Authors: Danny Rhodes
Fan (8 page)
Lincoln fucking City. A Saturday afternoon smeared with rain. BJ munching a steak and mushroom pie, the two of them huddled in the Stacey West Stand.
In memory of Bill Stacey and Jim West.
In memory of Bradford.
‘You should have come. You should have made the effort,’ said BJ.
‘I couldn’t face it,’ he said.
‘None of us could. But we faced it.’
‘It brought back too many memories.’
‘Aye, well we’ve all got those memories, mate.’
BJ brought his pie up to his face, bit out a chunk of steak. A thick globule of gravy dripped into his lap.
‘Fucking pies,’ he said.
‘Fucking prawn sandwiches more like,’ said Finchy.
‘Not here mate,’ said BJ. ‘Not in this fucking league.’
‘Do you watch it much?’
‘The Premiership?’
‘Aye.’
‘I don’t go to games. I’ve no cause. There’s something not right about it. Fucking Premiership and fucking Sky TV. All that money sloshing about. All those foreign fuckers. And don’t get me started on fucking all-seater stadia.’
Finchy looked out across the ground, thinking ‘
this
is all seater’.
‘A bloke pissed on me in the Trent end once,’ he said.
‘We all got pissed on. Some of us did the pissing. That was part of it. But they fucked with it, didn’t they? Fucked with it
so that every fucker and his dog wants to watch it and every fucker, his dog and his wife has an opinion on it. Fucking genius bit of marketing that. I’d like to see some of today’s lot at an eighties’ game, see how they’d cope. Remember Highfield Road? Remember the fucking away end? Fucking rammed. I was nearly cut in half against a barrier in that cage. Remember Ashton Gate, getting piss wet through in the sleet, coined for one hundred and twenty glorious minutes?’
BJ, chuckling to himself.
‘Remember Filbert Street? That was when football
was
football. That’s why I come here these days. It’s the closest I can get to those times.’
Finchy looked out at the scene before him, at the pitch cutting up, the slanting rain, at twenty-two players, journeymen and also-rans slogging it out, at three thousand hardy fucking souls bearing the weather, the away fans tucked in the corner, the home end giving them stick. In some ways it felt like the eighties.
‘The same fucking buzz,’ said BJ. ‘Just the numbers lacking.’
The visiting centre-half booted the ball over the stand. Everybody cheered. The centre-half puffed out his chest, pointed and bellowed his orders. Football fucking League Division Two.
BJ laughed.
‘Before you say it, I know the quality’s shit. But at least we’re not watching a bunch of fucking prima donnas. Fucking corporate boxes and nonsense ticketing. They did the same to fucking Glastonbury.’
‘Glastonbury?’
‘All that security. It used to have a fucking edge.’
‘You paid to go to Glastonbury?’
‘Did I fuck. I climbed the fucking fence like everybody else. Then I nicked a tent. Glastonbury 2000, mate. Fucking legend. I haven’t been since they tightened up.’
BJ laughed. The same boyish laughter. Just the fucking same. Older. Fatter. The same.
‘We were lucky,’ he said. ‘Lucky to be a part of it.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘I fucking know it. How can young lads like we were go to football these days? They can’t unless they come to watch this. But this is alright. This’ll do.’
4.30 in the afternoon. A black sky above. Brilliant light below. The ball in the air, the ball in the stand, the ball anywhere but on the fucking ground where it belonged.
The two of them laughing.
‘Cloughie would be tearing his hair out.’
‘At least it’s real, mate. At least it’s honest.’
Nil fucking nil honest.
Shuffling out of the stand. Floodlights shimmering in puddles. The smell of Bovril. The smell of burgers and onions. The smell of a quarter to five on a Saturday.
The smell of fifteen years.
BJ recalling past endeavours.
‘Had a couple of good knocks over the decades. Before the fucking banning orders. Now I have to be careful.’
‘You still find trouble then?’
‘Only if it finds me…’
‘Does it?’
‘Does it what?’
‘Does it find you?’
BJ looked Finchy up and down.
‘Who are you,’ he said at last. ‘The fucking old bill?’
Another pub. The bar full to bursting. BJ nodded to the landlord, led Finchy to a booth in the corner of the lounge.
