Big and Clever (23 page)

“I bet they're not even real coppers,” he says. “They'll be these Community Support Officers. Hobby Bobbies.”

Ryan nods.

“Probably. But they're the worst sort. Real bastards. Ready to run you in for anything, just to get one over on the regular lot.” At that moment, as if to illustrate Ryan's point, two coppers pounce on a Letchford lad just to our right. They bundle him down the steps, over the wall and along the front of the stand, past the jeering Whitbourne fans. His feet don't even touch the floor.

I shake my head and glance out onto the pitch. The timer is showing 88:00. We've finally brought Danny Holmes on, but even he's not going to be able to rescue this one. We should be throwing everything at Whitbourne, but they're the ones on the attack. It's not really important though. My mind is on other things.

I look at Ryan.

“What are we going to do then? How are we going to kick it all off?”

Ryan zips his tracky top right up under his chin.

“Well,” he replies. “We want to ruck. Whitbourne want to ruck. It's just a case of giving the Boys in Blue the slip. It's all about timing.”

I look into the Whitbourne section again. Hardly any of their boys are watching the game. They're watching us. Waiting for us to make a move.

Ryan sniffs the air. He looks at me and smiles.

“Come on.” He starts making his way up to the exit.

Within seconds, the message has spread. The army is on the march. A whole battalion of us is heading up the terracing, down the stairs and over the dusty concrete floor of the concourse, picking up speed, shouting, chanting, our voices booming out. Raks and Ryan are beside me. Gary and the lads are on the left. I notice Jimmy and Scotty coming down from the right. The gates are open, but because the match is still in progress, only a few stewards are on duty down here. We've caught them on the hop.

We go straight out into the car park, wheeling to our left just as the Whitbourne lads burst through their exit gates. They're not pissing around. They're out for revenge. Earlier tonight, in The Shakespeare, there was a stand-off before the action got under way. Now it's just heads down and charge. There's hardly time to think about anything, take in all the emotions, all the sensations. And it isn't a time for thinking anyway. It's a time for instinct.

A big black lad is coming straight for me. He throws a right-hander but I sway to my left and he stumbles past. Next up it's a white bloke with receding hair and a goatee beard. He makes a grab for the front of my coat but I drag him forward and he falls to his knees then onto his side, curling into a ball as I launch a couple of kicks at him. All around me bodies are hurtling about, arms and legs are flailing, blood is spattering onto the tarmac. The wind is almost blowing a gale now, and somehow it makes things seem wilder, madder, more dangerous.

Somebody hits me in the back, and I spin round in time to see a red-faced bloke in a beanie hat swinging another punch at me. I duck down and feel his fist crack into the top of my skull. As I look up, he's screaming in pain, shaking his hand like it's on fire. I smile at him. He's had his go. Now it's mine. I dig a left hand into his guts then crack a right over the top, sending him crashing.

It's difficult to gauge how long the fighting's been going on for. It could be seconds, it could be much longer. But one thing's for sure. We're starting to get the upper hand. The Whitbourne crew are tough blokes, up for a scrap, but we're eating into their territory, like an army advancing across a battlefield, and we're coming out on top in all the skirmishes. One-on-ones, groups of lads piling into each other, every time it's Whitbourne giving ground.

We've driven them right back past their exit gates now, and the first couple of lads are making a break for it. A split second later, and they're all running. It's a fantastic sight. The Whitbourne boys are scarpering like scared rabbits. They won't be leapfrogging us in the Firms league. The battle's over and the NLLF boys are victorious. I start to laugh. I feel invincible. Untouchable. Made of steel.

But then there's a pair of arms tightening round my waist and I'm being pushed forwards, stumbling down to the ground face first. I stretch an arm out in front of me, trying to push myself up, but there's a weight on my back holding me down. I feel my other arm being wrenched up until my hand is between my shoulder blades. A jolt of panic goes through me. This shouldn't be happening.

