by Dan Kavanagh
‘I’m afraid Mr Prosser isn’t too pleased,’ said Jimmy Lister. Duffy had called in on his way to see the chairman. ‘Not pleased at all. Thinks I’m way out of order hiring you, Duffy. Says he won’t be putting this through the firm’s books.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that if I want you, I pay for you, Duffy.’
‘So am I still in work?’
‘Just. But I’ve done the calculations, and what I’d be paying you, Duffy, would be pretty much my entire salary; once the Taxman’s been to call, that is. On top of which I’m currently into an alimony situation. Would you take thirty-five?’
‘Oh all right.’ Duffy thought he really must master this haggling business, one day.
‘And you’ll keep the expenses down?’
‘No Concorde trips, I promise.’
‘Just so we understand each other. Now I’ll take you to meet Melvyn.’
Melvyn Prosser’s boardroom was where they kept the club’s silverware. One yellowing double-handled pot and a couple of shields. The pine-panelled walls of the large oblong room were covered with photographs: of the various Athletic teams down the years, and of the various Athletic Boards of Directors. The directors seemed to change as often as the teams and, in terms of wallspace, to be equally important.
Melvyn Prosser was standing by his desk in his camel-coloured overcoat giving a very decent impression of a busy man. Either he’d just arrived from somewhere, or he was just going somewhere; or perhaps he’d slipped on his overcoat especially for them, so that they’d realize how precious his time was. Having established the heavy suggestion of other priorities, Melvyn Prosser was prepared to be affable. He had a broad, fleshy face, with a vertical crease in the middle of his forehead which might possibly have been old scar tissue. It had been a quick climb, from blue collar to white collar to boardroom, and it couldn’t have been achieved if Melvyn hadn’t known how to smile while stamping on your fingers.
‘James, welcome back. And Mr Duffy. Welcome. Sherry, beer? A pint of hooch, Mr Duffy, perhaps?’ Duffy shook his head. It was quarter to eleven in the morning. ‘Quite right. I’ll abstain as well. Now James has told me about his curious decision to hire you, and as I expect you’ve heard, I very nearly said you may do the hiring, Jimmy, but I do the firing. Still, as the financial aspects have been sorted out I don’t see any objection to you hanging around if you want to.’
‘Thanks very—’
‘Though I wouldn’t mind being allowed to give you my view of the matters which Jimmy has doubtless already laid before you with a different emphasis.’ Prosser gave a chairman’s pause, the sort of pause which expects some sycophant to mumble, ‘Go ahead, please, Mr Chairman.’ When none of this was instantly forthcoming, Prosser continued. ‘I’ve heard what Jimmy’s had to say and I’ll tell you what I told him. I don’t go in for conspiracy theories. I think we’re chasing our own tails. I think we—that’s a polite way of referring to my manager—are looking for excuses. I think we are in danger of losing our concentration on the matters in hand.’
‘You don’t think—’
‘I would be as reluctant to criticize James as the next man, but I’m bound to say that he is in danger of looking for excuses. The club is not in the happiest of positions currently in the matter of League table position—in fact, if you’ll pardon the phrase, it’s all a bit dicky. But the way out of the maze is not to be found among the boot-boys on the terraces or among the residents of Layton Road. At least, that’s my own ill-informed opinion. The way out of the maze is to be found on the park. Nowhere else. What I worry about is that our friend James’s concentration on the matters in hand is in danger of going down the karzy, if you see what I mean.’
‘You don’t think anyone’s trying to …’ Duffy wasn’t quite sure how to put it.
‘Trying to waggle the digit in the wrong orifice? Tell me who. Tell me why. Who cares if the club gets relegated? I do, Jimmy does, the Board does, the players and their wives do, and a few hundred of the older-style fans do. But why should anyone else care one way or another? I think we’re in danger of looking for excuses, as I say. We’re taking our minds off what really matters: how the players are playing. Jimmy’s job, as I see it, is and always will be to do Jimmy’s job.’
‘Can I ask if you have any particular enemies, Mr Prosser?’
Prosser laughed, and then smiled a little patronizingly at Duffy.
