by Danny Rhodes
This is her town for fuck’s sake. Nothing happens here. She grew up on these streets, played on these swings, wandered mindlessly through the estate as a teenager, laughed, drank, necked in dark places.
It’s her fucking town.
It’s the blood in her veins.
If she isn’t safe here, she isn’t safe anywhere.
So many things were gone and so many things remained.
The scrub was still there, the bank, the ditch. He lingered a while, not knowing what the fuck to do, staring at a patch of grass, tangled weeds, unkempt shrubbery. No swings at least, the swings resigned to history, just the concrete foundation where they had once been fixed to the earth, fractured now, forlorn, crumbling to dust. On the other side of the car park, irony of ironies, a new health centre. He started towards it, head full, slipped down the alley at the side, expecting one world, discovering another.
No fucking rabbit runs.
No deadland to get lost in.
Not here.
A wire fence separated the scrub from the adjacent car park. He walked around its edge, knowing where he wanted to get to, knowing how it used to be, met a wrought-iron fence instead, a cluster of new buildings beyond, freshly tarmacked streets, a row of pleasant little dwellings. In 89 it had been the back end of everything, sandwiched between Edwardian terraces, sixties’ council houses and an industrial estate floundering in its own decay. In 89 it had been a netherworld, a cut-through lined with trailing brambles, covert nettles, dumped baby carriages, tyres, petrol cans, shit. He’d navigated his way through it all on Saturday mornings, a grand way to start the day, to save himself five crucial minutes, to get to the station on time, to get to London and Birmingham and Liverpool and Manchester. A carrier bag full of sarnies, a bag of crisps.
Fred Perry polo shirt.
Stone Island jeans.
Adidas trainers.
A creased tenner in his back pocket.
Life and how to live it…
Staring about himself in the scrub he noticed it was raining.
He skirted the fence, searching for a way through, followed it to a factory yard, stood there as the rain fell like tears, looking fucking maudlin and mislaid until some bloke came out for a ciggie and spotted him. At thirty fucking three years of age he turned tail, embarrassed, retreated the way he’d come, anxious, upset, struggling to contain it all, another anchor lost to the tide.
He was half an hour late reaching the pub. Jeff was already at the bottom of his first pint.
‘Ever the punctual Finchy,’ he said. ‘Ever the fucking punctual.’ Then, ‘What happened to you?’
‘I took a short cut. It didn’t work out.’
‘They never do, mate,’ said Jeff. ‘Anyway, what’re you having?’
A nervous fucking breakdown.
‘Whatever you’re having.’
Jeff drifted to the bar, left him damp and forlorn at the table, returned a minute later with a pint of draught.
‘Give this a go,’ said Jeffery. ‘Our latest special. And sit fucking down, for Christ’s sake.’
He listened to Jeff for an hour, listened to his talk about beers and brewers, the difference between one and the other, the miles on the road, the changing landscape of the hospitality business, but he wasn’t fucking with it. In the end he just came out with what was on his mind, put it all out there for examination.
‘Earlier on I spent fifteen minutes staring at a patch of earth. I might have stayed there all day if I wasn’t meeting you.’
Jeff shifted in his seat.
‘A patch of earth?’
‘Where they found that lass.’
‘Lass?’
‘For fuck’s sake, that barmaid, Tracey what’s her name?’
Jeff shrugged.
‘You know,’ said Finchy. ‘Around the corner from your mam’s gaff. It was big fucking news at the time…’
‘Seriously?’ asked Jeff.
‘Seriously what?’
‘You want to talk about that?’
‘Aye,’ he said.
Jeff shook his head.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘What do you remember about it?’
‘Fuck all, mate. Barmaid at The Bell. Found in a car park. Boyfriend a suspect…’
‘It wasn’t the boyfriend. He had an alibi.’
Jeff shrugged again.
‘I can’t remember jack shit about those days if I’m honest, not unless somebody reminds me.’
‘I’m reminding you. We were set for holiday. National Express. Newquay.’
