Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Foxes

  KK swung a table round in a dangerous arc like a circus act, and set it with a bang against the clubhouse wall. He really was wasted here, I thought, watching him sidelong. He should have been in New Zealand chopping down sixty-foot trees and marmalising the opposition every weekend. Living here must drive him crazy.

  He looked up from his table-swinging. “Well, well,” he said, “here’s Sergeant Grimshaw come to arrest you, Lannie.”

  “Or you,” I said, tartly, although I felt myself tense up as always in the presence of police. I had no doubt that Grimshaw noticed, and took it as a natural result of his manly allure.

  But I had half a notion that he really had come to arrest me: the package under his arm was small reassurance. He wore his natty camouflage and an unreadable smile.

  “All right, Plod?” KK greeted him, to my irritation. What had Grimshaw done to merit a nickname? Even an off-the-peg one like Plod.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I’ve come to watch the game,” said Grimshaw blandly. I didn’t believe him. Grimshaw was a man for ulterior motives if ever I saw one. He’d come to watch people, not rugby. “I brought you back your T-shirt,” he added, and handed it over in a clear plastic bag. Nicely ironed.

  “That’s been a while. No blood, then?”

  “Only beer.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Yes.” He took a resigned breath, and added, “I got a little narked the other day. I apologise.”

  “You what?” I was taken aback until I reflected that there was undoubtedly an ulterior motive for his apology too. A policeman would never apologise for anything without one. “Well, all right,” I said cautiously. “I suppose I was a bit hasty as well.”

  “Can I buy you a drink, Lannie? What would you like?” he asked: turning on the charm. I wasn’t about to be taken in.

  “Nothing, thanks. But you could always help with the chilli. My wife hasn’t turned up.” Neither had half the team.

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh. I only do spuds.”

  KK gave a guffaw. “You must have been in the army,” he remarked.

  “SPS,” I said. “Special potato squadron. You can see it in his eyes. Did you go to the EGM, KK?”

  “I did.” He straightened another table with a thump. “I had to. Niall had only reminded me about sixteen times.”

  “Good turn-out?”

  “Mostly the young lads. He bribed them with free ale.” KK obviously disapproved.

  “And what happened?”

  “You’ll find out,” he said shortly, hefting a chair in each large hand.

  “I’m allergic to chilli peppers,” said Grimshaw rather plaintively. The little boy lost tone didn’t suit him.

  “Well, you can still chop an onion, can’t you?”

  KK dropped his chairs with a clatter, making us both jump.

  “Bloody hellfire! Bloody hell!” KK was staring at the wall, eyes bulging and incredulous. I couldn’t see a problem.

  “What is it, KK?”

  “Someone’s only been and nicked Wade Dooley’s shirt!”

  “No, that’s impossible,” I protested, for the glass case was still on the wall, with the shirt inside it. But when I went up for a closer look, I saw that it was one of the club’s own, with green hoops, a size or three smaller than Wade Dooley’s.

  “Bloody hellfire,” I said.

  “The bastards! They’ve taken our shirt. How the hell did they get it out?”

  “Might it have gone for cleaning?” suggested Grimshaw.

  “That’s Wade Dooley’s shirt! It doesn’t get bloody cleaned. Anyway, Niall would have told me. Bloody hellfire!” KK stared at the bogus shirt with furious loathing, and then accosted Drop-goal who was just arriving with his kit-bag. “You know anything about this?”

  Drop-goal let his bag fall to the floor. “Christ almighty. Where’s it gone?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said KK grimly. He disappeared to the changing room. Seconds later, a dozen half-naked players emerged to swarm around the display case and swear in furious bewilderment. Stevo was only wearing a jock-strap.

  “Good grief,” said Brendan. “It’s turned green.”

  “Some bugger’s nicked it,” roared Bob. “Go and get Niall!”

  Grimshaw leaned against the bar, arms and elegant ankles crossed, watching. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

  “You didn’t nick it, did you?” I said to him suspiciously.

  “What would I do that for?”

  “A misplaced sense of fun.”

  He shook his head. “My sense of fun is perfectly in place.”

  “Well, why don’t you do something?”

  “They haven’t asked me yet,” said Grimshaw.

  “At least you could fingerprint the case!”

  “I could. It’s unlikely to prove anything. Everyone’s fingerprints are all over the place in here, as I’ve already discovered to my cost.”