‘Did you see the car on the way in? Corniche, right? Gold Rolls-Royce Corniche, right? Now you don’t get one of those in this society of ours without treading on a few toes, I’ll give you that for nothing.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
Prosser laughed again.
‘Listen, if anyone was out to get me, they wouldn’t do it through the club. It’s nice having a club and all that, and believe me I’m committed to its future, but if I was the Big Bad Wolf out in the bushes looking to make it hot for Mel Prosser, I’d be going after some of his other business interests. Much easier. I wouldn’t be bothered to start by duffing up his Davey Matsons.’
‘Danny, chief.’
‘Danny Matsons. How is the lad, Jimmy?’
‘Bit down in the mouth, chief.’
‘He’s a good lad. Must be a bit of a blow, losing his first-team bonus.’
‘But if,’ Duffy persisted, ‘there was someone … some enemy—who would he be?’
‘Vic Rivers, Solly Benson, Wally Mountjoy, Fiddler Mick, Steve Wilson, Charlie Magrudo, Mrs Charlie Magrudo, Dicky Jacks, Michael O’Brien, Tom Clancy, Stacky Stevenson, Reg Dyson …’ Prosser spread his hands. ‘How many more do you want? My friends are my enemies. I like them, but I’d do them; same goes for them the other way round. I’m a businessman, do I make myself clear?’
‘Anyone in particular?’
Prosser looked irritated. He looked as if he was being asked to squeal on a friend. He was, in a way.
‘Maybe Charlie Magrudo. Maybe. I did him a bit of naughty a year or two ago.’
‘What sort of naughty?’
‘Not very naughty. Heard he was trying to line a few council pockets and fix himself up with a contract or two.’ Melvyn smiled at the memory. ‘So I dropped him in it and walked off with them myself. He didn’t like it much. But I’m sure he’s forgiven me by now.’
‘Did he go down for it?’
‘Go down? Good God no. I wouldn’t do that to him. No, it was all kept within the old cream paint of the Town Hall. And then I got the contracts by laying out just half what Charlie had laid out. I liked that.’
Prosser turned his mind back to Duffy.
‘And what have we found out so far that our friends in blue have missed? Any little leads? Giving young James his money’s worth, I hope.’
‘Not really. I’m trying to jog Danny Matson’s memory. And I’ve been down Layton Road.’
‘You’ve been down Layton Road? Harassing our residents and loyal supporters? That’s a bit out of line, I’d say.’
‘I wasn’t harassing them. They were very co-operative.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, they wanted to tell me all about what the yobboes did through their letter-boxes.’
‘It’s a terrible area, this,’ said Prosser, hunching his shoulders in melodramatic resignation. ‘Born and brought up within the sound of Sainsbury’s supermarket, but it’s sometimes hard to be loyal to it.’
‘Mr Prosser, can I try out something else?’
Prosser checked his watch.
‘You have three minutes and forty-five seconds.’
‘Is the club making a profit?’
‘You need to ask? No, the club is not making a profit, the club is making a healthy loss. It’s the thing this club does most efficiently. James and I had various schemes at the beginning of the season with which we hoped to allure the paying customers, but I fear it was all pissing in the wind. We’re lucky to get three thousand for a home game, and I’m afraid we’re not one of the League’
s top attractions when we travel. What did we get at Rotherham? Under fifteen hundred, as I recall. No Cup run worth speaking of …’
‘Putting it bluntly, Mr Prosser, are you paying most of the bills out of your own pocket?’
‘Answering it bluntly, Mr Duffy, yes I am.’
‘Would the club be a viable proposition in the Fourth Division?’
‘Duffy, those are words we do not utter anywhere on these premises, do you understand? No one, but no one, mentions those words.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. But I was just … Look, in the extremely unlikely event of … of the worst coming to the worst, what would happen? I mean, what would actually happen?’
‘Well, if a certain sad day in the history of this distinguished club were to come to pass, the first thing to happen is that Jim-boy here would be on his bike and looking into his career prospects. Sorry, Jimmy.’
‘You’ve always been level with me, chief. I wouldn’t expect anything else.’
‘And then?’ said Duffy.
‘Then it would be a matter for the Board.’
‘Or at least for its major shareholder.’
