Big and Clever (16 page)

As we head into the last twenty minutes, the Ashborough fans finally burst into song. A few rounds of
Ashborough
,
La La La
. It's pretty pathetic stuff. We give them an ironic round of applause for making the effort, and then hit them with
You're So Shit It's Unbelievable
,
Are You Mackworth In Disguise?
and
Can We Play You Every Week?

As the timer shows 86:00, Leroy Lewton trots off to a standing ovation, to be replaced by Danny Holmes, blue boots gleaming under the floodlights.

His first few touches aren't up to much, but it's a case of third time lucky. Jimmy Knapper hacks a long kick downfield, it bounces into the area and Danny's onto it like a shot. He turns past the last defender with the ball stuck to his chest and sticks it between Martin Jones's legs, spinning round again to point out the name on the back of his shirt.

We all start to celebrate, but the Ashborough players are running to the ref, signalling for handball. I've got to admit, Danny seemed to have the ball stuck under his arm as he turned. It looked like he was playing the bagpipes. The ref's not bothered though. He's given the goal.

The game's just about done now. A lot of the Ashborough fans are streaming towards the exits and we're sending them on their way with a chant of
We Can See You Sneaking Out
. The strange thing is though, as some of the fans are heading up the terraces, others are staying still. Standing their ground. It's like the tide going out but leaving something dodgy behind on the beach. The Ashborough firm are showing their colours.

Ryan grabs my shoulders and gives me a shake. Then he does the same to Raks. He's seen what's happening. He looks ecstatic.

“Here we go,” he says. “Ashborough have grown some bollocks at last.”

The atmosphere has shifted into a higher gear. It's not quite as intense as it was at the Castleton game, but it's getting there. A group of about thirty Ashborough fans is heading across the deserted terracing, chanting and threatening us. Straight away gangs are joining together on our side of the fencing. The civilians are retreating and the soldiers are advancing. The adrenalin's pumping now. My heart's pounding and I'm feeling a bit light-headed. This is what I've been waiting for. This is what I've been craving.

The stewards have seen what's going on, and they've started inching up the steps on either side of the wire mesh, doing their best to keep the fans apart. It's all pretty pointless though. We all know this is just the warm-up. The main event's going to be outside, and there isn't going to be fencing keeping us apart out there.

When the final whistle goes, it's like someone firing the pistol at the start of the Olympic 100 metres final. In a matter of seconds, we're up to the exit, down the stairs, across the concourse and through the gates. Just like before, all the Letchford gangs are joining together, becoming one big unit. The NLLF, ready for battle.

But as we turn left and track along the back of the stand, heading for the away gates, it becomes clear that the powers that be have come prepared today. There's a human shield separating us from the Ashborough fans. Sixty or seventy green-jacketed stewards mixed in with half-a-dozen police in riot gear. By sheer weight of numbers we could probably break through. But that would mean tangling with he cops. And that's serious business. We all come to a halt. The battle's not going to happen. I feel completely cheated.

Raks blows out his cheeks.

“Fuck,” he says.

Gary shakes his head.

“Fucking pointless,” Jerome says.

Rob just looks miserable.

Slowly but surely, the Letchford lads start to drift away. Jimmy and Scotty have already called it a night. Ryan brushes past me, staring up past the police and the stewards, towards the Ashborough mob. They've cleared the area around the gates, and they're being shepherded out across the car park. A couple of them are starting to feel really brave now that they're out of danger, dancing round under the lights, giving us the finger.

“Wankers,” Raks says.

Ryan smiles but then he looks serious again.

“Time to move,” he says. Beckoning us to follow, he sets off round the corner and down the back of the Main Stand.

We're travelling faster than the rest of the crowd, and by the time we've got to the other side of the players' car park, cutting through the Range Rovers and Kompressors, the only people ahead of us are the ones who left long before the end of the game. I'm expecting us to turn left, go back through the Industrial Estate via the usual route, but Ryan's got other ideas.

