Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  He smiled to himself, recognising only too well that he was back where he’d always been, teasing advantage out of the surrounding chaos, staying one move ahead, trying to broker a result that would spare him either humiliation or penury, or – if events got totally out of control – an ugly death. The coming days wouldn’t be easy, but then he’d be crazy to expect anything different. At moments like this, he told himself, he knew exactly what he was best at.

  Surviving.

  Bazza Mackenzie didn’t eat until nearly ten. The hotel restaurant was beginning to empty. His favourite table by the window had been reserved all evening in expectation of his arrival. He summoned Leo Kinder and Makins, and ordered a couple of bottles of Krug to kick things off. Makins did a double take when he saw Gill Reynolds at his boss’s side but did his best to ignore Bazza’s extravagant displays of affection. His months with Mackenzie had taught him a great deal about the importance of territory. You could look, and you could remember, but you very definitely didn’t stray onto your boss’s turf.

  Mackenzie wanted to review the week’s campaigning. The way he saw it, Pompey First had roared off the starting grid and left the opposition for dead. They’d torn up the electoral rule book and pulled stroke after stroke. They were getting oodles of media attention and putting themselves bang in the face of the whole fucking city. Everyone knew about the Smouts, and the brain-dead piss heads at the weekend, and how Bazza cherished the National Health Service and the Sure Start Centres, and what a hefty injection of Chinese capital could do for the city’s defence industries, and why the Hilsea Lido deserved a bit of TLC, and how the Tide Turn Trust was turning the wilder kids back into human beings.

  All this stuff, Bazza pointed out, had happened in less than a week. The north of the city was plastered with Pompey First posters, and YouTube had become the destination of choice for punters looking for something different in the way of political broadcasting. Only this morning Bazza had fielded a couple of emails from Smoutland fans in Scotland. When the mini-vids had first aired, everyone had said they were pointless and mad. Now they’d become cult viewing. And that, said Bazza, was exactly what Pompey First was about. We’re here to give the other lot a kicking. We’re here to give the system a shake. Take a long hard look at the Big Society, and what you got – if you were lucky – was Pompey First.

  Mackenzie raised his glass, first to Andy Makins, then to Leo Kinder.

  ‘You’ve done brilliant, guys. And you know what? It can only get better.’

  Kinder agreed. He’d mapped out the campaign schedule for the coming week. Tomorrow’s semi-final at Wembley would bring the club – and hence the city – a great deal of publicity, so they needed to hit the ground running. Right, Baz?

  Mackenzie offered a vigorous nod. He wanted lots of good strong positive stuff about Fratton Park’s long-term future. Just now the club’s finances were a car crash and there were all kinds of issues about ownership, but he knew Pompey would pull through the way it always had, and once all the aggro and madness had settled down he could see nothing but success. A brand-new stadium out at Horsea Island. Big-name signings on the back of the club’s huge core support. Regular top-five finishes in the Prem. Plus unforgettable nights of Euro-football, with Pompey caning the arse off the likes of Barcelona and AC Milan. Mackenzie reached for his glass, enjoying the prospect of this glorious fantasy. His club. His city.

  Kinder took up the running again, outlining the week’s other themes. The way investment always seemed to drain to the south of the island. The way Southsea and Gunwharf hogged the lion’s share of National Lottery money. The way Pompey First planned to restore a bit of city-wide fairness in the scramble for funds. Bazza signalled his approval as Kinder planted a tick in each of these boxes, utterly certain that the electoral tide was running in his favour, and when conversation turned to the imminent Future-Proofing Conference, he let his mind wander, gazing out of the window.

  This was one of his favourite views. Beyond the sweep of Southsea Common and the frieze of coloured lights on the seafront lay the busy darkness of the Solent. At this time of night there was still plenty of traffic out on the water – a FastCat heading for Ryde, huge container ships inbound for Southampton – and Mackenzie reached for Gill’s hand, giving it a little squeeze, proud of the niche he was carving for himself in Pompey’s rich history.

