by Danny Rhodes
‘They hate people from the next town,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that.’
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘They hate us just for being.’
‘You should try coming back after fifteen years,’ he said.
‘It could be nice here,’ she said. ‘If the people were more accepting.’
‘They’re okay deep down,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t like it, why stay?’
She held up her hands, waved in the direction of the empty foyer.
‘I go where they send me,’ she said.
‘You live in the hotel?’
She nodded.
‘Eventually I will get a move to London,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll see.’
‘London,’ he said.
She looked at him then, expecting him to say something perhaps. But what the fuck was there to say?
Back in the hotel room, back in his own world, he called the house, listened to the phone ring, let it run its course, put the phone down, rang the number again. He did that for twenty minutes with his arse perched on the edge of the bed, images of the evening he left wrestling for attention.
The two of them in the living room, Kelly spread out on the couch, him in the chair. A row about his intentions. His fucking bag in the hallway.
Waiting.
‘What happened to us?’ he asked.
There was a moment when she didn’t say anything, when she seemed to be sucking it all in, setting things up for what was to come.
‘What happened to you?’ she said at last.
‘No, us, Kelly. What happened to us?’
‘I know what happened to me.’
‘I’m not talking about that.’
For whatever reason she didn’t follow that familiar fucking route. For whatever reason she clambered off the sofa and crawled across the carpet, draped herself over the arm of his chair, placed one hand on his knee.
‘I just want to take us to the next step,’ she said. ‘You know what I want.’
‘And then everything will magically sort itself…’
‘I think so,’ she said.
She moved on to his lap, placed her forearms on his shoulders.
‘You realise you’d get to fuck me incessantly,’ she said. ‘Night after night, time after time.’
A new fucking tactic this. He wondered what she’d been reading, who she’d been talking to. He could see the bitches at her work, lining up with their fucking tips and methods. But for all that his cock was stirring. Of course it fucking was. He had a face full of tit. She had her cunt pressed against his thigh. He could feel the fucking heat there. She kissed him, stuck her tongue in his mouth.
Fuck it.
He kissed her back, grabbed her arse and pulled her up his lap so that her cunt was grinding against his cock. She squirmed with encouragement.
‘Upstairs,’ she whispered.
He followed her to the bedroom, three steps behind, her arse in his face. She shimmied when she realised. He pressed his nose against her crotch, made a show of breathing in the scent of her, heard her gasp, the two of them in the zone now, the outcome inevitable.
In the bedroom she sat on the bed and pulled him towards her, went straight for his belt, unzipped his flies, pulled his cock out of his boxers, started slobbering and licking at it. He gripped the back of her head, knowing full well her strategy but not bothering to second-guess it, focusing on his own thing, fully fucking loaded.
And then he was splayed on the bed, and Kelly was riding him, grunting, moaning on top of him while his hands squeezed her arse and tits. Breathless, frenzied fucking, just like the old days. And somewhere in that, eyes closed, mind desperately seeking obstruction, he found himself at Ashton Gate, Garry fucking Parker ramming the ball in from the edge of the box, six thousand Forest going fucking mental on a rain-drenched terrace, punched and kicked and dragged in all directions, transported from one point to another, a sperm in a shoal of sperm, rising and cresting a wave.
Better than sex. Better than fucking sex.
He came to his senses with milliseconds to spare, pulled out of the challenge and fell to earth, sprayed on Kelly’s stomach so that she came crashing down along with him.
‘You prick,’ she screamed.
He felt her fist strike his nose. Her fingernails gouge his chest.
‘You fucking prick!’
And then he was rolling off the bed, scrambling out of her reach.
‘We’re supposed to be waiting,’ he shouted.
‘Waiting for what?’
‘We agreed, to wait.’
‘It’s what you agreed.’
‘It’s what the doctor advised.’
‘Six months,’ she yelled. ‘It’s nearly a year. Do you think I’m fucking you for the fun of it?’
‘Keep it down,’ he said.
‘Fuck off. Fuck the neighbours. I’ll yell fucking rape. I’ll yell fucking rapist.’
She was gone from him. She was somebody else.
All he could think about was the last time, of getting off the hook. He ran to the bathroom, tried to piss, couldn’t manage it, listened to her breathing behind him.
‘You know how I feel,’ he said at last. ‘You know I’m not sure about it.’
‘Then I’m not sure about us,’ she said.
‘Kels—’
‘Don’t call me that. You’ve thrown away the right to call me that.’
‘Kelly…’
‘Kelly what? Kelly, let’s wait and wait until you’re too old?’
‘You’re thirty-three.’
‘And I’ve lost one child already. How do I know it’s not going to happen again?’
A thick channel of shadow separated them. It might as well have been the widest fucking ocean. To break it she turned on the bathroom light, sat herself on the toilet, grabbed a wad of toilet paper and started wiping herself.
‘You’re supposed to want this as much as I do,’ she said.
He started out of the bathroom. He didn’t want to watch her wiping his spunk from her stomach.
