Free Skinhead by Richard Allen Page B

he’d have let this bastard fuck the French whore.
    â€œI get ’er, eh Joe?”
    â€œYeah, you get Sally!”
    After he heaved the coal down Sally’s chute he returned to the lorry and sweated out the half-hour before his mate returned. His imagination ran riot thinking of Sally. He knew exactly what would happen inside her house... he’d been through the procedure often enough to visualize her performance. She didn’t believe in intercourse in the ordinary way. She didn’t want a bastard, she always said. She had her own pleasurable method for making her delivery men pay for her creature-comforts. The milkman for one, got his treatment every Monday. The laundryman got his on Friday. The gas and electricity blokes always came away swearing she had been a frugal customer. And, whenever she wanted coal, she got a delivery and a forty-five minute thrill. Not to mention what the coalman got.
    â€œHey, Joe... she let me into ’er...”
    Joe felt sick. Ever since he took this flamin’ job he’d wanted into Sally. Now, this old bastard had done the bit.
    â€œShe was pissed,” his mate kept saying. “Pissed! Seems she discovered her old man put one in her oven and she don’t give a cunt anymore!” The driver chuckled, got behind the steering-wheel. “Cor, she did give me one! I tell you – there ain’t no woman with a better set or a more active...”
    â€œFor chrissakes, dry up!” Joe shouted.
    He felt so rotten he didn’t even attempt to argue when an old age pensioner contested his charges. He changed her figures back to normal, stamped off to the lorry and growled for his mate to hurry. For once, the Cockney humour was lacking. His mate didn’t wish to rile Joe. He’d have ample opportunity to sleep in a cold bed that night and cogitate over his earlier success.
    *
    The church basement was crowded with clean, respectable teenagers. They were enjoying their weekly social and the vicar kept changing the discs and serving the coffee without one single word of discouragement.
    They were an exuberant crowd, perfectly content in the knowledge that St. James’s was a church young people could be proud of, and assured of a weekly welcome from the with-it vicar.
    Every Sunday, the church was able to boast of superlative attendances – mostly consisting of teenager adherents to the open policies that had initiated their decorous youth club.
    Peter Bloomfield studied the group dancing and inwardly congratulated himself for the success he had had with what had always been classified an unruly element in his district. In his opinion, God was not a harsh God, nor an authoritarian. God was love and love should be that emotion shared with one’s fellow man or woman (always depending, naturally, on the holy state of matrimony; he did not condone the permissiveness that certain elements of society tried to force churchmen into accepting).
    â€œHow are things at home, Albert?” he asked as a tall, thin youngster came to stand beside him.
    Albert Newton shrugged casually. He wasn’t one of those who accepted Bloomfield as the “teenager’s saviour”. He had his reservations and, mostly, they revolved around the vicar’s pet theory that sex before marriage was illicit, immoral, bad for a “God-blessed” union. Albert was virile and could always get any girl he went after. He enjoyed feeling around and exercising his manhood. For that reason he was the blackest sheep in the vicar’s little fold.
    â€œNot bad, Mr. Bloomfield,” he replied, conscious of the need to treat the man with a certain respect. He didn’t realise that it was this deference that made him Bloomfield’s special target. In the vicar’s mind, any teenager willing to show respect was worth saving.
    â€œHas your father found a job yet?”
    Albert grunted. “How could he?”
    There was no answer to that,