Horace slapped a few drops of Brut onto the freshly shaved face and followed the cop to the landing before showing him into a musty room he used for storage. ‘As a matter of courtesy,’ Forbes began, ‘I thought I’d come and tell you personally that we’ve had to arrest one of your players, Carl Hooper, for a serious assault on his stepfather at their home this afternoon. Mr Dean is on his way to hospital as we speak. Only, the way things are at the moment, with rumours flying around the place, I thought it best to let you know exactly what happened. There was a dispute over a dog and Mr Hooper took a rather heavy kettle to Mr Dean.’
Horace had never liked Joseph Dean’s carry-on and thought he had probably deserved whatever Carl had given him. It was only surprising that it had taken so long. ‘Well let me tell you,’ Horace said, ‘I don’t appreciate your call. Dat business at de station de other night, word is goin’ aroun’ dat de police call me to get Devon out before a doctor could examine him. You turnin’ up now ain’t doin’ me no favour. An’ don’t tink if rumours start goin’ aroun’ about Carl any of de yout is gonna listen to me. After wha’ happen to Devon, Maggie Thatcher at a CND meetin’ ’as more credibility than I ’ave.’
Forbes shuffled his feet. ‘There’s some things out of my hands, Horace, all I’m trying to do is defuse a possible tricky situation. I have information there are agitators in town, militants who are trying to exploit the present difficulties. I just want you to know what has happened so at least there’s an informed voice in the community who can speak out against the people who are doing their best to stir things up.’ ‘Man, go talk to these race relations people who get paid fe talkin an’ don’t tink I’m gonna stand up in front of a group of angry guys an’ tell dem it all a’right because Chief Inspector Forbes ’as told me wha’ really happen.’
‘Maybe not young men you don’t know … but I have come by information that some members of your team have links with race militants and the like. All I want to do is avoid anyone getting into serious trouble.’
Whatever else Horace would call any of his players, ‘militant’ was not one of them. ‘Who are you talkin’ about?’ ‘Courtney Wright and his brothers Oliver and Patrick have links with a black militant group; Audley Robinson, his sister is living with a man who is a committed Pan-African; Donovan Brown travelled all the way down to London to go on the Deptford Fire march and was seen talking to known extremists. All I’m trying to do is help, Horace. And if you hear anything that makes you feel alarmed and think I could help …’
‘Hol’ on, man, dis sounds like you want me to start informin on mi own players.’ Enraged, Horace opened the door. ‘Get out! G’wan an’ don’t come back!’
Chief Inspector Forbes stood his ground for a second; he was not used to being talked to like that. Before he left he said, ‘I hope you have a team by the time the cup final comes around, Mr McIntosh.’
Forbes went out to the waiting police van as heads peered out of the gambling room and it wasn’t until it moved away that the scramble began for all the ganja that had automatically dropped onto the floor upon its arrival.
‘So wha’ happen?’ Frank asked Horace.
‘Dem arrest Carl for beatin’ up Joe. Me tink he was tellin’ me to find a replacement goalkeeper for de final.’
Frank Grant took up his brush. ‘Nestor suspended, Carl arrested,’ he grumbled, ‘let’s ’ope dem-a de only two who ’ave to be replaced, to ras.’
‘To ras,’ sighed Horace. He picked up his razor and to the row of customers he called out, ‘Who nex’?’
‘Yeah,’ Frank mumbled to himself, ‘who nex’?’
18
Lorna Ruddock had a head full of green and yellow hair rollers. She was halfway through her beautifying routine, not that she needed that much beautifying, when Marcia Yuell rang. She had only an hour before she had to go out but Marcia had sounded low and in need of some good friendly advice, so she invited her around to the flat. They had been friends ever since Ida and a seven-year-old Marcia moved into the same street. Their lives had taken similar paths; they had even both got pregnant at around the same time, at barely sixteen years old. But Lorna’s baby was never born and the more she saw Marcia struggle with her child the more she was certain that she had done the right thing.
It was only when Marcia told her that she had spent a night with Mervyn Palmer for just two hundred quid (plus taxi fare) that Lorna realised how low her friend had sunk. ‘Mervyn Palmer, the ole guy who win the pools?’ Lorna gasped. ‘Wha’ was he like?’