I manage to force myself up on one elbow, looking around in disbelief. Everyone's running now. It's not just the Whitbourne lads. It's Letchford too. And the reason they're running is that suddenly there are police everywhere. I see Rob and Gary sprinting towards the corner of the Main Stand. Scotty and Jimmy and Jerome are doubling back in the other direction. I see Ryan bombing across the car park and clambering over the perimeter fence.

I roll slightly to my right. And then I see Raks. He's face first on the tarmac too. A policeman in riot gear is sitting on his back. My heart feels like it's stopped. With one last big effort I wriggle myself around so that I can see who's pinning me down. In all honesty, I already know.

The policeman pushes up his visor and looks at me.

“I suggest you stop struggling son,” he says. “You're under arrest.”

The next five hours are surreal.

By ten o'clock we're sitting in the police detention room at Southlands. It's down in the bowels of the Main Stand, fifteen feet square with a concrete floor and pale blue walls. Someone's punched a hole in the door. There's me and Raks and seven other lads. I vaguely recognise a couple of them, but the others I've never seen before. They're probably Whitbourne boys. There's no hostility now though. We're all in the same boat.

Me and Raks are the youngest in the room. The coppers speak to us first. They make sure we know we're under caution. They tell us why we're being held.

On suspicion of committing offences contrary to the Public Order Act 1986, namely the offences of Threatening Behaviour and Affray.

They take away our mobiles and jot down our details. Addresses, home phone numbers. Raks starts to cry. I just feel numb.

By twenty past ten we're in the back of a transit van heading for Letchford Central Police Station. There are metal grilles over the windows and a set of bars inside the back doors. It's like a cage on wheels. It's only a five-minute journey, but it's not pleasant. Nine of us are squashed in side-by-side, hot and bothered, jostling for elbow room, gagging on the smell of beer and aftershave, sweat and puke.

By half past ten we're at the station. It's been a busy night in Letchford. The reception area is full of shouting drunks, red-eyed women and fidgety druggies. Ten minutes later it's just me and Raks, alone in a room, waiting for our dads to get here. It's a nicer room than the one at the stadium. Pink walls, grey chairs, a low table in the middle of the floor. A WPC is checking up on us every few minutes. She's quite fit. I smile at her, try to get her on our side, but she's not having it. She's completely expressionless. I talk to Raks, try to keep him going. Tell him to keep cool. Admit nothing. Raks just keeps crying.

At half past eleven, Dad and Raj Patel turn up. Dad's pissed as usual. He's had to cadge a lift from Raj. Raj is just seriously pissed off. We're allowed to speak to them for a few minutes, and then we're whisked away to be photographed, fingerprinted and to have DNA swabs taken. After that we're back into the room with pink walls to sit in silence with Dad and Raj, their eyes boring holes into us.

Just after midnight two duty solicitors arrive. A man and a woman. Raks and his dad go off into another room with the bloke. Me and my dad stay put. My solicitor is a pretty Chinese lady in her mid to late twenties. She wants me to call her Suki. Dad thinks I should call her Miss Chang. We talk for forty minutes. She clarifies the reasons why I'm being held, tells me about the interview process and all the possible outcomes. Bail. Custody. Court appearances. Banning orders. Dad starts to look ill. He goes off to get a cup of coffee. I tell Suki what happened earlier on. I'm fairly economical with the truth. We decide on a strategy. It's not too original. Basically I'm going to say
It wasn't me guvnor
.

At half past one it's time for the interviews. Raks, his dad and his solicitor go through one door. Me, Dad and Suki go through another. We're in a small, claustrophobic room with a low ceiling. We sit across a table from two officers. PC Andy Crowe and PC Alan Cushing. PC Crowe does most of the talking. He's thin-faced, bald, Yorkshire accent, white spittle in the corners of his mouth. For the third time tonight I'm reminded that I'm under caution.

You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

For the second time tonight I'm formally notified of the reasons why I'm being held.