  “Not on that glass case, surely,” I insisted.

  He looked at me sidelong. “No? I saw someone kiss it last time I was here.”

  “Well, I expect they were drunk.”

  “Oh, they were. Very. But the fact remains.”

  Niall came in at a gallop.

  “Over here, Niall!” bellowed Bob. “Just look what some bugger’s gone and done!”

  Niall loped over, and peered. He was holding a large brown envelope. “Ah,” he said.

  “What does that mean,” said Stevo, “Ah?”

  “All in good time,” said Niall.

  Bob’s eyes were narrowing. “And what does that mean, all in good fucking time?”

  “Shit,” said KK, looking even wilder than usual. Niall jumped onto a chair.

  “Announcement, everybody!” he said loudly. “I’ve got something to show you. This seems an ideal time since you’re all here. Have the good grace to shut it, please, Bob. For all those who COULDN’T BE BOTHERED to turn up to the Extraordinary General Meeting, here’s what we decided.”

  He made a great show of rustling in his envelope, pulled out a piece of A3 card and held it over his head, rotating to give everyone a good look.

  FYLINGTON FOXES, it said, in a spiky red font. There was a cartoon of a perky orange fox winking in the corner.

  “Dear God,” said Bob. “What the fuck’s that?”

  “If you’d been there, you’d know. This is our new name. And that is our new symbol.”

  “You never got anyone to vote for that,” said Bob disbelievingly.

  “We got a majority vote for a trial period till the end of the season,” retorted Niall.

  “All them bloody students,” muttered Gary Killick.

  “You can’t change our name just like that!” cried Stevo.

  “If we don’t pull in the punters,” retorted Niall, “we’re going to slide down the drain. Millers have already cried off, we’ve had to arrange a scratch fixture with Hesketh. The under tens and under twelves never showed last Sunday. We’ve got to do something to get people in, and that means the kiddies too, or this place’ll just roll over and die.”

  “Why Foxes? What’s wrong with Falcons?” objected Stevo.

  “Fucking Ferrets,” snarled Bob.

  “Now, now!” Niall wagged his finger. “This is a family club. That’s why we’re having a Family Fun Day next month for Becki’s memorial game. I’ve ordered a mascot costume that should arrive in time.”

  “Have her parents agreed to this?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Niall.

  “No-one’ll come,” growled Bob, “they’ll think it’s a fucking funeral.”

  “It’s everybody’s job to make sure people come. The first team will play the president’s fifteen.”

  “We haven’t got a president.”

  “Figure of speech,” said Niall. “Call it chairman’s fifteen if you like.”

  “So you’ll be captaining it
, will you?” said Bob.

  “Thought we’d have a ladies’ match too,” said Niall. “You can organise that, Sammie. See if you can pull in some really fit lasses. Next on the agenda: we’re switching to Old Hayseed Premium Bitter.”

  “Noooo!” roared KK in anguish.

  “We’ve got an excellent deal from the brewery. There’s a trial barrel behind the bar now.”

  “Why didn’t you consult me? You don’t know bugger all about ale!” shouted KK.

  “It’s real ale,” said Niall defensively.

  “In name only. It’s brewed by marketing managers from cow dung and treacle,” said Flipper. “Isn’t that right, Brendan?”

  “It’s not the best beer around,” said Brendan doubtfully.

  “Tell the truth, Brendan!” exhorted Bob.

  “It’d have to be a very good deal,” said Brendan.

  “Oh, it is, it is,” said Niall confidently. “I can assure you of that.” He slid the poster back into its envelope.

  KK took a deep, noisy breath. “You’ve got Wade bloody Dooley’s shirt and all, haven’t you, you sly bugger?”

  “I was coming to that.”

  “That wasn’t on the sodding agenda!”

  “I’ve had a good offer for it,” said Niall. “On E-bay. Four hundred quid.”

  “That shirt does not belong to you!” roared KK.

  “It belongs to the club. It’s for the good of the club. Fox mascot costumes don’t come cheap, you know.”

  KK strode forward and swung a wild fist up at Niall. Avoiding it easily, Niall jumped nimbly off the chair and swung a better-aimed fist that caught the side of KK’s head. KK lurched sideways, then recovered to thump Niall on the chest. With a roar, Niall shook off Flipper who was trying to hold him back, and began to rain blows at KK’s head and shoulders, bellowing, “You ungrateful bastard! Who do you think I’m doing this for?”

