by Danny Rhodes
Jen and Finchy.
There’s talk that they’re not getting on so well, that he’s been seen out on his own more often, that she’s been seen heading straight from college to the bus station instead of his flat. There’s talk that he dumped her and then begged her to come back to him. There’s talk that he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, what the fuck he wants.
There’s talk of things like that.
7th May 1989
FA Cup Semi-Final Replay
Liverpool 3 v 1 Nottingham Forest
Old Trafford
Twenty-two days since the horror of Hillsborough.
It’s an FA Cup Semi-Final but it isn’t.
It’s a game between two sides but it isn’t.
Everton await the winners. An all-Merseyside final is in the offing.
So only one side can win today.
Forest are on a hiding to nothing.
There are thirty-nine thousand in Old Trafford yet the atmosphere is stilted, tainted with inevitability, tinged with sadness, touched with loss. There are gaps on the terracing. There are people saying the game shouldn’t be played. You feel it, too, but you go out of duty, out of necessity, out of habit.
Because it’s in your blood.
You’re there with T-Gally and Gav and Hopper and Jeff and BJ and JC and Sharpster. All of you are there except Stimmo. Stimmo is not there. Stimmo is somewhere else.
You don’t know where Stimmo is.
An exemplary minute’s silence, Laws and Crosby in a mess, Aldridge nodding home the opener. Webb equalises. Aldridge strikes the crossbar.
It’s an FA Cup Semi-Final but it isn’t.
On fifty-eight minutes Aldridge makes it 2–1 but the worst is still to come. Houghton’s throw finds Aldridge who lays off to Beardsley. Beardsley crosses and Brian Laws turns the ball into his own net. Aldridge ruffles the hair of Brian Laws. Brian Laws who is the Nottingham Forest representative of your supporter’s branch. Brian Laws who visited your gaff to play darts and pool. Brian Laws who brought the League Cup trophy along for the ride.
Aldridge grins and spins away.
Aldridge takes the fucking piss.
And Forest are out of the Cup.
They’ve been out of the Cup for twenty-two days.
You’d like to say you care but you don’t.
You really don’t.
10th May 1989
Liverpool 1 v 0 Nottingham Forest
Anfield
You travel because you love your club.
You travel because you love your players.
You travel because it is Anfield.
You watch Brian Laws foul John Aldridge in the box.
You watch John Aldridge score the penalty for Liverpool, the only goal of the game.
You clap the players from the pitch at full-time.
You clap the Nottingham Forest players and you clap the Liverpool players.
But you do not clap John Aldridge.
Friday.
The phone rings. He’s expecting Jen and another bout of soul-searching but picks up to Gav instead.
‘How’s it hanging?’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Yourself?’
‘It’s been another bastard week,’ says Gav. ‘But it might get better.’
‘How’s that?’
‘There’s a party tonight. Some farm in the sticks.’
‘A farm?’
‘Aye, mate. It’s buzzing. Every fucker I’ve seen this week’s been on about it. It’s a big fucking thing apparently, the latest fucking happening.’
‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘Everybody’s a step ahead.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Never mind,’ says Finchy. ‘I’m not sure. I was all into going to town.’
‘Fuck that,’ says Gav. ‘There’ll be no fucker out. Trust me. I’ve got my ear to the ground. You don’t want to miss it, mate.’
He blows out his cheeks.
‘There’s Jen,’ he says.
‘Fuck that,’ says Gav. ‘With respect, like.’
‘I’ll call you back.’
‘No need,’ says Gav. ‘We’re heading off at ten from the Hound. If you’re there, you’re there. If you’re not, you’re not.’
Fifteen minutes later Jen comes knocking at his door. He lets her in, leads her upstairs to the living room.
‘I’ve not come to talk,’ she says. ‘I’ve just come to see you.’
‘Are you staying?’ he asks.
She shakes her head.
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I have to look after my brother.’
‘Might as well go now then,’ he says.
