Rule of Night

by Trevor Hoyle

  Kenny cocks his head on one side. ‘Did they have ha’pennies when you were young, Vera?’

  ‘No, beads,’ Vera Singleton says. ‘Cheeky bugger.’ She blows a gust of smoke into the air and stubs out the cigarette in a full ashtray. ‘Are you making this lad a drink, Janice?’ she calls to her daughter; there’s the sound of gushing water from the bathroom. Then to Kenny: ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Depends what for,’ Kenny says stolidly, sunk in the chair.

  Vera Singleton raises pencilled eyebrows above mauve eyeshadow. ‘You’re all the same, you fellas. Your belly and the other thing, that’s all you’re bothered about.’ She lights a cigarette with an expensive-looking lighter; then as an afterthought throws a cigarette to Kenny. ‘How’s your mam keeping?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘She still bingo-ing?’

  ‘Aye, silly cow. Throws money away hand over fist.’

  Mrs Singleton sucks the smoke into her lungs with a sharp intake of breath, already the end of the cigarette covered in lipstick. Her face is heavy, over-ripe, with the powder settling into the cracks and lines that radiate from her eyes and mouth and down either side of her nose: too many late nights and too much Guinness have robbed the skin of its bloom and tautness, and the dragging inertia of approaching middle-age is pulling wearily at her features so that it requires constant animation to keep the truth from showing. Her body is packed solid, like an overstuffed cushion: she seems constrained inside the clothes she wears as though at any moment something is going to burst and spill its contents over the rug. And yet you wouldn’t describe her as fat; well-built, ample, a shade overblown perhaps. Janice comes into the room, a slip of nothing in her school blouse and grey pleated skirt. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asks Kenny quietly.

  ‘Not bothered,’ Kenny says, looking straight at Janice, whose colour deepens as her eyes meet his. Kenny gnaws at his fingernails and his eyes flick back and forth from her face to the passage leading to her bedroom. Janice frowns and shakes her head slightly, and behind her mother’s chair motions him to be patient. In the middle of this Mrs Singleton turns round.

  Janice blushes and clears her throat. She says, ‘Do you want a drink, mum?’

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Mrs Singleton says. She looks annoyed. ‘I can make my own drink, thank you.’ There is a brief silence. ‘Well?’ she says. ‘You haven’t brought the lad back at this time of night for a cup of cocoa.’

  MATCH

  AT THE ROCHDALE V BLACKBURN ROVERS MATCH ON THE 8th December there was a crowd of 5,116, the largest gate of the season so far. Kenny and Janice and the others had been in position behind the goal since two-thirty – half an hour before the kick-off. Kenny wore his blue-and-white striped scarf knotted onto his belt so that it hung down nearly to the ground. At the other end of the pitch the Blackburn Rovers supporters in their striped scarves and bob-caps were massing: a sea of heads and upraised arms spilling out of the low stand and down the concrete terrace. Already the police had been in and removed three of them, to a chant of ‘Ani-mals! Ani-mals! Ani-mals!’ from the home crowd.

  It was a clear blue brilliant day, a sharpness in the air, perfect for football, the green turf stretching smooth and neatly trimmed in the sunshine, and the breeze ruffling the corner flags. Queues formed at the refreshment stands, waiting for Oxo and sweetish coffee in plastic cups and hot meat pies wrapped in soft absorbent squares of paper. Under the metal gantry in the main stand the directors filed into the box, muffled to the chin in bulky suede jackets lined with sheepskin and double-breasted camel-hair coats. With ten minutes to go the police had stationed themselves in front of and amongst the crowd, nodding to one another while they kept a careful watch on the pockets of potential aggression; the Rochdale and Blackburn supporters were known to hate each other’s guts, having clashed at previous games both on the ground and in the streets of the town.

  ‘We hate Nottingham Forest.

  We hate Liverpool too.

  We hate Man. United…

  But Rochdale we love you!’ sang the crowd to the tune of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, followed by the chant and counter-chant:

  ‘Rochdale…’

  ‘SHIT!’

  ‘Rochdale…’

  ‘SHIT!’

  ‘Rochdale…’

  Kenny and Janice were in the centre of a tight swaying mob about fifty in number, stabbing their arms upwards in time with the chants, an action that was dismissive of the away supporters and at the same time an overt threat. Fester, in-between surges, was drinking from a pint can of Long Life, the pale liquid gushing from the triangular slot – some of it, due to greed, missing his mouth and running down his chin and soaking into his crewneck sweater.

