Wait Out part 3 (is it true?)

I, on the other hand, feared one person, my Dad. He was a big man, not just in stature; his presence filled any room. Despite his size, he was as quick as lightening, and struck just as effectively. As John Brown found out, one Saturday afternoon…
I was twelve at the time and had just had my first proper sexual encounter with John’s twenty three-year-old girlfriend, Christine. I say ‘proper’ as from an early age sex was very much a part of our gang culture. That and nicknames that is. Having said this I never had a nickname although most of the gang did, Jeff Amor was Jed, Tony Rowley, Rolls and Peter Humphries, Pump. Many other lads joined our gang but we were the core. To become a ‘bona fide’ member, the initiate had to stand perfectly still whilst an existing member thumped him in the face. At such a young age, the damage was minimal. Once a member we were inseparable. Even in our sex life, we were inseparable.
As early as eight, Jed and I used to trample down a path through the summer fields of Rosebay Willow Herb and four foot long grasses which encircled the grounds of Hanley High, Boys School, situated on the edge of Bentilee, Europe’s largest council estate. At the end of the path, out of sight of any prying eyes, we pushed down the vegetation to form a sort of crop circle. In this area, we placed the girls Susan, Janet, Sandra and Gail. Others would come along from time to time, but these were the favourites. At twelve, their bodies were just about ripening. Some would have better breasts than others, so when we were fondling we would ‘mix and match’, feeling the tits of one and fingering and poking another. When we’d had enough, Jed and I would sit at the entrance and await the arrival of the boys. They’d all want a look and a feel so we charged them three pence for the privilege of visiting our girls. All the girls living on the estate were fair game, even the very young ones weren’t allowed past our houses without first pulling their knickers down to give us a look.

John Brown’s Christine was special though; I’d known her for years. She lived with her parents at the back of our house until she was twenty, then she left home and rented a Council flat in the next street. Although very close, it was a street I had little to do with, until I changed from Junior to Senior school. The trip to Berryhill Junior High took me straight past her door. As I’d already decided that school was not for me, I took the opportunity to take off as much unofficial time as possible. Unfortunately, I was the only gang member to go to Berryhill. The rest went to a school in the opposite direction. This was due to my being expelled from their school, in the first week, for an assault on the art teacher who I hit when he stood between me and John Goodwin, just as I had Goodwin in a great position to ‘nut’ him square on the nose. So as not to give the truancy game away, I used to leave home walking in the direction of my school and then double back to meet up with the gang. We did this virtually everyday, meeting at a lamppost across from Christine’s flat. She worked as a croupier in a local casino and would often be looking through her window as we met up. Over the weeks, she nodded, we waved, she smiled, we giggled, she spoke to us, we responded, shyly at first. She was tall, very slim, and attractive with long, wavy brown hair. As we took more time off school, she would let us stay in her flat, out of sight of Bob Stoddard, the local ‘school board man’. As time went by her conversation turned to our sex life. She would ask us in turn how many girls we’d been with and what we’d done. Over the weeks, the ‘truant’, gang dwindled away, frightened that they would be caught. Being caught was the furthest thing from my mind, and so, I spent a lot of time, talking with Christine. She wanted to know all the details of my sexual encounters; and how I would love telling her. Likewise, she could hardly contain herself as she described her sexual fantasies. When I first visited with the gang, she wore everyday clothes, now, on my own, she would often wear a cheap nylon nightdress, or tight sixties ‘tank tops’ with mini skirts. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she had worn a trench coat and boots. As far as I was concerned, I was in love. I would fantasise about her at every opportunity. Up until this point though, there was nothing more to it than boyhood dreams.

This all changed one rainy October morning, when I walked to the meeting point. None of the lads were there. I stood in the pouring rain getting absolutely soaked. I looked up at Christine’s window. It was empty. Dejected, I turned to walk away, there was a knock, I looked up to the window, Christine was there, with a broad, welcoming smile, she beckoned me in. The flat was warm and cosy, a red glow flooded from the wall mounted, three bar, electric fire. Christine left the room and re-appeared in her shortest nightdress, clutching a large, white, bath towel. She carefully dried my hair, loosened my clothes, removing them layer by layer, until I stood naked. She patted the towel gently around my rock hard boyhood. I never before, or since, felt anything so erotic. All of my deepest fantasies were being fulfilled. We moved to the bedroom and climbed under the covers. She slowly removed her clothing, helping herself to me as she licked her fingers before stroking herself, moaning, as she approached her climax. She reached out, her hand encircling my hardness, my inexperience showed as I ejaculated with the first couple of strokes. Undeterred, she fondled me back to life, abusing me, time after time.

The rest of the gang were green with envy when I told them.