“This way.” He's heading up to the right, crossing the road and leading us into an alleyway between two empty factory units.

It's pitch black in the alley, but we keep going. A six-man Special Operations unit on a mission. My heart rate's shooting up again, and it's not just because we're moving quickly. We head right, then left, then right again. I'm completely lost, but Ryan seems to know where he's going. After a couple of minutes of ducking and diving we come out of the maze of factories and onto a lighted street. Over in the distance, across some wasteland, I can just make out the front of The Shakespeare. To the left, I see the digital clock at the front of Morrells. We're almost back at the main road through the Industrial Estate. I know where we are at last. And I'm starting to get an idea of what we might be about to do.

Ryan heads straight for the wasteland, and we follow him again, through the muck and the rubble and the scrubby bushes and the burnt-out cars. Thirty seconds later we're in a position parallel with the main road, under the pylons, hidden from view by a mud bank. Up to the left, black against the glare of the Southlands floodlights in the background, the first of the Letchford fans are heading back towards town. And coming through the crowd, picking up speed, are the Ashborough supporters' coaches. It's just as I thought. An ambush.

We've only got a few seconds to get ourselves set. Just before the coaches pull level with where we're hiding, we break cover, jumping up onto the mud bank like Red Indians cutting off the wagon train at the pass. Instead of bows and arrows though, we're armed with anything we can get our hands on. Ryan starts the barrage, a half-brick bouncing off the roof of the first coach, and then we all join in. Stones and bottles and spark plugs rain down on the tatty buses, denting metal and cracking toughened glass. The Ashborough fans are ducking for cover, putting their arms up over their heads, faces twisted in fear.

It's an amazing scene, but it doesn't last long. Just the time it takes two coaches to travel along fifty yards of road. As the buses disappear into the distance, we run back down the mud bank, whooping and screaming, psyched up to the eyeballs, giving high-fives all round.

Gary Simmons looks like he's going to explode.

“I fucking told you,” he screams. “I told you Ryan could sniff out trouble.”

Ryan grins and bows, and then we all start laughing like idiots. Totally out of our minds. Totally out of control. It feels fucking fantastic.

As the laugher dies down, I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Savouring all the sensations. Taking everything in. I'm thinking about what Trev said in The Shakespeare. About how the memories never leave you. He's right. I know I'm going to remember this moment, this feeling, for the rest of my life.

Raks pushes his phone into his coat pocket and shakes his head.

“Full time,” he says.

“Still 1-0 to Mansfield?”

“Yep.”

“Shit. We just can't get it together, can we? I mean, we looked brilliant in the second half against Ashborough, but then we rolled over at Barnet last Saturday, and now this.”

Raks grins.

“At this rate we're going to be playing Burton Albion and Northwich Victoria next season. At least we might win a few games.”

I shake my head.

“I wouldn't be too sure. We've already been beaten by Kidderminster this year, and they're just a mid-table Conference side.”

Raks nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “It's not funny.”

The bus stops. The doors swish open and some people get off. Another swish and we're away again. I check my watch. Just gone five o'clock. Wiping condensation off the window, I look out into the darkness. We're coming along the main road back into Thurston. Up ahead I can just make out the orange glow of the streetlights. We should be back in the village in a couple of minutes.

I take my phone out and check it. I'm hoping that Zoe might have been in touch, but there's nothing. I puff out my cheeks and put the phone away again.

“No text from Zoe today?” Raks asks.

“No,” I tell him. “She's round that Simon Matthews's house. Mr Sowerberry. They're rehearsing for
Oliver
.”

“Oh yeah?” Raks raises his eyebrows. “Rehearsing, eh?”

“Piss off Raks,” I say. He's only trying to wind me up, and I know I should just ignore him, but it's hard. Zoe seems to spend more time with Simon than she does with me these days. I used to see her almost every other night. Now it's hardly ever. We still meet up in the mornings at the bus stop, but that hardly counts. And we seem to spend most of that time arguing, usually about Letchford Town. An unhealthy obsession, she reckons.

