by Dan Tunstall
“How long do you think it’ll take her to ask me about my love life?” I ask.
Raks shrugs.
“Dunno. Ten seconds?”
I grin. Nanny Patel’s alright. When we were younger, Raks used to be a bit embarrassed about her, but there was no need. She’s like a grandparent is supposed to be. I don’t have much contact with my own grandparents. My dad’s folks died when I was really little, and we haven’t seen much of the other side of the family since my mum died. My mum’s parents live in Stourbridge, near Birmingham. It’s posh there. According to my dad, my mum’s lot never really took to him. Thought he’d taken their daughter down in the world.
The bus is coming up to the crossroads and the war memorial now, turning right and heading down past the shops on Lindisfarne Street. I pick up my shopping bags, then I ring the bell and we go down the stairs. Outside, I zip up my jacket and shiver. We’re into December now, and there’s frost on the way.
Walking quickly, we’re back at Dale Road, fifty yards down from my house, in about ten minutes.
“So you’ll be round about seven, then?” Raks says.
I nod.
“And your dad’s still coming, isn’t he?”
I shrug.
“He’s supposed to be.” Secretly I’m hoping I might be able to talk him out of it. He’s been drinking more than ever just recently. I’m worried he might get pissed and maudlin. Make an arse of himself.
We come to my front gate. I turn down the path and Raks carries on along the street.
“See you sevenish,” he calls.
“Yeah. See you mate.”
Inside, Dad’s had the heating on and it’s quite warm. I put my head round the door into the living room, expecting to see him flopped on the sofa, but he’s not there. I go back into the hallway and hang my jacket on the pegs. There’s music coming from up above. My room, by the sounds of it.
Climbing the stairs two at a time, I push open the bathroom door. Dad’s definitely been in here. The air’s full of steam and the place stinks of Polytar shampoo. I go back out onto the landing just as Dad’s coming out of his room. He’s straight from the shower, towel round his waist. He’s had a shave at long last, his first in six weeks. That’s good. What’s not so good is that it doesn’t look like I’m going to able to persuade him to stay at home tonight.
“Alright, Tom?” He looks down at the plastic bags in my hands. “Been into Letchford?”
“Yeah.”
“Get anything good?”
“Tracky top. Pair of trainers.”
He looks surprised.
“Another pair of trainers? You only got those Nikes a few weeks back.”
I roll my eyes.
“It was a lot longer ago than that,” I tell him. “Anyway, these are Adidas. Adidas Sambas.”
“Sambas? God, people were wearing those when I was a kid.”
I head into my room and throw my stuff on the bed. Dad follows me in. He’s brought one of his CDs upstairs and it’s playing on my stereo. Chunky basslines and synthesisers.
“What’s this crap?” I ask, laughing.
He pretends to be offended.
“This is proper music,” he says. “Level 42. World Machine.”
I nod. I knew it was Level 42 really. He plays it often enough. He met my mum at a Level 42 concert. March 1987. At the NEC in Birmingham. It was love at first sight, Dad reckons. Sometimes when he plays Level 42, it makes him happy. Other times it makes him sad. I just hope he’s feeling happy tonight.
Dad wanders over to my chest of drawers. He picks up a DVD case, holding it out in front of him. Terrace Warfare. The cover shows a bloke, covered in blood, clutching a towel to his head.
“Tom,” he says. “When I came in here earlier on, I couldn’t help noticing this.”
I swallow. Suddenly I’m feeling very hot.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I say.
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head to one side. “You’re not getting yourself into any trouble with this Letchford Town thing, are you?”
“Course not,” I say, a bit too quickly.
Dad nods. He runs a hand through his hair.
“You know Tom, it can be dangerous at some of these matches.”
I laugh.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He looks at the DVD case again.
“Whatever. You don’t want to be spending your money on crap like this though.”
I shake my head.
“Someone just lent it to me.”
He nods.
“This Ryan character again?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Dad frowns.