‘If you mean did we do anythin’, the answer is I only let him have a kiss.’
While the coffee was being made, Marcia looked all around her and saw just how well Lorna had done for herself. She was the girl Marcia should have been, according to her mother; a self-made woman who not only knew the cost of everything but also knew her own value. In the flat was a white leather three-piece suite, a big colour TV that was three feet wide and almost as deep, and underneath it a state-of-the-art video recorder – it even had a remote control attached to it by six feet of wire. Marcia let her bare toes feel the depth of the white shag-pile carpet and figured that she should have become an escort when Lorna had first mentioned it. She made her money by accompanying men to dinners, shows and various social functions and Lorna assured Marcia she had done nothing more than look pretty and make polite conversation to make her money.
Lorna put the coffee cups on the low glass table and sank into an armchair. ‘You have to wise up, Marcia. You’re gorgeous an’ should have all this too you know.’
‘That’s why I’m feelin so down, Lorna, ’cause I do know wha’ I should have. You’ve always had the knack of seein’ opportunities an’ makin’ the right decisions but me, I only see them when it’s too late. I heard about that double-your-money ting but … Well, I don’t have a thousand pounds anyway. Have you put any money into it, Lorna?’
‘A couple-a thousand.’
Marcia compressed her lips regretfully. ‘I should have a lot more, for Tania.’
‘Of course, we gotta do everythin to look after our kids. They deserve the best. You an’ me went through the same kind-a hings, Marcia, an’ when I have one, I ain’t never lettin’ a kid of mine wear any second-hand clothes, sleep in any second-hand bed. That’s why I’m doin’ all this, gettin’ all this stuff together, so when I do have a kid, at some time in the future, it’ll be brought up in the right way, wantin’ for nothin’.’
‘But I’m not sure wha’ to do.’
‘The first thing you do is ditch that footballer, ’cause he’s a waste of time. Start datin some guy with a future an’ then sign up with the agency an’ you’ll get wha’ you need for little Tania.’
Marcia wanted what Lorna had but she didn’t know if she was that brave. Lorna saw what was running through Marcia’s mind and said, ‘Now, I ain’t sayin’ you can do wha’ I do straight away. But I’ll arrange an interview for you an’ tell you wha’ to say an’ wear. By nex’ month you can be earnin’ yourself some serious money. The agency mostly deals with businessmen, rich guys. They take you to a nice restaurant, you arks them about their work an’ make out like you’re impressed an’ stuff. They don’t even put a hand on you without arksin’ permission first. You can do it, Marcia, you deserve the chance, Tania deserves the chance. But can you ditch the footballer?’
‘Him already ditched, him jus don’t know it yet.’
‘Well that’s good, because he owes you. Wha’ you gotta learn Marcia, is your worth, you gotta love yourself more, realise the time you gave this guy is very valuable. He’s a married man who’s been usin’ you. So you ditch him on your terms. Jus think wha’ you’ve been givin this guy for free an’ all he ever did was take an’ take. Now it’s your turn to do the takin’.’
Courtney Wright went to his parents’ house in Blakenhall to find his brother Oliver and see if he would play in goal for Sabina Park Rangers’ most important game. Oliver had the talent but not quite the size to make it as
a professional but he had played semi-pro for about fifteen quid a game, which was fifteen quid more than any of the SPR players had ever received. In amateur teams there is rarely room for more than one goalkeeper and once Carl Hooper became a regular Oliver went and found another team. Even though it was such an important game, Courtney wasn’t certain if his brother would play for the manager who had rejected him.
Courtney sat down at the kitchen table with Oliver, chatting about Carl’s arrest, when their younger brother Patrick walked in. ‘Wha’ happen,’ he said to Courtney, ‘I hope you ain’t come here to try an’ get Oliver to play for that sell-out’s team as well.’
It was going to be a hard enough job for Courtney to persuade Oliver even without Patrick’s unwelcome intervention but he couldn’t let what he had said go unchallenged. ‘Shut your big mouth, Patrick. Horace ain’t no sell-out. I was there when that Rasta turned up at trainin’, the one who looks like he got an octopus on im head …’
‘Them call him Octopus.’
