Big and Clever (28 page)

“You eighteen?” the old bloke asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him.

The old bloke looks at me for a second or two.

“Got any ID?”

I shake my head.

“Nope.”

The old bloke carries on staring for a bit longer. He's seeing if I'm going to bottle out. I'm not. He knows full well that I'm nowhere near eighteen, but if he only ever sold alcohol to over eighteens, instead of schoolkids, he'd be bankrupt inside a couple of months.

“That's four fifty-seven,” he says, putting my cans into a cheap-looking blue and white striped carrier bag. He looks at me like he's doing me a big favour, but I don't give him any acknowledgement. I'm not in the mood. And anyway, it's me that's putting money into his hand, not the other way round.

I shove a twenty over the counter and collect my change. Then I leave the shop, go back up to the road and turn left, away from Parkway and out of town.

About a mile up, I come to a bridge. There's a footpath running under the road in both directions, the course of an old railway line. I cut down the steps and head left. Another four hundred yards down, there's a bench. It's daubed with graffiti and someone's tried to set it on fire at some point, but apart from that it looks reasonably clean and dry. I sit down, fish a can out of my bag and crack it open.

The first swig of beer makes me grimace. It's so cold I can feel myself gagging as it sinks into my stomach. I suppose al fresco drinking isn't really the order of the day in the middle of December. I pull my Letchford scarf up out of my jacket, tightening it round my neck, trying to fight back against the chill of winter weather and icy Carling. It seems to work. The second and third swigs are much better. By the fourth, I'm coming up to speed, gearing myself up for some serious thinking.

I look out across the fields. In the distance I can see the Letchford skyline. Dirty tower blocks, church spires, chimneys, cranes pulling things down and building them up again. Over on the far left I can just make out the clock tower at Alderman Richard Martin High School. In the middle there's the Ainsdale Centre, and further out to the right, the Industrial Estate and Southlands Stadium, floodlights stretching into the grey sky like little black twigs.

I take another swig of Carling and turn my thoughts back to the matter in hand.
Zoe or Letchford Town? Letchford Town or Zoe?
The same question, over and over again.

All this week I've been resigned to the fact that I don't have a choice about what I'm doing tonight. Like Letchford Town is an addiction I've got no hope of breaking away from. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I do have a choice. It's up to me to weigh up the pros and cons and come to a decision. Nothing's set in stone yet.

I could kick the Letchford habit and go to the play. Then I wouldn't lose Zoe. We could work harder on our relationship, get it back to the way it used to be. I could patch things up with Raks and Dad.

But that would mean missing Letchford's biggest match of the season. Missing the buzz, the adrenalin surge. Missing Mackworth. And where would that leave me? Looking like I'd pussied out. I'd lose my rank. I'd lose my status, everything I've built up over the past couple of months. I'd lose Ryan and Gary and the rest of the lads, and I'd be back at square one. Bottom of the Parkway pile. Down with all the deadwood.

I finish off my first Carling and put the empty can on the bench next to me. I hoped the alcohol might loosen me up a bit, help me to see things more clearly, but it's not working yet. I feel like I'm being pulled in one hundred different directions. And whichever direction I go in, I'm going to upset someone or something will be gone forever.

I get another can out of the bag. I check my watch. Half past two. I'm not going back to Thurston this afternoon. Dad thinks I'm staying in town then heading straight to Zoe's play. So I've got about four and a half hours to make my mind up, and still have enough time to get to Alderman Richard Martin or Southlands. Four and a half hours to come to a decision that could change the whole course of my life.

It's just gone seven o'clock when I start walking back into Letchford. The sky over the town is orange with the glow of streetlights and there's a full moon away to the right.

I've made my decision. It's probably been the hardest decision I've ever had to make. I've agonised over it. In the end though, three and a half cans into my thinking session, things started to come into focus. Going to
Oliver
is the most sensible option all round. The consequences of not going hardly bear thinking about. I could just bullshit Ryan and the other lads. I got taken ill. Explosive diarrhoea. Water-pistol arse. Absolutely no way I could go to Southlands.