  Informally, among people in the know, he’d been prince of the city for years now, the Copnor boy with the bollocks and the brain to turn oodles of toot into serious moolah, and with luck the next three weeks would become a kind of coronation. Bazza had never been to an election night count in his life, but now he was relishing the prospect: getting in the faces of all the Establishment suits, scoring some kind of result and acknowledging the cheers in the Guildhall Square afterwards. This was the Copnor boy made good. This was how far you could get as long as you never lost your bottle. He was having a think about the speech he’d be making on election night when Gill touched him on the arm.

  ‘Those two were outside the nick at lunchtime.’ She was looking at a couple of youths standing in the hotel forecourt, staring up at the restaurant. She’d seen the same faces on the midday news.

  Mackenzie followed her pointing finger. She was right. One was a skinny little scrote, baseball cap, dead eyes, hoodie, brand new Nikes. The other one was bigger, taller, broader. He was wearing a Pompey shirt over Lacoste trackie bottoms. He had something in his right hand. He drew his arm back and took careful aim at the faces in the window.

  Moments later the half-brick shattered the glass beside the table. Gill screamed, covering her face as the next missile showered them with more glass. Mackenzie was already on his feet, already heading for the door, towing Makins behind him.

  Kinder pulled Gill to safety as a third object, a rock this time, sailed in through the open window and scattered a party of late diners on the other side of the restaurant.

  On the steps of the hotel Mackenzie paused. The kids were crossing the road, heading for the Common, cool as you like. The skinny one turned to give him the finger, and Mackenzie caught a derisive yelp as they launched into one of the chants from the Fratton End.

  Mackenzie shot Makins a look and set off in pursuit. Makins, with some reluctance, followed. The kids had broken into a trot now, still in no hurry. As far as Mackenzie could judge, they were heading for the seafront. Mackenzie ran a little faster, closing the gap, thankful he’d only had the single glass of Krug. Fuck sweet reason, he thought to himself. Fuck the army of sociologists who’d rocked up for the Tide Turn Trust conference. Fuck all the speeches about social deprivation and the miracles of restorative justice. These inbreds needed a slap or two. And he was only too happy to oblige.

  By the time they got to the seafront, Mackenzie was knackered. He paused on the promenade, catching his breath, waiting for Makins. The kids had slowed and were walking backwards towards the pier, still screaming abuse.

  Makins wanted to know what was supposed to happen next.

  ‘We fucking do them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How?’ Mackenzie had set off again. What a question.

  Southsea Pier was a quarter of a mile away, a long dark finger silhouetted against the lights of the seafront. The tide was out and the kids jumped onto the beach, heading for the gleaming stretch of wet sand down by the water. Mackenzie could hear the tramp of their feet on the pebbles. They’d started on the songs again. ‘I’m Pompey Till I Die.’ Too fucking right, he thought.

  By now, still on the promenade, Mackenzie and Makins were abreast of the kids. A final effort would do it. Mackenzie led Makins onto the pebbles. The kids began to run again. The blackness beneath the pier loomed before them. Then they were gone.

  Mackenzie plunged after them. Under the pier it was suddenly cold. He could feel the clammy breath of the pebbles. He stopped, wiping the sweat from his face, letting his eyes get used to the darkness. The curl of the breaking waves echoed around the rusting iron pillar
s. From somewhere overhead came a slow drip-drip from a leaking pipe.

  ‘Sweet or what?’

  He spun round. A line of bodies barred the way back to the beach. There were more faces to his left, maybe a dozen of the little bastards, maybe more. He’d been set up. He’d been ambushed. These tossers had taken his rant outside the nick a little too literally and now they wanted payback. Sweet indeed.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said softly. ‘Fuck the lot of you.’

  He’d been in situations like this before, often with the 6.57. You were chasing some rival firm or other. You thought your mates were behind you. You went steaming round the corner only to find yourself in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by hostile faces just itching to kick you to pieces. The odds against were enormous. The immediate future held nothing but pain. You were probably crapping yourself. But you never let the bastards see it.