Jeff laughed, perked up a notch.
‘I remember Newquay, mate. Crazy golf. Footy on the beach every fucking day. Chasing around the bars after fanny at night. Some bird from Bristol in the sack. Dirty cow…’
Jeff grinned, lost in a moment.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Finchy. ‘You remember some random tart but you can’t remember a thing about a murder on your doorstep.’
‘I remember the tape across the street. I remember that. And I remember every fucker in town on about it. She used to walk past my front window every fucking day. I remember those legs. Every fucker remembers those legs.’
‘Do you remember what you were doing that night?’
He laughed.
‘Fuck me, are you serious?’
‘Yes,’ said Finchy. Deadpan. Dead straight.
‘It was a Friday,’ said Jeff. ‘I was probably rat-arsed somewhere with my old boss. Friday nights straight on the piss after the office shut. If I was anywhere I was there.’
‘Not with the lads…’
‘Not on Fridays. It was out with the boss or home for some nosh and a good night’s kip. Saturday was my day with the boys. One session a week with them was enough.’
A look across the table.
‘What’s all of this about, anyway?’ asked Jeff. ‘One minute it was Forest, now it’s a fucking murder mystery. We were meant to be having a good old spot of reminiscing.’
‘I started thinking about how we used to play in those bushes when we were kids and how I used to cut through that way when I was trying to catch up with you fuckers on a Saturday morning. It’s all fenced off now.’
‘You’re a mad fucker. No wonder you’re piss wet through.’
‘I wanted to have a wander, get a feel for it all.’
‘It’s a business park, mate. One or two new builds thrown in for good measure.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t, was it? It was never a fucking business park.’
Jeff shrugged.
‘You hark on about those times like they were better, like a bit of scrub’s more appealing than some level-headed investment. Anyway, fucking hell, let’s get back to football before I top myself. What else have you got on the list?’
Finchy swallowed a mouthful of ale. Perhaps Hopper was right. It was no fucking good and it wasn’t fucking fair either, springing shit like that on whoever he came across. He wiped the spittle from his mouth.
‘The incident at Donnie station?’
‘Fuck me,’ said Jeff. ‘Fuck me in a British Rail toilet.’
Back from the north somewhere. Travelling the main artery, the train full to bursting. Cocksure little bastards, ready to let go for the first time in a week, rowdy as fuck as always, drawing attention, drawing complaints from Joe Public in the age of the train. The guard coming down the carriage, having none of it, some tough Scottish fucker with a point to prove. One after the next giving the guard a mouthful, the guard giving it back, meaning business because he was a Scotsman and he didn’t give a fuck.
Donnie Station. The guard holding the train, calling the transport police, having the lot of them chucked on to the platform. In the car park, Jeffery and his knowledge of the stations of the north. They hop over the fucking wall, slip through the goods yard and clamber back on the train before it pulls away. Jeff leads them to the mail car. The lads pile in, hide in the dark, keep their heads down in case the fucking guard
comes back, not knowing what the fuck they’ll do if he does.
Forty-five minutes in the dark, splayed out on mailbags, Donnie, Retford, Newark, the old town, the church a fucking beacon, drawing them home. The guard’s face a picture as they run down the platform and out into the night.
Bolshie bastards. Little fuckers. Pissed-up wankers.
‘Gaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!’
The two of them laughed their sorry arses off talking about it.
‘Aye, we had some fun, mate,’ said Jeffery.
The smile drained from his face.
‘But I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Those days are long gone.’
A moment dropped between them.
‘So?’
‘So I’m wondering why you’re putting yourself through all of this.’
Finchy shrugged.
‘I didn’t intend to,’ he said. ‘I’d buried all of it. Or at least I thought I had. BJ’s phone call kicked it all up. That and Cloughie’s departure.’
‘Still, I’d try not to dwell,’ said Jeff. ‘Most of the past, most of that stuff, probably deserves to be left where it is. There’s not much to say about it really. We were just lads. We had fuck all else to bother ourselves with.’
