Big and Clever

by Dan Tunstall

  Hot Dog Boy stands up and tries to take his hat back, but Jerome holds it out of his reach. Smiling, he pulls it onto his own head, back to front, pulling a gangsta pose, forearms crossed over his chest.

  We’re all pissing ourselves laughing now. The Budget Homeboys have well and truly got the message. Time to beat the retreat. They’re filling up their trays as quickly as they can with whatever they can put their hands on, standing up, trying to get out of our way. I barge past Cornrows Boy and sit in his seat. Rob and Gary hustle a couple of the other lads out of their chairs. Ryan’s just standing there grinning. Proud that he’s trained us so well.

  Jerome sits down and starts eating his hamburger. He’s still wearing the NY cap.

  Hot Dog Boy stretches his hand out.

  “Give us the cap back,” he says.

  Jerome frowns. He puts his burger down.

  “Give us the cap back please.”

  Everything’s gone really quiet. People on the tables around us are glancing across, seeing what’s going on. The rest of the Budget Homeboys are standing around like spare parts. Some of the teachers have noticed that something’s happening but it doesn’t seem like they want to get involved. Bing Crosby’s finished now and Cliff Richard is launching into Saviour’s Day.

  Hot Dog Boy looks like he wants to cry. His carefully-cultivated hard man image is falling to pieces around him. There’s not much chance of him taking a swing at Jerome. And there wouldn’t be much point anyway. It would be like firing a peashooter at a tank.

  “Give us the cap back please,” he says.

  A couple of girls giggle.

  Jerome smiles. He’s enjoying this.

  “Give us the cap back please sir,” he says.

  There’s no hesitation this time.

  “Give us the cap back please sir.”

  Jerome smiles again. He looks across at Ryan, but Ryan shakes his head.

  “Let him have it now.”

  Jerome pulls a face, like a kid who’s just been told he’s got to come in for his tea. He takes the cap off and hands it over.

  Hot Dog Boy puts it back on his head, takes his tray and goes to stand with the rest of his crew. As they start trudging towards the canteen, Ryan calls out after them.

  “Lads.”

  The Budget Homeboys turn round.

  Ryan pulls his features into the most sincere expression he can manage.

  “You make sure you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”

  My dinner goes down very well after that. It feels like a score has been settled. For the next half an hour or so my mind is nicely blank. The urge to keep thinking about things has faded right away. Around our table we sit and chat, take the piss out of each other. It feels good. It feels comfortable. At one point I make eye contact with Susie Black and she gives me a little wave. The Christmas CD rumbles on and on. Wonderful Christmastime. I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday. The songs are all old and cheesy, but somehow it doesn’t matter.

  There’s a happy atmosphere in the dining hall. Everyone’s getting into the spirit of the season. People from different groups and gangs are letting their guards down, talking to each other, laughing and joking. Popular kids are sitting with chavs. Smartly dressed townies are on the same tables as scruffy indie kids. Snoop is giving high-fives to the Dalton twins. I’ve even seen one or two of the emo kids smiling.

  Ryan takes a swig of Sprite and then lobs the can onto his tray. He looks round the table and grins.

  “So tonight’s the night then lads,” he says. “The big one. League Two Armageddon. Letchford versus Mackworth.”

  I smile. A little shiver of excitement goes through me. In the build-up to the last few matches I’ve been full of nervous tension for days beforehand. This time, with the whole Oliver thing hanging over my head, I’ve just been feeling blank. Out of it. Finally though, the adrenalin seems to be kicking in.

  Gary rubs his hands together.

  “It’s going to be cracking,” he says. “Local derby. Lots at stake. Give the bastards a spanking on the pitch, then a good shoeing in the streets afterwards.”

  Jerome nods.

  “We should get three points this evening. Mackworth are shit.”

  Rob shakes his head.

  “Can’t take it for granted,” he says. “They’ve got one point less than us after we got the draw at Rochdale, but they’ve got a game in hand. And if they beat us tonight and Mitcham and Torquay win tomorrow, we could be bottom of the table going into Christmas.”

  I wave my hand in the air.