She grimaces.
‘You don’t have to be like that,’ she says. ‘You could come back with me. We could get a film out.’
He doesn’t speak.
‘I’m watching the game,’ he says. ‘And I’m tired. I need a kip.’
She sighs.
‘I’ll leave if you want,’ she says.
He nods his head.
‘I think I need an early night,’ he says.
‘I can stay for a bit,’ she says.
‘If you like,’ he says. ‘But I really need an early night.’
She goes to the kitchen. From the sofa, across the landing, he watches her as she rifles through the fridge.
‘There’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I’ve not been arsed to fetch anything.’
‘You should have told me,’ she says. ‘I’d have brought something.’
He shrugs.
‘What now then?’ she asks.
He shrugs again.
Ten minutes later they’re in his bed, naked between the sheets but it’s awkward, uncomfortable. They struggle to fit together.
When it’s over he closes his eyes. He thinks he hears her crying, or trying not to cry, but he’s not certain and he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a fucking thing, just keeps his eyes closed tight shut. In the end she gets to her feet, gets dressed, walks across the room and closes the door behind her. He listens to her footsteps as she descends the stairs. He listens to the door slam, to her feet on the pavement outside.
Eventually he slips The Stone Roses out of their sleeve, sets them on the turntable, turns up the volume. He closes his eyes.
He’s still in bed when his flatmate bursts in carrying a pack of pills.
‘What the fuck?’ he asks.
‘Just saw your bird at the bus stop,’ says his flatmate. ‘She didn’t speak to me.’
Finchy shakes his head.
‘Don’t ask,’ he says. ‘What have you got there?’
‘None of your fucking business and nothing you could fucking afford,’ says his flatmate.
‘Pills?’
‘Beans.’
‘I thought you were purely a weed man,’ says Finchy.
‘I’m branching out,’ says his flatmate. ‘These are the future. You mark my words.’
‘Are they any good?’
‘Are you kidding? These are fucking legend, mate. Not that you’ll ever know. I need a fucking Tupperware box. Something airtight. Then I can bury the bastards in the garden.’
He gestures towards the postage-stamp yard and the shed the Scottish fucker never opens.
‘Don’t you think you should ask him first?’ asks Finchy.
‘Are you fucking kidding me? Just remind me to nick a fucking Tupperware box from work.’
‘You’re a real entrepreneur,’ says Finchy.
‘You have to start somewhere. Speculate to accumulate, that’s my motto. Now what’s the fucking time, I need to get ready for work.’
When he’s gone Finchy falls out of bed, makes his way to the bathroom, runs himself a bath and festers there for an hour until the water is tepid and his skin as mottled as his brain. He thinks about Jen cooped up on the bus, the country lanes, the stillness of the village, the garden path, her mam at the window. He thinks about what a cunt he’s being these days. He thinks about Gav and the party. A party on a farm. He wonders what the fuck
it’s all about. He clambers out of the back and stands in front of the bathroom mirror. He puffs out his chest, takes three deep breaths, places his palm on his ribcage, feels for confirmation of his beating heart.
26th May 1989
Liverpool 0 v 2 Arsenal
Anfield
Liverpool have won the FA Cup, beating Everton 3–2 at Wembley. You watched it thinking about what might have been. You watched it with a lump in your throat.
Guilty of nothing.
Guilty of everything.
Now Liverpool are playing Arsenal to decide the Division One Championship. Arsenal have to win by two clear goals at Anfield. It’s unlikely to happen.
It’s more unlikely to happen when half-time comes and the score is still 0–0.
But something happens in the second half. Smith scores for Arsenal. The Kop goes quiet. You watch the TV and you watch the Arsenal fans. They sense it and you sense it. Every fucker senses it.
The clock ticks on through sixty minutes, seventy, eighty. The clock reaches ninety minutes. The Kop comes to life. Shrill whistles materialise from three and a half sides of Anfield. Liverpool are virtually home and dry, done and dusted with the Division One championship, done and dusted with the double. Again.