Raks knows he's got me rattled, so he lets it drop.

“You still OK for tonight?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “The big Patel family knees-up. I'll be there.”

Raks laughs.

“I wouldn't get too excited. It'll be exactly the same as it is every year. Just a load of my mum and dad's relatives gossiping and moaning. Bragging about how much they're earning and how big their cars are.”

I shake my head.

“It'll be OK.”

Raks rolls his head from side to side, then smiles.

“Nanny Patel will be there,” he says. “She's over from Leicester. She'll be looking forward to seeing you again.”

We both laugh. Nanny Patel's got a bit of a soft spot for me.

“How long do you think it'll take her to ask me about my love life?” I ask.

Raks shrugs.

“Dunno. Ten seconds?”

I grin. Nanny Patel's alright. When we were younger, Raks used to be a bit embarrassed about her, but there was no need. She's like a grandparent is supposed to be. I don't have much contact with my own grandparents. My dad's folks died when I was really little, and we haven't seen much of the other side of the family since my mum died. My mum's parents live in Stourbridge, near Birmingham. It's posh there. According to my dad, my mum's lot never really took to him. Thought he'd taken their daughter down in the world.

The bus is coming up to the crossroads and the war memorial now, turning right and heading down past the shops on Lindisfarne Street. I pick up my shopping bags, then I ring the bell and we go down the stairs. Outside, I zip up my jacket and shiver. We're into December now, and there's frost on the way.

Walking quickly, we're back at Dale Road, fifty yards down from my house, in about ten minutes.

“So you'll be round about seven, then?” Raks says.

I nod.

“And your dad's still coming, isn't he?”

I shrug.

“He's supposed to be.” Secretly I'm hoping I might be able to talk him out of it. He's been drinking more than ever just recently. I'm worried he might get pissed and maudlin. Make an arse of himself.

We come to my front gate. I turn down the path and Raks carries on along the street.

“See you sevenish,” he calls.

“Yeah. See you mate.”

Inside, Dad's had the heating on and it's quite warm. I put my head round the door into the living room, expecting to see him flopped on the sofa, but he's not there. I go back into the hallway and hang my jacket on the pegs. There's music coming from up above. My room, by the sounds of it.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, I push open the bathroom door. Dad's definitely been in here. The air's full of steam and the place stinks of Polytar shampoo. I go back out onto the landing just as Dad's coming out of his room. He's straight from the shower, towel round his waist. He's had a shave at long last, his first in six weeks. That's good. What's not so good is that it doesn't look like I'm going to able to persuade him to stay at home tonight.

“Alright, Tom?” He looks down at the plastic bags in my hands. “Been into Letchford?”

“Yeah.”

“Get anything good?”

“Tracky top. Pair of trainers.”

He looks surprised.

“Another pair of trainers? You only got those Nikes a few weeks back.”

I roll my eyes.

“It was a lot longer ago than that,” I tell him. “Anyway, these are Adidas. Adidas Sambas.”

“Sambas? God, people were wearing those when I was a kid.”

I head into my room and throw my stuff on the bed. Dad follows me in. He's brought one of his CDs upstairs and it's playing on my stereo. Chunky basslines and synthesisers.

“What's this crap?” I ask, laughing.

He pretends to be offended.

“This is proper music,” he says. “Level 42. World Machine.”

I nod. I knew it was Level 42 really. He plays it often enough. He met my mum at a Level 42 concert. March 1987. At the NEC in Birmingham. It was love at first sight, Dad reckons. Sometimes when he plays Level 42, it makes him happy. Other times it makes him sad. I just hope he's feeling happy tonight.

Dad wanders over to my chest of drawers. He picks up a DVD case, holding it out in front of him. Terrace Warfare. The cover shows a bloke, covered in blood, clutching a towel to his head.

“Tom,” he says. “When I came in here earlier on, I couldn't help noticing this.”

I swallow. Suddenly I'm feeling very hot.

“Oh, that's nothing,” I say.