Fan (14 page)
Authors: Danny Rhodes
‘I told you. The prick’s at her place.’
‘He can’t be.’
‘She hid the cunt.’
‘No, the slimy fucker’s in there.’
More shouting.
‘Oi! John fucking Finch. Come out, you piece of shit!’
He slithered out of bed, scuttled across the room on his hands and knees, bollock-naked, a primordial organism. Silently, he flicked the security bolt across, just in case they got a fucking key card from somewhere, just in case they were that fucking bright. He rose to his feet and stared out through the little spyhole. The same two as the other evening for sure, only this time he could see their faces. A mad bastard with huge fucking knuckles adorned with signet rings. A Polish fucking accent. The other shorter, all angles and sharp edges. It took him a moment to connect the face with the past. Jen White’s little fucking brother. In with blokes that relished beating the shit out of strangers. Now they wanted to beat the shit out of John Finch. So he hunkered there, naked in the bedroom, staring out of the spyhole at the two of them, watching them hop from one foot to the other. They looked like they were on something. A fist came flying at the door. Finchy ducked backwards as it hammered against the wood. He couldn’t help imagining the punch landing, couldn’t help imagining his front teeth caving in, making dinner of his own fucking enamel.
‘I know you’re in there, cunt.’
The brother.
‘You can’t fucking stay there forever.’
The big Polish bastard. Bent out of shape.
Finchy pressed his eye to the lens again, witnessed the shift manager appear at the end of the corridor weakly flanked by two chambermaids. All three of them looked terrified but the poor fucking shift manager had to do something.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me. What’s the problem?’
He heard the brother say,
‘Don’t fucking speak to me, you prick. Don’t you dare speak to me.’
One more hammer blow crunched the door.
‘We’re on to you, Finchy,’ shouted the brother. ‘You’re fucked.’
And then they were gone, down the corridor, shoving the shift manager into the corner, shouldering the chambermaids out of the way, all swagger and posture, but he knew the big bastard would give it even if the brother was a twat. The first round had been a fucking warning and that had hurt enough. The big fucker was hard as nails.
Finchy retreated across the room and into the bathroom, stepped in the shower, shaking with nervous tension, scared shitless. He looked down at his gouged chest, at the scratch marks Kelly had given him when she’d launched herself at him.
John Finch, human fucking punchbag.
He got dressed and packed, calculated how long he ought to leave it before making a dash to the station and away from the place. He went to the window and stared out at the street-lamps, the noiseless evening. He sat on the end of the bed, staring at his mobile, thinking of Jen and thinking of Kelly, wondering if either of them would pick up their phones if he called, if that were even possible, thinking about mute living rooms and silent halls, dark stairs and locked bedrooms full of secrets, wondering what the fuck to do next.
A fucking fugitive in the town that raised him.
He undressed again, dropped back into bed. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go.
Summer on the streets. Summer with his shirtsleeves rolled high. Summer in the village with Jen. Summer walks. Summer sunshine.
Jen White and John Finch.
John Finch and Jen White.
England struggling at Euro 88.
England returning home in shame.
Long-drawn-out evenings on the yellow sofa, sultry nights in his room, the window open, cool breeze on bare skin.
‘Lisa met someone,’ says Jen. ‘She says he’s the one.’
‘Great,’ he says.
‘Kevin.’
‘Kevin?’
‘That’s his name, Kevin.’
‘Sounds like a bundle of laughs,’ he says.
‘You know him. From when you were kids … or something.’
He sorts through his Kevins, realises he only knows one.
‘Aye, he’s alright,’ he says. ‘He’s sound.’
‘Saahnd as a paahnd,’ she mocks.
They laugh. It’s easy to laugh.
But Lisa’s met Kevin.
A thing slips between them. An imperceptible thing.
The summer meanders ever onward.
Finchy and Jen.
Jen and Finchy.
But on some days, after his round is done, Finchy watches the girls in the park, the girls in their summer clothes. On some evenings, when he’s out with the lads, Finchy watches the girls in the bars.
There’s a gentle tug at his shoulder.
It’s almost unnoticeable.
He feels it all the same.
The Football League receives £44 million for a four-year TV rights deal.
Liverpool, Everton, Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspur, Arsenal, West Ham United, Aston Villa, Sheffield Wednesday, Newcastle United and Nottingham Forest, your Nottingham Forest, have threatened to form a breakaway league in order to secure more of this revenue for themselves. You vow to stop going to football if it happens.