  ‘Who’s first then?’ Mackenzie had adopted the punchy crouch he remembered only too well.

  There was a stir of movement in the darkness. No one knew quite what to do next. Then the kid in the Pompey top, the one who’d done the damage back at the hotel, told Mackenzie he’d been out of order.

  ‘When, son?’

  ‘Lunchtime. Outside the nick. What you said.’

  ‘I said you were all losers. Am I wrong?’

  ‘Yeah. Cos we ain’t. We might be loads of things but we ain’t losers.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement. Another kid wanted to know what Mackenzie was doing in politics.

  ‘You was a right laugh once. Don’t understand that.’

  ‘Maybe I mean it. Maybe I want to make things better. Have a bit of a sort-out. Put tossers like you lot back in your fucking kennels.’ He peered round, trying to make eye contact, trying to shorten the odds against a serious beating. ‘So who’s going to offer me out then? Any volunteers? Anyone up for it?’

  There were no takers. Then Makins tried to bolt. He got as far as the gleam of light on the pebbles beyond the pier before three of the kids hauled him back. He was still struggling when a couple of them punched him to the ground and began to kick him around the head and shoulders.

  Mackenzie didn’t hesitate. He pushed past the stone thrower and dragged the kids off. The one doing the real damage was way bigger than Mackenzie. Bazza spun him round and drove his forehead into his face. He felt bone splintering under the force of the blow and the kid fell back, his broken nose pumping blood.

  His mates turned on Mackenzie. Bazza lashed out, catching the nearest one on the side of his head, sending him sprawling, but he was too slow and too old to get them all. Curled up beneath the blur of flailing limbs, he tried to protect his head and groin. He felt a sharp pain under his eye. A blow to his ribs drove the breath from his lungs. Another caught him on the side of the knee. Then, as suddenly as it had kicked off, the kids had gone – tramping away over the pebbles – and all he could hear was the steady rasp of the incoming tide and that same drip-drip from the leak overhead.

  He felt for Makins in the darkness, asked him if he was OK. Makins was trembling with shock, his eyes wide in the whiteness of his face, blood around his broken mouth. Mackenzie helped him to his feet. There were taxis back on the seafront. The hotel was down the road. Everything would be fine.

  ‘Yeah?’ Makins didn’t believe him.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mackenzie helped him up the drift of pebbles towards the promenade. ‘Welcome to Pompey, son.’

  Chapter twenty-three

  SOUTHSEA: SUNDAY, 11 APRIL 2010

  Jimmy Suttle was alone when the front door bell rang. It was five past four in the afternoon. Lizzie and Grace were round at Lizzie’s mum’s in North End and the game had just started. Yesterday’s Premiership results had confirmed certain relegation for Pompey, but today’s semi-final in the Wembley sunshine gave them a chance to salvage a little pride from the wreckage of a disastrous season.

  It was Winter at the door. Suttle stared at him. This broke every rule in the book.

  ‘You’re out of your head coming round here.’ He hustled Winter inside. ‘I thought we had an agreement?’

  ‘We did, son. You lot broke it.’

  He followed Suttle through to the living room and made himself at home on the sofa.

  ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘I’ve come for the match.’ Winter beamed. ‘And the company.’

  ‘You want tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He nodded at the bottle of Stella beside Suttle’s chair. ‘One of those might be nice.’

  Suttle left, returning in moments with another Stella. At Wembley the crowd were roaring on a Spurs attack. Defoe was making for the Pompey goal, but Rocha held him off with a forearm nose-smash.

  ‘I thought you hated football?’ Suttle tore himself away.

  ‘I do. But so does Lizzie. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So …’ he shrugged ‘… I thought we might have the place to ourselves.’

  ‘And the footie?’

  ‘Help yourself, son. Enjoy. We’ve got all afternoon.’

  After a frantic start the game settled down. From time to time Winter asked about this player or that, but his real interest seemed to be the state of the club. Like most people in the city, he’d lost track of who owed or owned what. Was it true the club had run out of money? Was there nothing left for oranges at half-time?

