by Dan Tunstall
I nod again. It’s all I can do. An image of my mum, wasting away in a hospital bed, flashes through my mind. White sheets, vases full of flowers and the smell of disinfectant. I blow out a breath.
Gary’s seen the way the conversation’s developing and he pipes up, looking to lift the tone a bit.
“So anyway, what about tonight then?” he says. “Are we going to win?”
Ryan coughs. His face lights up again.
“Well, they’re only a couple of places above us, and they’ve lost three in a row, so we should be in with a shout. There again, we’re not exactly bang in form are we?”
Gary laughs.
“You could say that,” he says. “Twentieth and sinking. At least we’re still above Mackworth.”
“Only on goal difference,” I say. “And they’ve got a game in hand.”
Jerome nods. He squints at the screen of his mobile, then looks up again.
“We badly need a win,” he says. “I reckon if we don’t pick up soon, John Whyman’s going to be getting the bullet.”
I fiddle with my new T pendant.
“It’s easy enough to get rid of him,” I say. “But who’s going to take over? It’s not what you’d call a glamour job. We’d get some right donkey coming in.”
Jerome puts one foot on the table. He’s got Adidas Gazelles on. Green with white stripes. They’re the cleanest trainers I’ve ever seen out of a shoe shop. Not a speck of dust on them.
“They couldn’t be much worse than Whyman though, could they?” he says.
Gary smiles.
“I dunno. We might end up with Steve McClaren.”
“If that ever happens,” Ryan says, “I’m going to start supporting Mackworth.”
We all laugh.
“It’d be nice to get one over on Whitbourne tonight though, wouldn’t it?” Raks says. “Give them a bit of payback for 1990.”
Ryan looks at Raks and blinks.
“Fucking hell Raks. You’ve been studying the history books, haven’t you? I’m impressed.”
Raks shrugs.
Rob looks confused.
“What’s he on about?” he asks, picking at a scab above his left eyebrow.
Ryan shakes his head.
“Tell him, Raks.”
Raks smiles. It’s good to be in the know.
“Whitbourne beat us on aggregate over two legs in the 1990 Freight Rover Trophy Southern Area Final. We lost 1-0 at their place and then it was 1-1 at Southlands. If we’d have won, we’d have been going to Wembley.”
Rob nods. He’s finished picking now, and he’s checking his finger ends to see if he’s got anything interesting stuck under his nails.
“Oh right,” he says.
Gary gives him a dig in the ribs.
“You fucking part-timer,” he says.
Jerome puts his other foot up on the table.
“Should be quite interesting off the pitch tonight,” he says.
Ryan puts his hands behind his head.
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s some bad blood there. It was pretty lively last year.”
“Me and Raks were on the Internet the other night,” I tell them. “Looking at the hooligan sites. All the previews were saying that Letchford-Whitbourne was going to be a bit interesting.”
Raks joins in.
“And it’s an important one for the Firms league table. We’re 4th at the moment. Whitbourne are 5th. We can’t let the bastards roll us over.”
Gary shakes his head.
“Whitbourne are nothing to worry about,” he says. “Bunch of old blokes. Fat bastards in their mid-thirties. Fucking Southern Softies.”
I laugh. Whitbourne are from down on the south coast, so they’re Southern Softies. Castleton are from up north, so they’re Dirty Northern Bastards. That’s the beauty of being slap bang in the middle of the country I suppose. There’s nothing much else to be said for living around here.
I check my watch. Getting on for quarter to one. The dining hall’s filled right up now. Everywhere I look, kids are wandering around with trays full of food, scanning for somewhere to sit. Around our table, we’ve all finished eating, but we’re not in any rush to go anywhere. We’re nice and comfortable. Nice and relaxed. People might want our seats, but they’re just going to have to wait.
I lean back in my chair and watch the world go by. Jimmy and Scotty are sitting on the other side of the hall, Nike rucksack at the ready, waiting for customers. They see me and raise their hands in acknowledgement. A couple of chav lads in tracky bottoms and white Reeboks are having a bit of aggro over near the serving hatches. For a second or two it looks like something interesting is going to kick off, but it never really gets going. A bit of name calling, a bit of half-hearted shoving and then they’re being pulled apart.