Many other similar occasions occurred. However, nothing compared with the first encounter. Later the whole thing went horribly wrong when someone told Christine’s boyfriend, John Brown. At twenty-four, John was one of the estate’s hard men. His younger brother, Tony, was my number one enemy. Whenever we met, we fought. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the better of him, although he always came out the worst for his injuries. Nevertheless, lose or not I was determined, I wouldn’t give in, and so our warring relationship continued for many years. Not surprisingly, Tony took advantage of the situation and told his brother where he could find me. Even at twelve, I had a bit of a reputation. John was no fool and planned his attack, just in case. He was a cunning bastard and set me up by arranging for one of my mates to call for me, and to give me a lift on his motorcycle to our favourite, local pub. It was the kind of pub that would serve anyone. My drinks were paid for.

In a drunken haze I was transported from the pub back to the gang’s gathering point outside a series of small shops on the estate. As we arrived, my head was swimming. I swung my leg awkwardly over the seat, steadying myself, as I planted my foot on the swaying ground. I turned to the gang, and met John’s face. He said nothing, smiled, and took a hold of my ‘hipster’s’ belt, as if to admire it. Naturally, I looked down. Seconds later I was on the floor. John, taking the advantage, had drawn back his fist and with all his strength landed it smack on the side of my jaw. I had no time to react, lying on the floor; I looked up as he kicked me full force in the face. The whole thing burst open, blood pouring from mouth, nose and cheeks. Moments later, I was rescued by my Dad’s mates, who were drinking at a nearby pub. They pulled John off me and telephoned for an ambulance. Shortly after reaching the hospital, my Mum and Dad arrived. Dad questioned me, but I couldn’t answer. In the attack my teeth had been forced through my tongue, it was held together by a sliver of flesh and a series of tiny clips put their by a bitch of a nurse. I spent the night in hospital arriving home Friday afternoon. By this time, my Dad had met with his mates and, although he didn’t know the reason, he'd been told that John Brown was responsible. My Mum pleaded with him not to take the matter any further. As always, Dad took no notice. On Saturday afternoon, John Brown walked past our house, Dad leapt to his feet, ran outside, and challenged him, I watched from my bedroom window as John let fly, hitting my Dad Square on the nose. That’s all it needed, Dad retaliated with a hail of blows which absolutely floored John, he hadn’t a hope in hell of a second chance. My Mum pulled my Dad away. John lay on the ground helpless. Dad was white with rage; he pulled away from my Mother, leapt in the air, and stamped on John’s face.
Ironically, many years later, John became a friend of the family, and like so many of the estate’s characters, he spent many years in prison and died alone of heart and lung disease. My Mum and Dad, were two of the seven people who attended his funeral.

Neither of my parents asked about the reason for the attack and I never told them. Likewise, I didn’t tell them three years later, when I went to the local Community Hall where sixties groups like the ‘Swinging Blue Jeans’, and ‘The Searchers’ often played. John was there with his mates. The venue was notorious for gang violence. On this particular Friday night, I was dancing away when I became aware of a commotion by the entrance. I went across, and looking outside, saw a rival gang assembling. I turned to the youth next to me and told him to take a bottle with him as protection. Later, I went outside. The Bentilee gangs had assembled, and were standing around, waiting. The rival gang had come over from another estate at Coalville. Everyone was standing around, no one would start the fight. Out of the crowd a rival gang member came forward and pointed at me.

“This bastard’s packing a bottle,” he said.


I quickly realised that he was the youth I’d spoken to in the Hall. Within seconds, his gang surrounded me.

“Let Titch in” he continued.

The wall parted and in stepped a little fart carrying a black, studded leather jacket. It was like something from a Roman Empire movie. ‘Bollocks’ to this I thought, and threw my bottle towards the wall at face height. A gap appeared and I was through it. Titch swung his jacket, catching me at the back of the head; the pain was awful, seconds later, I could feel the trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. As I ran past the crowds, I glanced towards my gang. The Bentilee contingent were well out of it, none were coming to my aid. In the sea of people, John Brown’s face shone through. The rival gang gave chase; I knew the streets well and dodged into the backs of the houses. The gardens were dark and safe. I dived under a hedge, and looked back. I could clearly make out the figures, of my pursuers, the streetlights illuminating them as they searched. They had no chance. I’d spent most of my life in these gardens, hiding from the local police. Realising they were out of luck, the rival gang turned their attention back to the Bentilee boys. A great battle broke out, I watched in safety. Then, as if Heaven sent, I could see John Brown coming towards me, escaping from the fight and unaware of my presence. ‘Bingo’ I thought, the twat’s here. In the darkness I probed the undergrowth and found half a house brick. I picked it up, waited as he approached, and with absolute timing, I hit him full in the face, he went down like a lead balloon, he never made a sound. The rustle of the hedges was the only indication of my presence. Everything went quiet again and I moved away without a sound.

Two days later I saw John, he had a series of stitches across his forehead, leading over his right eye and stopping at his cheekbone. With his black eyes and swollen nose he reminded me of Chi Chi, the Panda I’d seen on Johnny Morris’ Animal Magic.

….