And yet here I am, just before twenty to eight, coming past the
Sky
outside broadcast trucks and the teams of police doing body searches, ducking into Gate 20 and handing my eight quid to Comb-Round Man. It doesn't matter what the most sensible option is. The pull of Letchford Town is too strong to resist.

Comb-Round Man presses the button that releases the locking mechanism on the turnstile. A buzz of excitement runs through me. I'm still fairly pissed, but I know this is an important moment. The point of no return. Even now, if I turned tail and legged it, I could just about get to Alderman Richard Martin in time for curtain up. As the turnstile clangs shut behind me though, I know that's not going to happen.

Kick-off is getting close and the concourse is almost deserted. I head past the bookies and up the steps as the sound of the crowd gets louder and louder. Airhorns are blasting and
We Are The Mackworth Haters
is booming out.

The teams are already on the pitch. Carl Butterworth and Ian Seaman, the Mackworth captain, are shaking hands while the ref, Letchy The Lion and the match officials look on. There's a cameraman in the centre circle, another one just to the left of the goal at our end, and two more up in the gantry at the back of the Main Stand. Because we're on the TV, there are electronic hoardings along the front of the Family Stand, flashing up adverts for Littlewoods Pools, Coke and Internet poker. Silk And Satin Table Dancing Club doesn't get a mention.

I start looking for Ryan. There's something different about the Kop tonight. There's a definite distinction between the civilians and the soldiers this time. The ordinary punters are down to the left. I can see Twitchy Bloke, Pessimistic Granddad and Big Fleece Woman a good thirty yards further across than they normally are. They know something's in the air. Something it's probably best to keep away from. Down to the right, it's Lad Central. There's not going to be any need for the NLLF army to join together before the final whistle. It's already happened. And we're out in force.

I head down the terracing, scanning across the sea of shaved heads and sports gear, hoping to pick out someone I know. I'm halfway down when Ryan steps out into the gangway in front of me. His face breaks into a huge smile.

“Fuck me,” he shouts. “Look who it is.” He grabs my arm and pulls me into the crowd.

There's a crush barrier up ahead. Gary, Jerome, Rob, Jimmy and Scotty are already in position. They've not seen us coming. I barge in amongst them, arms round Gary's and Jerome's necks.

“Evening lads,” I say.

Suddenly everyone's all-smiles. I'm having my hand shaken, Jerome's giving me a bear hug, people are ruffling my hair, patting me on the back. I'm being treated like the returning hero. It feels good. It feels like I've made the right decision.

Gary shakes his head.

“Thought you weren't turning up,” he says.

“Never doubt me,” I say, grinning.

I look around, getting my bearings. We're about five yards from the fencing separating us from the away section. The police and stewards are on full alert tonight. They're already in place, more than I've ever seen before, a wall of green jackets on both sides of the wire.

Pushing myself up on the metal bar in front of me, I peer over the top of the human barrier, trying to get a glimpse of the Mackworth mob. Seeing what we're up against. The whole area is solid. Wall-to-wall bodies. Every time anyone steps to the side, ripples go off in all directions. My stomach twists, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Maybe it really could turn into The Battle Of Southlands II tonight.

Ryan squeezes in next to me. He nods in the direction of the Mackworth support.

“Not bad, is it?”

“Mmmm,” I say. “How many do you reckon?”

Ryan shrugs.

“Difficult to tell. Definitely into three figures.”

I nod.

“Do you think we've got the numbers to deal with them?”

Ryan grins.

“We'll be OK. We've got a reputation to uphold. The legacy of 1992.” He rubs his hands together, trying to keep the cold out. “Anyway, I texted you earlier on, but you didn't get back to me. Where have you been?”

“Just around,” I say. “Few things needed sorting out.”

“Yeah?” Ryan raises his eyebrows.

I change the subject.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes,” he replies. “All sorts has been happening this evening. Police escorts for the Mackworth buses. Coppers marching fans down from the town centre. Bit of naughtiness outside.”

I nod.

“Any action down The Shakespeare?”

Ryan shakes his head.