It’s a week and a half until the end of term and the school dress policy looks like it’s broken right down. Virtually no-one bothers with greys and blacks any more. The chavs are in their sports gear. The indie lot are in spray-on jeans and stripy cardigans like the one Zoe tried to get me to buy. The popular girls all look like they’re just stopping off on their way to a nightclub. The hip-hop crew are wearing baseball caps around the place now. A couple of weeks ago, Mr Barnard imposed a ban on the wearing of headgear inside the school building. It’s not worked.
Two tables over to the left, there’s a gathering of emo kids. They’ve all broken out in huge jeans, to go with the big black jackets. The eye make-up application seems to have gone into overdrive. A couple of the Nocturnal Emission boys are having another squabble. Artistic differences again, by the sounds of it. I think about listening in, but decide not to bother.
I find myself thinking about the conversation I was having with Raks a couple of months ago. He was saying how the school was like a safari park, full of different species, and I was saying that I didn’t know what species we were. We didn’t fit in. Well, that’s all changed now. I look around, at Raks, at Ryan, at Jerome, at Rob, at Gary. The short haircuts. The T-shirts and zip-up tops. The jeans. The Adidas trainers. There’s no denying it. We look like a group. A gang. A species all of our own.
A couple more minutes pass. Gary gets his phone out and checks the time. He yawns and leans forward, pushing himself up against the table edge.
“I’m going to nip over to the newsagents,” he says. “Get myself a packet of fags.”
Jerome and Rob stand up. Me, Raks and Ryan stay sitting down.
Gary looks at us.
“You lot coming?” he asks.
“No. I think we’ll give it a miss,” Ryan says.
Gary shrugs.
“Okay,” he says. “If we don’t see you later on, we’ll see you at Southlands tonight.”
I nod.
“We’ll be there.”
Gary hooks his chair back under the table and heads off towards the foyer with Rob and Jerome in tow.
I run my hands over my hair. It’s down to a number one again. Another £6.50 at Talking Heads last night. I didn’t bother with a tip this time. It only took the woman about two minutes to do. Zoe didn’t say anything about it this morning. Either she’s getting used to me with short hair, or she’s just given up on trying to talk me out of it.
Raks slowly sits up in his chair.
“What have we got this afternoon?” he asks.
I fish in my pocket and get my timetable out.
“Art and Design with Mrs Flanagan, then History.”
Raks nods.
“Have you finished that Industrial Revolution assignment?”
I put my head in my hands.
“Shit.” I knew there was something I was supposed to remember. I was a week late with the last assignment.
Raks rolls his eyes.
“Fucking hell. You’re getting worse. Mr Richards is going to go apeshit.”
I shake my head.
“Bollocks,” I say. “How am I going to dig myself out of this one?” I squeeze my eyes tight shut and try to think of plausible reasons why I
’ve got nothing to hand in.
Ryan starts laughing.
“There’s an obvious way to get out of it,” he says. “It’s not rocket science. Let’s just piss off into town.”
Raks rubs his forehead.
“You’ve only just got here, you idle bastard.”
Ryan waves his hand in the air. The fly-swatting gesture.
“It’s been a good half hour,” he says. “That’s long enough for me.”
I look at Raks.
“What do you reckon?”
Raks shrugs.
“I’m in if you’re in,” he says. “I mean, our attendance records over the past few weeks haven’t been too impressive, have they? Another afternoon isn’t going to make much difference.”
Ryan beams.
“That’s my boy.” He puts his arm round Raks’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze.
I stand up. Ryan and Raks do the same.
“Right then lads,” I say. “That’s sorted then. Let’s hit the road.”
thirteen
I squash my empty Red Bull can and shove it across the table.
“What time is it?” Ryan asks.
I push up my sleeve. It’s quite gloomy in the Café Rialt, and I have to squint to see my watch properly.