‘That’s what Hopper said.’
‘Aye, well, you just have to deal with it.’
‘I haven’t dealt with it though, have I?’ he said. ‘I thought I had but I hadn’t.’
‘I’m not talking about finishing it all up. None of us have done that, mate. We deal with it by not dealing with it, by getting on with everything else, getting through each fucking day…’
He supped his pint. He stared about himself, lunch over now, the pub inhabited by drawn men and half-finished pints of ale.
‘I’m not sure that’s enough,’ said Finchy.
‘Of course it’s not enough. Of course it’s not. But that’s life, me old mucker. That’s fucking life for you.’
Finchy stared at his own half-drunk pint on the table, the dregs of beer sticking to the side of the glass.
‘Maybe I deal with it by dragging my arse along to watch the cunts play week after week,’ said Jeff. ‘Maybe I deal with it like that. And maybe BJ deals with it by kicking off every now and then. I’d rather do those things than deny it ever happened. There’s one or two of the fuckers who’ve done that, just buried it as if it never was.’
‘And Stimmo?’
‘He dealt with it his way. Perhaps that’s where we’re all heading. We just don’t know it yet. At least the soft bastard’s out of it all now.’
A shadow shuffled past and said goodnight. Jeff nodded in its direction.
‘No more bad dreams for Stimmo, eh?’
Finchy shrugged.
Jeff, staring into the depths of his pint glass, sluicing the remains around and around and around.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you this one thing,’ he said. ‘I have this recurring dream. Remember Newquay? Fistral beach? That fucking lifeguard dragging me out of the rip tide?
‘Aye,’ said Finchy. ‘I remember that.’
‘I have that fucking dream,’ he said. ‘Over and over. I’m in the water and then I’m under it. I’m thrashing about in the blackness, lungs burning, head fucking exploding. And here’s the thing. There’s a flood of blue light and I’m not on my own any more. I’m still fucking drowning but I’m in a sea of bodies, me and a thousand other fuckers packed into a space that’s too small. I can’t fucking move. I can’t struggle. I can’t do anything. And I can’t fucking breathe either. Fuckers are dying all around me, just going limp, staring off somewhere. There’s this bloke. His face is pressed against mine. I can feel his fucking stubble on my cheek. His eyes are open but they’re not fucking looking at me. He’s not looking anywhere. A bit of dribble runs from his blue lips. I can’t breathe. I’m clearly fucking dying. And then some fucker grabs me and I wake up and I’m in bed, gasping for fucking air.’
Silence for a time. The two of them nursing their pint glasses, swilling the dregs.
‘The same dream, every time.’
‘Jesus.’
‘The missus says I cry out. I don’t know if I do but that’s what she tells me. I haven’t told her about the dream mind, I haven’t told anybody except you, here, now. Shit, mate, can’t we change the fucking channel? You’re a depressing bastard. Talk about opening a can of fucking worms.’
‘Aye, sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Just keep schtum, that’s all. Especially when her indoors arrives. We’re all a bunch of fuck-ups when it comes down to it.’
Finchy smiled.
‘It’s just the past,’ said Jeffery. ‘Friendship groups naturally splitting apart, moving on to new things. Surely that’s all this is about, moving from one life to the next. It’s the same for all of us.’
Jeff fished in his pocket, pulled out a season ticket.
‘Look. They’re at home this Friday. I can’t get there. Have it on me. Just don’t lose the bloody thing. Drop it back here when you’re done.’ He placed the card on the table. ‘As for the other stuff, do you seriously want to dredge all of that up again?’
Finchy shrugged for the hundredth time.
‘It’s like I’m on a fucking train,’ Finchy said. ‘I can see the stations passing and I know it’s time to get off but the train doesn’t fucking stop. It just keeps going…’
‘Pull the fucking emergency cord. That usually does the trick. On second thoughts, don’t.’
Jeff laughed.
A woman appeared in the doorway. Whatever the plan had been, Jeff changed it, got to his feet, cut her off before she got hold of what she was witnessing.