  “It’s not that table you want to be interested in. Mackworth are top of the Firms league. If we see them off tonight, we’ll be out in the lead.”

  “Is that right?” Gary asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “And Mackworth know it. The hooligan messageboards on the Internet are full of postings from Mackworth lads. All sorts of threats about what they’re going to do to us. You can tell they’re running scared.”

  Ryan starts folding his empty crisp bag smaller and smaller until it’s just a triangle of green plastic.

  “It got a bit wild against Mackworth last season,” he tells us. “They’re a pretty decent firm. Mixture of young lads like us and some older blokes. They all know how to handle themselves though.”

  I nod.

  “They reckon they might be bringing a hundred plus tonight. I don’t know how many we can pull in, but it can’t be too many more than that.”

  Ryan shrugs.

  “No. It’ll be pretty evenly matched.”

  We all go quiet for a few seconds, thinking things over. Then Rob chips in.

  “Do you think there’ll be a lot of coppers there this evening?”

  “For definite,” Ryan says. “They know what’s likely to go down. It could be a full-scale riot. The Battle Of Southlands Part II. Coppers are going to be all over the place.”

  Jerome puts his arm round my shoulders.

  “So we’ll just have to make sure that Thomas here doesn’t get himself arrested again,” he says.

  Everyone laughs. I just look at my hands and smile. But when I look up, I see something that wipes the smile right off my face.

  Over by the noticeboards, alone, head hanging down, looking more miserable than I’ve ever seen him before, is Raks. He’s only fifty yards away from me, but it might as well be fifty miles. Or fifty thousand. It’s like we’re in different worlds now.

  Two seconds ago I was pretty content. Pretty much at one with things. Now there’s a horrible empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I look across at Raks again. It’s not the first time I’ve spotted him on his own. Throughout this whole week we’ve been avoiding each other as much as possible. We’re not really speaking any more. Even so, it’s still a shock to see him like this, so isolated, so vulnerable. It seems strange. Wrong.

  Because it’s Raks. My pal. My mucker. My right hand man. I might be pissed off with him now, but we go right back. We’ve been best mates since the very first day of Rising Fives at Thurston Primary. Out in the mobile with Miss Handel. Raks had brought half a packet of Refreshers for his break time snack, and he let me have one of them. It was pink. I gave him a bite of my apple. And now look at the state of us.

  I take a breath and shake my head, trying to clear my mind. All the problems that were crowding in on me earlier on are back again. I’m trying not to think, but it’s the same as trying not to breathe. Sooner or later, you’re just going to have to do it. I check my watch. It’s nearly quarter past one. Five minutes until afternoon registration.

  Ryan, Gary, Rob and Jerome start loading up their trays with empty plates and rubbish, standing up and getting ready to make a move. I know I should be doing the same, but I can’t be bothered.

  Ryan looks at me.

  “You alright?” he asks. Gary and the other lads are already making for the canteen, but Ryan hangs back, waiting for an answer.

  I nod and smile, not too convincingly.

  “Yeah.
”

  Ryan cocks his head to one side, seeing if he can suss me out. I’m giving nothing away.

  “Right then,” he says, after a while. “I’m off. I’m going to show my face this afternoon, just remind Sankey who I am. What about you? What lessons you got?”

  “Maths and History.”

  Ryan whistles.

  “A thrilling end to the academic year then.”

  I laugh.

  Ryan zips up his Adidas top.

  “So are you coming?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Not yet. I’m just going to sit here for a few more minutes.”

  Ryan shrugs.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll see you later on, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Later on.”

  Ryan heads off, and I stay sitting down.

  The dining area is emptying right out, but the Christmas songs keep on coming. Do They Know It’s Christmas? A Spaceman Came Travelling. I put my hands over my face and rub my eyes with my fingertips until I see stars. I take my hands away and look across to where Raks is sitting. Only he’s not there any more. He’s gone.

  A couple of minutes pass. I just stare into space. I eventually summon up the energy to start piling stuff onto my tray, but then my phone starts to beep. I reach into my pocket and take it out. It’s a text from Zoe. Hp u r lkng 4wd 2 2nite c u l8r txt me?

