Putting the Boot In

by Dan Kavanagh

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll do it,’ said Jimmy eventually. ‘But playing the lad is another matter.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll be fit? ‘

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think he’ll have lost much being locked up. Sometimes a lay-off at this stage of the season actually sharpens them up.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’

  ‘But would it be fair on the lad? I mean, would it be fair? Just think what a roasting they’d give the lad from the terraces.’

  ‘They give him a roasting anyway. He gets booed every time he touches the ball here. He gets booed away from home. What’s the difference?’

  ‘They can be very nasty, you know, the fans.’

  ‘What do you think Brendan will want to do?’

  ‘He’ll want to play, of course he will.’

  ‘Then let him. It’s his career.’

  ‘Yes, but as manager I’ve got to look after the boy. I’ve got to think about his long-term interests.’

  ‘What about everyone’s long-term interests?’ asked Duffy.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got a choice. You’re getting relegated at the moment, no doubt about it. You need all the points you can get. Nine from the last three matches and you could well be safe. Six and there’s an outside chance. Three or less and you’re sunk. Fourth Division and a salary drop for all the lads; that is, if the whole place doesn’t get concreted over first. Slow plane to Abu Dhabi for Jimmy Lister, except that the Abu Dhabi offer somehow doesn’t seem to be coming through. And if you do drop, not that it will then be a matter of concern to you, the club loses Brendan. Some Second Division outfit is sure to snap him up. Play him and you might just have a chance of staying up—and keeping Brendan. Don’t play him and you lose him, and maybe everything else as well: the team, the job, the ground.’

  ‘Put like that, Duffy …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But I’m still worried about the fans. They can say the cruellest things, you know, Duffy. Things you wouldn’t imagine they could think up.’

  ‘Earplugs,’ said Duffy sharply. ‘Earplugs.’

  While Jimmy Lister went off to see the coppers, Duffy drove off to the group of five streets whose names were on the back of Geoff Bell’s photographs. The lunchtime trade on a Monday was always a bit slack—punters were slow recuperating from the weekend—so there was a fair chance he might find her. As he slowed the car and started a bit of furtive eyes-left, he wondered what the going rate was nowadays for impersonating a police officer. Or for blackmail.

  He lowered the passenger window in preparation. Then up and down, round the square, eyes half on the road, half squirting off in search of those gaudy, lounging figures who pecked at the pavement with their high heels. Up and down again, round the square: no wonder the residents objected. It wasn’t just that respectable women got propositioned by thick punters; it was having to bring up your children in an atmosphere of pure exhaust fumes. Now, once more, and, and, what about … There she is.

  ‘You doing business?’ It was probably the least necessary question Duffy had ever asked; but he said it routinely, as if establishing his credentials. Maggie—or perhaps Denise as she still had dark hair—was already checking the car: inspecting the back to see that there wasn’t a second punter lurking on the floor, checking the driver to see that he wasn’t an obvious psycho.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ she said. This wasn’t the smartest end of town. What would she have been pulling down in Shepherd’s Market? Four times that? Six times? Ten times, perhaps; especially if she landed an Arab. Maggie Coleman had come down in the world.

  ‘Hop in, darling.’

  She got in quickly, filling the car with a scent like air-freshener. Perhaps it was air-freshener, given some of the punters she’d have to consort with at her current going rate. She put her hand on Duffy’s thigh and said, ‘Twyford Avenue, you know it? Money first.’

  ‘Course, darling,’ said Duffy. ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Sharron.’

  Duffy waited until he had got up enough speed for it to be inadvisable to jump out, then murmured, ‘Well, Sharron, I shall call you Denise if that’s all right.’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘Or maybe I shall call you Maggie.’

  ‘Call me the Queen of Sheba if that’s your thing.’

  ‘And you can call me Detective-Sergeant Hawkins, C Division.’

  She reacted to that, at least.

  ‘You shit, you fucker, you pulling me in for that? Copper. Fucking copper. You’d think I could smell fucking copper by now, wouldn’t you?’ Duffy gave a little smile. ‘You pulling me in for that? You fucking came up and asked, copper. It’s not soliciting if a copper comes past with his truncheon hanging out of the window.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m not pulling you in, Maggie.’

