Putting the Boot In

by Dan Kavanagh

  The club liked to lodge the lads in pairs. ‘The animals came in two by two,’ as Mrs Ferris would tend to shout out from her kitchen when her couple of boys had some trouble with the front door after a hard Saturday night on the Bacardi. The boys were company for one another; they talked about the game a bit, and it was surprising how often their understanding on the park improved if they roomed together. Danny Matson roomed with Brendan Domingo. When Duffy called, Brendan was out: down at the ground doing his sprints, lifting his weights, trying one-touch stuff with the player they’d brought in to replace Danny, practising corners and free-kicks, or simply off at one end of the pitch by himself improving his silky skills. Danny sat with his big white foot up on a copy of the Sun and waited for Brendan to come home. The whole business really rather pissed him off.

  He looked a slight lad to Duffy: pale, long face, with black hair in a curly perm that was just beginning to grow out.

  Footballers always looked a little smaller off the pitch; this one was no exception. He waited for Duffy’s questions with politeness—the Boss had phoned ahead and asked him to co-operate in any way he could—but a sort of cheerful boredom. He didn’t care any more who had done his leg. It was done, wasn’t it? Snapped. Danny thought of all the players who’d had Achilles trouble. They were never quite the same again, even if they were still good. Look at Trevor Francis. Blistering speed he used to have; blistering. Then the trouble, and the lay-off, and at least a yard of pace had gone by the time he came back. Still a fine player, in Danny’s view—don’t get me wrong, still a fine player—but not world class any more. Not world class.

  They went through the incident in the car-park; the police had already done that with him a few times. Duffy asked if there was any detail he might have forgotten; then asked him a lot about the girl who’d picked him up, or who he’d picked up (the precise order of things was still a bit blurry). Did the men say anything? How long did it take to walk from The Knight Spot to the car-park? Who was on duty at the payout? And so on.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying, mister, I’ve been asked these questions before.’

  ‘Well, there might be something you’ve forgotten. Some little detail. That’s why I’m asking them again.’

  ‘But the coppers have already done that. Asked it once, then sent someone else back a bit later in case there was anything I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Well, third time lucky, perhaps.’

  But it wasn’t third time lucky. The men hadn’t said anything; he hadn’t seen their faces; they hadn’t taken anything more than his wallet and his watch; no, he couldn’t remember anything more about this Denise girl. Black hair, he’d said, black dress and showing quite a lot. Sure he’d liked her; but that didn’t mean he could remember much about her. Sure he’d recognize her if he saw her again, he wasn’t thick.

  ‘Danny, I wonder if you’d do something for me. I wonder if you’d go down The Knight Spot with me one evening and have a look for her.’

  ‘Well, that’s very smart thinking, if I may say so, Mr Duffy, but you see I’ve already done that with the coppers. Twice. And she wasn’t there.’

  This didn’t surprise Duffy too much. He was only an ex-copper himself: he was bound to do some things the same way as the coppers. Neither did the girl’s disappearance surprise him: if she’d been genuine, and really was a nice ordinary girl, she’d probably have got in touch with Danny. The attack had been in all the papers. Why hadn’t she dropped him a line saying she was sorry she hadn’t waited but it had been perishing cold, and she was sorry about his accident, and maybe she could pop round in her nurse’s outfit and ruffle his hair? But on the other hand, the fact that she hadn’t written didn’t necessarily make her a phoney. Perhaps she just liked her footballers all in one piece.

  ‘I expect you’ll be going to see Vince,’ said Danny.

  ‘Who’s Vince?’

  ‘Vince runs The Knight Spot.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Fat Frankie?’

  ‘Who’s Fat Frankie?’

  ‘Fat Frankie’s the bouncer.’

  ‘Expect so.’

  ‘Well, Fat Frankie can’t remember one person going out of the club from the next. Not unless they make trouble. Plus which, he’s got a bit of a lager problem. Vince didn’t even see me with a girl all evening.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The coppers checked it all out. How else?’

  ‘Danny, will you come down The Knight Spot with me once more?’