‘Always quiet around this side,’ he said. ‘No fucker wants to settle in. A quick pint, a quick moan about the fucking game and this place’ll be dead. But we’ll be here, son. We’ll be here. Reminiscing. You and me…’
‘I want to ask…’
‘About Stimmo?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘What else is there? We haven’t set eyes on each other for over a decade.’
‘I dunno. Impending middle age?’
‘You always were a reflective bastard. Teacher. I might have bloody guessed.’
‘It’s partly about Stimmo.’
‘I’m going to let you down on this. I know nothing about it. The guy did himself in a week last Thursday. That’s all I’ve got.’
‘Wearing his Forest shirt.’
‘Spot on.’
‘Which one?’
A moment’s hesitation. BJ supped his pint and stared across the lounge towards the frosted glass and the bar on the other side.
‘A fucking home shirt,’ he said.
‘Which one?’
BJ shrugged.
‘Come on. Some fucker must know.’
‘I see where you’re heading…’ said BJ.
‘It was fucking Shipstones. I’ll put my life on it. It was Shipstones and it was too fucking tight after fifteen seasons and it made him look like a real fat prick hanging there.’
‘Fuck off, mate.’
BJ slammed the table.
‘You always were a depressing bastard.’
‘Well, it’s been on my mind,’ said Finchy.
Another mouthful of beer. Another elongated stare at the frosted glass.
‘I hadn’t seen him for about five years,’ said BJ. ‘Other than the odd nod of recognition in town. I didn’t see him socially at all, not since he stopped going to football.’
‘He wasn’t going to Forest then?’
BJ shook his head.
‘He stopped a couple of years before I did. We had the Europe thing. That was alright. Then it all went sour, didn’t it. We were overtaken by fucking Wigan. For fuck’s sake. Wigan.’
‘Do you know his missus? I feel like I should … you know.’
BJ sunk the rest of his pint and wiped his mouth.
‘
You
know his fucking missus.’
‘Eh?’
‘Fuck off, John. Don’t pull that one,’ said BJ, restless now, agitated, the fuse lit.
‘Who?’
A look.
‘Seriously?’
‘Fucking seriously.’
‘Jen White, mate.’
Almost knocked him flying.
‘Never.’
‘Long after you fucked off. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Fuck,’ said Finchy. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Hardly fucking surprising. You’re two hundred miles away. You’ve been two hundred miles away for fifteen fucking years.’
BJ took another sup of his pint.
‘And now you’re back…’
BJ shifted his weight. BJ with his signet rings and his thick curly hair. A boy rolled into a man. A dangerous bastard. The old stare was back. He was watching the frosted glass and the bar beyond, looking like he wanted to disappear into that crowd, put this whole sorry fucking business to bed.
Or kick its fucking head in.
‘Stimmo’s not the first to go,’ said BJ. ‘We lost Nev last year.’
Finchy stared at the bar, sorting faces, sorting names. Mismatching and matching.
‘Everton fan,’ he said at last.
BJ nodded.
‘Aye, mate, Everton. Just like us, though. Home and away. North, east, south, west.’
‘I remember him,’ said Finchy. ‘But not the way Stimmo went?’
‘No, not the way Stimmo went. Just living,’ said BJ. ‘Just life …’
BJ put down his empty glass.
‘I need another pint,’ he said.
‘I’ll get these,’ said Finchy.
‘The least you can do,’ said BJ.
Finchy got to his feet. Fuck all happening in the lounge so he pushed through the door into the bar proper, met a wall of noise, familiar accents bemoaning familiar failings, ‘lack of quality, lack of pace, never lack of effort, mate, never lack of effort’, pushed his way shoulder to shoulder, back in the crowd again, back on the fucking terraces. He ordered two pints, slinging his words at the barman, planting his feet and stiffening his shoulders, bracing himself, fighting for his little bit of space. In his head, Forest songs, away day songs, songs on steeply banked terraces, songs on unfamiliar streets. And then, behind him, the sound of shattering glass, some sort of ruckus, away fans at the door, landing punches on home fans. BJ came wheeling in from the lounge, barrelling his way through the place, arms fucking flying, punches finding the mark, leading the fucking charge as the away fans legged it over the threshold and up the road, home fans flooding out, giving chase, until, in the blink of an eye, the bar was empty. There was just Finchy, the landlord and a floor decorated with broken glass.
The landlord raised his pint.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Cheers to you and no fucker else.’
Finchy stood surrounded by spilled tables and spilled pints. The gambling machine was flashing with credit. Pool balls were still bouncing around on the fucking baize. Half a cue was resting there, one end splintered and jagged, the other half no fucking where to be seen.
