Geoff Nicholson - Still life with Volkswagens

“Well yes,” says Barry. “How are you?”

“Oh,” Davey replies, “I’ve completely lost the plot,” and then he cavorts away into the mass of people.

“You know,” says Fat Les, “this isn’t a bit like Butlins.”

They drink some more. They listen to the music and they watch the dancing. A few of the revellers are looking exhausted, but that doesn’t slow them down, and a few are crying, though whether that’s because of the agony or the ecstasy it’s hard to tell. Then Barry feels a hand on his shoulder. That’s not so strange. The flailing of limbs around him leads to all sorts of involuntary contact, but the hand tightens, becomes painful, and starts to pull him round. Barry turns to protest and sees Butcher’s big ugly face staring at him in delighted disgust.

“You know me, don’t you?” says Butcher.

“Er no, I don’t think I…”

“Yes you do. You’re the lad who’s so handy with a pot of coffee.”

Barry is about to insist that he knows nothing about any pot of coffee. However, before he can speak, Butcher grabs him by the collar and raises his other fist.

“Hey,” says Fat Les, who has, of course, had some previous dealings with Butcher, “leave him alone. This is Ishmael.”

“I don’t care what his fuckin’ name is.”

“He’s a good lad,” Les insists. “Let go of him.”

“Stay out of this you fat git. He’s got a beating coming to him, and you can have one as well if you want.”

“Who are you calling a git?”

And suddenly fists are flying. Barry tries to hit Butcher in the face but that only sets him off on a frenzied attack in which he tries, with surprising success, to kick, punch and headbutt Barry all at the same time. Barry holds him off as best he can, but this conspicuous flurry of violence brings other skinheads running to the fray. Barry is knocked to the ground where he is given a damned good kicking, and the skinheads only stop when Fat Les points out that Barry’s white and English and a Volkswagen driver, and if they really want to do some kicking there are more satisfying targets at hand. The skinheads grudgingly accept this, regroup and walk away looking for fresh prey. When he’s sure they’re gone, Barry staggers to his feet, and with Les’s help manages to get to the comparative safety of somebody’s empty teepee not far away. He falls in and sits down, speechless, nursing his wounds.

“They shouldn’t have done that,” Fat Les says.

The teepee looks like an increasingly good place to be. Outside, the music is getting more demonic and intolerably loud, and something, maybe the drugs or maybe the music or maybe a dangerous combination of the two, is having a pretty weird effect on the crowd. Some of them are throwing up, some are sobbing uncontrollably, some are crawling on their hands and knees, some have adopted a foetal position.

Then the sound of engines starts; a familiar roar, flat-four, air-cooled Volkswagen engines. The sound comes from all directions, rising and falling, fierce and threatening, and then the skinheads’ Volkswagens are in action, driving at terrifying speed into the mass of people. The crowd panics, tries to scatter and part, but there’s nowhere to go. The low black Nazi Beetles drive them back and forth like sheep being herded by mad dogs. People are terrified; the fires, the noise, the bad drugs, the strobes, the lasers, the killer Beetles coming at them from all directions. They scream and stampede. They rush back and forth in ragged waves, but they’re constantly driven back; there’s no escape, nowhere to run to. The cars demolish tents and stalls. People get hit by the speeding cars, knocked over, run down. Exhaust smoke and terror hang in the air. The skinhead drivers think it’s the best fun they’ve ever had. They’ve produced total chaos, total fear and hysteria; a suitable atmosphere and backdrop, an appropriate warm up act.

The cars suddenly cease their attacks. The drivers head for the edge of the field, where they park their vehicles and get out, leaving their Volkswagens to stand like mechanical sentries, silhouetted against the ring of flame. The music stops dead, leaving an awesome silence, and the light show finishes. The stage is in darkness for a long time until a spotlight hits the back cloth and picks out a lone, dark, powerful figure. It is Phelan. His hands are raised in a victory salute. His whole posture says Obey me, Worship me. All the crowd’s attention focuses on him, all their eyes, all their minds full of weird visions, full of strange, hard-edged colours. They are compelled to watch. Now he has something in his hands, what looks like a toy Volkswagen, and he holds it out as though giving it to the crowd. He picks up a microphone and speaks to them, his voice full of metallic reverb. He says, “This is my talisman. This is the source of all my power,” and he begins to speak about Adolf Hitler and white supremacy and ethnic cleansing. This is all going to take some time.

In the teepee Barry is starting to get his senses back. He feels pretty terrible but oddly enough, Fat Les looks to be in even worse shape. They can hear Phelan’s voice. They can tell something terrible is happening.

“What the Hell’s going on out there?” Barry asks.

But Fat Les doesn’t give him an answer, he simply repeats, “They shouldn’t have done this.”

“You’re telling me.”

“No, I mean they really shouldn’t have done it.”

“What do you mean?” Barry asks.

“I’ve done some terrible things,” says Les.

“Haven’t we all?”

“Not like me,” says Les. “I have a profound need to confess.”

“Is this really the time?”

“Yes it is. You see it was me who blew up all those Volkswagens.”

“You?”

“Yeah. I did it. I did it all.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I think maybe Cheryl Bronte was half right. I guess I just got sick of Volkswagens. You know, there was a time when I lived and breathed Volkswagen Beetles. They were my work and my play, my hobby and my profession. They were good years and I wouldn’t have had it any other way, but as time went by I started to change. I suppose basically I started to get a bit bored. I started to think there might be more to life than Volkswagens. But I didn’t give them up. How could I? I was Fat Les the Vee Dub King. How else was I going to make a living? So I carried on, but the magic wasn’t there any more. I didn’t resent it exactly but you know, whereas it had once been an obsession, maybe even a love affair, it turned into just a job. Then as time went by I did resent it. I started to get fed up. I started to get cynical. I got to the stage where the mere sight or sound or the mere mention of a Volkswagen Beetle made me feel sick. But still what could I do? By then I’d got the place in Southend. I had a business to run. I’d got debts and responsibilities and people working for me. I couldn’t just jack it in. But something had to give, otherwise I’d have gone completely bonkers. I had to do something to express this pent up anger and frustration. So I started blowing up Volkswagens.”

“But you kept telling me it was Charles Lederer who did it.”

“Of course I did. That’s what I wanted everyone to believe. It suited me just fine. And when his daughter started believing it too, that was even better. And if they caught him and put him inside for being a raving old nutter that would have been better still. I’d have got away with jt completely.”

“Oh God,” says Barry. “This is going to play terrible havoc with your karma.”

“I realise that. It was all so simple. I’d get Volkswagens coming in to Fat Volkz Inc from all over the country; needing a new petrol tank here, a new dashboard there, a new wiring loom somewhere else. I did the work as asked, but while I was at it, it wasn’t so difficult to hide a little explosive device somewhere in the car, with a timer to make sure it was a long way from me when it finally blew up.”