“The two with ginger hair, on the car,” he said, “they’re Brennan’s twins, can’t tell ‘em apart. I don’t know the two in the middle and the lanky one on the right is Micky Whittaker.”
He had a shaved head and a pattern marked on his scalp. “What’s that on his head?”
“A tattoo, bulldog.”
“His father is mixed up with some neo Nazi group.”
“Yes and his father gave his life fighting the fascists. Died in Malaya, and now sonny boy’s running round celebrating Hitler’s birthday.” Contempt riddled his voice.
“I’d better get them off the car,” I said. “I pulled my coat back on and Mr Poole followed me to the door. I opened it and called out. “Can you get off the car, please.”
Jeers and catcalls. One of the twins mimicked me, “Can you get off the car, please,” and the other echoed him.
“Needs scrapping,” Micky Whittaker kicked a tyre with his boot. “We can do it for yer, you’ll get the insurance.”
I resisted joining in the banter and repeated my request.
“We’re not hurting it,” said one of the twins “are we?” he turned to the others.
“No,” they chorused.
“Get off the car.”
“Alright, alright,” said the other twin.
“She’s shitting herself,” one of them sniggered.
My cheeks burned but I tried not to react.
“Come on, lads,” Mr Poole’s voice was hard but not threatening.
“Alright, grandad, who’s yer visitor?”
He took a step down and went to the gate. “She’s my niece, up from London and her auntie is poorly in the hospital so I’d appreciate a bit of peace and quiet while she’s staying here, OK?”
There were shuffles and sniggers and a soft “‘kin‘ell” from one of them as they shambled off down the road.
Half an hour later the motorbike I’d seen on arriving became the focus for some excitement. The driver roared it up and down the Close screeching to a halt at the bottom where the gang had congregated.
I told Mr Poole that I’d film some of this for the record.
“If you need anything,” he said, “just give us a yell. I’ll be in the back room,” he gestured in that direction.
“What time do you go to bed?” I felt slightly foolish asking but I didn’t want to disturb him.
“Oh, I’ll be up till you’re done.”
“Are you sure, it’ll be after two?”
“I only need a couple of hours these days,” he said, “don’t worry about me.”
I went upstairs and shut the door so no light would spill into the room. I settled myself in my niche. I filmed ten minutes of antics with the motorbike and managed to get close-ups of each of the lads. The main aim of the game seemed to be revving it up as hard as possible then racing up the Close and squealing to a halt with a skid. There weren’t any girls hanging about. I wondered what they were doing while their boyfriends and brothers played Easy Rider.
