by John King
KICKING OFF
Harry and Balti were the first ones in the pub, landlord Len pouring two pints of Guinness to bolster their guts and line them up for the long day ahead. It was the third round of the FA Cup and Chelsea were at home to Portsmouth. The previous night had been lively, a few lagers at the end of the week, Balti knowing he’d have to start watching the pennies now he was unemployed. He’d been down the social and had his interview the following week, ready for the grief coming his way. Bollocks anyway. Pompey would bring a mob up to London, they always did, and Tommy Johnson and his mates had been in the night before, psyched up looking to bushwhack them down Charing Cross, maybe the Elephant.
Portsmouth had always been a bit tasty and would want to put on a show, the 657 Crew in their designer gear back in the eighties, they remembered that well enough. Balti laughed, thinking of the bloke in the pink tracksuit who’d gone right over the top with his clothes getting the piss ripped out of him throughout a game at the Bridge. They’d had a few punch-ups in their youth but nowadays they were older and wiser and happy to let Johnson and nutters like that do the business. It was different now, deeper underground, not such a mass thing any more, though when it did go off in a major way there were plenty of older faces ready to steam in. But it was the past. Times changed. Balti took a long drink from his glass, letting the iron content work its way into his blood, a lethal pint first thing Saturday morning. Even Harry had a pint of Guinness now and then. He was no fascist.
‘There was some Paddies in here looking for you last night,’ Len said, once he’d rung up and taken Balti’s tenner. ‘Five of them. Big bastards. They asked for you by name. I said I hadn’t seen you for a couple of weeks. They ordered, hung about for half an hour, then left. The one asking the questions looked like he’d been on the receiving end. Nose blown up like nobody’s business. Even complimented me on the bitter. Said they’d be back for some more. They were looking for trouble. I could tell they weren’t waiting around just to buy you a pint.’
‘What else did they say?’ Balti asked, knowing McDonald wasn’t the sort of bloke to take a kick in the bollocks, then grin and bear it and put it down to experience. He’d hoped things would pan out. McDonald wouldn’t grass him up, but if he was honest then the comeback was inevitable. He’d started something that was only ever going to end in tears.
‘Nothing,’ Len said. ‘Nothing to me anyway. They seemed more interested in the door. Who was coming in and out, clocking faces. They didn’t look too healthy.’
‘They’re not. Thanks. What did the others look like?’
‘In their forties. Hard men. They all had coats on but I don’t reckon they were tooled-up. One had some kind of Ulster tattoo. I noticed that much. Another smoked roll-ups. Right stink of tobacco but I wasn’t going to argue the toss. You only missed them by fifteen minutes. Looks like it was a good job. You in a bit of bother?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Balti said. ‘It’s a shame we missed them though. We went down The Hide, then ended up in Blues. You should’ve seen the skirt down there. Carter only went and pulled again, didn’t he? Don’t know how he can be bothered all the time. Some slack black bird. Well nice if I remember right, but I was hammered so it could’ve been a pig with a suntan.’
They went to their regular table by the big window at the front of the pub where they could watch the world outside. Hungover parents led hyperactive kids in and out of shops, middle-aged women lined up at the grocer’s and juveniles played arcade machines, the roar of rockets and buzz of lasers filtering into humming traffic. Two alkies sitting on a wall by the bus stop shouted gibberish, sipping Tennants, ignored by everyone who passed, a regular sight. The off-licence opposite had a jagged hole in the window that had been bandaged until it could be replaced, the owner sweeping glass towards the wall. It had been ramraided a couple of weeks before for the contents of the shelves. Business wasn’t going well and the owner was seriously thinking of selling up and moving out of London. Balti looked at the familiar scene and wished he was somewhere else. Carter would be along soon and Will had said he’d be in later before he met his Brentford mates and got a lift down to Swindon. The third round of the FA Cup was a big day in the football calendar. Mango might even put in an appearance seeing as how he hadn’t shown up the night before.