‘Yes I am as a matter of fact. Clever of you to guess. Well, yes, there would be various options to consider.’
‘Any you’d care to share with us? Purely in the unlikely event of, naturally.’
‘Naturally. Well, the chairman would have to resign.’
‘Melvyn,’ said Jimmy with genuine surprise. ‘You couldn’t … Not after all you’ve done for the club.’
‘James, let’s not get sentimental. All I’ve done for the club in my two years as chairman is foot a not inconsiderable wages bill, redesign the players’ strip, appoint you, preside over a four-figure decline in attendance, and watch us go down the table from tenth to twenty-second.’
‘And what else?’ asked Duffy.
‘Are you always so persistently gloomy, Mr Duffy? What else? Well, I imagine the Board would go through the usual motions, there would be much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the playing staff would be reduced, the best players would be sold off, we might start looking for a cheap manager. Or we could just wind the whole thing up.’
‘If the chief shareholder said so.’
‘The chief shareholder would obviously have an influential say in the matter.’
‘You couldn’t do that, Melvyn,’ said Jimmy protestingly. ‘It’s not as if we were bottom of the unmentionable and applying for re-election.’
‘Times have changed, James. Times are hard. Every division has half a dozen clubs scraping along on the breadline, with some indulgent chairman holding them up by the bootstraps. Just because you aren’t bottom of that division which we agree not to mention by name doesn’t mean you’re safe. Who’s going to pay the wages? Where are they going to find another Melvyn Prosser from? I don’t mind telling you I’ve tried looking around a bit in the last few months, and I reckon I’ve got about as much chance of unloading this club as I have of selling choc-ices to the Eskimos.’ There was a silence. ‘But I’d better be on my way, before I cheer you up some more. Still, what I’ve just said ought to persuade you of one thing, Mr Duffy.’
‘You tell me.’
‘That if there is a Big Bad Wolf out to get me, his best tactics are to make sure we avoid relegation so that I carry on being bled dry paying the bills for another year.’
‘Point taken,’ said Duffy, as Melvyn Prosser swept off for an appointment with his gold Rolls-Royce Corniche. Jimmy Lister was head down, and flattening his remnants of sandy hair with his fists. Duffy felt sorry for him. Eventually Jimmy stopped rubbing his head and spoke.
‘Bit of a choker, that.’
‘Sorry if I led him on a bit.’
‘No, no, it’s best to have the cards on the table. Just to check that you don’t have any trumps. It’s all going wrong, isn’t it? All going wrong for me, all going wrong for Melvyn. It must be costing him a packet.’
‘Hmm.’ Duffy wouldn’t commit himself this early. ‘Just out of interest, how did he get involved in the club?’
‘I don’t know, why does anyone want to do anything as daft as own a football team?’
‘Try telling me,’ said Duffy.
‘Well, sometimes it’s in the family. There are a few clubs that are almost like family businesses. Father to son, old aunt Mabel with the casting vote on the Board and so on. Can be very friendly places to work for, big happy family and all that; or they can be bloody awful, with the chairman picking the team. Then there are the people who want to own a club simply because they’re football nuts. Love the game, watched it from the terraces, made a pile, and can’t wait to have a set of toy footballers to play with, like the toy soldiers they used to have as a kid. They’re really keen on the game, come to all the matches, don’t bother too much about the bottom line. If things go well, they’re probably the best sort to work for.’
‘Judging from the way Mr Prosser can’t even get the names of his players right, I gather we wouldn’t classify him as a football nut?’
Jimmy laughed.
‘Well, he does his best, old Melvyn. No, he really tries. He likes saying things like “Class ball” and “Super skills” and “Screamer”—though truth to tell this old team doesn’t give him much opportunity to use his vocabulary. No, I think even Melvyn would admit that he’s the third sort of owner. Local boy made good, done well for himself, got all he wants, got the big house, the business, the money, and doesn’t know what to do with it all of a sudden. Buying the nearest team seems the answer. Nice bit of fame, picture in the paper almost whenever you want it. Local hero and all that. Takes you out of yourself as well—it’s a different world, seems glamorous at first, even if it seems a lot less glamorous after a couple of years. And everyone dreams of the Cup run—Wembley, the twin towers, sitting in the Royal Box, all the stuff that never comes.’