  ‘Give us it, Fes,’ Crabby shouted.

  ‘Get your own,’ Fester said, gulping beer.

  ‘Tight bugger.’

  ‘Sod off.’

  A paltry cheer rang out as the home side ran into the sunshine, the smell of embrocation wafting on the breeze. They danced and jigged on the turf, testing their limbs like mechanical dolls released from a dark box under the stairs. Then a greater cheer as the opposing team trotted on to the field, rattles crackling like toy machine-guns, and moving bands of colour as the Blackburn supporters held their scarves aloft between outstretched arms, swaying to and fro, from left to right, their cries deafening the boos.

  ‘Rov-ers! Rov-ers! Rov-ers!’

  ‘Wait till half-time,’ Arthur said sourly.

  ‘They brought at least ten coaches with ‘em,’ Skush said.

  ‘So what?’ Crabby said with heavy bravado. ‘Rochdale lot could beat them any day. Eh Kenny?’

  Kenny just grinned, the strong silent man of action, confident that he could out-punch, out-kick, out-stab, out-maim anything wearing a Blackburn Rovers scarf. Despite the cold (and it was only a few degrees above freezing) he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up tightly to the elbows and a vee-necked pullover: his neck and arms were pink and his lips were white, turning gradually to blue at the edges. With one arm he held Janice to him, their thigh-bones pressing hard. She was his girl; he felt strong with her beside him: the pride of possession and the smug knowledge of sexual conquest and the fist-clenching tenseness of the coming confrontation all mixed up inside him, generating a fever in the blood. It was good to be alive, the crowd surging forward to press against the barrier, the feeling of being packed tight amongst many bodies – and across the field of battle, the Enemy – a bond of antipathy joining the two camps that was almost a tangible force, something palpable in the air spanning the pitch.

  A scuffle broke out down in front of them, directly behind the barrier, and the police moved in and hauled a youth head-first on to the red shale track, his shirt having been pulled out of his trousers and his braces dangling. He flailed with both arms but they pressed his head into the ground and dragged him away by the scruff of the neck. The crowd behind the goal seethed, like a large formless sea creature slithering about on the steps of the terrace, and the chant went up:

  ‘Hooli-gans! Hooli-gans! Hooli-gans!’

  Somebody threw a toilet-roll which uncurled in a fluttering yellow streamer and caught itself in the netting. At the other end the Blackburn supporters were cheering an attack.

  ‘Have they scored?’ Janice said, craning to see.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kenny said. ‘Come on.’

  He pulled her through the crowd.

  ‘Where we off to?’

  He didn’t answer, holding her firmly by the hand and dodging through the spectators scattered thinly near the corner flag. A roar went up as they went behind the stand; they were on a narrow dirt-path, a brick wall to their right and on their left the grassy bank sloping down to the fence which encircled the ground. Kenny pressed his cold nose into her warm neck and Janice slipped her hands under his pullover. He could feel her trembling.

  ‘What’s up?’ Kenny asked her. The gentleness in his voice came as a surprise.

  �
�Cold.’

  ‘Get away.’ He curved his hand and held it to her breast. ‘You’ve got great tits.’

  Janice felt herself blushing, but at the same time his tenderness and solicitude pleased her; compliments from him were so rare and unexpected. Behind the wall at their backs the crowd moved restlessly, the roars and groans rising and falling in a continuous rhythm, seemingly for no reason. Kenny was feeling randy; he stood with his pelvis thrust forward so that the hard lump in his jeans would press into her. He moved his hips in a grinding motion.

  ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘Yeh,’ Janice said, the word so soft as to be lost in her breath.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yeh.’ Softer still.

  Immediately she said this it became harder still and stuck out as far as his clothing would permit, and the blood-red mist glimmered behind his eyelids. He could have ripped her dress off, unzipped himself, and pushed it up then and there. Janice said:

  ‘Oh Kenny don’t.’

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘It’s no use here. You know we can’t do owt.’

  Kenny held her wrist. ‘Put your hand here.’ Obediently, like a good little girl, Janice pushed her hand between the two of them and felt him. ‘Fuckinell,’ Kenny said, shutting his eyes. Janice was breathing loosely and yet it was as if there was something binding her chest and preventing her from drawing in enough air.