‘Where are you off to?’ she asked.
‘Somewhere else,’ he said.
‘I’m sick of you,’ she said.
She got up from the toilet, pulled him back by his wrist.
‘Now what?’ he shouted.
But she didn’t answer. She just opened the bathroom door, switched off the light and slammed the door behind her, left him in pitch darkness, pondering another fucking defeat.
In the end he followed her back to the bedroom, climbed on to the bed, lay down next to her. She wasn’t having that. She rolled out of bed again, dragged the duvet to the floor, turned on the light and positioned herself in the middle of the room.
‘Turn the light out,’ he said. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
She shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Look at me. Fucking look at me.’
She stood there, naked and exposed in the middle of the bedroom.
He shielded his eyes.
‘Look at me,’ she said again. ‘Why is this not good enough for you? Why am I not good enough?’
He sighed.
‘I just can’t do it,’ he said. ‘That’s it. I’ve said it.’
That’s when the shit really hit the fan.
Twenty minutes later, bloodied and bruised, he grabbed his bag and made his way out of the place, out into the night. He looked back at the house, at the darkened windows, at the sudden stillness, feeling the sweat on his skin cooling, feeling the breeze at his collar. And he thought about going back, retracing his steps, climbing the stairs, pushing the bedroom door open. But he couldn’t do it. There had been a breaking point and they’d finally reached it. Things had happened. Things that dislodged memories of other things, dark things, dark, nasty things he didn’t understand.
He turned his back on it all, made his way to the station and a life left behind. He had no fucking choice, no fucking choice at all.
He called Jen
from the hotel room. The phone rang at her place. Rang and rang until a male voice answered.
‘Hello?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Prick,’ said the voice on the other end. The phone went dead. For the fun of it, to antagonise the bastard, he called the number again.
‘Hello?’ The same voice. Alert now. Angry.
And again, he didn’t say anything.
‘You’re a wanker, John Finch,’ said the voice. ‘A fucking dead wanker.’
He heard the receiver slam on to its bed.
He waited a moment, mulling it over. Fuck it. He called a third time. The phone rang and rang.
Nobody answered.
9th April 1988
FA Cup Semi-Final
Liverpool 2 v 1 Nottingham Forest
Hillsborough
Sheffield on a Saturday.
Sheffield on the Kop.
An impenetrable memory.
There are only snippets.
A John Barnes penalty.
That fucking Aldridge volley.
Clough scrambling a futile lifeline.
It’s all lost in shadow.
Forgotten.
Misplaced in the other.
Were you there?
He woke to the sound of thunder, came up groggily from some dismal, floundering dream. He heard a voice, someone shouting his name. The thunder was the sound of fists pummelling the hotel-room door, a prelude to pummelling his fucking head. He remained perfectly still. He could hear the bastards hissing in the corridor.
‘I told you. The prick’s at her place.’
‘He can’t be.’
‘She hid the cunt.’
‘No, the slimy fucker’s in there.’
More shouting.
‘Oi! John fucking Finch. Come out, you piece of shit!’
He slithered out of bed, scuttled across the room on his hands and knees, bollock-naked, a primordial organism. Silently, he flicked the security bolt across, just in case they got a fucking key card from somewhere, just in case they were that fucking bright. He rose to his feet and stared out through the little spyhole. The same two as the other evening for sure, only this time he could see their faces. A mad bastard with huge fucking knuckles adorned with signet rings. A Polish fucking accent. The other shorter, all angles and sharp edges. It took him a moment to connect the face with the past. Jen White’s little fucking brother. In with blokes that relished beating the shit out of strangers. Now they wanted to beat the shit out of John Finch. So he hunkered there, naked in the bedroom, staring out of the spyhole at the two of them, watching them hop from one foot to the other. They looked like they were on something. A fist came flying at the door. Finchy ducked backwards as it hammered against the wood. He couldn’t help imagining the punch landing, couldn’t help imagining his front teeth caving in, making dinner of his own fucking enamel.
‘I know you’re in there, cunt.’
The brother.
‘You can’t fucking stay there forever.’
The big Polish bastard. Bent out of shape.
Finchy pressed his eye to the lens again, witnessed the shift manager appear at the end of the corridor weakly flanked by two chambermaids. All three of them looked terrified but the poor fucking shift manager had to do something.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me. What’s the problem?’
He heard the brother say,
‘Don’t fucking speak to me, you prick. Don’t you dare speak to me.’
One more hammer blow crunched the door.
‘We’re on to you, Finchy,’ shouted the brother. ‘You’re fucked.’
And then they were gone, down the corridor, shoving the shift manager into the corner, shouldering the chambermaids out of the way, all swagger and posture, but he knew the big bastard would give it even if the brother was a twat. The first round had been a fucking warning and that had hurt enough. The big fucker was hard as nails.
Finchy retreated across the room and into the bathroom, stepped in the shower, shaking with nervous tension, scared shitless. He looked down at his gouged chest, at the scratch marks Kelly had given him when she’d launched herself at him.