  ‘I see. You want a bit of free, too? Listen, I give out so much free to you coppers I might as well come down the station one day and do it there. Save breaking up my working day, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That’s not a bad plan.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got this baby girl …’

  ‘Shove it.’ Duffy stopped the car. ‘Do you know who lives over there?’

  ‘Course I don’t, copper.’

  ‘Danny Matson.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He sits in his chair all day with his foot up on a stool.’

  ‘What, does he need a girl or something? You treating him?’

  ‘He’d be very pleased to see you.’

  ‘It’s thirty for, you know, cripples and so on.’

  Duffy usually quite liked whores. This one he found less appealing.

  ‘You set up Danny Matson, you framed Brendan Domingo. Who paid?’

  ‘Friends of yours, are they? Never heard of them meself.’

  ‘Who paid?’

  ‘What do you mean? Punters pay. Only coppers get it for free, copper.’

  ‘Danny’s out of the game for life, Brendan’s facing five years, now who paid?’ Duffy was squeezing the driving wheel hard; afraid that otherwise he might be squeezing something else instead. Somebody’s windpipe, for instance.

  Silence.

  ‘Was it Prosser? Was it? Was it Magrudo?’

  Silence.

  ‘OK, I’ll just have to throw the book at you, Maggie.’

  ‘There’s not much in your book, copper.’

  ‘Soliciting, GBH, attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see who the jury believes—you or Brendan. It’s five years for one or the other of you.’

  ‘You’re just a dry wank, copper. You can’t scare me. Who would a jury believe, a tart or a nignog? They’d just tell us to bugger off and not make so much noise next time we’re screwing.’

  She wasn’t stupid; that was a pity. She wasn’t stupid, and she didn’t scare. Duffy tried to think of another line of attack. He failed. She didn’t.

  ‘But I’d plead guilty to the soliciting. I’d do that. And I’d throw myself on the court’s mercy and say I was terribly, terribly sorry and that it would never happen again and was there anything they could do to stop the boys in blue asking for so much free?’

  ‘Get out, Maggie.’

  ‘You’re a dry wank, copper, you know that? A dry wank.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Brendan Domingo when the police released him and explained the terms of his bail. ‘Cheers,’ said Brendan Domingo when Jimmy Lister said he’d risk him in the first game, see how it went, and then make a decision about the last two. ‘Cheers,’ said Brendan Domingo when Duffy explained his idea about the earplugs.

  At home to Newport, away to Hull, at home to Preston. Win all three and they’d have a real chance of escaping relegation. Lose more than one and they were for the drop. Something in between and it all depended on how their fellow-strugglers got on.

  Duffy stood on the Layton Road terrace for the Newport game, an
d the yobboes were not well behaved. They may not have had the full powers of concentration when it came to spelling, but they could all certainly read. Read the headlines in the local paper, at least, ‘OH, NAUGHTY-NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY-NAUGHTY-NAUGHTY-NAUGHTY BRE-HEN-DAN’ was one of their politer chants. Others were more specific; they turned on Brendan’s colour, and the African jungle, and the function of his middle leg. Every time Brendan touched the ball, several hundred yobboes booed, and several hundred yobboes’ fists went up in the air and made wanking gestures. Brendan, his ears blocked, didn’t notice. Duffy was more worried about the effect the noises might have on the rest of the Athletic side; but they appeared not to notice either. Having Brendan back seemed to relax them; and for a change, the opposition clearly had their minds on their summer holidays. After forty minutes Athletic won a free-kick on the edge of the Newport area. Brendan took a long run and smashed it straight at the wall. It took a deflection off a defender’s shoulder, lobbed into the air, spun across the goal area with a deceiving bounce, and was sliced off a Newport defender’s boot into an Athletic chest, from where it cannoned unstoppably past the keeper. A real end-of-season goal; one-nil; three points.

  ‘I think we can do it, Duffy,’ said Jimmy Lister after the match. ‘I really think we can do it.’