  ‘Not a bean,’ Suttle confirmed. ‘They’ve been in administration since February. You’re looking at monthly wages of over a million quid and nothing left to pay them with. Fuck knows how they got into a state like this. No one’s holding their hands up.’

  ‘That’s robbery, isn’t it?’

  ‘Probably. Shit!’ Yebda had just curled a pass into Piquionne. With all the time in the world, the Pompey striker had smashed it into the arms of the Spurs keeper. ‘One–nil that should have been.’

  Suttle stole a look at Winter, trying to gauge whether his interest in the game was genuine. Winter was looking at his empty bottle. Suttle fetched another.

  ‘Mackenzie given you the day off?’

  ‘He’s up there.’ Winter nodded at the screen. ‘Spot the candidate with the black eye.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘A couple of scrotes attacked the hotel last night, ruined Bazza’s day. Needless to say, he chased them down.’

  He told Suttle about Makins. X-rays had revealed a couple of broken ribs and a hairline fracture to the skull.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And Mackenzie’s pressing charges?’

  ‘Bazza doesn’t do charges. I gather he’s called a little meet for tomorrow night – 6.57 reunion. Leo Kinder knows a thing or two about the Third Reich. He thinks it’s the Brownshirts all over again.’

  ‘Brownshirts?’ For the time being Suttle had given up on the game.

  ‘Hitler’s private army. Bunch of Bavarian thugs who did the biz for the young Adolf. Bazza thinks you can always learn from history, and maybe he’s right.’

  Suttle’s gaze returned to the screen. It was nearly half-time.

  ‘So where are you in all this?’

  ‘With Bazza you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m where I always was. I’m the guy with the whistle, trying to keep some kind of order. At this rate, son, you won’t need Skelley. Just wait for Bazza to self-destruct.’

  ‘You’re telling me he’s going after these kids?’

  ‘Yeah. And let’s hope he means it. Number one, he might kill a couple, which would make a promising start. And number two, you lot might notice, which means we could all get on with our lives.’

  ‘But seriously …’

  ‘Seriously, I doubt it. He might put the word around. A couple of the kids might end up at A & E. But Kinder’s no fool, and he’s telling Bazza to behave.’

  ‘And Mackenzie listens?’

  ‘Kinder’s the key to Pompey’s door. That’s the way Bazza figures it. So of course
he listens.’

  The players were trooping off the pitch. One end of the stadium was a sea of blue. Not to have conceded by half-time was definitely a result.

  Winter found the remote and killed the sound. Then he told Suttle they had to sort a deal.

  ‘For who?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘We’re talking Gehenna?’

  ‘Of course we are. How long is half-time?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Perfect.’ He produced an envelope from his pocket. Inside was a DVD. Suttle stared it.

  ‘Beginski?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Help yourself.’

  The game had restarted by the time Suttle was through with the interview. The last time he and Winter had met, at the safe house up in Surrey, he’d sensed that the expedition to Lublin had been successful. Now he knew that Gehenna was looking at a giant step forward.

  ‘I can keep this?’ Suttle had retrieved the DVD.

  ‘Of course. I’ve got copies.’ Winter smothered a yawn. ‘So what next?’

  ‘I show it to Parsons. And Willard. We frame up a strategy. Then we call you in.’

  ‘Wrong, son. That’s what you did before. This time you leave it to me. I do the legwork. I choose the moment to make the approach to Skelley. I decide when and where this whole thing kicks off.’

  ‘And us? Do we get to play as well?’

  ‘Of course you do. I keep you informed. I tell you what I need and when I need it. But the pecking order won’t ever be the way it was.’

  Suttle smiled. He’d half-imagined a conversation like this but knew it was a non-starter.

  ‘Willard’s prepared to apologise,’ he said softly. ‘And believe me, that’s a first.’

  ‘Apologise for what?’

  ‘For keeping you out of the loop. About Irenka.’