Experiment With Destiny (15 page)

“I’m gonna put a record on,” announced Scabies getting up from his seat as the last of the results slipped away. Clinching his cigarette between his teeth his spindly frame swaggered over to the antique jukebox. He made his selection from memory. Ivan knew what he would play…The Clash…the Damned…the Sex Pistols…the ancient machine’s only tributes to a long redundant age. Scabies picked the same three records over and over again. Ivan watched him saunter back, pausing as he passed the bleeping fruit machine.

Scabies was not like the others…not so fanatical. The others were alright, the cause was real…but they had no sense of fun…not like Scabies. Pigpen was simply vicious, his heavy bulk rotten with malice and his thick skull brewing with cruelty. Pigpen cared only for Simon and the cause, like a loyal Doberman, ever at his side. Foggy was quiet and, unlike the rest, had long hair. Blackbeard was odd…his bulging skull gleaming bald and his tight features drawing to a point at his chin where there was always a shallow crop of black stubble. Blackbeard was schizophrenic…silent one moment, then suddenly excited by the taste of violence. When it threatened he would salivate and whimper. When it came his screaming rage was unstoppable until it tasted blood. There were a few others, but they were the core. Pigpen, Ivan, Scabies, Foggy and sick, old Blackbeard. They were the elite guard who executed the directions of their leader, Simon…the dark prophet who had come to call time on Eurostate Britain.

Simon was enigmatic…the sharpness of his black paramilitary attire matching the square cut of his youthful features. His cold blue eyes would hold you from behind the clear, round lenses of his spectacles as he whispered his sinister visions of life under the Eurocratic thumb. Promises of the revived nationalism were sweeter. Ivan, he said, could be a general in the new order. Ivan admired this student of politics and philosophy, not understanding him one bit. Simon would run his thin white fingers through his dark head of closely-cropped hair, leaning back a little. Ivan would wait for the orders and then Ivan, like the rest, would obey.

“Fuck off you drunk shit!” Scabies’ high-pitched voice dragged Ivan from his silent reverie. He looked up to see one of the old men prodding Scabies in the chest.

“What do you know about music like this?” slurred the bristled old drunk. “You don’t know nothing, butty!” He swayed and prodded Scabies in the chest. Ivan leapt to his feet.

              “And you’re dead meat, fucker!” Scabies swung, unable to control himself any longer. His fist connected with the bridge of the old man’s nose, splitting it with a crunch. “Fuck off!” he cursed, as the old man spun backward. The drunk fell across a nearby table. It toppled. Glasses shattered and the stench of ale became suddenly stronger. The old man was screeching in pain on the wooden floor.

The barman disappeared from view then emerged from an internal doorway, his sweaty brow rolled in anger. One or two of the other customers were staining to get a better look, while the old man’s associates backed away, fearing more of the same from this savage young man. Ivan sensed it would not be wise to hang around, particularly once word got out about on this afternoon’s events. He gulped down the last of his pint and pocketed his cigarettes and lighter.

“Come on Scabies you twat! Let’s piss this joint.” Grabbing his friend by the sleeve of his trench coat, Ivan pulled him past the snarling barman and out into the cold, wet night. Away to the left they could see the floodlights, still glowing over the roof tops. “Let’s go back to the den.” Suggested Ivan. They followed the road up into the town centre, passing the shuttered shopfronts. Then, Ivan started laughing. “Shit, did you hear his fucking nose go pop when you whacked him one!” Scabies grinned.

“I was all for layin’ the boot in his gonads while he jiggled one the floor…but I could see the barman eyeballin’ me.” They laughed and talked about the match, and Simon’s publicity stunt as they made their way towards the den.

The den, in fact, was little more than a grubby attic above the Vulcan in Pontmorlais. It was rented at a peppercorn rate from the landlord, a sympathiser with the cause in word if not in action. There was no frontal approach, reachable only by passing down the gap between the Vulcan and a neighbouring shop, then by clambering up the rickety fire escape. It was perfect. Only visible from the rear, it offered all the security they needed – and it was above a pub.

