' You will do what we tell you! We will do the telling!'"
'We will do the kicking!'
'We will do the thinking!'
It was late afternoon. Three young boys had wandered around a low wall of an old delapidated graveyard. Unwittingly they had uncovered a lair of drunken skinheads. Cider bottles lay unceremoniously strewn about the tombstones. Cigarette butts grew from the soil in abundant numbers. Some of the headstones were scorched from the flames of a bonfire; burning near a shrub where the roots spread like crippled arthritic fingers coming up from the dank soil.
Tom looked in terror at the features of the face on which the mouth threatening him was offset to a broken nose. He recoiled at the sight of the teeth in that cavernous filthy mouth.
One of his teeth were capped in a putrid yellow veneer. His lips thin and vicious. The vaccuous look in the skinhead's eyes were evident of drug abuse. His face was skeletal and close to death. Suddenly Tom was struck across the face by a sovereign ringed fist.
The blow knocked him to his feet and it was all he could do not to cry out in terror. He received a kick to the side of his head and his mind reeled with the conviction he was about to die. He was pulled to his feet and lifted to the face of his tormentor.
'You scummy little *******!'
'What are we going to do with you?'
'You and your mates are going to build a den with all the debris about you. Start collecting them broken slabs and bring them to the fire!'
A roar of laughter came from the bonfire.
Five other skinners looked on in hallucinatory amusement as Ned Marlo gave the eight year old kid a kick up the ****.
All this time young Tom's friends Martin and Robert watched as Tom was further brutalised and got a frightening going over. They were terrified and mute with shock. It was dusky now and a cold breeze chilled their tears which poured from their horrified eyes.
Getting slowly to his feet Tom started gathering old stones and slabs.
Dates stared back at him from the headstones.
William Crawley died 1882 devout husband - succumbed to typhoid God have mercy on his soul
Tom would die in this very graveyard. He was sure of it. The skinheads were out of their heads on drugs. One of them had taken out a razor blade and was waving it in front of Robert.
Now it was dark. A moon watched intensely from a point so far away it was powerless to intervene.
Peering up from the stoney ground in curious wonder were the eyes of a very large rat.
Then more eyes as if they had come to witness this horrible scenario.
Instinctively and with great courage for a young man, Tom grabbed them in his arms and hurled them at the startled skinners.
Then he ran for the gap in the wall as if his life depended on it.
He ran and ran and ran like the hounds of hell. Martin and Robert ran like prize Olympians behind him.
'Come back you little *******!'
'You shower of *******, come back!'
Still the young boys ran and even the Devil would not catch them in that moment.
The grave of William Crawley suddenly subsided and Ned Marlo fell into the typhoid ridden abyss.