by Nick Hopton
Sometimes, when he was talking to Michael, he’d become convinced that Greta had left a lipstick stain on his cheek; he would rub discreetly at it.
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ Michael would ask.
‘Oh nothing. Caught myself shaving, that’s all.’ He felt the heat rising in his cheeks.
But Michael seemed not to notice and turned away. The Sleeper knew he was making a mistake getting involved but he couldn’t help it. So long as no one found out then it wasn’t a problem, he told himself. He refused to confront the bigger questions which lurked in the shadows at the edge of his mind.
Just after Easter he received a letter. It wasn’t the first one he’d got since moving into Westbourne Park Road because his ma wrote a couple of times with family news and to ask when he’d be coming home. He hadn’t been home since coming to London, but thought maybe he’d go in May or June. Greta handed him the letter with a smile at breakfast. She’d been up for a couple of hours with the kids and getting Michael off to work.
‘Hey, dozy, you’ve got a letter.’
It had a London postage mark, but he didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. It had been so long since he’d last heard anything that it came as a shock. He thought they’d forgotten about him. He’d got so caught up with Greta that he’d almost forgotten why he’d come to London in the first place.
The Sleeper toyed with the letter over his toast and tried to convince himself that he hadn’t hoped that they’d forgotten about him, but he knew he was lying to himself.
‘You going to open it or what?’ demanded Greta nosily.
‘Oh, no. I’ll read it later. After breakfast.’
She gave him a strange look. Then one of the kids started screaming and she turned away to comfort the child.
The Sleeper tucked the letter in his pocket. Later, when he was alone in his bedroom, he ripped it open. The message was brief and gave little away. Just some instructions to be at a pub in Hammersmith on 30 April. Nothing more. He mentally cancelled his trip home. The letter could only mean one thing—he remembered what they’d told him. His heart was beating terrifyingly fast, and he felt sick.
The flames engulfed the letter and black flakes floated into the sink. When there was no white paper left, he wafted at the smoke—surely Greta would smell the acrid stench of burning? He scrunched up the ashes and turned on the tap. They left a black stain on the porcelain as they spiralled down the plughole.
~
The first gig was in the upstairs room of a Kilburn pub. Si turned up early to give a hand in setting up. But Ricky and his new friends had already played a couple of warm-up numbers. Of course, there was no one there yet. It was ten past nine. The landlord, a grumpy old bugger with holes in his cardigan, kept popping up to check on them.
‘What’s he worried about?’ muttered Ricky.
‘Dunno. But I don’t like ’im.’ This from Art the drummer.
As far as Si could see, Art was the most articulate of them all—apart from Ricky, of course. The other band members stood in their own little worlds, tunelessly playing to themselves. What a bunch, thought Si. What the hell is Ricky doing with this lot?
But Ricky stood proud centre stage. He’d backcombed his blond mane and was wearing the crocodile winklepickers; he looked pretty slick dressed all in black with that shock of hair and those extraordinary shoes.
Somehow Ricky had got his way with the name too. The Moguls were history and tonight’s gig was billed as the launch of The Crocodiles. That’s what it said downstairs on a blackboard outside the pub.
TONIGHT! THE LAUNCH OF THE CROCODILES. THE HOTTEST NEW BAND TO HIT LONDON SINCE SPANDAU BALLET. 10 PM PAY ON THE DOOR
Si suspected Ricky had written the quirky notice. He was right.
‘Why Spandau?’ asked Art.
‘It’ll attract attention.’
‘It looks stupid.’
‘Yeah,’ chimed in the others.
‘Makes us sound like a bunch of ponces,’ complained Art eloquently.
‘Come on, guys. Wise up. It makes us look like we’re in the same league as Spandau.’
‘But we’re not. We’re a rock and roll band. Not mincing New Romantic tossers.’
‘Ah, come on, guys,’ sighed Ricky, and using the same technique as he’d employed to change the band’s name, and to ease himself into the role of lead singer and unofficial manager, he painted a picture of The Crocodiles’ future. ‘Can’t you see it? Wembley Arena, playing to fifty thousand… The Hollywood Bowl… Screaming chicks… Rock ‘n’ roll, man… Yeah? Well, trust me. I’ll get you there, okay.’