Ivan took the steps two at a time, completely familiar with the reverberations as he reached each of the three platforms. Scabies was close behind. “Ivan and Scabies,” he called, arriving at the last level. He paused and surveyed the damp lines of streets and houses, watching a Monorail shuttle in the distance, floating just above the rooftops on its sleek steel rail. “Wouldn’t you like to ride that fucker?” he said to Scabies. He gave no reply, but pushed past Ivan into the den.

It was a dark windowless room, its walls cloaked in black cloth. There was a wide skylight in the steeply sloping rood but there were no stars to be seen tonight. Each of the three lamps burned a low wattage bulb, for privacy more than for energy efficiency. In one corner of the room there was a television set. In another, an old holophonic player was linked to a much newer Virtual Reality mask. There were beanbags and futons littering the featureless thin carpet, a table and chairs, a sink and an electric kettle, surrounded by jars, mugs and spoons. The most startling thing about the den was its walls. Pinned carefully to the black cloth were posters and banners, a profusion of red, black and white. They were symbols and emblems of a long vanished age…occult in origin but twisted further by their Nazi associations. There were large black and white photos of sour men in grey uniforms…Himmler, Hess and, of course, Hitler himself. There were other faces, Wagner the composer, staring wildly down from the wall nearest the holophonic player. The pride of place was given to a large Union jack flag, near the planning and conference table. Its red, white and blue was flanked by two colour portraits…Baroness Margaret Thatcher and Sir James Irwin Renner, the last Prime Minister of Great Britain.

Ivan paid them all momentary respect, as was customary, then joined Foggy and Blackbeard at the table where they were playing cards. “Alright Foggy?” The long hair shook as Foggy nodded, never taking his eyes of his hand. “Alright Beardo?” Ivan saw Blackbeard’s mouth twitch. The eyes glared back, their blackness overpowering.

“I thought Simon told you to wait at the Crown?” The voice was toneless, the words trickled from his thin lips as though they had come off a conveyor belt in some gloomy factory. Ivan’s head bobbed.

“Yeah, we ended up in some shit scene and decided it was best to break.” He chuckled, trying to lose the manic stare. “Scabies split some guy’s nose real good…you’d have loved that whack!”

Blackbeard turned his attention back to the game. He put down the two of hearts and the two of clubs. “Pick up four, shithead.”

They waited an age. The card game continued and Ivan decided to watch television. He switched on the set, caught the news. At one point he was ready to change channels, the hourly review of the world outside holding little of interest for him. He was about to flick onto the Eurosat Sports station when he saw the Merthyr Tydfil AFC Martyr emblem appear behind the newsreader’s shoulder. “Hey look, it’s us!” he shouted. The others turned their heads.

“Football hooliganism is again grabbing the headlines with another outrage at Conference side Merthyr Tydfil’s Rhydycar Park ground this afternoon.” Ivan felt giddy with excitement. “At the end of their derby game against Hereford United, a number of Merthyr fans invaded the pitch and assaulted club stewards before burning a Eurostate flag. One of the ring-leaders, who was wearing a balaclava, shouted nationalist slogans through a megaphone and waved the banned Union Jack.” There were clips of the riotous scenes, filmed from the safe distance of the camera nests. “It is just two months since the fencing went back at the ground’s Holloway Stand away fan enclosure. Club chairman Jack Dinmore said the stewards had been completely over-powered by a number of thugs and that, if the situation continued, the club would have to consider bringing back police to take charge of crowd control. He said that was an expensive option and one which he hoped would not be necessary. The problem of football hooliganism is spreading across Eurostate Britain once again after an absence of nearly four decades. Sports Minister Leslie Bruckett said he believes it is linked to the resurgence of nationalism across Europe, even in those countries not allied to Eurostate…”

Ivan flicked over to the sports channel. There was a shout of protest from Blackbeard but he ignored it. “Seen the best bits” said Scabies. Ivan wasn’t listening. He was thinking. Doubtless a number of stewards had been seriously hurt in the fighting…and it was only a matter of time before the police get involved. Scabies attack on the old man had been amusing, but again, it brought yet more attention to their activities. He wondered what Simon’s reaction would be.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Moments later they heard the heavy steps rumbling up the fire escape. “Pigpen,” announced the gruff voice. The door swung open and the black cloth billowed in the blast of cold air. Pigpen entered first, his blunt features jutting over his sprawling frame. Simon followed, his comparatively smaller frame slipping past Pigpen into the relative warmth of the den. He looked from Scabies to Ivan.

