Meadowside Read Online Free Page B

mates, who wore their Shefferham United colours with pride. Yellow replica football shirts, yellow and red Shefferham United scarves around their wrists, and the regulation Skumfuckers camouflage shorts with the secret pockets that were perfect for hiding weapons in.
    Two of the Chelterton Boot Boys had a young woman between them. One at the back yanked at her hair and she stumbled back, her arms flailing as she cried out. He pulled her down to her knees, then onto her back, and ripped a handful of hair from her scalp. The one at the front dropped down and copped a feel of her tits while she screamed in agony.
    Smiffy’s blood boiled. He wasn’t having that. Not on his fucking manor.
    “Oi, Chelterton!” Smiffy shouted. He held his arms before his chest in a Celtic cross, his fists clenched, knuckles facing the enemy. “Let’s fucking have it then, you cunts!”
    “Let’s just fucking do the bastards,” Johnno snarled. He raised his arms and held the same Celtic cross pose as Smiffy. “Oi, you fucking Chelterton cunts!” he yelled. “Skumfuckers are going to fuck you up!”
    Stonker steamed into action without a word, his football scarf trailing behind him as he ran. Smiffy knew better than that. He untied the scarf from his wrist and draped it over the outstretched arms of a bronze soldier for safekeeping. Johnno placed his scarf next to it. He looked at Smiffy and grinned. Smiffy grinned back and nodded.
    “Skumfuckers!” they shouted in unison, and following Stonker’s lead they ran straight for the two men molesting the young woman.
    Stonker had already caught one of them square in the face with his cherry-red Doc Martens and had him on the ground. He straddled him and dropped down to his knees, then leaned forward as his calloused fists went to work on the man’s face.
    Johnno launched a steel-toe-capped boot at the back of the other man’s head. It landed with a loud crack and the man slumped forward over the woman’s body. Smiffy bent down and grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt. He pulled him off the woman and looked down at her. She was unconscious, her dress torn open, her bra pulled down. Her breasts were bloody, covered in bites and scratches.
    “You fucking dirty cunt,” Smiffy shouted, and lay into the man’s face with his boots.
    He kicked and stamped, continued venting his rage long after the man lost consciousness. He dropped a Skumfuckers calling card next to the man’s pulverised face and took out his phone. He bent over the man and lined up the viewfinder in his phone’s camera to include both the man’s mashed up face and the You’ve been Skumfucked gold embossed lettering on the calling card.
    This was one to go in the Trophy album on the Skumfuckers’ Facebook page, and it had to be perfect. He straightened up and examined the photo, zoomed in to check everything was in focus. He left the calling card where it lay, so it would be the first thing the man saw when he regained consciousness. So there would be no doubt who was responsible for the scars he would carry for the rest of his life.
    Johnno and Stonker were gone when Smiffy looked up. He put his phone away and wheeled around to locate them, worried they might be swamped by the remaining Chelterton Boot Boys. But they were both handling themselves well enough, holding up the Skumfucker honour in good style.
    Johnno had hold of a man’s long, wet, straggly hair and was swinging him around by it. The man stumbled and fell, rolled onto his stomach. Johnno was on him in an instant. He raised his boot and stamped down on the back of the man’s head, crushing his nose against the wooden flooring. Smiffy could hear the resulting crunch of cartilage from where he was standing. That was another Chelterton Boot Boy who wouldn’t forget this day in a hurry.
    Stonker had another of them backed up against a shop window, his fists pummelling the man’s face. The man just stood there and took it. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even