Putting the Boot In

by Dan Kavanagh

  She didn’t get hold of his ears again. She reached up and dug both her hands into his cheeks and dragged both sets of nails across his face and howled while she did this. She was attacking him and howling, and Brendan found it definitely a bit scary but also, somewhere, he had to admit, a bit exciting. She reached for his face with her nails again and he pushed her hands away and said ‘No,’ and she reached again and he stopped her and she suddenly got noisier and reached again and howled and he thought Christ she’s hysterical and the next time she reached he hit her across the face, and she said, ‘Fuck me, hit me,’ and after she went for him again it didn’t seem such a bad idea, and especially when he felt blood on his face and she was really going at him with her nails and he hit her again and she shouted, ‘Fuck me, hit me, fuck me, hit me,’ and everything seemed to get noisier and more painful and more exciting because that was what she was telling him to do, and with a lot of bellowing he came inside her and then she suddenly stopped. Just stopped everything. She lay completely still and said nothing, and it was utterly dark and he wondered if she was having a fit or had passed out or needed a glass of water or something, and he rolled off her and whispered, ‘Maggie?’

  She reached across with an arm and patted him on the nearest bit she could find, as if to say, ‘It’s all right, I’m all right,’ and after a while he felt the bed shift and heard the door open and close. A minute or two passed, and he waited for the sound of water running through pipes, but it didn’t come. What he heard instead was the slam of a door, so loud that it shook the walls of the flat, and then, close at hand, too close, much too close, the sound of someone screaming. Brendan thought that maybe things weren’t all right after all. When he switched on the bedside light and saw the blood on the pillow, and the blood on his hand, and looked in the mirror and saw the blood on his face, he knew that things weren’t all right in any way. He ran for his clothes, and started putting them on in a panic, and they were all in the wrong order, and none of them seemed to fit—Hey, why am I getting into someone else’s clothes?—but he struggled and tugged and finally made it, and ran for the front door and slammed it, not caring, and got to his car. As he turned the ignition key he knew, without the least doubt, that things weren’t ever, ever going to be all right again.

  The detective-sergeant thought it strange that he was calling at the same set of digs for the second time this month. Bloody footballers. Bloody football. Horrible game, played by thugs, watched by yobs. Cricket was the detective-sergeant’s game. When was the last time you heard of a cricketer getting into trouble? Whereas football… maybe it was all the adulation they got; made them think they could get away with anything. Half the footballers in London probably had a criminal record, if you looked closely enough; had, or at least jolly well ought to have. And here were another lovely couple. Sharing digs, choice pair of rotten apples. The Irish boy who likes to pick fights and the coloured boy who couldn’t get it into his head that No meant No. That girl had been in an awful state. Three to five years, thought the detective-sergeant, given the current climate of sentencing.

  The police were very correct with Brendan Domingo. Even if the barman at the Albion didn’t know who he was, they did. Don’t lay a finger on him, whatever you feel like. This case is going to get publicity enough by itself. We’ll even call him sir for a bit; until we’ve charged him, that is. We’d like you to come with us and make a statement sir. Brendan was very polite back. He thought he ought to ask for a solicitor, but he didn’t know any solicitors, so he asked if he could telephone the Boss. Later, son, no problem, you can do it from the station; let’s just get the statement over with first, then you can call whoever you like. Brendan said OK, and went with them, wondering how long it would be before Danny and Mrs Ferris realized that when he’d said he’d had a bit of a fight, it was only in a manner of speaking.

  Yes he knew someone called Maggie. No he didn’t know her surname. No he hadn’t known her long. Yes, that was correct, they had met last night in the Albion for the first time. Yes, he had been to her flat. Yes, he had had sexual intercourse with her. Yes, it had been with her consent.

  ‘How did you get those marks on your face?’

  ‘She scratched me.’

  ‘Scratched you quite a lot from the look of it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. And did you at any time while you were in her flat assault her?’

  ‘Assault her? No.’

  ‘Did you hit her at any point?’

  ‘Yes, I hit her a few times,’ said Brendan quietly.

  ‘Why did you hit her?’

  ‘Because she asked me to.’

  ‘Because she asked you to?’ The detective-sergeant looked across at the officer who was making notes of the interview. We’ve got a cheeky one here, he thought. Bold as brass.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why ever should she ask you to do a thing like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It seemed to be … her thing.’

  ‘Her … thing?’

  ‘Yes, well we were in bed you see, and she asked me to …’

  ‘You were in bed with her at the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t hit her before you raped her? You just hit her while you were raping her?’

  ‘I didn’t rape her. I didn’t rape her. I only hit her because she asked me to. It seemed to be … her thing.’

  ‘You hit her when she refused to have sex with you, that’s what you’re saying, is it?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I … I liked her.’ It sounded pathetic, but Brendan felt he had to say it. It was part of the truth, and if he told them the truth they’d be bound to understand sooner or later.

  ‘You liked her?’

  ‘Yes. Course I did.’