“Where the fuck were you two?” his voice hissed. “There were pigs all over the fucking pub!” Ivan trembled inside. Scabies went white. There was a fleck of spittle on the corner of Blackbeard’s mouth.

* * *

VIII

IVAN walked home alone, his head spinning from the pints of beer he had consumed in the Vulcan. The reprimand had been swift and harsh, aimed primarily at Scabies, who had caused the problem in the first place. The threat of violence from the hand of Pigpen was enough to send him scurrying to the toilet. Ivan had been warned about the use of thuggery in any situation, other that the direct orders of Simon himself. “It won’t help the cause,” said Simon sternly and Ivan had to agree.

Tufty – Simon’s girl – arrived soon after, and they all went downstairs for a drink. Ivan drank and laughed, celebrating the success if the afternoon’s “show” with the boys. After a few pints he began to pay more attention to Tufty. She was tall and leggy with long blonde hair and curves in all the right places. Tufty was good fun…but she was also Simon’s. Ivan backed off when he noticed Pigpen staring at him intently. He remembered he had a game in the morning…and Christine would be waiting for him at home.

He had barely reached the footpath leading to the front door when Christine appeared in the doorway. “Where the hell’ve you been? And what’ve you been up to?” He pushed through into the hall, pausing to press his lips against her cheek.

“Hi babe.” He bounced up the stairs, swaying slightly when he reached the landing. The other bedsit doors were all shut tight. It was late. Christine followed him up. “Are you stopping with me tonight or going back to your folks?” She shrugged. “Please yourself!” he said, then pulled his bedsit key from his pocket.

It was the second door on the right, a bedroom, a bathroom, a shared kitchen downstairs…it was home. It was almost like the den, except the walls were white and there was no cloth. A few posters, mostly of the outlawed British Nationalist Party or the former National Front, adorned them. There was an old television set, an old battered settee and a scattering of cushions. Ivan strode through and fell against the tarnished chair. Christine closed the door behind her.

“Were you involved in that riot at the game today? I thought I saw you on the TV news…was that Simon and Pigpen with the flags?” Ivan smiled.

“What do you think?” Christine began unlacing Ivan’s boots, glaring up at him as soon as she saw the dried blood around the toecaps and heels.

“Look!” She gestured at the stains. “It think it’s stupid! I think it’s dangerous and you’re bound to get into trouble for it.” He shrugged and watched her removed the badly scuffed leather boots from his feet. “I’ve said before that Simon and Pigpen are no good…the cause and all that…it’ll never come about Ivan. One day the police will come looking for them and you’ll be involved. It’ll be too late for us then.” Ivan was no longer listening. He was day-dreaming about Tufty’s ample breasts…her pear-like bottom…her seductive eyes. Christine continued, undeterred by his lack of response. “It’s not fair that I have to sit in the communal lounge every weekend night and wait for you to come back…sometimes it’s early…sometimes it’s late. You won’t even give me a key to get in here when you’re not around. I know the landlord said not to Ivan but we’re practically married…the bugger’s never here anyway! Listen Ivan, we got to start thinking about our future. We’ve been together four years now, it’s time we started acting like it…don’t think?” Ivan was fantasising about making love to Tufty…he pictured the scene…alone with her in the “crash” room at the den…the one they sometimes called the “shag bin”. “How long do you think your job’s going to last if you keep getting involved in the stuff Simon and Pigpen do anyway? Do you think they’re gonna want a shelf-stacker with a criminal record? Ivan…Ivan…are you listening to me?”

Ivan lifted the cushion from the settee and found the small brown plastic bottle. He clicked off the child-proof cap and rattled three tablets into his hand. “You don’t need them things either! Simon keeps you drugged up so you can be his little puppy dog…fetch Ivan…bark…bite Ivan!” He put them in his mouth and crunched them between his teeth – they worked quicker that way. Then Ivan pulled out a cigarette, lit it and puffed happily on his grubby throne, still thinking about Simon’s girl. “Why football matches anyway?” he heard her say. It caught his attention.