  ‘How’s Brendan taking things?’

  ‘Oh, a bit subdued, you know. Just thinking about his game, I suppose.’

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘They said, Score a hat-trick and we’ll drop the charges. Funny sense of humour, I thought.’

  ‘Yes, well, they’re like that.’ They were; Duffy remembered some of the things that seemed funny to coppers. ‘Two more wins, then, Jimmy?’

  ‘On my granny’s life, I promise you.’

  However, both of Jimmy Lister’s grandmothers had been dead some time, and the midweek away game at Hull confirmed it. Two-nil down at half-time, three-nil down after fifty minutes. Jimmy pulled off a midfielder and put on a wide man; Brendan took out his earplugs and threw them at the bench; but neither move made any difference. The Athletic midfield was underpopulated; the wide man didn’t get a kick; and Hull walked in another goal. ‘We were beaten by the better side on the day,’ Jimmy told the Chronicle. But the season’s never over until the final whistle’s been blown.’

  Events the next day in the North of England unexpectedly made things easier for Athletic; or if not easier, at least clearer. Port Vale finished their season with a handy defeat leaving them still only two points above Athletic. So if Athletic lost or drew their final match, they’d be relegated; if they won, by however fine a margin, they stayed up. ‘The lads know exactly what they have to do,’ said Jimmy Lister. ‘It’s all down to us now.’

  On the morning of the Preston match, Duffy got Carol to have another look at his back.

  ‘It’s still there, Duffy, like it was last time I looked.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  In the bathroom, before he shaved, he did his lymph-node check. No movement on that front. No blotches on his legs either. No more night sweats. How long before he could count on being safe? Six months? A year?

  When he came back from the bathroom he was whistling. Carol smiled at him. She wondered why he kept wanting her to check his back. She wondered why the pizza he’d cooked her the night before had been even soggier than the previous one. Were the two eccentricities connected? Did he think crisp pizzas brought you out in a rash? He was an odd one and no mistake. Always worrying about something. Always on the move. Why couldn’t they sometimes have a nice lie-in, like other people?

  ‘Duffy, one of these days, will you bring me breakfast in bed?’

  A puzzled look came over Duffy’s face, followed by one of horror as he thought of toast-crumbs in the sheets.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Never.’

  ‘Oh well. I suppose not. What about in a hotel?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Have you ever had room service in a hotel, Duffy?’

  ‘Of course not.’ What a ridiculous idea.

  ‘Neither have I.’

  Duffy was puzzled. He didn’t know what Carol was going on about. Perhaps she wanted something.

  ‘Do you want to come down the match with me?’

  ‘What, the Reliables?’ Carol was usually forbidden from watching Duffy play; it made him nervous, he claimed.

  ‘No, the Athletic. Against Preston.’

  ‘The Athletic? Against Preston? Of course not. I’ve got some standards, Duffy.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ That can’t have been what she wanted, then.

  On his way to the ground, Duffy took a short diversion and knocked at number 37 Layton Road.

  ‘Mr Bullivant.’

  ‘Ah, it’s the laddy with the big pencil and the small brain.’

  ‘Mr Bullivant, I wonder if I could have a quote from you about the proposed redevelopment of the Athletic ground?’

  ‘Now why ever should you want a thing like that? Can’t you use one of those other remarks of mine I remember you copying down into your book?’

  ‘But are the residents happy about the proposed scheme?’

  ‘This particular resident doesn’t give a tinker’s, sonny.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because by next season I shall be able to go for a short walk from my home and watch a class outfit by the name of Tottenham Hotspur.’

  ‘You’re moving? You’re selling your house?’

  Mr Bullivant winked. ‘Sold it two months ago, laddy.’ And then he shut the door.

  The Preston match was never going to be easy. Duffy knew what he wanted—a three-nil win with Brendan scoring a hat-trick—and he knew what little chance there was of getting it. Besides, the Preston management had just announced that its first-team squad would have to be reduced next year. Every place was up for grabs; it was going to be musical chairs with five seats short instead of just the one.

