After attracting one stare too many from the young black guys going to and from the tower block, Mark thought he had better move on. On the way home a pulse of excitement went through him as he imagined what he would do in two days time. It was the sort of excitement he used to feel before a match, but now the only thing that stirred him was his plan to steal money from the wages office and the life he would then lead with Marcia.
Nestor Riley had moved decisively and made sure that he kept the cash both he and Desmond had collected. It was approaching sixty grand and he knew that his friend might be tempted to ‘borrow’ some of the money so he could repair the beloved but battered BMW he’d had to leave on the A5 in the early hours of Sunday morning. It had taken until Tuesday evening for the car to be towed back to Wolverhampton, at an exorbitant rate, and Desmond had wept and swore vengeance as it was deposited outside his place. He had once beaten up a man who had accidentally dented one of his cars with a bicycle and luckily for the populace of Nottingham, in 1981 firearms were a great deal scarcer than in the present day. So it was Jas who became the object of Desmond’s rage. Jas had been out all day scouring breakers’ yards to find replacement glass and lenses for the BMW and when he returned empty-handed Desmond threatened to beat him with a length of rubber hose.
‘Irie,’ said Nestor, as he walked in to see Jas cowering in a corner of the sitting room. Although he was not normally one to flinch from violence, he told Desmond that beating Jas was not going to get his car fixed. ‘Look, man, in a few weeks time you’ll ’ave the dunsai to get everythin brand new an’ pay fe the best paint job money can buy. It ain’t Jas’s fault there ain’t a lot of BMWs in the scrapyard, is it?’
Des put down the hose and sent Jas scuttling to the kitchen to cook some food. ‘So wha’ happen?’ Des asked Nestor. ‘Did the guys produce the readies?’
‘Yeah, even Norman an’ Audley come forward with a grand each. Cecil only come up with the same though. I thought he’d do more than that … You ’ave money?’
Desmond pulled two thousand pounds from his pocket. ‘Rudolph Naylor jus give me that. Him collectin it in hundreds from im congregation an’ promisin them one-fifty for every one hundred that them put in, so him mekin im cut fe Jesus already. Him seh he’ll be back with more.’
‘That’s how him make so much money already.’ ‘So ’ow much do we ’ave now?’
‘Includin this, sixty-one. That still leaves a heap to find, thirty-nine grand.’
‘Steve’s bluffin, man, he ain’t gonna turn down wha’ we raise,’ said Desmond.
‘Nah, he ain’t but he ain’t gonna give us the same deal either if we don’t come up with the hundred grand. Still, come Thursday Beanie an’ Mark will ’ave produced. The good reverend might come up with more but we still might ’ave to do somethin to raise the rest.’
‘Me tell you already, as long as it don’t include sellin mi batty or mi cars dem.’
‘I was thinkin more about your ole man. Him still ’as to be good fe thirty.’
‘Yeah, but we’d ’ave to kill the bastard to get it.’
‘Nah, you would ’ave to kill him but if we still short with the dunsai, I’m gonna go check him an’ like the Godfarda give him a hoffer him can’t refuse.’
‘Man,’ laughed Desmond, ‘the only ting him don’t refuse you, or any guy, don’t ’ave …’
13
Frank Grant read the afternoon edition of the Express and Star. ‘Wha’ did me say de odda day, eh? Black people front page news again. Mi ras, Horace, since when did you become a community leader?’
Horace sucked at his teeth. ‘Never mind dat, ’ow de Wolves get on last night?’
‘Win one-nil so dem scrape anodda season in de First Division. Dem lucky this time but me can’t see dem doin’ any better nex’ year. Down, is the only way dem-a go. Me ’ear there’s big money problems. Watch it now, dem build a fancy new stand an’ there’ll be no one it, to ras.’