‘Every fucking home game,’ said the landlord. ‘You’d think they’d get bored of it, but they don’t.’ He wandered over to the door. ‘Still, it pays the fucking bills.’
From somewhere down the street came the sound of singing, a hundred voices baying for blood.
‘Can you hear, the Lincoln sing, the Rochdale ran away…’
‘Run, run, run you bastards…’
‘Fuck off Dale, fuck off Dale…’
Finchy grinned, imagining BJ at the head of the mob. BJ, the grandaddy. The grandaddy of his own fucking crew.
Why the fuck not?
He withdrew to the station, took a train back to the old town, retreated to the hotel, to his room, a snail in a shell, checked the football results, thought about who else he needed to see now that he was here, now that he was fully up to his fucking neck. He thought about Kelly, the night before he left, the slings and arrows, piled pillows and muffled screams, bedroom doors and dark landings.
It was all a blur.
Everything was a blur.
His whole fucking life.
You travel back.
You can’t help yourself.
It’s all around you.
It’s in your flesh and your bones and your blood.
It’s in your heart and soul.
The past is the present.
The present is the past.
They’re indistinguishable.
Where? The most boring town in England
When? Saturday, 5th December 1987
Why? You tell me, you bastard…
Still morning. One degree above zero. Head throbbing from the night before. Midnight curry stirring in the belly. No time for breakfast in the fifteen minutes between seventeen-year-old John Finch’s alarm clock sounding and dragging his bike from the alley.
The iron gate squealing on its hinges.
Up before the lark. Pedalling through the silent streets, racing by his old scout hut, sleeping, shuttered, redundant. Skirting the print works that dumped him, the Telecom exchange, the rows of yellow vans, heading inwards, scooting under the arches of the railway bridge, the great scar connecting north to south, the town to everything else.
He slips into the yard, slams his cycle in the rack, checks his postal bike. Number twenty one. No punctures. No trapped chain. He pats the saddle. Good to go.
A voice in the darkness.
‘You’re fucking early.’
Webster. Union man. Always something to say.
‘Away day—‘
‘Bob’s fucking bus?’
Finchy shakes his head.
‘Train,’ he says.
‘Where?’
‘Wimbledon.’
‘Because no fucker wants to go there except daft bastards like you.’
Webster glances at the clock.
‘I don’t want to see your ugly face on this ramp before 9.30 a.m.,’ says Webster. ‘Don’t fuck up twenty-one walk.’
‘It’s already fucked,’ he replies.
Because it is.
He makes to get on. Webster calls after him.
‘King’s Cross?’
He nods.
Webster sucks the chill air through his teeth, shakes his head.
‘Rather you than me,’ he says. ‘But that’s up to you. Just don’t come back before 9.30.’
Finchy strides to the frame, full of purpose, starts prepping his delivery, hands moving in a blur, on automatic, a machine. Just him to begin with but others joining their own frames until one by one all of the frames are occupied.
Distractions coming at him from all sides.
‘Where are the mighty Reds today then?’
‘Is Clyde Ave yours?’
‘Jesus, you’re in early. On a promise?’
Old blokes. New blokes. Blokes who could do better. Blokes who can’t believe their luck. A job for characters. A job for blokes who don’t mind being outside in all weathers, blokes who are happiest on their own, blokes who like to get up early, get a job done and have the rest of the day to themselves. Model aeroplane enthusiasts. Petrol heads. Blokes with allotments to tend. Blokes that have their fingers in other pies. Ex-firemen. Ex-squaddies. Ex-drinkers.
And drinkers.
And dreamers.
All and fucking sundry.
A job for life if you look after it, if you don’t fuck up.
And he’s becoming one of them, part of the fabric. He enjoys their company, the banter, the hours of ripping the piss. Only he hates the early mornings. He hates the rain. His fingers can’t manage the cold. He isn’t fully adjusted
to this life. He never fucking will be.
Blokes are already on the ramp when he steps out the door, his bag fit to bursting. But one bag means he has a fighting chance, if he gets his arse into gear. He stands for a moment, looking up at the sky. It’s still dark. The stars are masked by low-slung clouds. Next to him, a bloke’s smoking a cigarette. Nobber Harris. Nervous type. Always fidgety. Not an ounce of fat on him.