‘So what’s this McDonald about then?’ Harry asked, looking towards the bar, out of earshot from the landlord who was interested enough but busy serving three noisy pensioners who’d just entered, taking advantage of the pound-a-pint special offer on bitter.
‘Don’t know him much outside of work really. Imagine he can handle himself. I’m not bothered about the bloke. If he’s looking to have a go that’s up to him. We’ll just have to sort things out again.’
Carter came in with a smile on his face, stubble on his chin, same clothes he’d been wearing last night. He saw the lads were on the Guinness, went to the bar and ordered, sipping his lager while Len let the stout settle, looking around for Denise who wasn’t in yet, knowing she often worked Saturday mornings. Len even put shamrocks on the cream, though it wasn’t that professional a job and they might’ve been daisies for all he could tell from the vague outlines. Carter didn’t know if the governor was Irish or what, and couldn’t be bothered to ask. He didn’t look or sound it, but you couldn’t tell things like that sometimes. He carried the glasses over.
‘Straight in another bird’s bush and two more points in the bag,’ he said, sitting down. ‘That’s me on nine and no-one else off the mark yet, unless you two got the scent.’
‘I forgot to tell you last night,’ Balti said. ‘Mango shagged some bird from his work, then he got a bonus point on top. What was she like then?’
‘Indian bird. Nice body, small tits, decent shag. E’d out of her box and if she’d been strong enough she’d have carried me through the front door she was so keen.’
‘I thought she was black. Into the old jungle wasn’t she, jumping around and that.’
‘No, Indian. Dark though. You should’ve told me about Mango and I’d have put in a bit more effort. That’s what it’s like when your game’s based on flair. You do enough to get by. It’s only when you’re up against it that you turn on the charm. Chelsea have always been like that. Look at the teams we’ve had through the years. Get beat by shit one week, then go and stuff Liverpool or Man U the next. Gullit’s different though. Ruud’s got everything. Dutch flair and discipline. Double Dutch. That’s the mark of genius. Cruyff had the same ability. Forget the Premiership though for a minute and let’s concentrate on the amateur game. What happened to you two? Pull anything last night after I left, or just your plonkers?’
‘Leave it out,’ said Balti. ‘It was down the kebab van and straight off home. I was even too pissed for a knuckle shuffle.’
‘Not even one point off that Greek serving chips in the back of the van? Big flabby arse and piss flaps down to her ankles. You service that and I’ll slip you a back-hander. Anyone gets between the sheets with her deserves a couple of extra points.’
‘You’d have to give me more than a back-hander to touch that,’ Balti laughed, spilling his drink.
Harry was watching the street outside. He was pissed off that Carter had bought him another pint of Guinness. He’d wanted lager. The Guinness was lining. He wasn’t going to make a fuss. The winos were up and moving towards the swimming pool. He was thinking of flabby arses and desert islands, crystal blue oceans where the only movement was the occasional fish jumping. Except last night it hadn’t been a desert island. It was somewhere on the mainland. The east coast of Mexico fronting the Caribbean, golden beaches that backed on to thick jungle and ancient Mayan temples buried so deep that the syphilis-heavy white man had never set eyes on them. On the horizon lay Cuba and Haiti. He could smell Castro’s cigars and hear voodoo drums. They’d been sitting in a bar with a couple of Aztecs. Balti was on the Corona while Harry was joining the warriors in the local moonshine. There was a worm in the bot
tle which the older of the Aztecs said turned ordinary men into gods. Bite into the worm and they would have visions that would change their lives. But Harry and Balti didn’t want to change. They were staying in a nice little place with a front porch and two hammocks where they swung back and forward watching the village kids fish in the ocean. It was similar to Harry’s last dream, with a few essential differences. They were more laid back now, like they’d been there for a while, although the same dangers lurked. As he enjoyed the hemp supplied by a retired policeman, he kept his eyes on the frail little Mexicans searching for fish, knowing from his experiences in the East that sharks were present everywhere. It was a worldwide problem.