  Five lads were coming along the cindery dirt path towards them, walking in single file. Their heads were shorn and their trouser-bottoms ended just below the knee, leaving several inches of sock exposed; they wore scarves in their belts, which Kenny recognised as Bury colours; Bury were playing Swansea at home, so why they should be here he couldn’t fathom – unless they’d been barred.

  The one in front wore a bowler hat several sizes too small for him and had make-up on his eyes. Kenny thought: Another bunch of yobboes been to see Clockwork Orange. He pressed closer to Janice to allow them to pass, her hand still trapped down below. The lads went past, each lad staring into Janice’s face as he did so. Kenny could feel their eyes on the back of his neck, like the burning sensation of the sun through a magnifying glass as the five stepped round him. The last one made a remark, which was enough.

  The other four stopped, came back, and were all around. They had been short of an excuse, that was all, and none but the last had been bright enough to think of one.

  ‘After tomming it were you Charlie?’ one of them said.

  ‘Rochdale lad,’ said Bowler Hat, plucking at Kenny’s pullover.

  ‘What a fucking team,’ said another, yanking Kenny’s scarf.

  ‘Does she do a bit then?’

  ‘Had your end away?’

  ‘Looks a dozy cunt to me,’ Bowler Hat said. He winked slyly at the others and kicked Kenny on the ankle.

  ‘Shall we do him then, Mick?’ one of them said.

  Bowler Hat considered, and said slowly, ‘Yeah. Let’s do him; then his bird. We’ll do her too.’ He grinned at the others and leaned close to Kenny’s shoulder. ‘What did you say?’ he asked sharply, the smile vanishing. ‘What did you just call me? A dozy what? I’m asking you a question. What was it you called me? A dozy what?’

  ‘I heard him,’ one of the others said.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ Bowler Hat said. He thumped Kenny’s shoulder. ‘Don’t fucking laugh at me.’

  ‘Let’s have him, Mick.’

  ‘These Rochdale lot. Soft as shit.’

  ‘Nobody calls me that,’ Bowler Hat said. ‘Nobody.’ He wasn’t quite as tall as Kenny, leaning forward on his toes, his eyes afire.

  ‘You fucking try,’ Kenny said quietly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just you try.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Try it.’

  Bowler Hat hit Kenny with incredible savagery in the lower back with his coiled fist, aiming for the kidneys. Janice couldn’t make out what happened next except that Kenny was rolling down the grass embankment with the five of them kicking him. At the bottom he tried to get up but was surrounded, all of them taking short steps backwards and running in to kick him. She saw Bowler Hat land one in his face and another of the lads edging round the back to kick him in the neck. They all had weapons of various kinds in their hands but weren’t using them, concentrating on the boots. Bowler Hat was in a fury, shouting, ‘Nobody calls me that,’ and Janice was running – almost falling – down the embankment and hitting out at anything that happened to be in her way. She was screaming at the top of her voice and striking at heads and shoulders, not conscious of what she was doing, not feeling pain when they retaliated, aware only that he was on the ground and there was blood coming out of his mouth. She tried to get at Bowler Hat but there were bodies and limbs and feet in the way; something as solid and unyielding as bone socked her in the mouth and for a moment the world went away and she was in a kind of dream where it was quiet and misty, dark shapes seen through a haze. When her brain cleared the two of them were lying on the grass, Kenny on his back and she kneeling in front of him, dizzy with shock. He was dead, she knew it. They had killed him. She started to weep.

  Kenny sat up and said through puffy lips, ‘Who do you think you are? Joe Bugner?’

  Then he came out with a mouthful of foul language concerning the five Bury lads and the state of his face and the blood on his shirt; and Janice knew he was all right. At this she cried even harder until Kenny told her to pack it in.

  • • •

  ‘Jesus Ker-ist,’ said Fester, ‘what happened to you?’

  ‘Me and Janice had a row.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Arthur said.

  ‘Who was it, Blackburn supporters?’ Andy said.

  They stood near the refreshment hut eating meat pies and drinking coffee. The hot coffee made Kenny’s gums ache. He hadn’t lost any teeth but there was a nice lump on his jaw.

  Janice said, ‘They were from Bury; they had Bury scarves on.’