  ‘She’s got a broken nose, severe bruising to the left side of the face, and one of her molars is loose. If that’s what you do when you like people, sunshine, I wonder what you’d do if you fell in love with them.’

  A broken nose? Christ.

  ‘I only slapped her a few times. Because she asked me to,’ he repeated.

  ‘Apart from the head-butt.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The head-butt. Come off it, Brendan, that’s what you footballers are good at, isn’t it—the head-butt? Wait till the ref’s looking the other way and then in with the nut. It may not be a criminal offence when you’re playing for Athletic, but I can assure you it’s against the law anywhere else.’

  ‘I didn’t butt her. She got hold of my ears and pulled my head into her face.’

  ‘And the sun shines out of my arse.’

  ‘It’s true, she got hold of my ears and pulled my head on to her face.’

  ‘Hard enough to break her nose?’

  ‘I suppose so. If that’s what happened.’

  ‘That’s what happened. Now you tell me, Brendan: why ever would she want to do a thing like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. She just … did it. I don’t know.’

  ‘You see, son, we can help you a bit. Not much, but a bit. I mean rape’s a very serious charge, especially nowadays, what with all the hoo-ha about it. A few years ago you might just have been able to get away with something like this, assuming you hadn’t knocked her around so much, and assuming you’d thought up a better story. But as it stands, we’re looking at five years, old son. Five to seven, I’d say. And that’s not going to be too good for the old career, is it?’

  Brendan looked down at the table. He somehow hadn’t thought about not playing again. He’d thought about everything else, but he somehow hadn’t thought about not being allowed to play football again. He didn’t think he could stand it.

  ‘So if I may offer a word, Brendan, I think we’d better go for the truth in the present instance. You just tell us what happened, and we’ll do the best we can for you.’

  Brendan didn’t say anything.

  ‘I suppose she was a bit of a tease,’ said the detective-sergeant
. ‘Led you on a bit?’

  ‘No,’ said Brendan, ‘she didn’t.’

  ‘This is hopeless.’

  ‘Can I ring the Boss?’

  ‘Later, Brendan.’

  ‘Isn’t it my rights to ring the Boss?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Brendan. I don’t know where it’s written down if it is. Do you know where it’s written down if it is?’

  Brendan shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask the other officer?’

  Brendan and the detective-sergeant looked across at the other officer, who had remained silent throughout the interrogation. He didn’t speak this time, either, but merely shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘No, he doesn’t think it’s written down either.’

  Brendan was confused. The police didn’t believe him, that was obvious; but they were being almost nice to him. Well, fair, anyway. They hadn’t hit him, or called him a black bastard, or told him to go back to the trees. He remembered an incident from last season, only his second game for Athletic, playing away up North, and someone had thrown a banana on to the pitch right near him. If he could have found that fan, he might have head-butted him. But apart from the odd yellow card, he’d always stayed out of trouble on the pitch; took a bit of stick, dished some out, but never tried to do anyone deliberately. Stayed out of trouble off the pitch, as well. Until this. Just when everything seemed to be going a bit right.

  They took him into a small room, told him to strip and left him. He sat around in his underpants for half an hour until the police doctor arrived. The doctor told him to remove his underpants, then had a good look at him. All over. Neither of them said a word as the doctor went about his business, occasionally stopping to make a note. He was particularly interested in Brendan’s face, his ribs, and his cock. Why is he looking at my whatsit like that, thought Brendan. I haven’t denied what we did. Perhaps the doctor was queer or something. Brendan felt weary, and also felt that nothing would surprise him any more.

  Eventually, the doctor spoke.

  ‘You can get dressed again now.’

  After an hour or so, he was taken back to the two detectives. Again, the same one spoke. The other one was for beating you up, Brendan supposed.

  ‘Well, this is a sorry mess.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I bet you’re wondering how you got yourself into it.’

  Brendan didn’t think that was a question, so didn’t reply.

  ‘I said I’m sure you’re wondering how you got yourself into this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, let me give it a guess for you, Brendan. You picked up this girl in the pub, you thought that was a good start; she invited you in for coffee, you thought that was the green light; you had a bit of a kiss and a cuddle, she said it was a bit late, you said never too late for this, darling; she said No, you thought she meant Yes; she said No again, you hit her a bit and she hit you back, then you head-butted her and she went quiet, and because she didn’t say anything you thought, Well if she isn’t saying No she must mean Yes, and then you had your way with her. Give or take a few details which you’ll now correct me on. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘I didn’t pick her up; we just got talking. She didn’t invite me in for coffee; she didn’t even have any. She didn’t say No or Yes or anything; it wasn’t like that. I never hit her at all except when she … she told me to.’

  ‘Well, Brendan, I can’t say you’re being exactly cooperative. At the moment we’ve got rape and grievous bodily harm, and when we’ve looked over the girl’s flat we may find we’ve got burglary as well, and if we can’t have that we might settle for attempted burglary just to make up the three. I always like to charge in threes, you know; it’s sort of neater, somehow. So you go away, my son, and you sit in a nice room for a few hours with a constable to keep you company, and you give your big woolly head a shake, and then you can come back and see me and I’ll charge you.’