You are an advocate of the pyramid.
You will always be an advocate of the pyramid.
August bank holiday weekend brings Norwich away, the first game of the season.
August bank holiday weekend brings defeat at Carrow Road.
Forest draw at home to Sheffield Wednesday, to Aston Villa and Luton Town. They draw away at Derby and Everton.
Forest are six games into the season and yet to register a league win. Forest are 16th in Division One.
There’s just the League Cup, a 6–0 win at Chester. You travel on Bob’s bus to get the ground in, to tick off another of the ninety-two. Some bloke gets nicked for drinking on the bus so you travel back one lighter.
Forest pick up their first win of the season at Loftus Road. Forest complete their demolition of Chester City.
You are nine games into the season. You have watched every minute of every game. You are determined to keep your one hundred per cent record this season.
Pride demands it.
The lads demand it.
But the next game is away.
The next game is at The Den.
The next game is against Millwall.
And Millwall are second in Division One.
‘You’re not going there,’ says Jen. She has no idea about football but she knows about Millwall.
‘You’re not going there?’ asks his dad, averse to all risks.
‘Of course I am.’
‘You must be mad.’
‘We’re all going.’
‘Train or bus?’
‘Train.’
‘You are mad.’
‘It’s all hype,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Let’s hope so. How’s the flat?’
‘Alright. Cold. Needs a clean.’
‘I expect it does.’
A pause.
‘Is there any dinner? I’m starved.’
‘There’s something in the oven.’
‘Great.’
‘What time’s the train?’
‘Ten. Something like that.’
‘You’ll have your work cut out.’
‘Harcross is sorting it. He’s a Millwall fan. He’s off himself.’
‘I won’t ask how much it’s costing.’
He shrugs.
‘It’s what I spend my money on.’
His dad, eyes half on the paper, licking his fingers to turn the pages. Him at the oven, taking out the dinner his mam left there. He sets the plate down on a mat, tucks in. Pork chops, mashed potatoes, peas. The only proper meal he’s had all week.
‘How’s work?’
‘Best not to ask.’
‘Don’t go upsetting anyone.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Don’t go losing it.’
‘I won’t go losing it.’
‘Right. How’s the car?’
‘Okay. Needs a clean…’
His dad at the worktop with the paper, him at the table, his brother upstairs at the computer, his mam at work, cleaning, bringing in the extra pennies. Local radio station in the background, a phone-in about the state of this and that.
‘You get some funny buggers on here…’
His dad, laughing to himself.
‘How’s it going with Jen?’
A bolt out of the blue.
‘Okay.’
His dad nodding. Relief all around. Glad to get that out of the way.
‘Are you staying for your mam?’
‘I’m off out. Tell her I’ll be over Sunday.’
‘Well, go careful tomorrow.’
‘I always do.’
Out of there. The car heaters blowing a gale. His dad in the door. The warm glow of home. A father’s wave to a son.
And so three daft bastards head to Millwall, keeping their heads down, keeping their mouths shut. Bellies churning. The myth working its way in. Even BJ quiet. King’s Cross, New Cross. The curious cage leading down into the Lion’s Den.
‘You’re gonna get your fucking heads kicked in…’
Heartbeats running ten to the dozen, eye to eye contact with the baying fuckers on the other side of the fence.
Into the corner, into the shadows of the away end, watching Forest take the piss for eighty minutes. A Steve Hodge double. 2–0 and cruising. The Den a fucking mortuary. Twenty thousand mute lions with nothing to roar about.
Giving it some from the away end.
Safety in numbers.
‘Can you hear the Millwall sing, I can’t hear a fucking thing…’
Until the home fuckers score.
And twenty thousand lions find their tongues.
The Den lifting out of itself.
Miiiiiiiilllllllllwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaallllllll.
Miiiiiiiilllllllllwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaallllllll.
Forest quaking.
The Den shaking. Rocking and fucking rolling.
Millwall on the charge. Forest in retreat. Lions and lambs. Hodge for Forest. Cascarino and Ruddock for Millwall. Two fucking two. Grateful for a point.
Back into the walkway. Millwall fucking loving it. Out into the streets. On to the High Street. Into the station.
Three daft bastards not making a squeak.
All the way home.
It’s tipping it down when he gets up for work on the Monday. Harcross is full of it. He greets Finchy with a great fuck-off smile, Finchy drenched from the ride in.
