled the front of her knickers down and studied the pubic region. “Sorry, Mrs. Bassault – we’re short on cash this week. I’m afraid I can only deduct a quid...”
    â€œYou’re a big boy, “she replied. “I suppose...” She moved away as the coal-dust on his hand left a black mark down her gently-rounded stomach. Where his fingers had gripped her pink knickers the individual black prints showed too. She glared at these, and said testily, “I hate washing them, Joe.”
    â€œTake everything off,” he said, starting to unzip his flies. “I won’t dirty your bed today, either. The floor’s great.”
    She spread newspaper on the carpet, stripped and lay back with her thighs wide apart. Her hands came up, and out. “Don’t keep me waiting, Joe...”
    *
    â€œWas it good?”
    Joe inclined his head. “Like it always is... in, out, up, down and thanks for bringing the coal, Joe.”
    â€œWe’ve got Sally Vincent today, “the man said slowly, watching Joe’s face.
    Joe cursed. He should have studied the delivery sheet. If he’d known Sally was one of their customers