  ‘No. No. Look, I’d like to help, obviously. But … the plain fact is I promised myself I wouldn’t go back, not till I was in the first team again. It made me feel bloody awful going down there with the coppers, I don’t mind telling you. Going in on bloody crutches, seeing all those people dancing. I even ran into one of the lads.’

  ‘Yeah, I see.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not like I got this going for a fifty-fifty ball or something. I’d just be sitting there in plaster and they wouldn’t be thinking, “Oh look, isn’t that Danny Matson up there, pity about the injury, brave lad isn’t he, wonder how long he’ll be out, why don’t we buy him a drink and cheer him up?” No, it wouldn’t be that, it’d be, “Look at that Matson kid over there, what a wally, gets himself pissed and beaten up just when the team needed him most, makes you sick, doesn’t it?”’

  That’s probably what they would be thinking, Duffy silently agreed. But Danny was a willing lad—apart from anything else he seemed glad of company—and eventually they struck a compromise. Duffy would pick him up one evening; they’d park outside The Knight Spot and just watch the customers going in. Danny thought he could handle that; and the Boss had asked him to co-operate as best he could.

  ‘You follow the game much, Mr Duffy?’

  ‘A bit. QPR’s my team, though.’

  ‘Ah well, now, QPR. Don’t let the Boss catch me saying it, but QPR’s a classy outfit. Classy.’

  Duffy nodded. They lapsed into silence.

  ‘It’s a funny old game, Mr Duffy, isn’t it?’ Duffy agreed. ‘I mean, I haven’t been in it long, not really in it, not at first-team level, but already it’s taught me a thing or two.’ Duffy nodded. ‘It can be a very kind game, Mr Duffy, it can give you lots of things.’ Duffy nodded again. ‘And it can be a very cruel game. It can build you up; and then it can knock you down. It’s a bit like life, really, isn’t it?’

  Duffy concurred.

  ‘Have a feel in that pocket over there.’ Danny was pointing to his blazer, which hung on the back of the door. Duffy reached in and pulled out a square of slightly shiny paper. On a nod from Danny he unfolded it and laid the two pages side by side. Spread across most of them was a large photograph of a sitting room. Crouched in the middle of a huge area of brightly patterned carpet was a smiling, dark-haired man holding a small child. The child was half-balanced, rather precariously, on a football.

  ‘That’s Trevor Brooking’s room,’ said Danny. ‘I got it out of one of the posh Sundays.’

  Duffy examined the photograph. He saw a couple of large wooden cabinets, mostly full of silverware; a large yellow leather armchair, matching a large yellow leather sofa; a carved fireplace; a low glass-topped coffee-table.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said.

  ‘That’s Warren. With Trevor. He’s nearly four. Well, he was nearly four when the photo was taken. I suppose he’s a bit bigger now. And there’s Colette, she was seven. And there’s Hilke, she’s Finnish. That’s Trevor’s wife. Hilke keeps the place really tidy, it says.’

  ‘Very nice.’ Duffy liked the sound of Hilke.

  ‘Look at the picture Trevor’s got over the fireplace.’ Duffy could just make out a gold frame; inside it, a family, standing somewhere.

  ‘That’s Trevor getting his MBE at Buckingham Palace. With Hilke, and Warren, and Colette. They have this photographer standing outside, and he takes the picture, and then you have it framed.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Do you see the decanters
? And look at that fireplace. It’s not a real fireplace, actually, there isn’t a chimney, but Trevor likes fireplaces so he had it put in. It’s electric.’

  ‘Nnn.’

  ‘And look at the way the stereo’s built in. That must have cost a bomb. And the chess set. And the candlesticks on the coffee-table. I bet they’re real silver.’

  ‘It’s a very nice room, Danny.’

  ‘His wife’s Finnish. She’s called Hilke.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘He’s one of the all-time greats, Trevor Brooking, don’t you think?’

  ‘No question.’ Duffy refolded the pages carefully. ‘Better be on my rounds, Danny. Might call back some time if that’s all right?’

  ‘Sure. Any time. One thing I can’t work out—do you think the room’s really as big as that, or do you think they took the photo with one of those wide-angle lenses?’

  Duffy unfolded the pages again.

  ‘It’s hard to tell.’