“I’m not too sure I like the sound of this bloke. He seems like a bad influence. You know, you’re a bright lad. You’ve got your mum’s brains. They told me you got the best SATs results in your year last summer. You don’t want to let it all go to waste.”
I’m starting to get a bit narked now.
“Look Dad,” I say. “It’s just a DVD. And you don’t need to go on at me about bad influences. Like you said, I’m bright enough. I’m in control of what I do. I’ve got a mind of my own.”
Dad puts the DVD down. He’s hovering now. Level 42 are launching into Something About You.
I don’t want to be interrogated any more. It’s half past five and I want to get on.
“Right then,” I say, pulling my sweatshirt up over my head. “I’m going to go in the shower, and then I said we’d be round the Patels’ about seven.”
Dad looks at me one more time. I can sense that he’s still got things he wants to say, but before he can, I’m past him and onto the landing.
By quarter to seven, I’ve had a nice long shower, brushed my teeth, sprayed my pits and generally got myself spruced up. Dad’s gone now and he’s taken his CD with him. I stick on the first Kasabian album to get myself in the mood. I put on clean socks and boxer shorts, pull on my jeans, a T-shirt and my new zip-up Adidas tracky top, then I thread the laces through my new trainers. Sambas in black leather with white stripes. Two minutes later I’m done. I open my wardrobe so that I can see myself in the mirror on the back of the door. I’ve had a bit of an image overhaul in the last few weeks. I look pretty good.
Downstairs, I check that my phone’s in my jacket pocket, then go into the living room. Dad’s on the sofa. He’s quite smartly dressed. A pair of black trousers and a blue check shirt. I’m just breathing a sigh of relief about that when I notice he’s looking at me with guilt in his eyes. Straight away I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s what I was worried about. He’s started drinking. There are two empty Stella cans on the coffee table and he’s got another can in his hand.
“Just a couple of drinks,” he says. “Something to take the edge off.”
I take a breath.
“You know, if you’re anxious about tonight, you could always stay here. I know you’re a bit funny when it comes to being round lots of people.”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “You’re not ashamed of your old dad are you?” There’s something different in his eyes now. It’s not guilt. It’s hurt.
I rub my nose.
“Course not.”
I sit in one of the armchairs and watch TV for a couple of minutes. It’s some sort of talent show. A contortionist in a blue and red catsuit is bending himself into all sorts of positions. At the end of his act, he folds himself into a Perspex box and someone carries him off the stage. My stomach rumbles. I’ve not eaten since the middle of the afternoon. I think about knocking up a quick sandwich, but decide not to bother. There’s going to be food at Raks’s house, lots of it. The clock on the mantelpiece says it’s getting on for five to seven.
“Best make a move,” I say.
Dad stands, picking up the Costcutter bag by his feet. The bag clanks. No prizes for guessing what’s in it.
“You don’t need to t
ake any drink, Dad,” I say. “Raks told me to tell you. His mum and dad will have loads in. You know what they’re like.”
Dad shakes his head.
“Got to do my bit.”
We go into the hallway to get our jackets on. Close up, Dad reeks of booze. He’s tried to cover it up with aftershave, but there’s no mistaking it. And I can tell it’s a lot more than three Stella’s worth. He’s been drinking all afternoon. I think about having a last go at keeping him at home, but I decide not to bother. He’s not going to be feeling anxious about anything now. He’s full of Dutch courage.
It’s a five-minute walk to the Patels’ house. It’s properly cold. Stars are shining in the sky and the pavements are starting to turn white. Christmas decorations are everywhere. Every other house on the estate seems to have a couple of miles of fairy lights or an inflatable Homer Simpson in a Santa suit. We come to the corner of Westleigh Road and turn into Cambridge Street. The Patels’ house is about fifty yards up on the left. I follow Dad up the path to the front door. We ring the bell and wait.
From the outside, the house looks pretty much the same as ours. Bay-fronted, semi-detached, like all the houses around here. Once you get inside though, the similarities end. We’ve got three bedrooms and they’ve got five, but that’s not the real difference. Since Mum died, our house has been in a state of suspended animation. Nothing’s changed. Carpets, curtains, wallpaper, it’s all the same. And it’s starting to look a bit dingy. You couldn’t call the Patels’ house dingy. It’s like a palace.