  I feel sick. I want to text her back, but I can’t. The fallout from tonight is going to be hard enough to deal with as it is, but at least I’ve not lied so far. At least I’ve not categorically said that I’m going to be at the show. Well, not in the last few days anyway. I’ve somehow managed to avoid the subject all week. But if I send a text, actually put into writing that I can’t wait to see her do her stuff, I really will be setting myself up for big, big trouble. Any chance of keeping things going with Zoe will be gone for good.

  I decide on a compromise. Something non-committal. I key in Gd lk 2nite brk a leg! Tom X. As my thumb flicks across the numbers I notice that the power on my phone is getting low. There’s only one bar lit up. I reach inside the collar of my jacket and touch my T pendant. I read the text through, and take a deep breath.

  As I hit SEND, another wave of guilt sweeps over me. It’s becoming a bit of a theme with me this week. I’ve not lied to her, but I’ve not told the truth either. In some ways, what I’ve done is even worse than lying. It’s the lowest of the low. It’s like being all nice to your Granny, lulling her into a false sense of security, on the day you know you’re sending her off to the Care Home.

  I slump into my chair, putting my phone back in my pocket. My palms are wet with sweat. I shut my eyes. My brain is spinning out of control. There are just too many thoughts to deal with. It’s complete overload.

  I open my eyes again. The hall is virtually deserted now. The kitchen staff are out and about, clearing trays, picking up food from the floor, sweeping and polishing. A couple of them are casting suspicious glances in my direction, as if I’m up to something. The bell for registration starts to ring, drowning out the sound of Slade doing Merry Xmas Everybody.

  I slowly get to my feet. I’ve come to a conclusion. There’s no way I can stay here today. I mean, I’ve not even brought a pad or a pen. But that’s not the real reason. The real reason is I can’t spend the afternoon sitting in classrooms with Raks, seeing the look in his eyes. I need to get away. It’s pointless trying to keep the thoughts at bay. I’ve got to let them all out. See if I can put them in some sort of order.

  I start off across the dining area, slaloming through the tables and pushing through the double doors into the foyer. I go out through the main entrance and head up the path to the gates, turning right and crossing the road, then going left down towards the parade of shops.

  Booze Brothers Off-Licence is the third unit along, past the newsagents and The Golden Plaice Fish N Chips. A bell rings as I enter. The old bloke behind the counter looks up from his paper. It’s the Argus I was delivering last night. He’s looking at the sport on the back page. Whyman Rallying Cry : Win It For Fans. A smaller column along the side has the heading Police Warn Troublemakers To Stay Away. The radio is on. It’s Letchford Sound. The Richie Bowser Lunchtime Jam. Richie’s playing some Level 42. Running In The Family. I get myself a four-pack of Carling from the fridge and take it across to pay.

  “You eighteen?” the old bloke asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him.

  The old bloke looks at me for a second or two.

  “Got any ID?”

  I shake my head.

  “Nope.”

  The old bloke carries on staring for a bit longer. He’s seeing if I’m going to bottle out. I’m not. He knows full well that I’m nowhere near eighteen, but if he only ever sold alcohol to over eighteens, instead of schoolkids, he’d be bankrupt inside a couple of months.

  “That’s four fifty-seven,” he says, putting my cans into a cheap-looking blue and white striped carrier bag. He looks at me like he’s doing me a big favour, but I don’t give him any acknowledgement. I’m not in the mood. And anyway, it’s me that’s putting money into his hand, not the other way round.

  I shove a twenty over the counter and collect my change. Then I leave the shop, go back up to the road and turn left, away from Parkway and out of town.

  About a mile up, I come to a bridge. There’s a footpath running under the road in both directions, the course of an old railway line. I cut down the steps and head left. Another four hundred yards down, there’s a bench. It’s daubed with graffiti and someone’s tried to set it on fire at some point, but apart from that it looks reasonably clean and dry. I sit down, fish a can out of my bag and crack it open.

