MORE THAN a GAME

by Sylvester Young

  ‘’Ow do we know these guys won’t jus drive off while we’re sleepin?’ asked Desmond.

  Steve Patel held up a bunch of keys. ‘The van goes nowhere without these. You’re getting very distrustful in your old age, my friend. Get your head down and relax. I won’t bother to say you should try and get some sleep as in another five hours we’ll be heading north and very soon we will be collecting a lot of money.’

  With their excitement barely suppressed, the three men sat back in their chairs and rested their feet on the desk. At about three in the morning Steve got up and the other two immediately opened their eyes. ‘I’m only going to the toilet,’ he said, ‘we have another couple of hours before we move.’

  ‘Then leave the keys on the desk,’ growled Nestor.

  Steve shrugged his shoulders. ‘You guys are starting to hurt my feelings,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  Once he was out of the office, Desmond hissed, ‘So wha’ the hell are we gonna do now that he has Nigel an’ that crazy Psycho?’

  ‘Cha, man, all me know is wid them two guys Steve can tek serious liberties with we.’

  ‘That’s hexactly wha’ me was thinkin. Them could shoot our clart an’ him save himself three hundred an’ eighteen grand, to ras.’

  ‘To ras.’

  ‘So wha’ me think is we go back to plan ‘A’, right. When we collec’ the dunsai one of us rings Cecil an’ let him know where we are. Let him an’ Bryce earn them money an’ tek care of the two crazy guys. At least that way we come outta this ting with somethin’, seen?’

  Back to thinking that three hundred grand wasn’t so bad after all, Nestor said, ‘Seen … When we come back, as long as no one has shot our clarts, we get Steve to stop at a service station an’ then we mek the call to Cecil.’

  ‘Do you think Steve would really ’ave them guys shoot we?’ asked Desmond.

  Nestor deliberated for a second or two. ‘Nah, the man sarf but the way the guy go on ’as truly hurt me, it like him don’t trust we, like we would skank him.’

  Nestor lied so habitually and sounded so sincere that Desmond was confused. ‘But we was gonna skank him, right?’

  ‘Yeah, man, but that ain’t no reason fe Steve to go on in such a way. I mean, me an’ you ’ave been friends with this man long time.’

  ‘It’s true, you know,’ said Desmond, readily convinced by Nestor’s argument. ‘The man too feisty, we deserve better. Cha, we ring Cecil fe definite. An’ you know wha? Me nah believe he was ever gonna give us any money outta the coffin deal.’

  ‘The man a deceiver, to ras.’

  ‘Deceiver, yes,’ said Desmond, ‘but don’t say anymore ’cause me is jus gettin’ vexed wid the guy an’ im damn coolie carry-on.’

  Steve Patel, who had been listening on the office intercom he had rigged up and redirected to the washroom, did not quite make out everything Nestor and Desmond had said in their hushed, but rising, tones. But he had heard enough to confirm what he had thought all along about what the two might get up to. He put away the intercom speaker and returned to the office and put his feet back onto the desk. As he closed his eyes he still had a broad grin on his face as he thought of Bryce McBean and Cecil Grant being tethered to a bed. Psycho had wanted to shoot them but Steve said that gagging and binding them would do. Steve opened his eyes slowly again to see Nestor and Desmond frowning at him distrustfully. ‘Just thinking about my share of the money, lads,’ said Steve, ‘that’s all.’

  At precisely 5.00 am, Steve Patel got up from his chair and made everyone some coffee. Once Nigel and Psycho had gone to their car the other three got on board the van. Steve told Desmond to drive. ‘Where we goin?’ he asked. ‘I really don’t know,’ said Steve. ‘We follow Nigel and as far as I know we’re going to Liverpool. Once we get to the outskirts he has to ring someone for further directions.’ Nestor and Desmond exchanged anxious glances. They always felt apprehensive about going somewhere new (as they were fervent believers in safety in numbers – especially when up to no good) in case it turned out that they would be the only black people in the place. They had only found out there were black people in Liverpool after seeing TV pictures of the riots during the previous year. ‘Maybe we’re headin’ to Toxteth,’ Desmond said hopefully.

  ‘Who knows,’ said Steve.