John Finch, human fucking punchbag.
He got dressed and packed, calculated how long he ought to leave it before making a dash to the station and away from the place. He went to the window and stared out at the street-lamps, the noiseless evening. He sat on the end of the bed, staring at his mobile, thinking of Jen and thinking of Kelly, wondering if either of them would pick up their phones if he called, if that were even possible, thinking about mute living rooms and silent halls, dark stairs and locked bedrooms full of secrets, wondering what the fuck to do next.
A fucking fugitive in the town that raised him.
He undressed again, dropped back into bed. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go.
Summer on the streets. Summer with his shirtsleeves rolled high. Summer in the village with Jen. Summer walks. Summer sunshine.
Jen White and John Finch.
John Finch and Jen White.
England struggling at Euro 88.
England returning home in shame.
Long-drawn-out evenings on the yellow sofa, sultry nights in his room, the window open, cool breeze on bare skin.
‘Lisa met someone,’ says Jen. ‘She says he’s the one.’
‘Great,’ he says.
‘Kevin.’
‘Kevin?’
‘That’s his name, Kevin.’
‘Sounds like a bundle of laughs,’ he says.
‘You know him. From when you were kids … or something.’
He sorts through his Kevins, realises he only knows one.
‘Aye, he’s alright,’ he says. ‘He’s sound.’
‘Saahnd as a paahnd,’ she mocks.
They laugh. It’s easy to laugh.
But Lisa’s met Kevin.
A thing slips between them. An imperceptible thing.
The summer meanders ever onward.
Finchy and Jen.
Jen and Finchy.
But on some days, after his round is done, Finchy watches the girls in the park, the girls in their summer clothes. On some evenings, when he’s out with the lads, Finchy watches the girls in the bars.
There’s a gentle tug at his shoulder.
It’s almost unnoticeable.
He feels it all the same.
The Football League receives £44 million for a four-year TV rights deal.
Liverpool, Everton, Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspur, Arsenal, West Ham United, Aston Villa, Sheffield Wednesday, Newcastle United and Nottingham Forest, your Nottingham Forest, have threatened to form a breakaway league in order to secure more of this revenue for themselves. You vow to stop going to football if it happens.
You are an advocate of the pyramid.
You will always be an advocate of the pyramid.
August bank holiday weekend brings Norwich away, the first game of the season.
August bank holiday weekend brings defeat at Carrow Road.
Forest draw at home to Sheffield Wednesday, to Aston Villa and Luton Town. They draw away at Derby and Everton.
Forest are six games into the season and yet to register a league win. Forest are 16th in Division One.
There’s just the League Cup, a 6–0 win at Chester. You travel on Bob’s bus to get the ground in, to tick off another of the ninety-two. Some bloke gets nicked for drinking on the bus so you travel back one lighter.
Forest pick up their first win of the season at Loftus Road. Forest complete their demolition of Chester City.
You are nine games into the season. You have watched every minute of every game. You are determined to keep your one hundred per cent record this season.
Pride demands it.
The lads demand it.
But the next game is away.
The next game is at The Den.
The next game is against Millwall.
And Millwall are seco
nd in Division One.
‘You’re not going there,’ says Jen. She has no idea about football but she knows about Millwall.
‘You’re not going there?’ asks his dad, averse to all risks.
‘Of course I am.’
‘You must be mad.’
‘We’re all going.’
‘Train or bus?’
‘Train.’
‘You are mad.’
‘It’s all hype,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Let’s hope so. How’s the flat?’
‘Alright. Cold. Needs a clean.’
‘I expect it does.’
A pause.
‘Is there any dinner? I’m starved.’
‘There’s something in the oven.’
‘Great.’
‘What time’s the train?’
‘Ten. Something like that.’
‘You’ll have your work cut out.’
‘Harcross is sorting it. He’s a Millwall fan. He’s off himself.’
‘I won’t ask how much it’s costing.’
He shrugs.
‘It’s what I spend my money on.’
His dad, eyes half on the paper, licking his fingers to turn the pages. Him at the oven, taking out the dinner his mam left there. He sets the plate down on a mat, tucks in. Pork chops, mashed potatoes, peas. The only proper meal he’s had all week.
‘How’s work?’
‘Best not to ask.’
‘Don’t go upsetting anyone.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Don’t go losing it.’
‘I won’t go losing it.’
‘Right. How’s the car?’
‘Okay. Needs a clean…’
His dad at the worktop with the paper, him at the table, his brother upstairs at the computer, his mam at work, cleaning, bringing in the extra pennies. Local radio station in the background, a phone-in about the state of this and that.
‘You get some funny buggers on here…’
His dad, laughing to himself.
‘How’s it going with Jen?’
A bolt out of the blue.
‘Okay.’
His dad nodding. Relief all around. Glad to get that out of the way.
‘Are you staying for your mam?’
‘I’m off out. Tell her I’ll be over Sunday.’
‘Well, go careful tomorrow.’
‘I always do.’