Something’s moving behind the frosted glass panels at the top of the door now. There’s a rattling sound as bolts are drawn back and then the door swings open. It’s Raks’s dad, Raj. He’s well turned-out as usual, in jeans and an open-collared white shirt. His hair is slicked back and his goatee is neatly trimmed. He smiles and holds out his hand. “Tony. Tom. Welcome. Glad you could make it.”
We step into the hall and start taking our jackets off. Sunita, Raks’s mum, sticks her head out of the living room and smiles at me. Dad holds out his bag of cans.
“Something for the party, Raj,” he says.
Raj looks into the bag and waves his hand.
“Tony. You shouldn’t have bothered. I’m sure we’ll find some use for them though.”
Both blokes laugh. It makes me feel a bit better. Maybe Dad’s going to be OK tonight after all.
I look up. Raks is coming down from his bedroom.
“Alright, Tom?” he says as he gets to the bottom of the stairs.
I nod.
He looks me up and down. The skinhead. The zip-up top. The trainers.
“Shit,” he says. “You’re turning into Ryan.”
I sniff.
“Look who’s talking,” I say, pointing at Raks’s Adidas T-shirt and white Campus. His short-cropped hair looks immaculate, gleaming under the light from the landing above.
He shrugs.
“You could be right,” he says. He looks down towards the kitchen. “Come on. We’d better go and see Nanny Patel.”
I follow him down the hallway. The dining room and the living room are packed with family members, but Nanny Patel’s sitting at the kitchen table. She’s in a blue sari, drinking a cup of tea. There’s just her and Raks’s little brothers Nilesh and Suresh. They’re performing a song for her, singing into a green plastic microphone. When the song finishes, they press a button on the mike stand and a sound like machine gun fire comes out. Presumably it’s supposed to be applause. Nanny Patel smiles and thanks them. Then she looks at me.
“Thomas,” she says, eyes lighting up. “How are you? How is your love life?”
I look at Raks and grin.
“Oh, it’s not so bad, Mrs P,” I reply. “I’m still seeing a girl called Zoe. Been a few years now.”
Nanny Patel nods. She must be in her sixties but she looks a good fifteen years younger. Her skin is smooth and her hair is still shiny and black, scraped up off her forehead. You can see where Raks gets his good genes from.
“You need to find Rakesh a nice young lady,” she says.
I shake my head.
“I do try,” I say. “But no-one will have him.”
We all laugh.
Twenty minutes later Raks and me are heading up the stairs to his room. We’ve filled up on snacks and nibbles, and we’ve done the rounds of the relatives. My dad seems alright, deep in conversation with Raks’s uncle Arvind. He’s onto the spirits now, but it looks like he’s in a good mood.
“I’ve got something to show you,” Raks says, as he opens his bedroom door.
On his desk, under the window, is a brand new PC. Shiny, black, slim-line tower. Flat screen monitor. Printer. Swanky-looking keyboard. He’s even got a Letchford Town mouse mat.
“Shit,” I say. “You jammy bastard.”
Raks sits on the edge of his bed.
“Forgot to tell you earlier on. Dad got it yesterday. Staff discount at Curry’s. My old one had been on its last legs for months. This one’s the dog’s bollocks.” He gets up and switches it on. “And now I’ve got a decent machine, my mum and dad have got me broadband.”
I laugh.
“Nice one,” I say. “Bit of cut-and-pasting and the GCSE coursework’s in the bag.”
“Too right.”
The start-up is finished now. Raks sits at the desk, clicks on the internet icon and finds us the Google homepage. He looks at me and grins.
“One more thing.” He bends forward and opens a drawer down to the right. Straightening up, he plonks four cans of Carling down next to the monitor. “Sneaked them up earlier on. Dad won’t notice. He’s got about half an off-licence’s worth downstairs.”