  The first swig of beer makes me grimace. It’s so cold I can feel myself gagging as it sinks into my stomach. I suppose al fresco drinking isn’t really the order of the day in the middle of December. I pull my Letchford scarf up out of my jacket, tightening it round my neck, trying to fight back against the chill of winter weather and icy Carling. It seems to work. The second and third swigs are much better. By the fourth, I’m coming up to speed, gearing myself up for some serious thinking.

  I look out across the fields. In the distance I can see the Letchford skyline. Dirty tower blocks, church spires, chimneys, cranes pulling things down and building them up again. Over on the far left I can just make out the clock tower at Alderman Richard Martin High School. In the middle there’s the Ainsdale Centre, and further out to the right, the Industrial Estate and Southlands Stadium, floodlights stretching into the grey sky like little black twigs.

  I take another swig of Carling and turn my thoughts back to the matter in hand. Zoe or Letchford Town? Letchford Town or Zoe? The same question, over and over again.

  All this week I’ve been resigned to the fact that I don’t have a choice about what I’m doing tonight. Like Letchford Town is an addiction I’ve got no hope of breaking away from. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I do have a choice. It’s up to me to weigh up the pros and cons and come to a decision. Nothing’s set in stone yet.

  I could kick the Letchford habit and go to the play. Then I wouldn’t lose Zoe. We could work harder on our relationship, get it back to the way it used to be. I could patch things up with Raks and Dad.

  But that would mean missing Letchford’s biggest match of the season. Missing the buzz, the adrenalin surge. Missing Mackworth. And where would that leave me? Looking like I’d pussied out. I’d lose my rank. I’d lose my status, everything I’ve built up over the past couple of months. I’d lose Ryan and Gary and the rest of the lads, and I’d be back at square one. Bottom of the Parkway pile. Down with all the deadwood.

  I finish off my first Carling and put the empty can on the bench next to me. I hoped the alcohol might loosen me up a bit, help me to see things more clearly, but it’s not working yet. I feel like I’m being pulled in one hundred different directions. And whichever direction I go in, I’m going to upset someone or something will be gone forever.

  I
get another can out of the bag. I check my watch. Half past two. I’m not going back to Thurston this afternoon. Dad thinks I’m staying in town then heading straight to Zoe’s play. So I’ve got about four and a half hours to make my mind up, and still have enough time to get to Alderman Richard Martin or Southlands. Four and a half hours to come to a decision that could change the whole course of my life.

  eighteen

  It’s just gone seven o’clock when I start walking back into Letchford. The sky over the town is orange with the glow of streetlights and there’s a full moon away to the right.

  I’ve made my decision. It’s probably been the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I’ve agonised over it. In the end though, three and a half cans into my thinking session, things started to come into focus. Going to Oliver is the most sensible option all round. The consequences of not going hardly bear thinking about. I could just bullshit Ryan and the other lads. I got taken ill. Explosive diarrhoea. Water-pistol arse. Absolutely no way I could go to Southlands.

  And yet here I am, just before twenty to eight, coming past the Sky outside broadcast trucks and the teams of police doing body searches, ducking into Gate 20 and handing my eight quid to Comb-Round Man. It doesn’t matter what the most sensible option is. The pull of Letchford Town is too strong to resist.

  Comb-Round Man presses the button that releases the locking mechanism on the turnstile. A buzz of excitement runs through me. I’m still fairly pissed, but I know this is an important moment. The point of no return. Even now, if I turned tail and legged it, I could just about get to Alderman Richard Martin in time for curtain up. As the turnstile clangs shut behind me though, I know that’s not going to happen.

  Kick-off is getting close and the concourse is almost deserted. I head past the bookies and up the steps as the sound of the crowd gets louder and louder. Airhorns are blasting and We Are The Mackworth Haters is booming out.

  The teams are already on the pitch. Carl Butterworth and Ian Seaman, the Mackworth captain, are shaking hands while the ref, Letchy The Lion and the match officials look on. There’s a cameraman in the centre circle, another one just to the left of the goal at our end, and two more up in the gantry at the back of the Main Stand. Because we’re on the TV, there are electronic hoardings along the front of the Family Stand, flashing up adverts for Littlewoods Pools, Coke and Internet poker. Silk And Satin Table Dancing Club doesn’t get a mention.