Smoothies by Richard Allen (New English Library 1973)

 

Weller’s clubbed fist ached to smash into his target’s gut. He came forward as the Smoothies and Sorts separated in silent agreement. This wasn’t - for them – the time to pick a fight. None of them had come armed for aggro.

Bright headlights coned into the parking lot as an ancient banger chugged up the slight slope from street to pub.

Acting on instinct, Weller held back. What was on his mind did not require witnesses.

The car turned in a wide circle, weaving through the remaining vehicles on the lot. Like a gigantic insect crawling across an ocean of concrete it finally came to a halt, twin beams spotlighting the frozen tableau of youths and fuzz.

‘Put those damned lights out,’ Ford shouted.

The lights snapped off.

Weller closed his eyes tight. In the obscure gloom he had lost his sight. Cursing mentally he assumed they were all suffering from the same dilemma.

He was wrong!

Nero had not stared directly into the brilliance. He could see. And a tremor of anticipation raced through him.

There were five of them. Climbing from the ancient car they formed a formidable line in front of their transport.

Brass!

The word screamed from Nero’s brain. He’d heard of them but never actually seen one. And he didn’t mean brass as applied to Soho tramps and stripclub tarts.

These were the Brass - an exclusive formation of ex-skins dedicated to violence, terror and everything touching on the televised portrayal of IRA and UDA thuggery in Ireland.

Weller’s eyes opened. He could see now.

‘Wot’s the scene, man?’ a Brass ‘captain’ asked.

Nero’s lips were dry. ‘Frisk,’ he said with a croak.

‘Fuzz !.. ’ The word spat from the ‘captain’ as he lit a cigarette. In the match flame his insignia showed briefly crossed legs crudely cut from a brass fender.

‘What the blazes,’ Ford said. This was something he had not been geared to expect. The para-military ‘uniforms’ looked familiar - right down to the woollen caps covering skinhead features. Even the pick-axe handles bore a striking resemblance to those yobbos over in Belfast and Derry.

‘This,’ the ‘captain’ said and waved.

Like a swarm of irate wasps the other four Brass attacked. Ford fell to a savage blow. Weller knocked aside when he attempted to grab an axe handle from a flank man.

‘Don’t kill ’em,’ Easy Eileen yelled.

Weller heard her plea, faintly. He saw the brutal blow scream down at his head - and the lights all went out.

‘Kick the bastards,’ the ‘captain’ called.

Boots went in.

‘Youse lucky we came along,’ the Brass ‘captain’ told Nero. ‘Christ, we been lookin’ fer fuzz fer an hour.