by Dan Tunstall
It’s difficult to gauge how long the fighting’s been going on for. It could be seconds, it could be much longer. But one thing’s for sure. We’re starting to get the upper hand. The Whitbourne crew are tough blokes, up for a scrap, but we’re eating into their territory, like an army advancing across a battlefield, and we’re coming out on top in all the skirmishes. One-on-ones, groups of lads piling into each other, every time it’s Whitbourne giving ground.
We’ve driven them right back past their exit gates now, and the first couple of lads are making a break for it. A split second later, and they’re all running. It’s a fantastic sight. The Whitbourne boys are scarpering like scared rabbits. They won’t be leapfrogging us in the Firms league. The battle’s over and the NLLF boys are victorious. I start to laugh. I feel invincible. Untouchable. Made of steel.
But then there’s a pair of arms tightening round my waist and I’m being pushed forwards, stumbling down to the ground face first. I stretch an arm out in front of me, trying to push myself up, but there’s a weight on my back holding me down. I feel my other arm being wrenched up until my hand is between my shoulder blades. A jolt of panic goes through me. This shouldn’t be happening.
I manage to force myself up on one elbow, looking around in disbelief. Everyone’s running now. It’s not just the Whitbourne lads. It’s Letchford too. And the reason they’re running is that suddenly there are police everywhere. I see Rob and Gary sprinting towards the corner of the Main Stand. Scotty and Jimmy and Jerome are doubling back in the other direction. I see Ryan bombing across the car park and clambering over the perimeter fence.
I roll slightly to my right. And then I see Raks. He’s face first on the tarmac too. A policeman in riot gear is sitting on his back. My heart feels like it’s stopped. With one last big effort I wriggle myself around so that I can see who’s pinning me down. In all honesty, I already know.
The policeman pushes up his visor and looks at me.
“I suggest you stop struggling son,” he says. “You’re under arrest.”
fifteen
The next five hours are surreal.
By ten o’clock we’re sitting in the police detention room at Southlands. It’s down in the bowels of the Main Stand, fifteen feet square with a concrete floor and pale blue walls. Someone’s punched a hole in the door. There’s me and Raks and seven other lads. I vaguely recognise a couple of them, but the others I’ve never seen before. They’re probably Whitbourne boys. There’s no hostility now though. We’re all in the same boat.
Me and Raks are the youngest in the room. The coppers speak to us first. They make sure we know we’re under caution. They tell us why we’re being held.
On suspicion of committing offences contrary to the Public Order Act 1986, namely the offences of Threatening Behaviour and Affray.
They take away our mobiles and jot down our details. Addresses, home phone numbers. Raks starts to cry. I just feel numb.
By twenty past ten we’re in the back of a transit van heading for Letchford Central Police Station. There are metal grilles over the windows and a set of bars inside the back doors. It’s like a cage on wheels. It’s only a five-minute journey, but it’s not pleasant. Nine of us are squashed in side-by-side, hot and bothered, jostling for elbow room, gagging on the smell of beer and aftershave, sweat and puke.
By half past ten we’re at the station. It’s been a busy night in Letchford. The reception area is full of shouting drunks, red-eyed women and fidgety druggies. Ten minutes later it’s just me and Raks, alone in a room, waiting for our dads to get here. It’s a nicer room than the one at the stadium. Pink walls, grey chairs, a low table in the middle of the floor. A WPC is checking up on us every few minutes. She’s quite fit. I smile at her, try to get her on our side, but she’s not having it. She’s completely expressionless. I talk to Raks, try to keep him going. Tell him to keep cool. Admit nothing. Raks just keeps crying.
At half past eleven, Dad and Raj Patel turn up. Dad’s pissed as usual. He’s had to cadge a lift from Raj. Raj is just seriously pissed off. We’re allowed to speak to them for a few minutes, and then we’re whisked away to be photographed, fingerprinted and to have DNA swabs taken. After that we’re back into the room with pink walls to sit in silence with Dad and Raj, their eyes boring holes into us.