Harry woke up and went for a piss. It was cold in the bathroom and he kept his eyes half closed in the bright light. He made sure he stayed with the fuzz in his head, got back into bed and returned to the dream, preferring the heat of the Gulf of Mexico to London in the winter. At first the dream was forced and not worth the effort, but then he began sinking down and when he woke the next morning he was easily able to concentrate and everything rushed back full throttle.
It was night and they were still in the bar. An all-day session. Fireflies danced in two-dimensional blackness and there was the bark of a monkey, the screech of thousands of tiny throats that hit a crescendo before stopping in perfect unison. The Aztecs were backpacking, Spanish passports tucked into fabric money belts, visiting the land of their Mayan brothers. Harry was laughing, telling them he knew more about the Aztecs than they did about the cockney tribe, that he watched a lot of telly when he wasn’t on the piss. They were chopping up the maggot. Four equal pieces. One, two, three and the four men ate the maggot. They were in the middle of the jungle. The bar and sky had disappeared and there was a heavy smell of rotting vegetation. The Aztec warriors were leading them by the hand. Harry felt the sweat on his guide’s palm. He felt awkward holding another man’s hand but knew it was in the interests of survival. On his own he would be wandering blind and it wouldn’t take long for wild cats to smell his fear and rip him apart. The guides were old and wise and with the help of mescalin possessed infrared night sight. With this sophisticated vision they were able to cut a path through the woven tangle of the jungle, ever-present fireflies hovering just above their heads the only movement, Harry feeling the gentle pricks of settling insects on bare skin, the rough texture of a heavy snake passing over his feet. He felt no fear with the Aztecs. These Indians knew the laws of the jungle. It was only European diseases such as the common cold that could destroy the natives. Harry wore the same bright yellow shorts from Asia, but with the dead maggot his dream had switched to black-and-white.
Eventually they reached a clearing and the colour returned with a flash. He was surprised to find Frank Bruno barring the way checking tickets. Big Frank was wearing a black flight jacket more common to Combat 18 than a great British heavyweight champion of the world. His hair had been dyed white. Harry was embarrassed to see that Balti was still holding his guide’s hand, even though a computer-generated fire was lighting up the clearing. A temple towered above them. Harry admired the structure, the same Mayan temple he’d seen on the TV. There were hundreds of steps leading up through slanting stone, enormous carved figures positioned at regular intervals. It was a magical moment. There was a brief silence while he absorbed this wonder of the ancient world and then he heard the music, the blips and beeps and subsonic drumming of his own culture.
Dayglo graffiti had been painted on the trees surrounding the temple and he thought it was a shame. He read the nearest message, Congratulations, you have just met Millwall, a few words for anyone unfortunate enough to get a hiding off the pride of South-East London. He couldn’t be bothered with all that violence. It just wasn’t important. He felt good and was glad to see Balti had adjusted to his surroundings and was no longer holding the Aztec’s hand. He asked Frank why he’d changed his hair. The British bulldog pointed out that despite being born and bred in London, he had been a big fan of Gazza since his Newcastle days, and had always wanted to be a professional footballer. Anything that was good enough for the Geordie maestro was good enough for Frank. Wor Gazza, meanwhile, had been in training and was looking to have a go at Mike Tyson. Frank pointed out that this was what being conscious was all about. Swapping things around and blending in together. Like the music.
The maggot was fast reaching the peak of its effectiveness and Harry found himself surrounded by a jungle that was becoming more and more distinct, a moving network of geometric patterns, complicated fractals that nevertheless made sense both scientifically and naturally, the kind of new age shit he normally slagged off. He sat on one of the steps with a girl he’d known at school. She’d been a good laugh but had been knocked down by a bus and this had left deep scars digging into her forehead and left cheek, so he’d never been able to think of her as female. She was alright though and they sat together, Harry’s head held high, breathing deep and feeling content. He felt her hand in his, but there was nothing sexual going on. It seemed okay. He saw his best mate dancing around like a wanker but it wasn’t important, the trimmed down beer gut still big enough to bounce. Nothing seemed to matter in a clearing deep inside the jungle. The girl whispered that the Aztecs were really Mayans. Because the Aztecs made human sacrifices they were easily understood back in London, while the Mayans had apparently invented the concept of zero and had been forgotten. The two guides just wanted a bit of respect. Then Balti was pulling his shorts down, fat arse on display, mooning for the crowd. A siren sounded and Harry wanted to tell his mate to pull his shorts back up because the Spanish riot police were on their way and they didn’t appreciate traditional British humour. The feedback was too heavy so he maintained a dignified silence. He looked for Big Frank, but the heavyweight champion of the universe had taken the night bus home and Harry’s alarm was sounding, a blitzkrieg warning that a wave of fighter-bombers were coming, loaded with napalm, intent on burning the ancient rainforest to a cinder.