“Half past five. Just over two hours until kick-off.” I feel the familiar fluttering in my stomach.
We’ve been in the Ainsdale Centre for about four hours now. The whole afternoon. The time just seems to have flown by. We had a look round the shops, sat on the benches for a bit, spent a couple of hours in Harris’s Amusements, wasting my birthday money, and for the last three quarters of an hour we’ve been sitting here in the Café Rialt. It was quite quiet when we came in, but now it’s starting to fill up with people on their way home from work or getting geared up for some late-night Christmas shopping.
Ryan yawns.
“We’ll get off then,” he says.
Raks raises his eyebrows.
“It’s a bit early isn’t it? We need to kill a bit more time in here. They won’t open the turnstiles until about half six.”
Ryan shakes his head.
“We’re not going straight to Southlands,” he says. “We’re going to be making a pit stop on the way. Thought we’d drop in at The Shakespeare, see the LLF lads. Trev won’t be there, and Steve might not, but Dave and Chris will be. They practically live in the place.”
We pile our cans and plates onto a tray, then head out of the café and down the back stairs. On the ground floor, pan-pipe music is blasting. Careless Whisper. Santa’s Grotto has been shut down. According to the Letchford Argus last Thursday, they found asbestos in the ceiling. We go through the back doors and into the car park.
Outside, the Christmas lights are twinkling. The whole festive set-up was officially switched on a couple of weeks back. They roped in Paul Butterworth and some local bird who was on The X Factor. She was supposed to entertain the crowd with a medley of Christmas songs, but the PA broke down. Letchford Borough Council. Working For You. Again.
It’s cold and dark in the side streets, and we’re not hanging around. Before too long we’re coming to the junction near the Industrial Estate and hanging a left down past the shops to The Shakespeare. Since the last time we were down here, Balti Towers Indian Takeaway has gone belly-up. The windows are covered with rough-looking chipboard, daubed over with posters. Club Majestyk – New Year’s Eve All-Nighter.
The wind’s really getting up now. The cross of St George on the front of the pub is fluttering out of control. It looks like it’s about to take off. We cut through the car park and along the side of the Family Beer Garden, up to the door of the back bar.
Inside, the place is even gloomier and smokier than it was last time. The metal awning’s wide open but it’s not making much difference. The pub’s busier than I remember too. All the seats at the bar are taken. My eyes are drawn down to something glinting around the legs of the stools. Chains, attaching them to the brass rail round the bottom of the bar. I’m sure they weren’t there last time.
I nudge Ryan and point at the chains.
“What’s that all about then?”
Ryan laughs.
“Just a little extra security measure they put in for match days.”
As we’re standing, just inside the door, a bloke wanders past with a black bin bag under his arm. He’s a scrawny type, balding, wearing a stained white T-shirt and no jacket. Whatever is inside his bag, it’s quite heavy. He gives the bag to the barman. Quick as a flash, the barman has a look inside, then whisks it away, out of sight. He nods his head and hands over a roll of tenners. Bin Bag Man counts the cash, smiles, then wanders back out into the night.
I start looking around for the LLF lads. It doesn’t take me long. Ryan was right. Trev and Steve aren’t here, but Dave and Chris are. They’re sitting over in the corner, under the Spitfire. Dave’s got a mauve polo shirt on. Chris is in an expensive-looking cream bomber jacket. Their table is covered in pint glasses and fag ash.
As we start to head over towards them, Dave and Chris see us coming. They both stand up, smiling, shoving their hands in our direction. They look genuinely pleased to see us. We all shake hands and sit down. Dave and Chris are still smiling. They’re actually quite a tragic sight without Trev and Steve around. Like a pair of monkeys left behind when the organ grinders have gone home. Now we’ve arrived it’s given them some purpose in life.
Chris gets his wallet out.
“I’ll get them in,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his crumpled nose. “Carling all round, yeah?”
Everyone nods.
Chris sets off to the bar. Dave starts looking at the front of Ryan’s jacket. He’s squinting his eyes, wrinkling his forehead. His eyebrows are almost touching his hairline. He reaches out with his finger, pointing at something.