“Couldn't even get in. Old Bill everywhere. It's like I said earlier on. They know what's likely to go down.”

I flex my legs. My knees are starting to ache. I've done a lot of walking today. The noise of the crowd around us starts to build. I look towards the pitch. The players are getting into position. We're kicking the right way. The ref raises his hand. He's got his whistle in his mouth now. One shrill blast and we're under way.

Right from the start it's pretty frenetic. A typical derby. A lot of steam is being let off. Tackles are crashing in, there's an outbreak of handbags between Kevin Taylor and Danny Lee, the Mackworth number 6, and two yellow cards have been brandished.

A lot of steam is being let off on the Kop too. Chants are bouncing back and forth between the two sets of fans. Mackworth are singing
You're Going To Get Your Fucking Heads Kicked In
. We're responding with
You're The Shit Of Lincolnshire
. I thought there was vitriol in the chanting at the Castleton game, but compared to this, it was nothing. Vicarage tea party stuff.

Dave Nicholson is coming in for a torrent of abuse from the Mackworth fans. They've never forgiven him for defecting to the enemy. Our lot would probably like to sing a song for him, show him that we accept him as one of our own, at least for tonight, but we haven't got a song for Dave. He's got too many syllables in his surname.

There's another coming together near the halfway line. Jeff Hawkins scything into Eddie Banks of Mackworth. The ref looks across, then waves play on, even though Banks is lying pole-axed. The Mackworth section is incensed, but we're loving it. A chorus of
Get Into Em, Fuck Em Up
rings out.

As the chanting dies down, I try to get my breath back. I glance up at the scoreboard. Fifteen minutes gone. Kick off was at 7.45. I look at my watch. Eight o'clock.
Oliver
time. A hot flush of guilt and shame goes through me. I wonder how Zoe's feeling, looking out into the audience, realising I've let her down. I turn to say something to Raks, hoping he can give me a bit of moral support, but of course he's not there.

The rest of the half passes me by. I'm in a daze. I'm thinking about Zoe. I know her scenes are in the first act. I hope she's doing OK. Out on the pitch, the pattern of the game is changing. It's not blood-and-thunder now, it's nervous, niggly football, players terrified of making mistakes. It's only December, but already the match has the look and feel of a relegation 6-pointer.

Everyone's being affected by the tension, on the field and off. It's spreading like a contagious disease. All the chanting of earlier on has died away. The hostility that was threatening to get out of control at the start has gone back down to a gentle simmer. At times the stadium is as quiet as a church. Individual heckles are coming across loud and clear.
Come on Sharp you big stiff. Get stuck in Butterworth you nonce. Compete for the fucking ball Leroy.

Gary and the other lads have already seen enough by the time the whistle goes to bring the half to an end. Me and Ryan head for the concourse. It's the usual routine. I go for a piss, Ryan gets the coffees. When we've both finished, we nudge through the hot dog and pie eaters until we're standing under one of the TV screens.

It's the
Sky
coverage of our match. They show a montage of highlights from the first forty-five minutes and then cut to George Gavin, sitting in one of the executive boxes at the other end of the ground. Next to George is Mark Sheedy, hair gelled, shiny pinstripe suit on. He's not playing tonight. He's serving his suspension for the sending off against Whitbourne. He reckons Letchford have clearly been the better side.

Ryan tuts.

“What fucking game has he been watching?” he asks no-one in particular.

We listen to a bit more chit-chat from George and Mark and then we head back out onto the terracing. The Mackworth section is virtually empty, but the police and stewards are still on guard along the fence. They're taking no chances.

There's a brass band out on the pitch, in front of the Family Stand. They're a load of kids, the local Boys Brigade, something like that. At first I wonder why they're not playing anything, but then it dawns on me. They are playing. It's just so quiet you can't hear it more than twenty yards away.

A bloke behind us laughs.

“They're doing
Silent Night
,” he says.

Two minutes later, the teams are back out. The crowd roars again, trying to get the players going, but almost as soon as the sound of
The Boys Are Back In Town
fades away, we're back to the way things were for the majority of the first half.