the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 101: All the Young Punks

I don't know how I'm gonna tell you,
I can't play with you no more;
I don't know how I'm gonna do what mama told me,
My friend, the boy next door;

I can't believe what people saying,
You're gonna let your hair hang down;
I'm satisfied to sit here working all day long,
You're in the darker side of town...

- "That's the Way" Led Zeppelin, 1970

"Say it—SAY IT!"

How had this happened? It was just supposed to be a concert...

"Didn't you hear me? I said say it!"

He couldn't think. Didn't know what to think. Where was Tomny?

"I'm gonna give you one last chance... Either you say it, or things are gonna get a whole lot nastier."

I'm King 'a the dock! I'm King 'a the dock!

He would not say it.

* * *

Earlier that night...

It was a hard sell trying to convince Sirius that they couldn't just leave the van and ride the motorbike all the way back to London. Sirius finally relented after Remus pointed out that he didn't actually have a motorcycling licence, and that he didn't fancy dying a miserable death along the M4 on his birthday, but it took promising to return for the bike come proper weather to get his stubborn ass into the van. So long as Monty didn't mind a little sharing, that was.

"You're sure we can park the van here?" Remus asked, wrenching the gear shift into park. It was just after six and they were in the West End. The streets seemed lively enough, though how many were on their way to the same place as them, Remus couldn't be sure.

"It's fine, stop worrying!" Sirius called, practically leaping from his seat and slamming the van's door after himself. "We don't have time to go all the way home anyway. Now c'mon, we'll miss the opening act!"

Undoing his seatbelt, Remus slid out and came to join Sirius on the pavement. He noticed a smear of grease on his left temple, the only remnants of their wild morning spent zipping up and down the Devonshire streets. "At least you'll blend in with the dirty punks," he teased, using his thumb to wipe it away.

The Clash were playing at the Lyceum Ballroom, an old theatre that'd been made over and revamped more times than Bowie's career. They had to hurry just to make it there on time, but upon arrival, they found a crowd big enough to rival any one of James' covetous football games. There were punks and Jamaican rude boys and mod revivalists with their mopeds. As promised, the Anti-Nazi League had congregated themselves along the Strand with their small rally of banners and bullhorns. There were other tables set up, mostly bearing the names of sympathetic council members and various other trade unions, and along the street a large gathering of police officers had taken it upon themselves to help direct traffic. Remus could tell by their dour looks that they were not as excited to be there. A few were carrying riot shields, pacing uneasily; the only thing standing between the League and those taking offence to their being there in the first place.

Despite the looming presence of police, another throng of people had assembled across the street, these ones carrying boards and placards bearing various slogans in support of the National Front and all their fascist-favouring allies. Through megaphones of their own, they shouted obscenities and foul abuses to all that were gathering. Thankfully the nearby streets were so loud that the noise of the traffic and crowd's eager yammering all but drowned them out. Remus doubted they'd be putting up with the snub for long, but the police were out in force, and they had a concert to get to.