I'm still numb and detached from what's going on around me. It's like being stuck inside an episode of
The Bill
. The uniforms, the stern faces, the neon strip lights, the Formica table-top, the upright chairs, the polished floor, the tape machine, the paper cups of water. I've seen them all before, hundreds of times on my TV. The procedures I'm going through, I know them off by heart. The legal jargon and police-speak I'm listening to, I can almost recite it word-for-word before it's said to me. Everything is oddly familiar. But it's also very very weird. Because it's not a fictional character trying to talk his way out of charges of
Threatening Behaviour and Affray
. It's me.

The interview lasts three quarters of an hour. Dad stays silent while I go through my version of events outside Southlands. I was trying to make my way out when I got caught in the crossfire. I was struck several times and only raised my hands in self-defence. My breathing is steady. My voice is steady. I'm surprised at how calm I am. I find myself thinking about Ryan, Gary, Dave, Steve, Chris, Trev and the other lads. They'd be proud of me. The police officers try to pick holes in my story. Suggest to me that perhaps my recollection is wrong. That I, in fact had a role to play in instigating the violence. Prompted by Suki, I deny this.

At quarter past two, me and my dad go back into the room with pink walls. Raks and Raj are already there. Suki, Raks's solicitor, the interview teams and the custody officer are locked away in another room.

The next fifteen minutes seem to drag on forever. Raks looks shell-shocked, chewing his fingernails and staring at the floor. Raj is pacing around like a caged tiger. Dad's drinking another cup of coffee. His hands are shaking. I'm completely numb now. Totally switched off.

Just after half past two, the custody officer comes in, flanked by the solicitors. He's a big bloke, six foot two or three, grey hair and black eyebrows, wire framed glasses. He's holding a clipboard. I'm holding my breath. Raks stands up, but I stay sitting down. The custody officer blows his nose on a blue handkerchief. He starts to read.

It is the opinion of the Interview Team that there is insufficient evidence in either case to provide a realistic prospect of conviction in a Court of Law. For this reason you are to be released without charge. It is my duty to inform you that a record of your arrests will be held on the Police National Computer until you reach the age of seventeen. Once you have collected your personal effects, you are both free to leave.

I suck air back into my lungs. I can almost feel the oxygen returning to all the different parts of my body, a tingling sensation. The numbness is wearing off. I rub my chin with the back of my hand. I look at my dad and grin. He's not amused. Raks bursts into tears. The custody officer leaves the room. I stand up and thank Suki. She smiles, but there's no real warmth in it. Getting scrotes off the hook is just a job she does.

Five minutes later we're all at the front desk. The reception area has emptied right out now. Raks has had his mobile returned and I'm just collecting mine. The desk sergeant pushes a form across the counter for me to sign. I scribble my signature and hand the form back. I shove my phone into my pocket.

The desk sergeant looks at me, then he looks at Raks.

“From what I hear, you two have had a very lucky escape tonight,” he says. “And if you want a word of advice, I'd keep well away from Southlands for the foreseeable future.”

It's cold outside in the car park. The wind that was blowing earlier on has died down and it's raining now. Miserable, drizzly rain that makes a start on soaking through my clothes the second I step out into it. We crunch across the gravel, heading for Raj's Mondeo. He and Dad are out in front. Raks and me are bringing up the rear. Raj pushes the button on his key fob and de-activates the central locking. We all get in the car, slamming the doors and pulling our seatbelts across. The interior light goes out and Raj slowly reverses out of the parking bay, nosing the car towards the exit.

The centre of Letchford is pretty deserted. There are a few women in miniskirts and vest tops staggering along the pavements and looking for taxis, and a stray dog sniffing at a discarded kebab in Town Hall Square, but that's about it. We keep on going, heading out of town. I sit and stare into the night, at the Christmas decorations, the shop fronts and billboards sliding past. Glory Hole Antiques. Poundland. Magic Valley Chinese. Wisla Polish Grocery. Big posters for mobile phones and underarm deodorants. The silence in the car is deafening.

As we pull onto the ringroad, Raks starts to cry again. Little hiccupping sobs, with his finger and thumb pressed into the top of his nose and his head on his shoulder. I reach a hand out and squeeze his elbow, but he shrinks away into the corner of the seat. Shrugs me off. I pull my hand back and rest it on my knee.