The Kingdom by the Sea Read Free Page B

headquarters of the religious sect known as the Jezreelites, or the New and Latter House of Israel"), they had entered this car. There were seven of them. They called themselves Skinheads.
    Their heads were egglike—completely hairless. But it was not baldness, there was no shine; they were pale gray shaved domes, with the bright white snail tracks of scars tagged over them. It was the size of the heads that I found alarming. A head without any hair is a small thing. It can look like a knob with eyes and ears. A human being is changed remarkably by hairlessness: the appearance is hardened and the person looks insectile and dangerous. They had tattoos on their heads, small symbols and words, and tattoos on their earlobes, and earrings. They were dressed identically in short leather bomber jackets, with a T-shirt underneath. The backs of their hands were tattooed. The Union Jack was the commonest tattoo among them. They wore very tight dungarees that were a bit too short, the cuffs reaching the tops of vicious high-laced boots. The boots were shiny; these boys were oddly clean; their faces were very white.
    "Look at that fucking bloke out there—what a silly cunt—"
    "'ey, leave off, you fucking wally!"
    They were frolicking on the seats, thumping each other and still shouting. Mr. and Mrs. Mould were drinking tea out of plastic mugs.
    "The long-range forecast called for fine weather," one of the Touchmores whispered.
    Then, behind me, I heard, "Daddy—" It was a child's small voice:
Dud-day.
    "Please, darling, I'm reading."
    "Daddy, why—"
    "Yes, darling?"
    "Daddy, why are those men saying 'fuck off'?"
    "I don't know, darling. Now do please let me read my paper."
    His voice was nervous, as if he had been holding his breath. I had certainly been holding mine. The seven Skinheads had disturbed the Sunday peace of this jogging train; they had brought uneasiness to the car. They were fooling, but their fooling was violent and their language was terrible and reckless. I am sure that everyone else in the car was paying close attention to our progress along the line. We had passed Sittingbourne and Faversham and were headed toward Whitstable.
    "There, Daddy, they just said it again. 'Fucking hell.'"
    "Hush, darling. There's a good girl."
    "And that one said fuck, too."
    "That's enough, darling." The man's voice was very subdued. He did not want anyone to hear. But he was just behind me, and his daughter was next to him—she could not have been more than five or six. I caught a glimpse of her. I was sure her name was Sharon.
    "Daddy—"
    Dud-day.
    "—why don't they put them off the train?"
    The man did not reply to this. He probably would not have been heard, in any case. The Skinheads were screaming and running in the aisle—one had the word
Skins
tattooed on his neck—and one little Skinhead, a boy of about thirteen, also tattooed and shaven and wearing an earring, was yelling, "You fucking cunt, I'll fucking kill you!" and kicking at another Skinhead, who was older and bigger and laughing at this little infuriated Skin.
    Heme Bay had a reputation for riffraff, but the Skinheads did not get off at Heme Bay. They were still swearing and kicking the seats and pushing each other as we pulled out of Heme Bay. And at Birchington-on-Sea ("grave of D. G. Rossetti, d. 1882, memorial window in the church"), one Skinhead screamed, "
I'll fucking kill you right now for saying vat!
"
    They had been an awful irruption, and they had brought a sense of terror to the car. Such language, such fighting! The day was damp-gray and peaceful, but these monkey-faced boys with their tattoos and their tiny heads had made it frightening. And all the while, the decent English people with lowered heads and mugs of tea were pretending that nothing was happening; and the Skinheads were behaving as if no one else existed—as if they were alone in the railway car. In that sense they were very English Skinheads.
    We came to