‘Looks like rain,’ says Harris. His breath reeks of alcohol. Six months earlier, just a few days after Finchy started at the place, Harris collapsed from a heart attack in the street. At forty-three. Now he’s back, none the fucking wiser.
‘I fucking hope not,’ says Finchy.
‘You’re alright,’ says Harris. ‘You can nip in to your mam’s place.’
‘No time for that this morning,’ he says.
He lugs his bag off the ramp and over to the bike stand, straps it in place and then heads back inside for the box keys. That’s how it works. Mail out, mail in.
Every day, bar Sunday.
Every fucking day.
He looks up at the clock above the door.
6.20 a.m.
Harcross catches him at the bike shed. Harcross. Millwall fan. Eastender. Up from London, one of the boys and then processed to shift manager. Now he’s caught between two worlds, struggling to know where to place himself. The bikes aren’t meant to move until 6.45 a.m. It’s policy.
But Harcross travelled to Mexico 86, was one of the boys doing the conga in the 3–0 win over Poland. Such relief in that procession. So nearly a wasted trip. Portugal. Fucking Morocco. Wilkins chucking the ball at the ref, getting his marching orders. Captain Marvel and his shoulder. Bobby ‘is my fucking tie straight?’ Robson. They’d almost blown it, teetered on the brink and then come home wounded heroes,
beaten by Maradona’s genius and the hand of God. There was that miss from Lineker. John fucking Barnes squandered on the bench for eighty minutes. The silly cunts.
Harcross understands it’s Saturday. Harcross knows what that means. Football day. The boss isn’t in. The boss isn’t coming in. He shoots a wink at Finchy and a blind eye at the clock.
Out of the yard then, legs pumping, hunched over the handlebars. The bike all top-heavy from the mailbag. His breath leaving trails behind him like a puffing fucking steam train.
6.45 a.m. on a Saturday. The clang and clatter of the market traders setting up their stalls.
Twenty-one walk. One of the bastard walks. A walk no fucker wants. Council houses. Council flats. Thatcher’s forgotten families. Forgotten youth. He’s one of them. It hasn’t dawned on him yet how expendable he is. His life’s about earning a few quid, getting out of the house with a bit in the pocket, pool and snooker clubs on week nights, pubs at weekends, girls when he can get them.
And football.
Football at the heart of it all.
Forest home and away every fucking Saturday.
A reason for living.
The Royal Mail job makes it all possible.
The Royal Mail job makes it all so hard.
The estate. Saturday at 7 a.m. Primitive signs of life behind grubby curtains. Fifty calls in. Five hundred to go. In the flats. Up and down the stinking stairwells, the reek of putrid nappies. Single-mum suburbia. Six months on the job and not one proposition. So much for the stories. Perhaps he isn’t old enough. Perhaps he’s too fresh-faced.
Perhaps it’s a load of bollocks.
The estate smothered in darkness, just the bark of dogs and the whine of the milk float for company. Pounding the stairs. Getting the flats out of the way. Propping the bike
against the doors and carrying the bundles in, making quick work of it while his legs are fresh.
The clock ticking.
And after the flats, the rest of the warren. His old primary school, the black iron gate padlocked, shut for the weekend, taking a well-earned break from the squealing and bleeding knees. On to the retirement bungalows, the disremembered, never much to deliver here except on gas and electric days when every fucker gets one. He dashes up and down the pathways, anxious not to get stalled by one of the oldies. No desperate single mums in negligees but plenty of oldies with a story to tell, yearning for company at any price. They’re always up, stalking the mailbox.
But not today. He slips silently in and out of each garden, doesn’t give them an opportunity.
The sky pale now. Light filtering through the cloud, spilling over the horizon. A paperboy scoots past with his bag of twenty papers. Jammy bastard. He’ll be home with his brekky in no time, all done for the day. There’ll be Saturday ahead of him, no school, a wander around to his mates, perhaps a kickabout in the park, home for the footy results, tea on the table, a chance to do it all again the next day. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him around the corner. He doesn’t have a clue.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
8 a.m. One third complete. At his parents’ place. A cup of tea on the table, the biscuit tin full to the brim after the weekly shop. He grabs a handful of digestives, gulps the tea down. He could kill half an hour here, bury himself in the sports pages, lose the will to venture back out. But not today. He’s back on it before the pulverised biscuits reach his intestines.
‘You’re going then?’