And then Barnes loses out to Richardson. Richardson returns the ball to Lukic. Lukic throws to Dixon. Dixon finds Smith. Smith finds Thomas.
In your flat, in the room with the yellow sofa, on the edge of the yellow sofa, you watch with wide, wondrous eyes. You watch the Arsenal fans on the North West Terrace. You watch the ball ricochet off Nicol back to the Arsenal player’s feet. You watch the ball hit the Liverpool net.
You look for John Aldridge.
You imagine walking up to him at this precise moment, ruffling the fucker’s hair.
You can’t see him anywhere.
Finchy heads into town where the blood is up.
There are fights in the pubs. There are police in the pubs. Finchy skirts around the people massed on the pavements.
He watches the police drag some idiot in a Liverpool shirt out of the pub.
He wonders why the cunt’s not at Anfield.
He laughs.
Into the Hound. Out of the Hound. Into some fucker’s car. Six lads crammed in the back. Finchy prone across the fucking seats.
Tunes on the stereo. Pounding tunes. Too fucking loud.
Keep yer fucking head down.
A blur of street lights.
The cunt driving too fast. Too fucking fast.
Tyres grappling with the tarmac.
No fucking street lights.
Tyres grappling with gravel.
The night fucking sky.
Pulling up. Piling out. The car speeding off.
A field. A fucking field.
And beat.
Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.
And people.
People he knows. People he doesn’t know. This town and that town. Every fucker gathering.
Gav grinning. From ear to ear.
He wanders about in the darkness, into the mass of bodies, into the movement, into the pulse, becomes part of the pulse, part of the beat.
No fucker talking. No need to talk.
No fucker drinking. No need to drink.
Every fucker dancing. Every single fucker dancing.
It might have been a Saturday on the terraces. It might have been but it wasn’t.
No aggro. Just the beat. Just the music.
Some girl he’s never met. All legs. All legs and smile. She hands him a pill. She laughs. He thinks of his flatmate. He doesn’t look down. He pops it home. Of course he fucking does.
And now he’s dancing, in the pulse. He’s dancing and dancing. And everything is racing. Everything is racing. And everything is perfect. Everybody is perfect. The girl is fucking perfect. The stars are on fire. They’re fucking on fire and they’re beautiful. The girl is beautiful. Everything is beautiful.
He’s dancing with the girl and the girl is dancing with him.
Later, somehow, fuck knows how, he’s dancing with her in the living room of his flat. She’s taking another pill. He’s taking another pill. They’re crashed out on the sofa. He’s laughing. She’s laughing. He can’t stop laughing. The yellow sofa is liquid gold. He’s sinking into it, sinking into a river of gold. The girl’s naked skin is gold. The girl is a river of gold. Everything is a river of gold.
Later still he’s on a black street. The girl is ahead of him, all legs. He follows the legs. He kisses the legs goodbye. He follows the legs. He follows the legs. He kisses the legs goodbye. He’s alone under the railway bridge, alone by the river.
The river.
The river.
The river is full of legs. The river is full of eels.
The narrow street is a river, a river of liquid. His front door is liquid. The stairs are liquid. He can’t climb the liquid stairs. He’s marooned on the liquid stairs.
He wakes at five in the morning in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, his body clock primed even when he abuses it. He gets dressed and falls out of the front door, his head a fog, the whole fucking street spinning. The streets are lathered in fog. Everything is a fog. He can’t remember a thing about the previous evening, not a fucking thing. He leans over a garden wall, pukes into a patch of daffodils.
The lights in the depot are too bright. He has to shield his eyes.
Harcross comes over.
‘You’re late,’ he says.
Finchy raises his hands, surrenders.
‘Worse for wear?’
‘Leave it, please,’ says Finchy.
‘Don’t blame me for burning the candle,’ says Harcross.
‘It wasn’t a candle.’