‘Yeah,’ grinned Art and the entranced band members nodded.
‘Effing cool,’ one managed.
‘Yeah…’ agreed Ricky. After a pause he clinched the deal. ‘So Spandau stays?’
The expressions hardened slightly, but nobody protested. Ricky’s sweet talk had won the day.
~
‘You all having a good time?’ screamed Ricky into the microphone, sweeping his hair back as he did so.
Si admired Ricky for his guts. It wasn’t easy to stand on a low stage in a small room facing fifteen bored looking punters and give out that you’re Mick Jagger.
‘Cool… Well, this is a pussy-whipping song we’re gonna start with. It’s called Brown Sugar.’
The guitarist, Dog, as he liked to be known, struck the first notes and Art clattered his sticks. They were off.
Si hadn’t quite known what to expect, but this wasn’t it. Ricky had warned him that most of the set would be covers. But this was a cover with a difference.
Ricky gathered the mike-stand to him, jutted his pelvis towards a striking girl at the front—she was already beginning to look more interested—and strutted. He flicked his amazing shoes into the spotlight and marched up and down—not easy in a space two metres square. But nobody seemed to notice the cramped conditions.
‘Brown Sug-ar…’ howled Ricky and strutted.
He was good, thought Si. Really good. Next time he’d have to bring Mary. The poor girl was still working, he imagined. He hadn’t pushed her to accompany him in case The Crocodiles turned out to be embarrassingly bad. But not only could Ricky sing, he also transformed on stage into a rock star. Si could already imagine his friend playing stadiums. It seemed just round the corner. And the band had only played one number.
What’s more, Si could see why Ricky had been so keen to join the bunch of troglodyte musicians formerly known as the Moguls. These guys might find the word “chord” hard to spell, but they could certainly play. They were tight, and Dog’s licks cut like a hot knife through butter.
At the end of the first song Ricky leapt into the air, legs splayed. Joe Strummer would have been proud. ‘Yow!’ he screamed as he hit the ground and the song finished.
Really together, amazing for three weeks’ rehearsal, thought Si.
The rest of the set was the same. Slick and compelling. The Crocodiles looked like they’d been playing together for years. It didn’t last long—they only had eight songs so far; but none of the audience was complaining. In fact, they came back for an encore of Brown Sugar before unplugging.
The small crowd, which had been swollen by some drinkers from the pub downstairs, was generous in its applause.
‘We’ll be back next week,’ called Ricky as he stepped from the stage. Si had no doubt that the turnout would be higher.
‘Great stuff.’ He slapped Ricky on the back.
‘Thanks, man. It was okay.’
‘Okay? You’re going to the top, man… Yeah!’ Si grinned.
‘Yeah, I know.’ And Ricky threw him a high five and a hug.
~
Jimmy was going from strength to strength. ‘Si… I’m in the starting line-up again. Tomorrow against Coventry. The boss told me today.’
‘That’s great.’
‘And what’s more, the boss reckons I’ve a good chance of playing at Wembley if Roy Keane’s suspended.’
&n
bsp; ‘Fantastic.’
‘Yeah, isn’t it? Not for Keano of course, but for me,’ Jimmy added. For an instant he felt a twinge of guilt about profiting from his colleague’s misfortune, but the feeling passed and he carried on happily. ‘Just think, only three months ago I was nowhere… Nobody… Playing for a second-rate, Second Division team. Now look at me. Sometimes it’s all a bit like a dream, eh?’
Si could understand Jimmy’s point. Twenty-seven’s late for a soccer player to break into the big time, but that’s what his friend seemed to have done. He was fast becoming one of the most talked about players in England. His arrival at United had coincided with their rise through the league. Jimmy hadn’t played much of a part in the Championship race—as opposed to the Cup where his contribution was clear—but he had shared the glory as United recovered a twelve-point deficit from Newcastle. The Tynesiders, under the charismatic Kevin Keegan, had dominated the Championship all season. But now, with four matches to play, their run of bad luck had allowed United to overtake them and top the table. Heady stuff, and Jimmy was part of it.