Just after midnight two duty solicitors arrive. A man and a woman. Raks and his dad go off into another room with the bloke. Me and my dad stay put. My solicitor is a pretty Chinese lady in her mid to late twenties. She wants me to call her Suki. Dad thinks I should call her Miss Chang. We talk for forty minutes. She clarifies the reasons why I’m being held, tells me about the interview process and all the possible outcomes. Bail. Custody. Court appearances. Banning orders. Dad starts to look ill. He goes off to get a cup of coffee. I tell Suki what happened earlier on. I’m fairly economical with the truth. We decide on a strategy. It’s not too original. Basically I’m going to say It wasn’t me guvnor.
At half past one it’s time for the interviews. Raks, his dad and his solicitor go through one door. Me, Dad and Suki go through another. We’re in a small, claustrophobic room with a low ceiling. We sit across a table from two officers. PC Andy Crowe and PC Alan Cushing. PC Crowe does most of the talking. He’s thin-faced, bald, Yorkshire accent, white spittle in the corners of his mouth. For the third time tonight I’m reminded that I’m under caution.
You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.
For the second time tonight I’m formally notified of the reasons why I’m being held.
I’m still numb and detached from what’s going on around me. It’s like being stuck inside an episode of The Bill. The uniforms, the stern faces, the neon strip lights, the Formica table-top, the upright chairs, the polished floor, the tape machine, the paper cups of water. I’ve seen them all before, hundreds of times on my TV. The procedures I’m going through, I know them off by heart. The legal jargon and police-speak I’m listening to, I can almost recite it word-for-word before it’s said to me. Everything is oddly familiar. But it’s also very very weird. Because it’s not a fictional character trying to talk his way out of charges of Threatening Behaviour and Affray. It’s me.
The interview lasts three quarters of an hour. Dad stays silent while I go through my version of events outside Southlands. I was trying to make my way out when I got caught in the crossfire. I was struck several times and only raised my hands in self-defence. My breathing is steady. My voice is steady. I’m surprised at how calm I am. I find myself thinking about Ryan, Gary, Dave, Steve, Chris, Trev and the other lads. They’d be proud of me. The police officers try to pick holes in my story. Suggest to me that perhaps my recollection is wrong. That I, in fact had a role to play in instigating the violence. Prompted by Suki, I deny this.
At quarter past two, me and my dad go back into the room with pink walls. Raks and Raj are already there. Suki, Raks’s solicitor, the interview teams and the custody officer are locked away in another room.
The next fifteen minutes seem to drag on forever. Raks looks shell-shocked, chewing his fingernails and staring at the floor. Raj is pacing around like a caged tiger. Dad’s drinking another cup of coffee. His hands are shaking. I’m completely numb now. Totally switched off.
Just after half past two, the custody officer comes in, flanked by the solicitors. He’s a big bloke, six foot two or three, grey hair and black eyebrows, wire framed glasses. He’s holding a clipboard. I’m holding my breath. Raks stands up, but I stay sitting down. The custody officer blows his nose on a blue handkerchief. He starts to read.
It is the opinion of the Interview Team that there is insufficient evidence in either case to provide a realistic prospect of conviction in a Court of Law. For this reason you are to be released without charge. It is my duty to inform you that a record of your arrests will be held on the Police National Comput
er until you reach the age of seventeen. Once you have collected your personal effects, you are both free to leave.
I suck air back into my lungs. I can almost feel the oxygen returning to all the different parts of my body, a tingling sensation. The numbness is wearing off. I rub my chin with the back of my hand. I look at my dad and grin. He’s not amused. Raks bursts into tears. The custody officer leaves the room. I stand up and thank Suki. She smiles, but there’s no real warmth in it. Getting scrotes off the hook is just a job she does.
Five minutes later we’re all at the front desk. The reception area has emptied right out now. Raks has had his mobile returned and I’m just collecting mine. The desk sergeant pushes a form across the counter for me to sign. I scribble my signature and hand the form back. I shove my phone into my pocket.
The desk sergeant looks at me, then he looks at Raks.