‘I guessed as much.’
The first hour of his round is bathed in fog, a void with him at its centre. He tries to recall the previous evening but there’s nothing there, nothing for him to cling to except an American accent and the most beautiful legs he’s ever seen, the most beautiful body he’s ever seen.
For some fucking reason he feels like crying.
The fog burns off as the day grows into itself. His head clears a tad. The air is warm, the trees in full leaf, insects on the wing. He’s in the flats, in no fucking rush, the flats rank in the sunshine, him sweating in rolled-up sleeves. Kids are roaming the estate before breakfast, gone for the day. Some bloke is hanging around outside block six, a great fuck-off tattoo on his neck.
Loitering.
Waiting.
For the postie.
‘Al-alright, mate. G-got anything for twen-twenty eight?’
Fuck. He hates this shit.
‘I’ve to deliver it, mate,’ he says, forcing a smile. It’s the best he can muster on a difficult morning.
‘It’s okay. You can just give me it.’
Finchy punches in the code for the door, shakes his head, feeling sick in the stomach. He thumbs through the bundle.
‘There’s just a giro,’ he says. ‘I can’t give you that.’
The guy shifts in his stance, eyes wide, all pent up.
Cunt.
‘But it’s mine.’
Finchy shrugs, tries to look apologetic.
‘So I’ve got to climb the stairs, let you deliver it, let myself back in and then get it?’ says the bloke with the tattoo.
Finchy nods.
‘Those are my orders,’ he says.
‘What are you? Fucking army?’
‘There are people that hang around waiting for the postman to come along. I’m not saying you’re one of them.’
The guy’s cheeks flush red.
‘Come on, mate, I’m going out. I’m late.’
‘I would if I could. If you climb the stairs, let yourself in…’
‘Fuck it,’ says the bloke.
It will come now, if it’s going to come, the blow to the face, the bloodied lip, the broken nose. Finchy closes his eyes and waits.
&nbs
p; ‘You’re a prick.’
The sound is further away. He opens his eyes to see the bloke on the mucky grass. Lying bastard.
‘Cunt,’ shouts the guy, at the other flats, at the morning, at life itself. He kicks a wall. A brick comes loose so he kicks it again. He kicks the fucking wall like he wants to break somebody’s head.
Finchy pushes his way through the doors, climbs the stairs. When he reaches the top floor he looks out of the window. The bloke is nowhere to be seen.
Ten minutes later and his bag’s empty. He freewheels down the road, enjoying the sun on his face, done for the weekend, wanting to go home, shower, clear the shit out of his head, collapse on his bed, sleep until lunchtime.
But something’s going on at the top of the lane. There’s a police car parked across the white lines, deflecting the Saturday morning traffic. There’s a crowd of people hanging around the road block, topless blokes, skinny guys with cigarettes on the go, fat women in T-shirts and leggings, sweat-stained armpits, kids milling about, tugging at the blue-and-white tape.
‘Can I do the box?’ he asks.
The policeman shakes his head, goes back to watching the kids and the tape. Finchy looks at the crowd, spots Porn Billy amongst them. Porn Billy, the man who can get anything, for a price, in 1989.
‘Alright?’ he says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘A body,’ says Porn Billy.
‘What?’
‘A body in the hedge. Down by the swings.’
‘Fuck off,’ says Finchy. ‘I was there not three hours ago.’
‘Been there all night.’
‘No.’
‘It was on the radio. Body of a woman discovered in hedge bottom. Some kids found her.’
‘I’d have fucking seen,’ he says.
‘Obviously not,’ says Porn Billy.
‘Did you hear who it is?’
‘They’ve not said. Woman over there says she’s a barmaid.’
‘Local?’
‘Aye.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Aye.’
A series of images form in Finchy’s mind, photofits of the barmaids who’ve served him on Saturdays like this one. Blonde. Blonde. Red head. Short hair. Long hair. Thin. Fat. Pretty. Not so pretty.