  Brendan had wondered when they would get around to the fact that he wasn’t the same colour as his interviewers.

  ‘And then can I phone the Boss?’ ‘Then you can phone the Boss. If you think the Boss wants to hear from you after what you’ve been up to.’

  In the end Brendan didn’t phone the Boss. By the middle of Sunday afternoon, when Mrs Ferris had called the station for the third time and been told that Mr Domingo was still helping them with their inquiries, Danny Matson rang the Boss. Jimmy Lister got round to the station at six o’clock but was not allowed to see his player. No, he’s still helping us with our inquiries, though all Brendan had done for the last three hours was stare at a radiator and wonder why Maggie had behaved the way she had. When Jimmy Lister mentioned that he’d be back in half an hour with a solicitor, the police said that was absolutely fine with them, but wasn’t it a bit much getting a solicitor out on a Sunday night when nothing more was going to happen until the morning? If Mr Lister brought a solicitor along at ten, they could both be present when Mr Domingo was charged. How do you know he’s going to be charged? He’ll be charged all right, said the desk sergeant. You should have seen the state of that girl. He’ll be charged even if he can prove he was in Alaska last night.

  By the time Jimmy Lister returned with his solicitor, Duffy was off following a small idea. It was one of several small ideas he’d had, all of them so far useless; the trouble was, there weren’t any big ideas around at the moment. All the questions that were there when he started sharing Jimmy Lister’s salary were still no nearer solution. Why should anyone want to put Danny Matson out of the game? Why should anyone want to do down Melvyn Prosser? Why should anyone want to see the club relegated? And those three Whys were accompanied, naturally, by three Whos. Six questions, no answers. It was like arm-wrestling with Mr Joyce: you couldn’t get past twelve o’clock, and the marmalade sandwich seemed inevitable.

  Had Mr Joyce something to do with it? Was the Red White and Blue Movement backing Mr Bullivant and his Layton Road residents in some way? Was some other club trying to strong-arm its way out of the relegation zone by putting the heat on Athletic? That seemed a bit far-fetched. It couldn’t just be that someone wanted to buy Brendan Domingo and was hoping to pick up a bargain at the end of the season when Athletic would be desperate for cash? Brendan was a good player, very honest, Duffy thought, and skilful for a big man; but he wasn’t an undiscovered genius. Duffy doubted if he was even First Division material. What else? Perhaps he needed to ask Melvyn Prosser a few questions about the club’s finances or something—assuming Melvyn Prosser was still giving him the time of day. That was the trouble. Football clubs were very public in some ways, but very private about backstage matters; they didn’t need to tell anyone anything, and they usually chose not to as a matter of principle, BOARDROOM RESHUFFLE AT CITY you would read; but unless someone had been garrotted in the directors’ box before several witnesses nothing ever came out. People retired ‘for reasons of health’; new positions were created ‘to give the Board a more effective cutting edge’; the chairman was changed ‘to bring in some fresh blood’; and after six months or so everyone had forgotten, and there were a few embittered men in cashmere coats scattered around the district who could tell you a story if you had the time. But most people didn’t have the time.

  At the town hall they told him to follow the signs. Through the gloomy bits of Victorian Gothic, out into a courtyard, across some asphalt to a purpose-built Sixties block: the planning department. The members of the public who got this far tended to be nuisances: that’s to say, they actually wanted to check up on things that the planning department was doing, or was about to do, or had done. The planning department couldn’t send them away—it had its statutory obligations; but there were times when public consultation and democratic access to files were simply other ways of saying the word time-wasting. Still, at least this character in the green suede blouson seemed to know what he wanted.

  The assistant planning officer brought him the file. And there it w
as: an application for outline planning permission for an area covering the whole of the Athletic ground and two adjoining sites. The drawings which Duffy slowly unfolded showed a clean and stylish future for the place where the Layton Road enders currently stomped: a shopping mall, a leisure centre, an eight-storey block of flats with offices underneath; fully-grown trees, fountains, zig-zag black-and-white pavements. Even some swanky, architect-designed pigeons taking off into the sky.

  ‘Christ,’ said Duffy.

  ‘That is what you’re looking for?’ confirmed the assistant planning officer. She was amused, even gratified, by Duffy’s reaction. Normally people just held the drawings upside down and grunted.

  ‘Can you tell me what this means?’

  ‘Well, it means that outline planning permission has been applied for.’

  ‘How soon could they build this?’

  ‘That’s a long question. This is just a first step. It’s an essential step, but it’s only a first one. This is just for outline. That has to be granted, then there’s full planning permission, and that has to be granted.’

  ‘But basically, the club just gets one of these, then one of the next ones, and then goes ahead and knocks itself down and builds this instead?’

  ‘Sort of. I mean, there might have to be a public inquiry; it depends on the project and whether there are any objections. But in any case I don’t think this has anything to do with the club.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, the application’s in the name of Hess House Holdings. Unless that’s the company name of the football club, which I shouldn’t think it is.’