‘… Yeah, him. Him say Devon arrested an’ Audley an’ we all dash down to Dunstall Road. Me an’ Carl went to look for some stuff to fling an’ then we saw how the cops had the whole area closed off. If anythin’ had kicked off then a lotta people would-a got mashed up an’ arrested. Horace saved a lotta people an’ all this business about the cops arrangin for him to go in an’ get Devon is bullshit, pure bullshit.’
Dismissive, Patrick said, ‘Well, me hear different.’
‘Then you hear wrong,’ said Courtney.
‘But it don’t change wha’ them do to Devon.’ said Oliver. ‘No one said it did, I’m jus tellin’ you two wha’ happened an’ I know it’s true ’cause I was there, right. Anyway, back to wha’ I come for. Are you interested in playin in the final, Oliver?’
‘He ain’t interested in football no more,’ Patrick interjected. ‘Man, you’re the oldest but you’re the one still goin on with kids’ games. Us two have moved on, us two have grown up an’ know we have to start to fight for our rights an’ not waste our time kickin’ a ball around the place.’
Courtney Wright thought of himself as a ‘roots man’, a man who was proud of where he came from and who bucked the system, in every way he could. But the atmosphere around the town had become so poisonous following Devon Robinson’s arrest – and attitudes so polarised – that, as crazy as it seemed to him, he was in danger of being labelled a betrayer of his own people just because he played football. ‘Hol’ on,’ he said, ‘Sabina Park have jus reached the final, the first time a black team ever do it, we’re goin’ out there an’ provin’ somethin’.’
‘Provin wha’?’ snorted Oliver, ‘that black people are good at sport? Man, it time you made yourself aware. You think Laurie Cunningham, or Viv Anderson, pullin’ on an Englan’ shirt has done anythin’ for us? Did it get us a job? Did it stop the police makin’ up all sort-a false charges an’ oppressin’ black people? All them doin’ is givin’ white guys a chance to make monkey noises an’ fling banana an’ not take a beatin’ for such liberties. Me see the light, any black person takin’ up sport when there’s a war goin’ on out in the streets is helpin’ the white man by distractin’ the black yout from wha’ them should be really doin’. An’ any black person pullin’ on a Englan’ shirt, Englan’ athletics vest, should be strung up from the lampposts an’ then chopped up as an example.’
‘The word you’re lookin’ for is lynched,’ said Courtney. ‘Wha’ the hell, man, now mi own brothers are talkin’ about lynchin’ black people. It’s crazy talk, guys, an’ the more you talk it the more crazy it gets.’
‘It figures you’d say somethin’ like that,’ retorted Patrick. ‘Ain’t you the one who had all those white friends at school? An’ where were they when all those white guys jumped you at the Molinuex, eh?’
Courtney got up from the table. Hating people because of the colour of their skin played no part in him being proud of who and what he was. ‘Check me if you change ya mind,’ he said to Oliver. But Oliver wouldn’t be changing his mind. His brother’s attitude towards him had been taken as an insult and Courtney had thought briefly about punching the two of them. But after a moment’s reflection he realised that just the idea of fighting his own family was a sign that he too was becoming infected with the sort of madness that was spreading all over the town. It was only going to take one little spark and the whole place would blow.
19
On Sunday morning Nestor and Desmond were sitting in Nestor’s Ford Capri outside the West Park; they didn’t notice Ian Beckford’s car had pulled up alongside them. They were too busy reassuring each other that they would be doing the right thing in handing over one hundred and six grand to Steve Patel. He had seemed confident enough that they would see it again very soon. ‘Everything is in place,’ he had told them, ‘the stuff will be with me by the end of the week. I have already lined up customers. There is no problem, I have guarantees that nothing will go wrong.’
They asked each other what the guarantees were worth while they waited for a group of black guys to finish practising karate in the park before they could go in and play football. The karate guys had a reputation for being as mean as they were tough and most of them didn’t like Nestor and Desmond, who had once dabbled in the martial arts and quickly found it wasn’t for them. There were two who were particularly nasty and worked as doormen at the Star and Moon nightclub. One had kicked Nestor in the head and said he was just playing, otherwise he’d be in hospital. Thankfully, none of them had put any money into their scheme.