“Got a little fuckin’ spot there,” he says.
As Ryan looks down, Dave whips his finger up and tries to touch Ryan’s nose. He’s too slow though. Ryan grabs his hand and puts it back on the table.
“Dave,” he says. “That’s the oldest and shittiest trick in the book.”
Dave looks a bit sad.
Raks laughs.
“It makes a change from poking holes in beer mats though.”
Pretty soon, Chris is back. He’s got four pints wedged between his hands and a fifth one balanced on top. He puts them all down on the table without spilling a drop.
Raks looks amazed.
“Fucking hell Chris,” he says. “How did you manage that?”
Chris grins.
“Years of practise.”
The first pint of the evening goes down very nicely. As I drain the last dregs, I cast my mind back to the way I felt when Ryan first brought us to the pub. It seems like a long time ago now, but it’s actually less than three weeks. I think about how anxious I was. How self-conscious. It’s not like that this time though. It just feels right.
By quarter past six we’re onto the next round. Dave got it in. He paid for it with a fifty-pound note. Whatever it is Dave and Chris do for a living, it certainly pays well. The hours are nice and flexible too. I once asked Ryan what it was. He was a bit noncommittal. Just said it had something to do with import and export.
My phone starts beeping. I take it out of my pocket. I’ve got a text. It’s from Colin, the assistant manager of Thurston Dynamo. Where r u? it says. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, thinking about making something up, texting back to say I’m ill, but all in all, I just can’t be bothered. I push the phone back into my pocket. I take a swig of my pint and blow out a breath.
Ryan raises his eyebrows at me.
“What’s up?” he asks. “Woman trouble?”
I shake my head.
“I’m supposed to be at football training tonight,” I tell him. “I’ve just got a text asking me where I am. I’ll be getting it in the neck on Sunday.”
Ryan shrugs.
“Tell them to shove it. It’s
kids’ stuff. I stopped playing years ago.”
Raks has been listening in.
“Were you any good?” he asks.
Ryan looks down.
“I was OK. I was on the books of the Letchford Town Youth Academy in my last couple of years at primary school. Went to the School Of Excellence, stuff like that.”
“Shit,” I say. I’m impressed. The Letchford scouts have been to loads of games where I’ve been playing, but I’ve never had so much as a sniff of interest. Ryan must have been a pretty decent player.
“So why did you give it up, then?” Raks asks.
“I didn’t, really. I got sent off playing for my school in Year Seven. Some bastard kept kicking me, so I butted him. Broke his nose. Ended up getting banned from all representative matches for two years.”
“Two years?” I say. “Fucking hell, that’s a bit harsh. In our Sunday League I’ve seen lads punch refs and only get banned for a couple of months.”
Ryan pulls a face.
“It’d have been a lot less than two years, but there was this teacher who had it in for me. Mrs McDowell. She got onto the Schools FA. She just wouldn’t let it lie until I’d been properly punished.”
I nod. I take another swig of my pint.
“So what did Letchford Town do?”
Ryan places his hands flat on the table. He looks at his fingernails.
“They let me go.”
“Shit,” Raks says. “I’m surprised you still support them, after that.”
Ryan shakes his head.
“It wasn’t Letchford’s fault. They’d have kept me on, but there was no point if I couldn’t play for two years. They appealed on my behalf, went cap in hand to the Schools FA, but the Schools FA are just a bunch of old twats in blazers. They weren’t going to change their minds. So I just said fuck it.”
“And that was the end of that?” I ask.
Ryan nods. He downs what’s left of his Carling and slams the glass on the table.
“And that was the end of that.”
We all go quiet. I take another sip of beer, glancing across at Ryan. There’s sadness in his eyes. I try to think of something to say, but nothing seems appropriate. From the expression on Raks’s face, I can see that his mind is working in the same way as mine. The whole mood has gone right down. Suddenly there’s a flash. A lighted match bounces off the rim of my pint glass. The match lands on the table-top and fizzles out in a patch of spilt beer.