  ‘I’ll fucking bury them,’ Kenny said.

  ‘I haven’t seen any Bury supporters,’ Arthur said.

  ‘One of them had a bowler hat on.’

  ‘Oh him,’ little Pete known as Shortarse said. ‘I’ve seen him.’

  Kenny was scanning the faces in the crowd, hardly able to contain the anger boiling inside, eager now to have a go at anything and anyone, it didn’t matter who. He had the desire, but – like the Bury lads – he needed an excuse. Just a small excuse would do, a tiny one. His blood was singing and it was as though a million impulses were swirling about inside his head and spilling out of his ears …

  There was a commotion under the low stand: some of the Blackburn supporters were attempting to break through the thin cordon of police; high up on the banking above the terraces a policeman on a chestnut horse was patrolling the skyline; a sergeant walked along the red shale track with his eyes on the crowd, talking into his pocket transmitter. The P.A. system cleared its throat with a whine, a ping and a crackle, and Slade, fifteen times larger than life, crashed from the speakers fastened to the metal stanchions, and blasted the Saturday afternoon to Kingdom come.

  Fester said: ‘They’re breaking.’

  Kenny crumpled the plastic cup in his fist and leapt the barrier, amongst the front-runners as the mob surged like a black tide across the vibrant green of the pitch, charging towards the neat white goalposts at the opposite end behind which a pattern of pink dots wavered, shifted, and finally converged – like a family of corpuscles massing to repel an invader.

  As he ran on the smooth grass Kenny took the steel washers out of his pocket and distributed them on either hand. He was sucking in great exhilarating breaths, his boots pounding along, others all round screaming and yelling, and he screamed and yelled too, the white framework of the goal square in his sights and the pink dots turning into faces with eyes, noses and mouths as he got nearer and they got bigger. But Kenny
saw no face individually; it was a shoal of faces, a herd of faces, a pack of faces that he saw. They might have been Blackburn supporters, or Luton supporters, or Brighton supporters, or even Rochdale supporters: it didn’t matter. Neither was he bothered as he threw himself in a full-length dive on to their heads whose body got in the way of his threshing arms and legs. He was like a machine having convulsions, four stiff limbs each with a steel-tipped extremity swirling like propeller blades, his bone head butting the faces, his body and thick neck jerking as if controlled by a mechanical brain.

  Living things moved underneath and against him: soft, squashy, hairy, rough, warm, sharp, skin, cloth, leather, metal; yet Kenny was only aware of these things in the sense that they were outside of himself. He struck out at them passionately, almost with a kind of joy, feeling to be in the middle of a crawling, staggering mess of human life: at the centre of an experience in which all were equal, none were spared, each in turn victor and victim. When the flashing sharp razor sliced a clean red line on his forearm he recognised the pain but didn’t feel it, straightening his left arm with the blood flowing down into the face in front of him, at the same time thrusting out right boot, left boot, right boot, left boot in a calculated ground-level attack. The steel-rimmed fists and the metal-reinforced boots might have achieved the necessary damage; Kenny didn’t know and wasn’t concerned; he was too busy elsewhere, head down, arms flailing, boots striking sparks on the concrete as they swung in a constant arc from front to rear.

  From the way the ten hands took hold of him (simultaneously it seemed, like a ten-armed monster with lightning co-ordination) the thought occurred to Kenny that their object was to tear him limb from limb, ripping his arms out of their sockets and tearing his legs off as he had once torn the wings off flies before dousing them with petrol and setting their jitterbugging bodies alight. It was impossible to move, much less resist, with his arms and legs spreadeagled, his wrists and ankles held firm, and a knee like an iron wedge against his spinal column. He arched his body and bucked furiously, like a fish flopping about on a wet deck, and felt one of his arms go free; but as he was about to smile in triumph the monster took his testicles in one of its metal claws and squoze them. He nearly fainted. His neck went rigid and all the muscles seized up. He tried to scream but instead of words coming out bitter-tasting bile filled his throat and mouth, nearly choking him. As they carried him along the red shale track to the tunnel where the players were clattering from the darkness into the sunlight, Kenny – alone, blind and practically insensible in a little private world of pain and illness – Kenny could hear the sound he had lived with all his life: mingled with the roar and the cheering that greeted the teams were the jeers of the crowd: the sounds of hatred, fear, and derision.