While the rest of the Beckford family spent their Sunday mornings at church, Ian went to the park for a game of football. Once the football season had finished players from Punjab United and Afro as well as Sabina Park Rangers would meet up and have a game. There was even a referee: a small white guy in his mid-forties who turned up with the kit and whistle – his mother had bought him the whole caboodle. Everyone chipped in twenty pence to pay his fee and he seemed more than delighted to be amongst so many pairs of muscular brown legs.
News of Ian’s invite to a second trial at Villa had got around and the Punjab United captain shook his hand and promised that none of his players would be sliding in on him with their studs showing. ‘Play the way you play here and there’s no way they won’t sign you up,’ he said. It seemed everyone, even the ref, wanted to congratulate him and for the first time he thought he knew what it would be like to be famous. His friend Kingsley wanted an assurance he wouldn’t be forgotten after all the favours he had done for him. Ian had given Ruth Martell Kingsley’s phone number so messages could be received without his mom and dad knowing. Just lately Ruth had been calling Kingsley’s number quite a lot and then had him making up stories for his parents about why a fraught white woman was ringing him so many times.
Ian had told Kingsley to make up some excuse why he couldn’t see her; he realised that he had to concentrate on his football and he didn’t want her distracting him. Kingsley, never the coolest under pressure, had snapped on the fifth call and told Ruth Martell that Ian was about to break into the big time with Aston Villa and he didn’t need to be calling on a white old bag any more. ‘Did he say for you to tell me that?’ she’d asked, her voice all trembling. ‘More or less,’ Kingsley retorted before cutting her off.
The sun was breaking through the clouds and making the air muggy. The play slowed down to walking pace and the passes were getting longer as legs became leaden. Courtney Wright had made a special effort to make it to the park so he could have a game in goal. He was having some difficulty judging the out-swinging crosses but his reflexes had helped him to pull off several spectacular saves. Ian enjoyed the attention he was receiving on the pitch; every time he got the ball he found himself facing two opposing players, which he figured would be good practise for his next time at Villa’s Bodymoor Heath training ground.
It was the wolf-whistles that took his mind off the game and turned his attention to the woman approaching the sideline. S
he was blonde and dressed in a low-cut blouse and a bright red trouser suit with shoes and lipstick to match. Man, the closer she got the more she looked fit, and then, to his horror, the more she looked like Ruth. When Ian saw it really was Ruth he ran toward her, panicked that the guys on the pitch would find out he had been dealing with such an old woman. ‘Ruth,’ he said in a low hissing voice, ‘wha’ the hell you doin’ here?’
She took off her tinted sunglasses so he could see the fury in her blue eyes. ‘Your friend, Kingsley,’ she said, ‘is it true what he’s been telling me?’
‘Wha’ has he said?’
‘That you don’t want to see an old bag like me because you’re going to make it big with Aston Villa.’
‘Shit! I never told him to say anythin like that!’
Ruth Martell’s expression did not change until she had satisfied herself that he was telling the truth. She put her sunglasses back on and let her lips move with a smile. ‘I didn’t think so, you’re too nice a boy to even think anything like that. But was he telling me the truth about Aston Villa?’ Ian looked back over his shoulder and saw the game had virtually come to a halt as the players gawped at the pair of them. ‘Yeah, that bit’s true,’ he whispered. ‘Look, Ruth, I gotta get back to the game.’
‘Then when are we going to see each other?’
‘I’ve got to go back for another trial Wednesday an’ I can’t see you before then.’
‘Thursday then?’
‘Nah, that’s when we got our final trainin’ session. Is your husband around Friday night?’
‘Don’t worry about Harry. I know how to get rid of him. So let’s make it Friday and let’s make it special.’
‘Okay, Friday. I’ve gotta go.’
Ruth leant forward to kiss him and sent him scurrying back to the cheers coming from the pitch. Later on Ian told them Ruth was the mother of a girl he was seeing.
MORE THAN a GAME Page 13