  He turned to go. It was only about four feet from the middle of the room to the door. If ever they came to do Danny Matson’s room, they’d certainly need a wide-angle lens.

  Three phone calls. The first to Jimmy Lister, asking what the club’s policy was on the Layton Road residents.

  ‘Delay, Duffy. Delay the case as long as possible. I mean, it’s coming up in court this Friday, so they can try and close the gates for Saturday. But even if it goes against us, we can try appealing, or whatever.’

  ‘Has anyone been down to talk to the residents?’

  ‘No. We thought about it. But we decided the best way of making sure everything happens as slowly as possible was to do it through solicitors. Then if it all works out in the end we’ll bung them a few free tickets, something like that.’

  ‘What about the press?’

  ‘Complete news blackout, that’s our policy on the press, Duffy.’

  ‘No one been sniffing around?’

  ‘No one.’

  The second call. To Ken Marriott at the Chronicle.

  ‘Ken, if I asked you whether or not you’d heard a particular story and you hadn’t, that wouldn’t necessarily be the same as me telling you the story, would it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you could hold off for a day or two, and pretend I’d told you later, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’d depend a bit on copy day, and what the story was. This week—this week I could give you forty-eight hours easily. Unless there’s a lot of work to do on the story.’

  ‘Did you know about Athletic being sued by local residents?’

  ‘No. Interesting. Which residents? Where? What for?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours?’

  ‘As long as you come back to me and no one else.’

  ‘Right.’

  Third call. To the Anti-Nazi League.

  ‘Oh, it’s Ken Marriott of the West London Chronicle. West London Chronicle. Wondered if you can help us. We’re doing a story about neo-Nazis recruiting at football matches. We think it might be starting up at the Athletic ground—some outfit called the Red White and Blue Movement. Just wondered if you had any information on them?’

  They had, it seemed, more than enough information on the Red White and Blue Movement. Especially about its affiliation to other, similar groups, most of whom Duffy had never heard of, and about its exact political position, which sounded pretty nasty, and about its organizing members, their backgrounds and criminal records. It was an impressive dossier, and Duffy pretended to be taking it all down. What he mainly wanted to ask, though, was how long the Movement had been in existence, and where it operated from. Six months, and an address in Ealing were the answers. Duffy offered fraternal thanks, and rang off.

  Layton Road consisted of two low terraces of red-brick Victorian villas. They were neatly kept; some of them had been freshly painted. It looked a houseproud little street. Duffy approved. He took out a notebook and started at number 37.

  ‘Oh, good morning, sir—‘

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m —’

  ‘No samples, no religions,’ the man said. He was small and fierce, with crinkly grey hair and a jutting chin; he looked like a retired PT instructor.

  ‘I’m from the Chronicle. The West London Chronicle.’ At least that stopped the door being shut in his face; just.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Yes, Mr—Mr —’ Duffy pretended to search his notebook for the name.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Sorry to hear about the trouble you’ve been having.’

  ‘How did you hear about it?’

  ‘That’s what we’re paid to do.’

  ‘Snoopers,’ said the man. Duffy didn’t feel he was getting anywhere. Suddenly the door was opened wide, the PT instructor came out, took him by the arm and marched him the four yards to the gate. Oh well, all in a reporter’s day, he reflected. When they got there, however, the fellow kept hold of Duffy’s arm and pushed him gently against the gate.

  ‘Bullivant,’ he said, answering a much earlier question. ‘Look at it,’ he went on, pointing at the street. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Nice little houses. Very clean, very quiet. See all these cars? Nice cars. Every home game we have to move them quarter of a mile away. Freer access for the crowds, that’s what the police say. Stop them getting vandalized by the yobboes, that’s the truth of it. Look at these front gardens. Notice anything odd about them? Nothing in them. Just hedges, nothing else. No flowers, no plants. No point having flowers, the yobboes just pull them up. No point having window boxes, the yobboes knock them off. No point chaining your window-boxes to your window sills, that just excites them some more. Animals.’

  ‘Can you tell me why you haven’t complained before?’