‘To ras,’ sighed Horace. Frank had done his best but getting words out of Horace had been like pulling teeth. Sabina Park Rangers had been all about giving the local youth opportunities but the faces Horace had seen in the crowd outside Dunstall Road police station had stayed with him and he felt powerless in the midst of so much anger and hate. Frank ambled over to the bookies for the three o’clock race at Ascot and left him alone with his thoughts.
As he did with an increasing frequency, Horace was staring blankly out his window looking at the traffic on the Newhampton Road when the sound of footfalls on the stairs roused him. Courtney Wright and Carl Hooper had come to tell him why they had not made it to training the previous night. They had left Dunstall Road to look for projectiles, only to find that the police had cordoned off the whole area by the time they tried to return. Horace’s reaction, or lack of it, concerned Courtney. His coach seemed tired; it was as if a spark within him had dimmed. ‘Are you all right, H?’
‘Jus wonderin if anyting me ever do in dis damn place ’as made any difference,’ Horace said. ‘Me used to think football is more than a game, dat it mek a difference to ’ow young guys can live dem lives. But, when de final whistle blows, unno still ’ave to go back to livin de same lives. So me start to think dat all me ever do is provide a distraction fe ninety minutes.’
Courtney was about to offer some encouraging words about all Horace had done for young guys like him when Carl said, ‘Mi dog’s battyhole is better now so I ain’t gonna miss any more trainin, Horace.’
Horace tried to smile but there were too many other matters, besides the state of Eastwood’s battyhole, on his mind. ‘So, is dis town gonna blow, Courtney?’ he asked. ‘Jus a matter of time, man. Wha’ happened to Devon last night happens all the time. You know the Robinsons already, respectable people, but when I called around to their yard this mornin it was one house full of angry people. Even, Audley, an’ you know him don’t look fe trouble or nutten like that. But him a changed man now, H, if somethin kicks off Audley will be at the front of it.’
A heavy breath escaped from Horace; if someone as law-abiding as Audley Robinson was now thinking of rioting he figured that there was no chance for the town. He shepherded the two men out of his salon and put the ‘closed’ sign on the door. ‘So see you tomorrow at Aldersley?’ asked Courtney as they went downstairs ahead of him. At the foot of the stairs Horace gave a tired nod of his head and went into the gambling room.
Clovis Beckford was waiting at the school gates for Ian. There had been a call from Bert Tomlinson that afternoon to ask if Ian would turn up at Aston Villa’s Bodymoor Heath training ground that evening for a trial. Bert apologised and said it was such short notice because someone had dropped out and he was anxious that Villa should see Ian’s talent as soon as possible. Mona thought it very considerate of him.
‘Problem is, Mrs Beckford, the training ground is situated near Tamworth and it’s not an easy place to get to from Wolverhampton using public transport,’ explained Bert. She called her husband at his workplace to tell him the news. Clovis did not sound greatly enthused – and when she mentioned the problem with Ian getting there he said, ‘So you want me to stop work early so me can tek him?’
‘It’s his big chance,’ she said. Clovis put down the phone without saying anything else but Mona took heart as he had not refused point blank to take Ian to the trials. The dressing room was full of the smell of liniment and just a little fear. Ian had tied his bootlaces twice and tried to avoid making eye contact with any of the other players. Some of them were the size of grown men, complete with six o’clock shadows and the odd tattoo. Out of the thirty or so men who had turned up for the trial game, there were only three other black players besides him. A man in a tracksuit entered with a clipboard and began to call out names. When they answered some got numbered green bibs and others got red. He told them they were about to go for a jog around the ground’s perimeter to warm up and get the nerves out of their legs before they started a game. Ian noticed that another black player ha
d collected a red bib like he had while the other two had got green ones. As they started to jog, the other black player in a red bib came alongside him. ‘First time?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. An’ you?’
‘Nah, this is my third. I’ve done Walsall an’ Wolves so far. Who do you play for?’
‘Sabina Park Rangers.’