  The journey along the M6 and then the M62 was uneventful. It wasn’t until they left the motorway that they saw Nigel leave his car to make a call from a public telephone. He left the kiosk glum-faced and approached the van. ‘Right, lads, we’re heading into bandit country and going through the tunnel to Birkenhead. I hope you fellas have brought your passports and got yourselves inoculated.’ Nestor and Desmond did not get the joke and started to cuss that no one had said anything about leaving the country. ‘Pulling your pissers, boys,’ laughed Nigel, ‘just pulling your pissers. We’re heading across the river, the way the traffic is I’d say we’ll be another twenty, twenty-five minutes. Try not to lose us, okay?’

  Desmond did not like the tunnel one bit, as the thought of so much water overhead disturbed him and he wondered out loud why Steve did not arrange to have the transaction take place in Wolverhampton. ‘The money in drugs,’ Steve explained, ‘is in the transportation. The people who grow it get a small amount; the ones who collect it and take it to Pakistan get more. The people who do the processing and bring it from Pakistan to England get a lot more and now that we have taken delivery and are bringing it to the number one wholesaler in this part of the country we get more still. He in turn will make a lot more money than us because the further it goes up the line the bigger the risk, so the bigger the reward.’

  It wasn’t until they were pulling into a large and empty warehouse that Steve asked them if they were scared. Of course Nestor and Desmond were and, of course, they denied it. ‘Good,’ said Steve, ‘because I am. But my business associate in Birmingham assures me that these are strictly businessmen. He said that the only time there is violence in this trade is when someone tries to pull a double-cross.’ He paused for dramatic emphasis and then added, ‘Double-crosses make bullets he said.’

  ‘Then everythin’ cool,’ said Nestor, indignant, ‘’cause we ain’t double-dealin no one.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I told him,’ said Steve.

  They pulled up behind Nigel’s car. After a brief talk with a burly man in a donkey jacket, Nigel beckoned for the three to get out of the van. ‘This is my mate Snotser,’ he said, by way of introduction. Snotser’s line of patter was similar to that of Psycho’s: barely existent. He crinkled his lips in the direction of the three men as though they had just emitted a foul odour. ‘He’ll be taking the van for a short drive,’ Nigel went on.

  ‘Hey, man, wha’ the bloodclart?’ Desmond called out. ‘Where’s the money?’

  Nigel and Psycho shared a short, derisive, laugh. ‘Amateurs,’ growled Psycho.

  ‘I’ll be gone for a little while,’ said Snotser, ‘so my associates can make sure everything in the boxes is how it should be.’ He nodded in the direction of a dilapidated office and the badly worn sofa inside it. ‘Make yourself comfortable and Nigel will fetch you something nice for lunch from the chipper later on.’

  The three Wolverhampton men looked at the trail of blue smoke left by the van as it sped from the warehouse and hoped that was not the last they had seen of it.

  28

  ‘I don’t unnerstan it,’ Horace McIntosh said to Frank Grant.

  He had just read the Wolverhampton Chronicle’s preview of the upcoming Watney’s Red Barrel Challenge Cup final. The photograph that accompanied the piece was of the rival Afro Football Club. Frank said, ‘At least dem de same colour. I mean, dem could-a put a picture of a white team an’ den black people get no credit at all.’

  This was of little compensation to Horace. ‘Would Manchester United feel de same way if dem had been confused with City; or Arsenal with Spurs? Dem nah turn aroun’ an’ say at least dem got de right colour team. No, sah.’ ‘Well
, true, true,’ conceded Frank, as Horace was already ringing the newspaper to vent his frustration. The reporter on the Chronicle’s sports’ desk could not apologise enough and promised to put things right the following week when they would print a full report of the final. ‘And hopefully, Horace, we’ll have one of you holding the cup.’

  Horace was not as confident. ‘Well, we’ve ’ad a few mishaps dis week, injuries an’ ting, but we ’ope to put on a good show.’

  ‘Oh? How many of your players are injured?’

  ‘Three an’ one banned so we ’ave four first-team regulars missin’ at de moment but we ’ave our last trainin’ session tonight so I’ll know more den.’

  ‘We’re hoping for more than a good show, Horace; your side will be defending the town’s honour and I know you won’t let us down. I’ll see you there Saturday and wish all your players good luck from me when you see them tonight.’