‘Thought your boys had us there.’
‘Missed too many chances.’
‘What about our humble home?’
‘Shithole.’
Harcross raises his eyebrows.
‘Awesome,’ says Finchy. ‘One of the best.’
‘No trouble?’
‘Nope. Southern softies.’
‘I’ll bet you were shitting yourself all day.’
The depot oddly quiet, full of men but quiet.
‘Who died?’
‘You’d best go look at your frame.’
‘Awww shit.’
His frame piled with mail, electric on top of poll tax, letters on top of fucking letters.
‘There’s three days’ worth of shite here.’
Spence’s frame rammed too, but Spence somehow in control.
A metronome.
‘More haste less speed…’
Hushed voices of men with too much to do and not enough time to do it, the sound of the rain pummelling against the roof of the depot, the sound of too little sleep hammering inside Finchy’s head. Another day, another pound of flesh.
‘Listen to that shit. It had better stop,’ he says.
‘It’s not going to,’ says Spence.
‘Since when were you made weather prophet?’
‘Since I watched it on the news this morning.’
‘Seriously?’
‘You’d best get your waterproofs on.’
His fucking waterproofs, stuffed in the bottom of his locker. Creased to buggery and smelling of damp and fuck knows what else. He pulls the sad fucking things out and hangs them from the peg, then he heads back to the frame. Pig sick.
6 a.m.
7 a.m.
8 a.m.
He’s normally at his mam’s by now, stuffing his gob with biscuits, reading the morning paper. Instead he’s stood in the doorway of the depot in his manky waterproofs, watching the rain sile down. Three tight bags of mail. Bundle on fucking bundle. Two bags already off to the pick-up, the third strapped to the bike. He stands there for a good five minutes, willing the rain to lay off, but it’s set, incessant, tipping from the grey sky on to a grey town.
Grey in every fucking way possible.
He takes a deep breath, steadies himself and launches himself into hell, manoeuvring the bike through morning traffic, the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac, a dizzying maze of headlights and brake lights, gutter puddles three inches deep, potholes bubbling like geysers, heading out of the town centre and uphill to the walk. It’s 8.30 a.m. He hasn’t started. Five hundred and ninety-eight bastard houses. Not one single fucker to go without. The street full of miserable
kids trudging to school. He watches them through the rain dripping off his hood. They don’t smile. They don’t take the piss. They don’t respond in any way.
They just trudge.
9 a.m.
10 a.m.
11 a.m.
He delivers to the school, the steamed-up windows, feels a pang of longing. The reception’s warm, inviting. The smell of the place triggers something inside of him. He wants to curl up there in the foyer, nestle himself against a radiator and sleep. The receptionist offers him a cup of tea but he declines. Instead he drops off the bundle of letters, turns around and steps back out into the abyss.
12 p.m.
1 p.m.
2 p.m. Fingers numb from cold. The walking dead.
3 p.m.
3.30 p.m. The same fucking kids, trudging home.
He flops through the sorting office door at 4 p.m., a soaking wet rag, a drowned fucking rat. Men on the afternoon shift eye their watches, grin at each other, take the piss. Sarcastic bastards.
Harcross emerges from the office.
‘What are you still doing here?’ asks Finchy.
‘Waiting for you cunts.’
‘Plural?’
‘You’re not the last. We’re sending out a search party.’
‘Great. Take a fucking boat.’
‘You know you’re back at five?’
‘I was going to talk to you about that.’
‘Don’t come in…’
‘Really?’
‘No. Go home, get dry, get some food. You can come in at 5.30.’
Harcross. Generous to the core.
He turns and walks back out into the rain, wondering if feeling will ever return to his fingers, his toes, his wrinkled fucking cock.
The season rolls onward.
Forest lose on live television at home to Arsenal but they beat Liverpool at the City Ground and Newcastle at St James’ Park. You’re late arriving at Selhurst Park for Charlton away and you miss the only goal but it doesn’t matter because Forest win there, too. By mid-December Forest have only lost two games in the League. They’ve beaten Coventry and Leicester in the League Cup to reach the League Cup Quarter-Finals. There’s a buzz around the City Ground, a buzz each and every match day, a consensus that this is the best Forest side since the turn of the decade, a sense that big things are around the corner.
You are part of it.
You are part of every living, breathing moment.
And it is part of you.