  “For yourself,” roared KK, and hit him again, hard. Niall’s head was flung back. His eyes rolled. Then he charged furiously, capsizing a table and driving KK against the wall. All the time he was shouting.

  “For the good of this club! For you, for your job, you ungrateful fecking eejit!”

  “Break it up!” begged Brendan, pulling ineffectually at KK’s arm.

  “Now then,” said Grimshaw, but KK fiercely elbowed them both off and got Niall in an armlock. I winced. I didn’t like fights: I’d seen too many end badly. A chair went flying. It was getting scary.

  By now the brothers had locked heads and shoulders to lurch against each other like a pair of bulls. Bob stopped yelling encouragement at KK, announced, “All right, that’s enough now,” and got KK in a hug, deftly pinning his arms behind him. Niall leapt forward and punched KK in the face before Stevo grabbed him too.

  “Easy, tiger,” muttered Bob to KK who was trying to struggle free. “Leave it. We’ll get that shirt back, don’t you worry.”

  KK shook his head. Blood began to trickle from his nose down his chin.

  “More than the shirt,” he said thickly.

  “For the good of this fecking ungrateful club!” cried Niall, straining in Stevo’s grasp like an impatient boxer. “Because nobody else can be bothered!”

  “Of course we’re bothered,” said Flipper.

  “Not about trying to run the place! The hours I put in! The things I do!”

  “That’s the whole bloody trouble,” said Stevo.

  “You playing today or what?” enquired a voice loudly. “Or is the match going on here in the bar?” The speaker was short, stout and balding, and carried a kit-bag.

  Niall shook Stevo off and ran his hands through his hair. “Hesketh RFC, I presume?” he said with breathless dignity. “Changing rooms are that way.”

  Hesketh RFC was eyeing Stevo in his jockstrap. “Glad to hear you’ve got them,” he said, “had me worried for a minute.” His gaze moved to KK’s bloodied face. “In training for another murder, are you?”

  KK took a step before Grimshaw got in front of him. “Off you go, now, lads,” he said.

  “Come on, boys,” said Hesketh RFC. More squat Heskeths trooped through the clubhouse, inspecting the place with wary interest.

  “Fuck me,” said Bob, not very sotto voce, “it’s the seven dwarves. Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Dopey, Dopey, Dopey...”

  Hesketh RFC set down his bag. He turned and put his face close to Bob’s. They were very much of a size and breadth.

  “Why shouldn’t you toss a stupid dwarf?” he said.

  “Because it’s not big and it’s not clever.”

  “Takes one to know one,” said Hesketh RFC, picking up his bag and departing.

  “Don’t be dismannerly to the visitors, Bob,” warned Niall, “we should be glad they’ve come at all, considering the circumstances.”

  “So your fucking fun day is going to cure everything, is it? Come and see the bloodstains, a fiver a look?”

  “Don’t be disrespectful to the dead,” said Niall.

  “It’s not me who wants to set up a fairground on her grave,” said Bob.

  Niall ignored him. “Listen up, everybody! Pay attention! I’m going to put details of the Family Fun Day on the board. I want everyone bringing their families and friends, and signing up for that memorial match, or else.” He turned to me. “Lannie, we’ll want food. See me later, we’ll draw up a menu. No bloody quiche or that damn frilly lettuce.”

  “I can draw up my own menus, thanks.”

  “Check it with me.”

  I bit my tongue and turned to Grimshaw, who was watching with hungry pleasure, a pike in a carp pond.

  “Worse than Mussolini,” I said. “I’m not surprised people want to hit him.”

  “At least he’s trying to sort the place out.”

  “All right, he’s trying, but it gets everybody’s back up. He acts like he owns people. So bloody self-important.”

  “He certainly doesn’t get on with his brother. That was quite a punch.”

  “Yeah.” Although I didn’t blame KK, I thought it a pity he had lost his rag in front of Grimshaw. At least Grimshaw seemed fairly relaxed about it. Maybe he took a more tolerant view of a fight in a rugby club than he would on the street.

  I wondered what Frank would think. No violence off the pitch? So they kept it all under control, did they? I shook my head.

  “How did Niall get on with Becki?” Grimshaw saw my wary face and gave me a twisted smile. “I’m not trying to get you to say anything incriminating. I just want to fill in background. After all, Becki annoyed people too.”