‘So you’ll watch the match, then?’
‘Yeah, course I will.’
‘Good.’ Jimmy seemed pleased. ‘And you’re sure you can’t get there?’
‘It’s good of you to get us tickets, but I just won’t be able to get out of work in time. You know how it is. Anyway, I’ll be down The Feathers with my pint watching.’
‘That’s great. I’ll put one in the net for you, okay?’
‘You do that.’
‘Yeah.’
In fact, Si didn’t get to The Feathers until after the kick off. But he was in time to see Jimmy come close to scoring. He was in the right place to meet a Ryan Giggs cross with his head and direct it firmly goalwards. The Coventry keeper was off his line and watched helplessly as the ball sailed over him.
The red hordes in the stand behind the goal leapt to their feet with an expectant roar. But this subsided into a deep ‘Aaaah’ as the ball smacked against the crossbar, and a Coventry defender cleared the rebound.
A ripple of applause, like the Centre Court at Wimbledon except stronger and with added testosterone, greeted Jimmy’s effort. He turned and trotted back towards the United half. The camera zoomed in and a white box appeared beneath the picture of the young man with his head held high: Jimmy Sweeny, No.22, centre forward for Manchester United.
‘Only a handful of appearances for United,’ the commentator was saying, ‘but already showing great promise.’
‘That’s my boy, Jimmy,’ said Si softly. Jimmy looked calm, enjoying himself. Si had noticed how when the attack broke down, Jimmy had looked across to Giggs and applauded his world-famous teammate’s precision cross. Clearly, he was already part of the United machine, at home among the stars.
Si felt a warm glow surge within him. He was surprised to find tears prick behind his eyes. But no, that was wet. Men only loved women. Mates were… Yes, mates were mates. You didn’t love them. But no doubt about it, he was proud of Jimmy.
The other feeling Si experienced was even harder to define. It was a sentiment shared with millions the world over. Like all humanity, Si was subject to the religious urge—the desire to express his spiritual self, his higher being—which takes many forms, and is often channelled into ritual or a set of conventions. However, Si was finding in the rites of football a channel for this urge. A blind alley symptomatic of the age, but one which brought to the surface the nobler side of Si Simpson, the searching soul seeking to return to its origin. So as Si felt himself moved almost to tears by Jimmy’s participation in a slick sporting performance, he was half-conscious that it wasn’t just affection for his friend that was inspiring him; something profound and important, long-buried, was moving within him.
Ricky arrived ten minutes before full time. ‘Sorry I’m late. Christ, the traffic, man—unbelievable. Another bomb scare. I think it was a hoax again in the end.’ He settled into his chair. ‘Have I missed anything cultural?’ he asked with gentle irony.
Si grinned. Ricky had become a football addict. The first match Ricky had watched had been a knockout success: Manchester United had thumped Southampton, and Ricky had been spellbound. He was now threatening to send off to join the MUFC Supporters Club. Si thought this might be simply a Californian over-reaction, but wasn’t going to say anything.
‘No, it’s nil nil.’
‘How’s our guy Jimmy doing?’
‘Okay, okay. Hit the woodwork once, and he’s had a busy game.’
But no goals and United really needed to win this match. All three points would give them an almost unassailable lead at the top of the Premiership. There would then be a strong possibility of them winning the mystical Double Double.
Most eleven-year-old boys and all professional players dream of winning the Double. A team achieves this on average about once every fifteen years (although it has happened more frequently in recent seasons than in the distant past). So, by a rough calculation, about one in half a million British males realises the dream, assuming there are no foreigners in the side—a rarity nowadays, so the odds against are likely to be even longer. But Jimmy might just become one of the few, realised Si. All credit to him. Then he would achieve his ambition of entering the soccer history books.