“What?” He sat upright, noticing she had put the kettle on.

“Why do you cause trouble at football matches? What about all those fans who just want to support their team…who don’t want trouble…you used to be like that, remember?” Ivan thought about it for a moment, the barbiturates edging their way towards his senses.

“Football’s our national game, where else are you going stir up national pride…national feeling.” He realised, even as he spoke, those words were not his own. “Where else do you get such ready-made emotion, the ready-made crowds, the cameras, the cover to disguise yourself until the right time?”

“You sound like Simon?” she snapped, and went to make the teas. “You never used to be like that. You used to be your own person, Ivan. Now I sometimes feel that I don’t know you any more.”

He considered Christine temporarily…comparing her to Tufty. She was plain. Tufty was not. She was boring. Tufty was not. She was his. Tufty was not. Was that what made Tufty more appealing and Christine less? Perhaps, he though, then sensed the drug was beginning to take hold.

“Are you going to the cup game on Tuesday night?” he heard her ask.

“Too fucking right!” he replied.

“Can I come?” Ivan never answered. He was asleep.

* * *

             
The sounds crashed though his heavy-eyed stupor, thumping against the walls of his numbed brain. Dazed and confused, Ivan came round, vaguely aware that it was still dark and that he was sprawled, fully-dressed, over the settee.

“What’s that?” he heard Christine say. She was on the bed. “What’s that noise?” It was the flashing blue light which painted the thinning curtains which gave him a clue, but too late to react. The noise suddenly became louder, crunching against his bedsit door. The ageing wood splintered and cracked, chips flying off as the door caved in against the force. Two policemen charged into the room, guns outstretched. Christine screamed. Ivan soiled himself. He was blinded by the glare of the torch. He smelled their wet uniforms, a hint of sweat masked by deodorant. He heard their laboured breath and glimpsed shapes and shadows.

“Ivan Berking?” the voice boomed in the high ceiling room. He nodded. “We have reason to believe that you and that little shit Scabies were in the Crown this evening and one of you thumped an old man” Ivan didn’t answer…he couldn’t. Someone lashed out at him. The blow connected with his face, stinging him. “Listen carefully you prick! You can fuck about inside a football ground and it’s up to the stewards to sort you out. Start fucking about in the real world and you end up fucking with us!” A second blow caught him on the nose. He felt it crack like it did once before, and then he tasted blood…his own. “And we don’t piss about like some.” Ivan put his hands up to protect his face from further assaults. Then he heard the second voice, deeper, more pronounced.

“And one more thing, scumbag. You’d better warn your mates to drop this political stuff because if it happens again you’re all in deeper shit than you can imagine…understand me?” Ivan nodded. He cowed from the impending blow but misjudged. A heavy shoe swung through the air, crashing against his testicles. Ivan howled. As he rolled to the floor with a thud the officers marched out of his bedsit.

“Just be grateful the old man didn’t want to press charges.” They were gone. Christine came over to him, weeping. Outside the door the other residents were gathering to find out what had happened. Outside the window the blue beacon disappeared and the patrol car sped off.

* * *

By morning, Ivan felt a little better. There was a dull ache in his head and his groin was extremely tender. Christine made him breakfast and a cup of hot tea. She fussed over him like a mother over a sickly child.

“You can’t be serious,” she said as he hobbled towards the sink and put his dishes in the murky water. “You can’t play in that state!” Ivan ignored her limping back to the bedside to collect his unwashed shorts, long-sleeved jersey and socks. Stripping down to his underpants, he turned his thoughts to the game, trying to shut out the fear of last night’s waking nightmare. Ivan played football for the superstore team in the local Sunday league. It was the next best thing to supporting the Martyrs…and supporting the cause.

“I’ve got to play today…or we’ll be a man short and it’s a cup game. I can’t let the side down,” He pulled on the blue and yellow jersey then picked up the blue shorts. She turned her nose up at the smell of stale sweat from his unwashed kit.

“It’s only a game…can’t you leave it just this weekend?” He tugged the shorts on as gently as he could manage.