“From what I hear, you two have had a very lucky escape tonight,” he says. “And if you want a word of advice, I’d keep well away from Southlands for the foreseeable future.”
It’s cold outside in the car park. The wind that was blowing earlier on has died down and it’s raining now. Miserable, drizzly rain that makes a start on soaking through my clothes the second I step out into it. We crunch across the gravel, heading for Raj’s Mondeo. He and Dad are out in front. Raks and me are bringing up the rear. Raj pushes the button on his key fob and de-activates the central locking. We all get in the car, slamming the doors and pulling our seatbelts across. The interior light goes out and Raj slowly reverses out of the parking bay, nosing the car towards the exit.
The centre of Letchford is pretty deserted. There are a few women in miniskirts and vest tops staggering along the pavements and looking for taxis, and a stray dog sniffing at a discarded kebab in Town Hall Square, but that’s about it. We keep on going, heading out of town. I sit and stare into the night, at the Christmas decorations, the shop fronts and billboards sliding past. Glory Hole Antiques. Poundland. Magic Valley Chinese. Wisla Polish Grocery. Big posters for mobile phones and underarm deodorants. The silence in the car is deafening.
As we pull onto the ringroad, Raks starts to cry again. Little hiccupping sobs, with his finger and thumb pressed into the top of his nose and his head on his shoulder. I reach a hand out and squeeze his elbow, but he shrinks away into the corner of the seat. Shrugs me off. I pull my hand back and rest it on my knee.
I take a breath and look out of the window again. I think about everything that’s happened to me, try to make sense of it all. I feel strange. Different. Like I’ve been through a rite of passage and lived to tell the tale. And there’s one sentence that just keeps going round and round in my head. We got away with it.
The roads are empty at this hour of the morning, and it doesn’t take us long to get back to Thurston. We go through the centre of the village, past the shops, weaving through the streets until we’re on Wolverton Road, hanging a right into Dale Road and pulling up outside our house.
Dad unbuckles his seatbelt.
“Thanks Raj,” he says. “I really appreciate this.”
“That’s alright Tony,” Raj replies.
Dad gets out of the car. I lean across towards Raks. I grip his shoulder.
“Chin up mate,” I whisper. I tap my nose. “And not a word to Zoe, right?”
Raks doesn’t say anything.
I undo my seatbelt, pull my door open and step out onto the pavement. The rain is really coming down now. In the distance a dog howls. I duck my head back into the car.
“Thanks Mr Patel,” I say.
Raj nods, but he doesn’t look up.
I slam the door and follow Dad down the path. Inside the house we hang our jackets up and go into the living room. I slump into an armchair and Dad heads for the sofa, stopping off on the way to flick the TV on. Force of habit. It’s The Jeremy Skinner Show. A young bloke with acne and a baseball cap is sitting on a stage next to an old woman in a leopard print top. There’s a caption in the bottom left hand corner of the screen. I LEFT MY PREGNANT FIANCEE — AND MOVED IN WITH HER MUM. Dad looks at me. We’ve not said a word to each other since we left the police station, but I get the impression that’s about to change.
“Well?” Dad says.
I shrug.
He has another go.
“What have you got to say for yourself?”
I rub the top of my head. There’s a slight lump there, where the geezer with the red face wrecked his fist earlier on.
“Not much,” I reply. “They took me in, they weighed up all the evidence, they let me go. End of story.”
Dad shakes his head.
“That’s not the end of the story. This is serious stuff. You were arrested. That’s terrible. Shameful. Nobody in our family has ever been arrested. And that’ll stay on your record forever.”
“No it won’t,” I tell him. “You heard what that copper said. Once I’m seventeen, it gets wiped off. Forgotten about.”
“Don’t you believe it. It’ll always be there. Employers check things like that.” He takes a breath, then carries on. “Anyway. I want to know what’s actually been going on.”
I shrug again.
“You were there during the interview. What else do you need to know?”
“Well,” Dad says. “I heard what you said. What the solicitor advised you to say. Just an innocent bystander. In the wrong place at the wrong time. It got you out of trouble. But is it the truth?”