‘Oh yeah, good team, man. In the Watney’s final ain’t ya? I’m Priory Green, we’re in the Walsall Minor League.’ Ian grunted as if he had heard of them and his jogging companion went on: ‘You gotta fit in, like you’re playin in a proper team, right. Thing is, some-a the white guys won’t give you the ball. So when I get it I’m gonna look up for you, okay? … Give you a chance to show them wha’ you can do … The name’s Conrad, by the way.’ Nervous energy was making Ian short of breath but he managed to give his name. ‘Right, well have a good game, Ian. At least you’ll have someone on your side, okay.’
Ian started the game out on the left side of midfield but failed to get a touch of the ball in the first five minutes, except for a fifty-fifty tackle, which he lost. There was a residue of nervy feeling in his legs that he was sure would disappear once he got a few touches. True to his word, when Conrad got the ball he looked up for Ian and made a thirty yard pass to him which, unfortunately, ended up going out for a throw-in. When he finally received a decent pass Conrad immediately shouted out for the ball and Ian laid it back all of five yards so Conrad could aimlessly boot it up field. The game seemed to be drifting away from Ian, or at least drifting over to the right side of the pitch, and he found himself being drawn out of position towards the middle of the field in the hope he might get more involved.
After several fruitless runs and shouts for the ball, it bobbled out from a group of players and went straight to Ian’s feet. Within an instant he was taking it up field with another player clipping his heels. Ian stopped, pivoted, sold a dummy and continued his run and easily got past the lumbering centre half. All he had between him and the goal now was the goalkeeper and the other central defender rapidly closing in from his right. He was about to make his move for glory when hoarse screaming filled his ears. It was Conrad shouting for the ball as he ran toward the eighteen yards box. ‘C’mon, man, pass me the ball!’ A moment’s hesitation about what he should do preceded Ian’s pass back and across the pitch. Conrad scuffed the ball as he came under pressure from a challenge and it tamely rolled into the goalkeeper’s hands. Conrad shook his head. ‘You held on too long, guy, too friggin long!’ he snarled. Ian barely had the will to run back from the box, such was his disappointment: he’d had his chance and blown it.
The first half flew by; it seemed as if they had only been playing for twenty minutes when the players were called to the centre circle. The panting became tremulous as names of those who were to be substituted were read out. Unlike Conrad, Ian had survived for another forty-five minutes and he was so relieved that he did not hear his name being called from the sideline at first. It was Bert Tomlinson who was shouting to him and he did not look very happy. Ian ambled over to him. ‘You’re a lucky boy,’ said Bert. ‘You were about to be taken off but I had them take off bloody Conrad instead. Whose idea was it?’
‘Wha’ idea?’
‘The bloody stupid idea that you two would pass the ball to each other, no matter what.’ Ian looked down to his boots and Bert continued, ‘I thought so. You’ve another forty-five minutes, Ian, so don’t let yourself down. No one out there has played with each other before, so use that football brain of yours. Look up, look for the options and use that ball best as you can. Have you got that?’
Ian grimaced as he nodded, knowing that he had made a big mistake in listening to Conrad. He trotted back to his position with a determination not to mess up a second time. The second half went by as quickly as the first but he’d had two good shots at goal, made enough runs and good passes to feel that he had done himself justice. After the final whistle the man with the clipboard called out the names of those who would be coming back for a second trial. Ian’s was the last name to be called.
14
Every football team has within it a diverse range of characters. Cecil Grant had the build of John ‘The Bash’ Fashanu and the attitude of Vinnie Jones (except that he did not have to play at being a bad man with a shotgun). Mark Beckford, on the other hand, had more of an Ian Wright physique but was a more saintly type on the pitch, something of a Gary Lineker; and like him had never even received a booking. He was the sort who would stop at a red light at three in the morning, despite no other traffic being around, and would wait patiently in his Hillman Hunter until it turned green. And yet, as he drove to work, he was planning to steal thousands of pounds from his employers.