I’m impressed.
“It’s at times like this that I remember why I’m your mate,” I tell him.
Raks pulls a can out of the fourpack and cracks it open. He passes it to me and then opens a can for himself. He looks back at the screen. We’re both thinking the same thing.
“Are you going to do it, or am I?” he asks.
I pick up the table at the side of the bed and carry it across to use as a chair. Leaning over, and pulling the keyboard towards me, I type in LOWERLEAGUELADS.CO.UK. Straight away, we’re at the hooligan table.
“Check it out,” Raks says. “We’re up to 4th.”
“Yeah,” I take a mouthful of beer. “But Mackworth are still top.”
Raks narrows his eyes, scanning up and down the league.
“Look where Whitbourne are,” he says. “5th. One place behind us.”
I nod.
“And we’re playing them on Tuesday. December 5th. My birthday. It’s going to be a proper crunch match.”
Raks looks at the options across the top of the page.
“Previews,” he says. “Do you think they might have something about Letchford-Whitbourne on there?”
“Probably. Have a look.”
Raks takes the mouse and clicks on Previews. Letchford-Whitbourne is first on the list. A red rectangle with Warning:Flashpoint is superimposed over the text.
Big night at Southlands. Letchfords youth crew come nose 2 nose with Whitbournes old campaigners. Should b tasty. Expect fireworks. Letchford O.B. starting to become a pest, but will need 2b on there toes for this one.
My stomach flips over.
“Fuck,” I say. “It sounds like a big one.”
“Mmm.” Raks clicks us back to the league table, then onto the Newsdesk option, scrolling down for references to Letchford. Halfway down the list is Letchford-Ashborough Match Report.
Not much action here. Letchford out in force again, Ashborough low in numbers. Didn’t really want 2 know. O.B. well on top outside. Good work by Letchford Hardcore, gave away coaches brick broadside.
We look at each other, eyes wide. It’s a direct reference to us.
“The Hardcore,” Raks says. “We’re the fucking Hardcore, Tommy Boy.”
I laugh.
“It’s another one for the scrapbook.”
“Yeah. I was a bit pissed off when we didn’t get a mention in Super Goals last Monday.”
We read the report through a few more times. Then I pick up the mouse and get us back to the start.
“What do you reckon Your Views is all about?”
Raks takes a gulp of Carling and belches.
“Dunno,” he says. “Have a look.”
I roll the arrow up and click the button. Your Views flashes onto the screen.
Basically, it’s a messageboard. But it’s not like any messageboard I’ve looked at before. Straight away, slap-bang in the middle of the screen, is the most recent posting.
Your league table is fuckin shit Castleton full-on would fuck up Whitbourne big-time. BigJon.
Scrolling down, it’s more of the same.
Mitcham r still a force dont rul them out will test big guns. Cocky88.
Ashborough Crew on home turf will rip Mackworth to shredds. AshyBoy.
Raks blows out a breath.
“Fuck,” he says. “It’s a hooligan forum. Letchford have got to get a mention somewhere in there.”
I finish off my first can of Carling and crack open my second. I get page two up on screen. I shake my head.
“It’ll take us ages.”
Raks looks at me and grins.
“Better get cracking then, mate,” he says.
We spend the next half an hour reading through page after page of threats and boasts from just about every club in our league. Letchford are cropping up all over the place. It looks like everyone wants to have a pop at us. Someone calling himself Mackworth92 has been spending a lot of time at his keyboard. He’s posted at least ten messages.
Letchford soft lads will pay the price. Mackworth rule supreme over Letchford scum.
Raks points at the screen.
“He’s a bit keen,” he says.
I nod. Mackworth92’s most recent contribution rolls into view. Posted yesterday.
Mackworth boys will take over Southlands 16 Dec.
Raks laughs.
“Tosser,” he says. “I think we should join the debate. What do you reckon?”
I grin. I take a last swig of my second can of beer, then I click on Leave A Message. I’m just about to start typing when there’s a knock on the door.
“Rakesh?” a voice says.