‘So what does the club need now, if Melvyn Prosser’s thinking of pulling out?’
‘It needs another nice sucker like Melvyn Prosser,’ said Jimmy ruefully.
On the drive to Ealing Duffy suddenly remembered Don Binyon. Stocky, balding, and with an unkind sense of humour, Binyon had been an occasional drinking companion down at the Alligator. Duffy hadn’t fucked Binyon—didn’t really fancy him—but he’d enjoyed his company. Nice sense of humour, if a bit cutting. Liked to tell people the truth about themselves; very keen on doing that. One evening Duffy, who had been feeling a bit sorry for himself and was punishing the shorts more than he should have done, got a bit talkative. Even tried to explain himself in some funny sort of way. Went on about Carol, and the frame-up, and who he went to bed with. It was a mistake trying to explain himself; not just a mistake, but cheeky as well. Binyon was the guy who explained people. Binyon knew Duffy better than Duffy did.
‘Thing about you, Duffy,’ said Binyon rather impatiently after his companion had begun to ramble a bit and repeat himself. ‘Thing about you, Duffy, is: you’re queer. Don’t give me any of this bisexual shit. I’ve heard it all before. It’s just a way of saying, Oh no, I’m not really—I’m not really that. It’s a way of trying to pull back when you’re already in it up to your whatsit. You’re queer, Duffy. I’ve seen you operating here often enough to know what you are. You’re queer, Duffy. I’m queer, you’re queer, let’s have another drink.’
They had another drink.
‘But if I’m queer,’ said Duffy, who was beginning to feel the strain of the conversation, what with all these shorts, ‘if I’m queer, why do I like Carol more than anyone else?’
‘Nothing odd about that. Most queers like women. Most women like queers. I’m sure she’s a very nice girl, heats a tin of soup up something wonderful. That’s got nothing to do with it. And the proof of the pudding, if I may briefly allude to the matter, is the fact that you have a winkle problem with her.’
‘But that’s because—that’s because of that thing that happened …’
‘No, Duffy, the thing that happened just brought it
all out into the open. Your winkle problem is your body’s way of saying you’re queer.’
‘But I’ve been—I’ve been with girls since,’ said Duffy, feeling unaccountably shy all of a sudden.
‘How many, eh? How many?’ Binyon was almost jeering. Well, not as many as … but the reason was obvious … I mean, given that … Duffy’s brain was running out of petrol. Binyon patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Duffy. And I’m not even trying to get off with you. But you don’t fool me, and I don’t see why you should fool yourself. If you’re not queer, then I’m Selfridges.’
That conversation had worried him. In fact, the next person he’d been to bed with after it had been a girl; but no doubt Binyon would have had an answer for that too. Was he simply gay (Binyon, though gay himself, always preferred the word ‘queer’, as if he were telling some brutal truth)? In a way, Duffy didn’t mind if Binyon was right. He just disliked being regimented like this. You lot stay on this side of the street, and you lot over there keep to that side of the street. No jay-walking; use of the zebra crossing forbidden; and if you try leaping over the pedestrian barrier you’ll get run down by a balding man with an unkind sense of humour.
Duffy had remembered this conversation from a couple of years back because of his current preoccupation. Bela Kaposi and his travelling sarcoma. Certificate X. They said you could get AIDS if you were either homosexual or bisexual. Presumably if you were bisexual there was a smaller chance, in basic statistical terms: every girl you’d been to bed with meant one percentage point, or tenth of a percentage point, less chance of night sweats and swollen lymph nodes. On the other hand, there were probably some bisexuals who ended up going to bed with more guys than some homosexuals did. Like himself, for instance. He’d always said that for him the difference between having a girl or a guy was the difference between bacon and egg and bacon and tomato. He still thought that was true. He also had to admit that he’d eaten a lot of breakfast in his time. He looked at the backs of his hands on the driving wheel. Still all clear there, at least. If only he’d known at the time, he could have asked Binyon where your lymph nodes are. It was the sort of thing Binyon would have been sure to know.