  The crowd was bigger than it had been for the last ten home games. The twin possibilities of relegation and redevelopment had brought an extra two hundred through the turnstiles. Two hundred ghouls, keen to witness a death.

  The Piggeries end were in good voice, but the rest of the crowd was subdued. A hot spring sun made the football seem unreal, and time went quickly. Two corners, a free-kick and a couple of throw-ins, it seemed, and the referee was already blowing his whistle for half-time. Nil-nil. No good at all to Athletic. No sign, either, of what they could do about it. Brendan had been a bit subdued; neat, but subdued. Duffy wondered what Melvyn Prosser was thinking. Forty-five minutes from … from what? From the sound of Charlie Magrudo’s bulldozers?

  Athletic were playing towards the Layton Road end in the second half; though most of the action was taking place in the clogged midfield. Slowly, it seemed, Preston were beginning to batten Athletic down. They won a couple of free-kicks in dangerous positions, and then a corner. Everyone went deep into the Athletic half except for Brendan, the big Preston centre-back, and the Preston keeper. The corner was an outswinger, the Athletic keeper committed himself too early, and was dragged further and further out of his goal in pursuit of the ball. To everyone’s relief he caught it, somewhere near the penalty spot. Three strides and he was at the edge of his area and giving the ball a hoofing drop-kick. Chase that one, you buggers, he seemed to say, and eighteen players did. Two, however, had a good thirty yards start on them. Or rather, suddenly, just one: Brendan. The big Preston defender had tripped, somehow—did anyone see what happened?—and was lying on his back near the centre-circle. Brendan was sprinting alone towards the Preston goal, his head cocked as he watched the ball descend towards him. The keeper, seeing his centre-back on the ground, came out fast. Bring him down, Duffy found himself whispering; and he was talking to the keeper, not Brendan. Both players went up in a flail of arms; both players came down in a flail of legs; the ball, quietly, bounced over their falling bodies and continued its unimpeded progress until it settled in the back of th
e Preston net. One-nil.

  No one knew where to run. Half the Athletic team ran to their keeper; half to Brendan. Most of the Preston team besieged the referee, claiming offside, a foul on the centre-back or a foul on the goalkeeper, according to their temperament. A few went over to the linesman and expressed doubts about his eyesight, parentage and sexual habits when alone. A couple bent over the prostrate keeper, who was feigning injury quite well and worrying about next season’s first-team squad. One-nil.

  Preston, not surprisingly, seemed to resent the goal, and attacked with an additional muscularity. Brendan, for his part, found himself on the end of some close attention from the big centre-back who had earlier mysteriously lost his footing. There would be bruises to count on the Sunday morning. But Athletic weren’t eager to throw away their sudden gift. They scrambled, they hoofed, they scrapped, they battled; they were not above getting a touch physical themselves; and their keeper, spurred on by his first goal ever in League football, saved them twice with full-length sprawls. Suddenly, it was all over. One-nil. Athletic were safe.

  Ten members of the Athletic team ran towards Jimmy Lister’s dug-out. There was hugging and shouting, and a few tears were shed, before they all turned to the main stand for acclaim. But the attention of the main stand was temporarily elsewhere. They were watching Brendan Domingo. So was Duffy, and he was a lot closer.

  When the final whistle blew, Brendan had stopped where he was. He offered his hand to the Preston centre-back, who refused it, and carefully took out his earplugs. Then he began trotting very deliberately towards the Layton Road end. On his way he passed the Preston keeper and offered his hand, and was refused again. Slowly, he walked round behind the net until he faced the phalanx of yobboes. Duffy wondered what Brendan was going to do next, but he clearly had it all planned out. He began clapping the yobboes, as if thanking them for their kind advice in telling him to go back to the jungle. The yobboes were puzzled by this; but they were less puzzled by Brendan’s next gesture. He turned his back to the Layton Road end, bent and lowered his shorts. The two white straps of his jock seemed to emphasize the blackness of his bum. He stayed like this for some five seconds, then pulled up his shorts, turned round, and started clapping the Layton Road enders again. Slowly, tauntingly. Duffy thought Brendan was extremely brave, even if there were a few coppers around.