  The apology and good wishes took the edge off Horace’s annoyance and he put down the phone doubting if he would see all his players that evening. Gazing at the press cuttings of past glories festooned around his mirror, he told himself he had better stop the wishful thinking and start facing up to the reality of who would be available for the final. He had to face up to a worst case scenario and begin making contingency plans.

  The turnout for the last training session before the final had been little short of a catastrophe. The list of the missing now included Desmond Palmer, Nestor Riley (who Horace was now reluctantly considering playing under another name), Cecil Grant and Bryce McBean as well as Carl Hooper, Audley Robinson and Donovan Brown. Out of the usual first team squad only the Beckford brothers, Buckshot Pinnock, Courtney Wright and Norman Longmore were present. Even a lot of those players who only got the occasional game, but rarely missed training, had not bothered to turn up. ‘Shall I warm them up?’ asked Norman.

  Although his disappointment tempted him to send everyone home again, Horace told his team captain to go through the usual routine. As they finished the exercises, three players (who in reality usually just helped to make up the numbers) arrived. ‘So where is everybody?’ asked one. When all he got in response was a shrug of the shoulders, he said, ‘Rahteed, these guys too slack. It’s the final Saturday, isn’t it? If we didn’t ’ave a weddin’ to go to, Horace, you might’ve ended up even givin’ us a game.’

  Bad-tempered, Horace told him to keep quiet and join in with the workout, if that’s what he had come for. The training finished a little earlier than usual and Horace had intended to use the time for a pep talk, a talk he had rehearsed over in his head since the victory in the semifinal. There had been so many little daydreams in which he told his players that this final was supposed to be giving a message out to all those who had jeered, made monkey noises and stoned the minibus; and likewise to those who wanted to retreat into a little black league. Perseverance had won out – a black team had triumphed over all that had been thrown at it. He asked his players to line up in front of him. There was a long pause, a deep breath and then he held his arms out, with his palms turned up, as if he were inviting them to say something. When nothing came, Horace let his arms fall down and slapped the side of his thighs. ‘So wha’ happen? Only two weeks ago heveryone was turnin’ up fe trainin’, we went over Nottingham an’ heverybody was deh, now two days before de final, de biggest match in de history of de club, me nah know if me could henter a five-a-side team. So wha’ happen, can somebody tell me wha’ happen?’

  After a long and awkward silence Norman Longmore spoke. ‘Tings change, coach. It nah to do wid football, it’s wha’ happenin’ in dis town.’

  Horace shook his head. ‘Don’t you tink me don’t know wha’-a go on, dat me don’t ’ear stuff in my shop hevery day? There’s someting else, is it about Devon an’ me pullin him outta de police station?’

  Courtney Wright took his turn. ‘Don’t beat yourself up over that, H,’ he said. ‘I got two brothers, vexed like hell an’ now them got a filter in them brain that only allows them to hear or see wha’ adds to them vexation. The yout is bullin’ for a fight an’ everyone who don’t is somehow sidin’ with the enemy. The whole place is goin’ to hell an’ them wanna mash up the government but ’cause them can’t reach it them gonna mash up someting, even if it them own yard. We’re down a few more players tonight but I say we turn up Saturday at the YM like we planned an’ if enough don’t turn up we go aroun’ to them yards an’ haul them ras out.’ The rest of the players nodded and it seemed to Horace that Courtney had talked some sense: he felt a little less stressed. ‘A’right,’ he said, ‘Courtney is right, fe once. We turn up at de YM at nine o’clock an’ we go get some break- fast. So before unno go, all me arks you guys is dat unno turn up on time ’cause me ’ave a feelin dat we’s gonna ’ave to go knock on a few doors on Saturday mornin’.’

  In the changing room Buckshot told Courtney he liked what he had said to Horace, particularly the bit about hauling ‘them ras out’. ‘So I’m gonna go get Shannon an’ haul her ras outta that flat right now.’ He was really asking if Courtney was coming with him.

  Courtney understood. He nodded and opened up his sports bag to show Buckshot the cosh made from a piece of lead pipe in a soft leather casing. ‘Ready if you are,’ he said. Two minutes later they were in Buckshot’s car and heading for Blakenhall.