It was daylight. Time to get up. Saturday morning. Chelsea Portsmouth. Nine o’clock. Balti’s arse was the last impression the dream left as it ran back into the jungle. Harry felt uneasy. He tried to move away from the thought but couldn’t let himself bottle out and pushed back inside his head to find out what had gone before. Five minutes later he was on his way to the bathroom, satisfied the dream had been a straightforward replay of events, the night out at Blues with a repetition of the desert island theme, some little gems thrown in for decoration, that bird on the Es last night. The image of Balti’s arse was obviously symbolic of his attitude, showing what he thought about losing his job, but when Harry went into the kitchen and his mate was sitting there with the paper, in his dressing gown, bollocks hanging out, he actually felt embarrassed.
‘You’re a bit quiet,’ Carter said, emptying his pint, then holding it up for careful examination, as if by staring at the glass for long enough it would somehow fill up again.
‘I’m feeling a bit rough, that’s all,’ Harry said.
‘I needed that,’ Carter was prompting now with the understanding that miracles had stopped in the years BC. ‘It’s the best thing when you’ve been on the piss. Dehydration causes all the grief, and half of it’s in the head, mental like, so if you start filling up again you get rid of both the reasons.’
Harry collected the glasses and went to the bar. At least he’d get a pint of 4X now. Denise came in then and served him before she’d had a chance to dump her handbag out back, Len busy at the other end of the counter. He ordered a ham roll and bit into it as lager filled glasses. Denise smelt good. Better than Carter who was carrying a mixture of last night’s drink and smoke fumes and a night’s broken sleep. A couple more pints and nobody would notice. He was just about to return to the table when Will walked in. Harry ordered another pint, Directors this time, and Will came over to help.
‘Alright?’ Will asked.
‘Can’t complain. Got a bit of a hangover from last night, but noth
ing serious. Should be a good game today if the players are up for it. You never know though. Pompey could just pull off a result.’
‘It’s easier than a trip to Swindon. I wonder if you’d have bought Gullit if Dave Webb had stayed at Chelsea. He only signed because of Hoddle. At least we’ve got Webby. The man’s a god.’
‘He should’ve been Chelsea manager,’ Harry agreed, thinking of the magic maggots that turned men into immortal beings and wondering if Webby had been hassling the insect world. ‘Webb was the one who brought the Cup back against Leeds. He’d have done alright and he saved us from relegation in the three months he was there. Hoddle was a great player. He’d have got into any half-decent Dutch team lining up next to Carter in midfield, so it’s no wonder The Dutchman decided to come to Chelsea. Gullit’s on another planet. The bloke’s got so much time when he’s in possession. Never loses his cool. Bit like me really.’
Will swapped pleasantries with the rest of the lads and took over Harry’s daydreamer role at the window as the other three talked football generalities and Chelsea specifics. He sipped his Directors and enjoyed the ten minutes of heat a hesitant sun fired his way. He was on a high. It was funny what a woman’s interest could do for you. He mustn’t let himself get carried away and start behaving like a love-sick kid though. Spending time with Karen had done him good. She had an interesting flat that reflected her character, full of posters and tropical plants. She’d invited him in for fresh coffee but he’d chosen tea bags instead. A plate of chocolate biscuits and a good look through her records and CDs. They had similar tastes. They’d sat there talking about music and everything for hours, and it wasn’t long before the pressure Will felt to make a move disappeared and they were having a laugh like they were mates.