This thought made Si slightly melancholy. How would he achieve his ambition? What was his ambition? With a lost feeling, Si realised he had no clear idea. He’d drifted from college to journalism without a vocation. Chance seemed the only explanation for where he now found himself. It struck him that it didn’t need to be like this; he could take control of his life. But how? By chucking in his job? Wouldn’t the euphoria of freedom be short-lived, giving way to a realisation that he’d made a great mistake? He might become bored. And wouldn’t he miss the money, the status that being a journalist on a national daily afforded? It would be difficult to come back after such a decisive break.
A terrifying abyss started to open beneath Si’s feet. Was he just a coward, as Mary had once intimated? Someone who would just drift through life, weak, and with no direction. Or did he have the courage to try and impose some order on his fragmented life? Did he dare leap into the unknown, putting material and social concerns behind him? How did he know that when he landed on the other side life would hold any more meaning? The questions flashed like shooting stars across Si’s dark consciousness. Long after the doubts faded in intensity, he continued to mull over the question of meaning. After all, he realised, that was the crux of the matter.
Ricky was settling down to watch the closing minutes of the match. ‘Hit it, you mother!’ he screamed as a United player wasted an opportunity to shoot. It looked as if the game would end as a draw.
The commentator noted that a few people could be seen leaving their seats.
Unbelievable, thought Si. If I was there, no way would I be leaving. United matches were always so unpredictable—you never knew when they might score. And then it happened. Sharpe controlled the ball on the halfway line and chipped it forward to Jimmy. His red shirt was hanging out and Si noticed how bandy his legs appeared in the long white shorts. Jimmy took the ball cleverly on the outside of his boot and looked up. There were three Coventry defenders in sky-blue shirts between him and the goalkeeper. To his right was Giggs, usefully placed to put in a cross. The safe option would have been to pass to Giggs, but Jimmy seemed to have a flash of intuition. He drew in one of the defenders, and just before he reached him, he slipped the ball into a gap on the left hand side of the penalty box. There seemed to be no one else there. But Jimmy’s peripheral vision had spotted Cantona gliding ghost-like towards the box. Clearly, the Coventry players were not aware of the threat.
‘Oh Jimmy,’ Si moaned as he watched his friend hit the ball into the empty space. But the words were hardly out of his mouth when Ricky shouted, ‘Great pass, beautiful!’ Cantona appeared in yards of space, with an open path to goal. He gathered the ball and, cool as a concombre, slotted it into the n
et.
‘Gooooalll!!!’ yelled Ricky, and he, Si and two thirds of the crowded pub leapt to their feet. The pub went wild for a few minutes. Many of those watching, the remaining third, obviously loathed United. Their glum faces told the story. But Si and Ricky were over the moon. A great goal, made by Jimmy.
‘Your guy, he’s really great,’ said Ricky after the match was over and United had established themselves firmly at the top of the Premiership. ‘I’d like to meet him sometime. You must introduce me when he’s next down here. Or better, why don’t we go to watch the next match, if he can get us tickets?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Si thought about it. He hadn’t considered introducing Ricky to Jimmy before. They seemed like separate parts of his life, and he generally preferred to keep his life clearly compartmentalised. It was safer, and less complicated that way. But why not?
~
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What d’you mean, what’s wrong?’ Jimmy slumped over his pint. ‘We lost. That’s what’s wrong.’
‘Oh that. Yeah, sorry. A bit of a disaster.’
‘Well, not a disaster,’ said Jimmy defensively. ‘But certainly a setback. We’re still two points clear at the top of the league.’ He showed Si the back page of the newspaper in front of him.
Played
Points
Manchester United
35
73
Newcastle
35
71
‘Yeah, I suppose you are.’
Jimmy was in London for the day. The afternoon before he had played in United’s 3-1 defeat by Southampton. A shock result. Some of the newspapers blamed the new additions to the team, such as Jimmy, for weakening the side and disrupting the rhythm.
‘I doubt I’ll get picked for Wednesday.’
‘Yeah, course you will. You’re a striker after all—it was the defence that screwed up.’