  ‘Have complained before. Makes no bloody difference. All they do is send you a couple of free tickets for the next match. Who wants free tickets to watch a bloody awful side like Athletic? Send me free tickets to go and watch Tottenham and you’re talking. Anyway, the only time I feel happy about those yobboes is when they’re all locked up inside the ground making their animal noises. What on earth makes the club think I want to go inside as well and listen to their obscene chantings from a bit nearer?

  ‘Ever had a chicken take-away through your door? Course you haven’t. Disgusting food. Even the dog wouldn’t eat it. Ever had a yobbo doing his ablutions through your letterbox? Course you haven’t. Ever had a yobbo doing his business in your front garden? Course you haven’t. You don’t know what’s going on, my lad, you with your sharp pencil and big fat notebook and not writing anything down in it I see. You just don’t know what’s going on. You know another thing they like doing. They like ringing on the door and asking if they can use the toilet. Course you can’t, you say, use the one at the ground, and you close the door on them and there’s a bloody great explosion. Know what they’ve done? They’ve stuck a lightbulb in the door just as you’re closing it. Done that twice to me. Great sense of fun, the yobboes. Then they do their ablutions in your front garden because you wouldn’t let them use the toilet. Haven’t got any free tickets for Tottenham on you by any chance, have you, my lad? No, I thought not. Good morning to you.’

  And Mr Bullivant marched back up his path and slammed the door.

  Duffy crossed the road to number 48. The door was opened a couple of inches, as far as the chain would permit.

  ‘Arthur’s not in.’

  ‘Good morning, madam, I’m from the Chronicle. I was talking to Mr Bullivant—‘

  ‘Arthur’s not in.’

  ‘Could I talk to you instead?’

  ‘He’ll be back later.’

  ‘When would be a good time to call?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  At number 57 a red-faced lady in a tight perm and a pinafore answered the door.

  ‘Oh, the Chronicle. Very nice. Always read it. If I’d known you was coming I’d have taken off me pinny. Will you be w
anting a photograph?’

  ‘Er, not today perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, be sending him round later, will you? That’ll give me time to get tidied up. But you’ll be the one with the cheque?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You mean I haven’t won the Lucky Numbers? No, I can see I haven’t. Oh well, another fortune slips through my fingers.’ She looked quite cheerful about it.

  ‘No, it’s about the trouble with the fans, Mrs—‘

  ‘Davis. That’s D-A-V-I-S. Right.’ She leaned over Duffy’s arm while he recorded the first piece of information to enter his notebook. ‘Yes, that’s right, without an E. No, I don’t really mind them myself. They’re not bad lads. Not really wicked, just a bit high-spirited. I mean, we were all young once, weren’t we?’

  Duffy thought he still was young. But perhaps it was a sign of middle age that you felt no inclination to stuff half-eaten take-aways through people’s letter-boxes. Yes, that must be it.

  ‘I was just wondering why you all decided to go to law, especially as there are only a few home matches left in the season.’

  Mrs Davis looked momentarily flustered, then gathered herself.

  ‘I’m afraid my husband deals with all the bills. He earns the money, he gives me the housekeeping I need—he’s a very fair man, my husband, don’t you go thinking the contrary—and when the bills come in, he deals with them. Always keep a bit back for a rainy day, that’s what he says, and he’s quite right too.’ Politely, she closed the door.

  Duffy was puzzled. In one way, of course, it was all quite straightforward and understandable. The yobboes were getting worse and worse—Jimmy Lister had said they were fighting more on the terraces as well—and the residents had decided enough was enough. But these residents? If the yobboes were getting out of hand, they might go to the police. They might complain to the local paper. They might write to their local councillor, if they could remember who that was, or even to their MP. But going to a solicitor and having a writ served? They might go to a solicitor to get divorced, or to make a will. But if someone like Mr Bullivant wanted to stop the yobboes doing their ablutions through his letter-box, then he wouldn’t go running to a solicitor. Someone like Mr Bullivant would be far more likely to get out his toolkit, file down the metal edge of his letter-flap until it was really sharp, wait by his door until some heavily-lagered boot-boy stuck his whatsit through the flap, and then smack. Very nasty too. Much nastier, and much more satisfying, than running to a pinstripe.