Two Faced. Garry Bushell
dined it – I had to tell him what to order. Next day, he’s brought the motor back looking all forlorn. Topped up he’s ended up in the fields at the top of her road, in the back seat of my motor, and he’s thought, “I’ve gotta sniff it first,” so he gets down there and she had the littlest panties he’d ever chewed on. He only went and swallowed ’em! He had constipation for three days, and when he give her one he said her eyes went like Nookie Bear!’
Potman exploded.
‘He must have gone on top then,’ observed Noodles.
‘So how come he thinks he’s got AIDS?’ asked Harry.
‘He’s getting funny old dizzy spells and all the fellas in his local are winding him up saying it’s the first sign. ’Cos they know he’s covered in tattoos – he’s got a spider on his bell-end with a cobweb over his nuts, and on his arse he’s got a bulldog on each cheek with a snake disappearing down the old brass eye. So now they’re asking questions about how clean is the tattooist, is it dirty needles? Bottomless insists the fella is pukka and all the needles are sterilised. So they say if it ain’t a dirty needle it must be poofery, he’s obviously been lifting the shirt, and he gets the right hump about that. But they keep on and on about it until finally he says, “Hang on, I give the old lady one up the back every now and then, does that count?”’
Harry and Potman were crying with laughter, even Noodles was doubled up. Ronnie slumped back in his bed, beaming.
As the chuckles ebbed away, he looked at the Hell’s Angels anxiously.
‘Thanks for helping us the other day, lads. Did you get any repercussions?’
‘Nah,’ said Potman. ‘They didn’t know who we are. I don’t think Southall registers on the old North London radar.’
‘You never did tell me what your problem was.’
‘We are being burglarised,’ said Noodles, indignantly. ‘Us!’
‘We noticed a month ago that all the nice mag wheels from the scrap motors were going missing,’ said Potman. ‘Some cunt was having us over.’
‘So we had CCTV camera installised and started recording everything on a Betamax video in the hut,’ Noodles went on.
‘Days passed and nothing on film,’ said Potman.
‘Nix.’
‘So we decided we needed to hole up in the yard ourselves overnight, and we wanted a few more bodies as back-up, ’cos as you know it’s a big yard, not like your little toy-town hovel.’
‘Thanks, lads,’ said Ronnie sarcastically. ‘But surely you’ve got back-up over your way?’
‘Yeah,’ said Potman. ‘But we can’t turn to someone like the Marley brothers, ’cos odds-on they’re the stinking arse-wipes with the sticky fingers.’
‘The Marleys, I know it’s the Marleys,’ Noodles said grimly. ‘Of all the impertinosity.’
‘Well,’ said Ron. ‘I’d like to help you fellas, but as you can see I’m a little tied up.’
He paused. ‘Harry, on the other hand, could be just the job. Take the boy! I insist! He’s got fuck all else to do, and he won’t wanna work at Valley Metals with my brother Alf running the place while I’m in here. Miserable as a rat in a tar barrel, that bastard is.’
Potman looked at Harry. ‘What do you say, son?’
‘Why the fuck not?’
SCRAPHEAP CHALLENGE
September, 1986. Potman was showing Harry Tyler around the scrapyard he ran with Noodles near Southall in Middlesex. It was similar to Valley Metals but on a much larger scale. There were mountains of scrap in all directions, old fridges, clapped-out washing machines and row after row of cars, yesterday’s dream chariots now a wretched detritus of road crashes and abandoned vehicles. There were twisted wrecks and rusting hulks with dented bonnets and shattered windscreens as far as Harry could see in every direction.
‘See what I mean?’ said Potman. ‘The place is too big for two people to cover.’
It had rained overnight but the sun was shining now, leaving little puddles of gasoline rainbows, littered with discarded dog-ends.
Harry looked up at the sun.
‘Quite an Indian summer,’ he said.
Potman grunted. ‘Well, there’s enough of ’em round here.’
The big man was dwarfed by two leaning towers of car tyres as bald as Duncan Goodhew.
‘Yahoo, it’s me.’ A girl’s voice rang out.
Harry looked over to see an attractive teenager dressed like a refugee from the Isle of Wight Festival: long floral dress, silver boots, huge hooped earrings, round John Lennon specs, an abundance of beads and wrists covered in cheap bracelets. She had a funny upturned nose and her freckled face peered out through a ruffled haystack of curling auburn hair.
‘Eggy.’ Potman grinned. ‘Say hello to Harry Tyler, he’s one of us. H, meet the company secretary.’
Harry went to peck her cheek and the girl kissed him full on the lips, slipping a tongue mischievously into his mouth. That surprised him.
Harry drew back and took a better look at her. Beneath the flower-child rags, Eggy was a fit bird. She had dancing doe eyes, a playful smile and two small, pert breasts with nipples that stood proudly to attention under her dress. She wore no bra.
Potman laughed. ‘Come on H, I’ll show you the rest.’
The rest I would like to see, Harry thought, but he kept that to himself as the big man gave him a guided tour of his empire. The Angels’ office was the shocker. It made Ronnie Clavin’s look organised. The carpet was filthy with spilt alcohol, blood, dog-ends and gear burns. Fungus was growing on the yellow walls. The bin had long overflowed. Dozens of empty beer bottles lay around it like corpses on a battlefield. The desk was lined with half-empty takeaway containers.
Harry tried to hide his revulsion.
‘If you think this is bad, son,’ Potman said solemnly, ‘don’t use the khazi.’
After work, Harry joined the Angels in their local, the Red House. He had expected to find a pub full of head-banging rockers with more dandruff than brain cells but it was one of those real ale places with a mixed if mainly masculine clientele. Only a jukebox packed with boisterous rock anthems betrayed a less orthodox presence. Harry skimmed through the titles: ‘Up Around The Bend’ – Creedence Clearwater Revival; ‘Radar Love’ – Golden Earring; ‘Sylvia’ – Focus; ‘Centerfold’ – J. Geils Band; ‘Crazy Train’ – Ozzy Osbourne; ‘Bomber’ – Motörhead; ‘The Joker’ – Steve Miller; ‘The Trooper’ – Iron Maiden; ‘Jump’ – Van Halen; ‘Born To Be Wild’ – Steppenwolf; ‘Smoke On The Water’ – Deep Purple; ‘Jailbreak’ and ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ – Thin Lizzy; ‘In A Broken Dream’ – Python Lee Jackson; ‘Living After Midnight’– Judas Priest; ‘Wishing Well’– Free; ‘Wheels Of Steel’ – Saxon; ‘Voodoo Chile’ – Jimi Hendrix; ‘Tumbling Dice’ – The Rolling Stones; ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Outlaw’ – Rose Tattoo; ‘Paranoid’ – Black Sabbath; ‘Urban Guerrilla’– Hawkwind; ‘The Boston Tea Party’– Sensational Alex Harvey Band; about ten Elvis hits; and bang in the middle, sticking out like a porn star’s appendage, ‘Deck Of Cards’ by Wink Martindale.
It was ten years since punk but, aside from ‘Golden Brown’ by The Stranglers, the new wave had yet to gob and maul its way into this god-forsaken corner of Middlesex. The most recent song on there was ‘Kayleigh’ by Marillion.
‘Nothing tickle your fancy, Harry?’ Noodles asked.
‘I’m