  “Oh, she liked Niall all right.” That was all Grimshaw was going to get out of me. I wasn’t admitting anything. I remembered Becki twining herself round Niall: she hadn’t just been doing it to annoy AnneMarie.

  Yes, Becki had liked Niall all right, and he liked her back. They both took what they wanted, assumed ownership. Both were selfish, but surely no more than that?

  But there was more than that, I thought grimly. Becki blithely selling drugs. Niall seducing Michelle while his wife was pregnant. Both had betrayed AnneMarie in different ways. Where was the line between selfishness and evil? Was there a line to cross, or did the one just glide imperceptibly into the other?

  This was leading me back to Karl, as so many thoughts did. Why had he crossed the line from using to dealing? For easier supplies, a bit of pocket money, or a higher rung on the ladder of respect?

  By the age of twelve, respect was everything to Karl. Maybe I never gave him enough: maybe I was too hard on him, constantly nagging about bedtimes and homework. Well, someone had to. But mine wasn’t the respect Karl wanted. He was already pulling away from me, and the more I tried to pull him back, the surlier he got. He would have punched me, all right, on a few occasions, if I’d let him.

  I wondered what would have happened if I’d tried to pull Becki back. I wondered if anybody ever had. But I couldn’t discuss that with Grimshaw. Instead I commented, “This memorial match is going to go down a bundle.”<
br />
  “I think I’ll come,” he said.

  “You’re joking. Why?”

  “I’ll put my name down to play, if they’ll have me.”

  I glanced briefly at his legs. Couldn’t help it.

  “You could play too,” he said. “Sign up on the ladies’ team.”

  “Now you are joking.”

  “I’m not. You look like a rugby type.”

  “Oh, thanks!”

  “It was a compliment,” he said. “Not just the nose.” And he reached out to stroke it, as if I was a puppy. I was so surprised I didn’t do anything other than blink at him, and then became aware that Frank and Sue had arrived and that Sue was nudging Frank.

  “Hallo, Lannie,” she called. “Good afternoon! We thought we should come and support the club in its time of need.”

  I smiled at them fixedly. “Bugger off, Grimshaw,” I said.

  “Is that any way to speak to your friendly neighbourhood copper?”

  “When he takes liberties, yes. Go and watch the match. That’s what you came for.”

  “My goodness,” said Sue, as the half-clad players trooped past her, “whatever has been going on?” She averted her eyes ostentatiously. I didn’t see why a nurse needed to be squeamish.

  “Pre-match orgy,” I said. It was a bad joke, and Sue didn’t like it. The smile chilled on her face.

  “Hardly, given the lack of women,” she replied frostily.

  “One of Becki’s jokes, that,” said Frank. Sue gave him a harpoon of a look.

  Grimshaw smiled sympathetically at her. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, head on one side. My, he was a smooth one with the ladies. It worked on Sue. Her smile unfroze again.

  “A tomato juice would be lovely,” she said. I wondered if he would put it down to expenses.

  Frank, watching Grimshaw chatting her up at the bar, said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Becki. Sue doesn’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  But Frank, without answering, went over to accept Grimshaw’s offered pint. They wandered outside in a threesome, a convivial picture only spoilt by Frank’s face when he took his first sip of Old Hayseed.

  I followed at a distance and watched the game. It was lack-lustre. Jamesy and KK played all right, but the rest were bobbins. No pace: they missed Hugh. Hesketh RFC duly won 22-12, and rejecting the club’s hospitality, announced they were going off to the Prince of Wales to watch the international on the telly there.

  “Which is exactly the sort of thing I mean,” said Niall. “That is exactly the sort of thing that is going to sink this club.”

  “Who fancies coming back to the Woolpack, then?” asked Bob.

  “Good idea,” said Frank.

  “Et tu, Brute?” cried Niall.

  “It’s warmer,” said Bob. “And it doesn’t serve fucking ferret piss.”

  “Woolpack it is, then,” said Brendan. Ignoring Niall’s squawkings, KK locked the till and I slung the uneaten chilli in the freezer.

  “Deserters!” cried Niall. “Quislings! Abandoning the club in its hour of need!”

  “I’ll come back when I can drink decent beer and see Wade Dooley’s shirt back in its rightful place.” And seizing Niall’s poster from the table, Bob rolled it up, stuffed it into his untouched pint of Old Hayseed, and stomped out of the club.