“Piss off! I’m playing!” Ivan found some roll-on deodorant and rubbed it against the acrylic of the jersey. Then he put on the socks and dug his football boots out from the bottom of a nearby cupboard. “Are you coming to support me today?” he asked. Christine shrugged.

“I guess so…it’s better than sitting here on my own.” Ivan pushed his mud-caked boots into a plastic bag and pulled his jeans and jacket over his blue and yellow strip.

“Too fucking right!” he said, leading the way to the door. It was pointless locking it. The wood had split beneath the latch and it wouldn’t hold the slightest force. “I’ll kill any fucker who sticks their nose in!” he shouted to nobody in particular and trampled noisily down the landing to the stairs.

* * *

It was not raining, but a brisk wind carried the breath of winter across the open park. Ivan was reluctant to remove his jacket and jeans, but kick-off was only a minute or so away. Troedyrhiw were warming up in an almost professional fashion, their gleaming red and white strip a stark contrast to the somewhat worn blue and yellow of Saverstore FC. Ivan studied each one, his focus returning to the tall black striker.

“Fucking nigger!” he cursed, pulling off his jacket and then jeans. “I’ll fucking have him.” Christine stood by as he swapped his DMs for football boots.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked. Ivan turned on her, thrusting his DMs and clothes at her.

“He’s black! That’s what’s fucking wrong! Are you thick or what?” A few of the nearby Saverstore players turned away, embarrassed by this open display of racism.

“There you go again! Black people never used to affect you before…it’s Simon, isn’t it?” She looked hurt, but still accepted his untidy bundle.

“No! I’ve always hated niggers. They come here, steal our jobs, steal our women. They’re not civilised like us. They want fucking booting out!” There was an ugly snarl on his bruised face. Christine smirked.

“You look and sound so stupid!” She laughed. “He was probably born here, along with his dad, grandad, great grandad and all.” He didn’t argue. The first whistle blew and the game was about to start.

             
Ivan found the going difficult. Rhiw were a strong, well-organised side from a higher division that usually played on Saturdays. Ivan was still feeling the effects of yesterday’s booze and drugs and last night’s beating and his chest ached from too many cigarettes. At left back he usually enjoyed a relatively quiet game, indulging in the occasional brutality towards opposition forwards and very occasionally making a well-times run up the wing, breaking from defence to cross the ball for his own strikers.

             
After 15 minutes Saverstore were already wearying of the quicker pace, Rhiw were a goal up and Ivan had done as much running around as he normally managed over 90 minutes. His only enjoyment had been a rare moment when he hadn’t been outpaced or side-stepped and managed to slam sideways into the tall black centre-forward, pole-axing him before he could get in a shot on goal.

             
“Fucking jungle bunny!” Ivan hissed into his ear as he leaned over to yank him viciously to his feet again. The Rhiw number 11 looked startled.

             
“You what?” Ivan let go and curled his top lip.

             
“Too fuckin’ cold for African monkey boy? Then fuck off back up your bush tree!” Ivan saw the referee approaching from the corner of his eye and walked away.

             
“I’m local, you twat!” snapped the centre-forward. “So what’s your problem?” Ivan gave no answer.

             
A second similar challenge earned him a yellow card but his abuse this time was met with a chuckle from the Rhiw striker.

             
“You scared I’m gonna score, little white boy? That it?” Ivan wanted to punch him there and then but held back because of the referee’s proximity. Moments later the centre-forward was streaking down the wing after a long ball from the Rhiw keeper. Ivan checked his bearings. Saverstore had pushed almost everyone forward and were now caught on the break. The right-back would never make it across in time and the centre-back was stranded near Rhiw’s goal mouth. Ivan was all that stood between the opposing striker and Saverstore goalie.

One-on-one, he thought, excellent. The number 11 was upon him in an instant, slowing a fraction to collect and pacify the ball. He’s going inside me, thought Ivan and balanced himself to pounce. The move came, but instead of cutting inside, the number 11 flipped the ball expertly over Ivan’s head, side-stepped him on the outside and sprinted away with a sudden spurt of acceleration. Ivan kicked out as he passed, missed and lost his balance. He was still slipping around in the mud when the fierce shot rattled into the back of the net to make it 2-0.