  On the way, Buckshot asked Courtney if he had ever used the thing in his bag. Courtney answered that he had and left it at that. He had obtained the cosh from a white guy he had gone to school with named Dermot O’Gorman after he had visited Courtney in hospital as he recovered. Although Dermot didn’t know all the identities of the ten or more men who had laid into Courtney as he was on the ground outside the Molinuex, he knew who the leaders of the gang were. The gang was made up of the shit-for-brains sort who ambushed away supporters as long as it was at least four-to-one in their favour. They were the sort who as individuals would go to work on a Monday and boast about beating up a coon, while omitting the fact that there had been another nine who had assisted them. The supposed hardest of the hard was the so-called leader of the North Bank crew, Dave Rattigan. His chief claim to fame was that on several occasions he had worn the scarf of the opposing team and milled around with its supporters before choosing his moment (when they weren’t looking directly at him) and then laying into a hapless and unprepared fan. According to Dermot, before a home match Rattigan drank at a pub on the Waterloo Road across from the Molinuex ground and it was there that Courtney had put the cosh to use. Dermot had given the signal and Courtney had brushed past two guys giving out National Front pamphlets as he strode into the pub and followed Rattigan and his mate into the toilets before leaving them unconscious in a pool of blood. On the way out he gave the two Fronters a smack of the cosh too.

  As they pulled up outside Franchise House, Courtney asked Buckshot what he had in mind. ‘Knock the door an’ pull her out,’ replied Buckshot. ‘If anyone else is in there I’ll jus tell them back off.’

  ‘An’ if that someone is Danny?’

  ‘Tell him the same ting. I know the Rankins from school an’ them bad for true but as my ole man says, “duppy know who to frighten”.’

  With the cosh pushed into his waistband, Courtney followed Buckshot up the concrete stairs to the sixth floor, as they found the lift was out of order. Buckshot knocked on the door of flat 67 … and then again … and again. Courtney was about to suggest that they come back another time when a chalk-white girl opened the door. She seemed untroubled by their arrival. ‘Wha’ happen,’ she said in a passable attempt at a Jamaican accent.

  Buckshot said, ‘Is Shannon ’ere?’ As soon as her mouth started to form the ‘y’ in yes, he pushed past her. He found Shannon sitting on a stained beige sofa that was surrounded by greasy cardboard cartons. Her glazed eyes looked up at him as he called out her name.

  ‘Vince,’ she said in a sleepy voice, ‘how did you know I was here?’ He was too busy studying her mottled complexion and her painful
ly thin arms to answer. ‘An’ who’s your friend?’

  Buckshot ignored her question and said, ‘Shannon, you’re comin’ home with me!’

  She started to giggle as he pulled her up but once she was on her feet the laughter changed to whimpers as she struggled to free herself from his grasp. The white girl started screaming and a door to a bedroom opened. Danny Rankin stepped out, scratching his head and yawning. ‘Wha’ the bloodclart-a go on?’

  His eyes moved to the cosh that smacked into the palm of Courtney’s hand. He scratched his head some more, ‘But wait,’ said Rankin, ‘It’s Shannon’s brotha, isn’t it? An’ Courtney the man who deal wid im lickle weed runnins. Man, me know unno from Sabina Park Rangers, remember? So wha’ happen, man?’

  ‘I’m ’ere to tek Shannon home,’ said Buckshot. ‘I ain’t tekin no fe an answer, right?’

  ‘Hey, ole man,’ said Rankin now looking at Courtney again, ‘you can put that ting away before tings get outta hand ’cause me jus want her gone. Long time me tell her to go back to her family but she nah leave. Please, man, do we all a favour an’ tek her clart back to her yard.’

  It wasn’t the response either Buckshot or Courtney had expected, and neither were they prepared to believe everything that Danny Rankin told them about how Shannon had ended up in the flat in Blakenhall. According to him, he had been in Hamburg when he’d heard about a Wolverhampton girl who was in trouble and had decided to check her out. ‘Look, man,’ he said to Buckshot, ‘’cause you’re her brotha, outta respec’, me nah go into detail, but me find the gal in real narsty shit. Anyway, Shannon an’ Cilla here are good friends an’ because me play football wid you me bring her back. Seriously, she nah work fe me. A smack-head ain’t no use to me, if you unnerstan, them burn up too much profit. So go on, man, tek her an’ try an’ get her off that shit she usin.’