Название: Are you talking to me?: A Life Through the Movies
Автор: John Walsh
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
isbn: 9780007441198
isbn:
The Baxter Gang started to appear all over the place. (I never knew their real names, but the skinny oik in Lavender Sweep had borne a faint resemblance to Chris Baxter, a nice, inoffensive kid in my class at school, so Baxter became the generic name for everybody who was out to whack you in the face for no reason.) The worst time was in February 1964. It was another Saturday afternoon, and I was walking up St John’s Hill to the Granada cinema when someone behind me said, ‘Got the time, John?’ Thinking it must be a friend, I stopped, turned round, and found myself sandwiched between two teenagers. One was about fifteen, a standard-issue Battersea thicko, but his friend was older and nastier – maybe eighteen or nineteen – and clad in a skinny macintosh through which he was clearly freezing. He was unshaven and undernourished.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Just keep walking, John,’ said the thicko. ‘We just want a little chat.’
What could I do? Since we were walking up the hill, it would be hard to run away up the steepening gradient. I didn’t fancy hurling myself into the traffic. As for turning round and running away down the hill, it never even occurred to me. You just don’t run away down a hill. We walked along, line abreast, in an awkward silence. Nobody tried to make conversation. Then one of them said, ‘How much money you got? Gimme all the money you got.’
I actually laughed, rather bravely, at that point. ‘I’m only ten,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any money. How much money do you expect a ten-year-old schoolboy to have on a Saturday afternoon?’
They didn’t argue the point, even though I was (they’d spotted) a future Rich Ponce. Instead: ‘Take off yer watch,’ said the unshaven one. ‘No I won’t,’ I said firmly.
It was a good watch, with an electric-blue face. My mum had bought it for me. I’d picked it out myself from the window of Laucher’s Jewellery and Clocks emporium on the Queenstown Road, and accessorised it with a thick, metal-studded leather strap. It was a prized possession.
‘Take it off, or I’ll –’
‘No I bloody won’t,’ I said, astonished to hear myself swear. ‘Just push off.’
The tall freezing youth brought up the pocket of his raincoat, through which poked something long and thin. It pointed at my stomach.
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