“Oh right. Now I’m a liar.”
“So innocent bystanders have DVDs called Terrace Warfare in their bedrooms, do they?”
I look down at a stain on the carpet. The question’s still hanging in the air, but I’m not going to answer it.
“Listen Tom,” Dad says. “I watch the news. I read the papers. I know there’s been some trouble at Letchford games recently. Fighting, stone-throwing, general thuggery. Is that you and your stupid mates? Arseholes like this Ryan?”
“Not really,” I say.
Dad laughs.
“Right. So it is you and your stupid mates.” His voice is rising. All the pent-up frustration of the evening coming out. “At least we’ve got that cleared up. Well, I’ll tell you now. You’re not going to any more games. You lied to me. Just this last weekend you told me that nothing was going on, and I believed you. Never again. No more Letchford Town.”
I say nothing, but my mind’s in overdrive. No more Letchford Town? We’ll see about that.
Dad starts getting himself properly worked up.
“I mean, what do you think you’re going to get out of this?” He spreads his arms out wide. “Punching people. Kicking people. Is it some sort of shortcut to being a man? Do you think it’s big? Do you think it’s clever?”
I smirk. Part embarrassed, part defiant.
“No.”
“And getting Raks involved,” Dad says. “What do you think Raj Patel thinks, seeing his lad being led astray by his oldest friend?”
“Hey, back up. What makes you think I’ve led Raks astray? Don’t you think he’s big enough to think for himself?”
Dad ignores me. He’s on a roll.
“Just look at the state of you,” he says. “You look like a yob. Your prison haircut. The clothes you’ve got on. I’m not an idiot. I know you don’t wear your school colours any more. I’ve seen you, sneaking out with your jeans and trainers in your bag.”
I snort.
“I won’t bother trying to hide them in future then.”
“Oh right.” Dad nods his head sarcastically. “I thought I’d get that. Backchat. Cockiness. Just what I’d expect from you these days.”
I swallow. It feels like he’s trying to goad me. Tempt me into a massive bust-up. I stare at the TV and try to stop myself rising to the bait. The couple on stage have had their say and Jeremy Skinner’s out in the crowd, canvassing opinion. An old bloke with slicked-back white hair and a moustache is saying his piece. He’s taken their behaviour as a personal insult. The pair of them should be
utterly ashamed. They should bring back the birch. He’s getting more and more incensed. Ten seconds after he’s finished venting his spleen, his jowls are still jiggling with indignation. Up at the front the happy couple are smiling. They’ve started holding hands.
Dad flops back into the sofa and lets out a deep breath. He shakes his head. It looks like he’s calming down.
“Tom,” he says, voice softer now. “You used to be such a nice lad. What’s gone wrong? Just tell me. I’ll try to understand.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I pick at a bobble of fluff on the side of my chair and avoid eye contact.
“All the good things in your life – fishing, Thurston Dynamo – you don’t seem to care about them any more. And what about your schoolwork? I never see you doing anything these days.”
“I get by.”
Dad pulls a face.
“You should be doing more than just getting by. I said this to you the other night. You’ve got a good brain. Natural ability. But you can’t just coast along on natural ability forever.”
I sigh. I glance back at The Jeremy Skinner Show. The pregnant fiancée has been brought on stage. She’s about eight months gone and she’s not happy. She’s trying to attack her mum, but she’s being held back by a couple of security guards.
Dad’s seen that my attention’s wandering. He gets up and switches the TV off. The only sound now is the ticking of the mantelpiece clock.
“Tom,” he says. “You’ve got to get yourself back on track. Don’t go off the rails. Start enjoying the good stuff again.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He rubs the stubble on his chin.
“All the things I’ve said. Fishing, school, playing football. Seeing Zoe. What’s she going to say about this?”
“She’s not going to find out.”
Dad raises his eyebrows.
“Well that’s between you and your conscience,” he says. “But anyway, what I’m saying is get your priorities right. Put your energy into proper things. Even your paper round – you only seem to do it nowadays for the money it gets you.”