‘I’ll see you around, mate. Don’t forget the game.’
‘I won’t, mate. Thanks.’
He stared at the ticket, at the Major Oak and the three lines, struggling to imagine himself back there, struggling to come to terms with something that ought to have been easy, hardly daring to touch the thing. And he remembered the rest of that evening after the Donnie incident, the rest of the story.
He didn’t go into town. He left them on the High Street, made sure his programme was on display in his jeans and went to get food instead, a good old curry, carried it back to the flat, back to the darkness. He sat on the yellow sofa and watched TV until he collapsed there, woke at five on the Sunday morning with a fucking sore head, a carton of rice on his lap and on the carpet, an impression in his lower back where the programme had nestled. He heard his flatmate coughing in his sleep, cursed his fucked-up body clock, climbed the stairs to his room and fell on the bed. It was Sunday. He pulled the covers over himself and rested in the cocoon like darkness, wishing Jen was with him.
But she wasn’t.
He’d opted for football, hadn’t he?
He’d opted for that.
Again.
26th February 1989
League Cup Semi-Final, Second Leg
Bristol City 0 v 1 Nottingham Forest
Ashton Gate
A West Country Sunday in the sheeting rain. Ashton Gate rocking and rolling, pulsing and throbbing. Aggravation. Anger. Aggression. All fucking day. The Executive Crew out in force, a point to prove.
2–2 from the first leg. City rampaging in Notts town centre.
Everything to play for on the pitch and off it.
Stuff kicking off on every corner of every fucking street. Off the bus and straight into the thick of it. One hundred of the fuckers coming out of nowhere, a surprise attack. A cuff around the head for your trouble. You hop into some front garden, head ringing. A bemused woman stares out of a lounge window.
A piano, a cat, a set of silver ornaments.
Back on the street. Momentum reversed. Forest running the Robins now, chasing them down. On another corner, a burger van is tossed about in a sea of bodies, some poor cunt in chequered chef whites trying to clamber free. Hot fat, ketchup, five hundred burgers and bread rolls spill into the Bristol puddles. The burger van goes over with the bloke insid
e. Every fucker cheers. The guy crawls away from the van, mired in fried onions.
Poor fucker.
To the ground. To the game. Another packed terrace. February sleet. A barrage of noise. A barrage of coins. Some cheeky twat clambers on to hoardings and goads the City fans to do their worst. Coins rain in from the home end. Coins batter the advertising hoardings. Every fucker flinches.
A barrage of spite showers down on the Ashton Gate terraces.
The rain turns to drizzle, clings to the skin. Sweat and fucking drizzle.
The ebb and flow.
The blood and guts.
Football on a brown quagmire.
The great leveller.
In injury time City force a corner and Alan Walsh strikes the post.
Be still your beating heart.
One hundred and sixteen minutes of torture.
One hundred and sixteen minutes of pain.
One hundred and sixteen minutes in the rain at Ashton Gate, daring to dream, not daring to dream.
And then Clough’s layoff finds Webb. Webb’s hoists in a cross. Clough swipes his boot at fresh air but Garry Parker is in the box. Garry Parker has the ball at his feet. Garry Parker’s shot hits the roof of the net.
Every fucker goes mental.
Twenty seconds of madness.
Twenty seconds of ecstasy.
Twenty seconds where nothing else in the world matters.
Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be…
Shattered boys and shattered men.
On the pitch and on the terraces.
Bricks and bedlam on the Bristol streets.
Another bus window bears the brunt of Cup frustration.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
Forest have defeated Bristol City 1–0 at Ashton Gate.
Forest are going to Wembley.
And you are going with them.
‘You’re always at football,’ says Jen.
‘You knew that when we met,’ he says.
‘That was over a year ago,’ she says. ‘We never see each other.’
‘We see each other all the time,’ he says.
‘Lisa and Kevin are still going to Yarmouth.’
‘We talked about that,’ he says.