He had hardly slept the previous night. Rachel snuffled as he got out of bed to get himself a drink. There were conflicting forces at work in his mind: the pastor would say it was down to choosing between God and mammon. Ironically enough, it was while doing God’s work that he had first glanced over and seen the open safe. The turmoil and strife in the inner cities of 1980 had prompted a few Christians at the works to get together during the week to pray for peace at lunchtime. The prayer meetings took place in the wages office and it was as Mark had raised his eyes to heaven that he’d caught sight of the open safe door and temptation had entered his heart.
Leading the prayers was lay preacher George Rowley whose conspicuous support (demonstrated by his continual scarf-wearing at work) for West Bromwich Albion was somehow supposed to convey that he was a regular guy and not a religious nut. But he was a religious nut – it just so happened that he was also an avid football fan. Wolves fans throughout the factory detested George, particularly since WBA had just finished fourth in the league, a place above the mighty Liverpool. Mark had got an invite to come to the wages office as George knew he was a Christian as well as a footballer. George didn’t want to give the impression that the meetings were all about white people praying to the Lord to aid the police ‘to subdue the revolting black people.’ Of course, he meant black people who were in revolt.
News of the confrontation outside Dunstall Road Police Station had brought George to Mark’s office to ensure that he would be there for the Thursday prayer meeting. Both agreed some serious praying was required to prevent a replay of the riots of the previous summer. A police chief at George’s church had mentioned praying for rain, saying that rain cools tempers and a hot sun shining down on black people tended to have a negative effect on them. George replied that he was going to ask the Lord for it to be nice and sunny, as well as peaceful; as he did not want black people being held responsible for any miserable summer weather.
George’s reminder to Mark about the meeting could be interpreted as a sign from God, even if he was using the method of interpretation of the self-serving Rudloph Naylor. The Lord, reckoned Mark, owed him big time, mostly because of all the wasted prayers about becoming a professional footballer since he was a child. The contents of the safe would only be a meagre compensation.
Frank Grant arrived at the barber shop with a parcel tucked under his arm. He had been drinking at the Three Crowns the previous night when he had heard talk about Horace McIntosh that had him fretting. Devon Robinson had returned to Dunstall Road Police Station to be charged with assaulting a police officer as well as stealing a bicycle and Horace was now getting the blame for Devon’s trumped-up charges. At least Devon had a solicitor with him to lodge a complaint about the injuries he had sustained during his arrest but because he had left the station (with Horace) before a doctor could examine him, the cops were claiming the injuries had happened after they had let him go. Frank listened as the more hot-headed men in the bar alleged that the police had arranged for Horace to turn up so they could get Devon out before a doctor arrived. It could have been the drink talking but Frank thought he would wrap his machete in an old copy of The Weekly Gleaner and take it with him to the shop the following morning, just in case. For men of Frank’s generation, the mache
te (pronounced by Jamaicans as ‘mash-ate’) had been a constant presence in their lives since the age of eleven or twelve. It had been bestowed with almost mythological powers (for example, it could chop off parts of the anatomy doctors had never heard of) and symbolised Jamaican manhood. Many of the machetes around Wolverhampton had travelled from the West Indies (sometimes via the plantations of Florida) with men who were not sure what to expect in England. It was a regular event for Frank and his friends to meet in a back garden, roast a few breadfruit and gather around a sharpening stone to hone their blades and swap stories of hard times, severed limbs and hot blistering sun. The lack of sugar cane around the place did not mean that the machete became redundant; it turned into a utility tool that chopped, levered and hammered; in some cases it was even used in food preparation. A man’s dexterity with the blade was a source of pride. A friend of Frank’s called Herbert Walker had a wife who once complained that their front door was sticking. Rather than go to the expense of hiring a carpenter, Herbert said he would run his machete down its edge. There then followed some considerable chopping and quite an amount of cussing before he produced a door that no longed jammed in winter – but unfortunately also a hallway that became known as the draughtiest in Whitmore Reans. ‘So wha’ happen?’ Horace asked Frank as he put his machete down.
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