His mam, as concerned now as when he was ten years old and heading off fishing with the lads. ’10.10 to King’s Cross.’
Spitting biscuit crumbs.
‘Is it open?’
‘What?’
‘King’s Cross.’
‘I should fucking well hope so.’
She looks at him.
‘But the fire…’
‘It’s a big place.’
‘There’s no bus?’
‘No, there’s no bus.’
He’s still her boy, always will be. She wants to stop him. But she can’t. She’s done it before, a long time before, Villa away to be precise, but he was younger then, still beholden. He’d no money of his own. Now he has money. And if she still has the right, she no longer has the will. Villa away. It still fucking irks him. Villa 0 Forest 5. He fucking missed it, sat at home listening to the score rack up on the radio. The house was a fucking warzone that day. A fucking warzone.
The home straight. Council semis all lined up in rows, some facing the street, some facing other semis across bare patches of earth that were once seeded with grass. A maze of alleyways dissects the lot, severing them apart. Some face on to the metal fence that marks the boundary of the high school. The steel fence with the spiked top is a new addition, a replacement for the wire fencing that lost its battle with the kids of the estate years ago. Now there are no rabbit runs through the undergrowth. No way in, no way out. He’s a product of the local grammar himself, a nameless entity. Here he is delivering his letters in his postie uniform. None of the other fuckers in his year at school are doing anything like it. They’re wrapped up warm in their beds, enjoying a day off from the sixth form, another day on their long and prosperous journey through academia. But they don’t have football on a Saturday. They don’t have that.
The last letter, the last letter box.
9.20 a.m.
Fucking A.
Fifty minutes to change, drop off his bike and the mailbag and launch himself up to the station where the others will be waiting. Fifty minutes to become the man. He pushes open the bag and fishes around inside it. His hand comes to rest on a packet no bigger than his fist. He turns it over, reads the address. A top-floor flat. He looks at the sender’s address. Fucking Persil. A free fucking sample?
Fuck!
No, fuck it.
He buries it in the fold of the bag. It can wait until Monday. If Harcross checks his bag on the way in he’ll plead the innocent, pretend he hasn’t seen it. It’s hardly fucking urgent, a fucking free sample of Persil for a single mum in a top-floor flat. She’ll hardly be pacing the fucking hallway in anticipation.
He stops at the mailbox, takes the key from the cloth bag and pulls open the door, empties the contents on top of the fucking Persil packet, cycles home, changes into his Pepe Jeans and Pringle polo shirt.
Casual.
Always casual.
He takes his Forest scarf too, for later, picks up his railcard, shoots out the door again. Then it’s back on the bike, back to the PO, legs a blur. He passes Jeff on the way, Jeff all Best Company denim, all bristle and aftershave.
‘See you at the station, you fat bastard!’
‘Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
He swings the bike into the yard, slams it into the cycle rack. 9.45 a.m. Plenty of time.
‘Funny how you can make it back on Saturdays.’
Harcross on the ramp in crisp winter sunlight.
‘It was a light day. Just the one bag.’
Harcross smiles. He knows the fucking score.
Finchy pushes through the plastic doors into the office,
chucks his bag on the facing table and turns it over. Mail spills out. Longs and shorts. Firsts and seconds. Packets on the belt. Persil packet well hidden, heart pounding all the same, in his nature to please, to be a good lad despite himself. He turns to look at the door. Harcross is miles away, staring at the signing-in sheets. Other blokes are ambling back in, blokes that didn’t start early, blokes who aren’t sweating, blokes that never seem to rush. Either they have it easy or he’s fucking useless. He chucks his bag into his locker and makes for the door. 9.52. Eighteen minutes. Plenty of time if…
Webster’s waiting for him.
‘Nicely does it,’ says Webster. ‘Don’t sweat, son. One day you can kiss twenty-one walk’s backside and take your pick of something more leisurely.’
Finchy nods, tries to manoeuvre his way past.
‘Not so many single mums mind. Any luck yet?’
He shakes his head.
‘Fuck me,’ says Webster. ‘You’re a slow cunt at everything.’
Two other blokes are on the ramp, chugging at cigarettes, laughing when Webster laughs, bleating when Webster bleats. Fucking sheep.
He looks at his watch. 9.54 a.m. He doesn’t have time for this bollocks.
‘Fucking Wimbledon away,’ says Webster. ‘It’s a pity you haven’t got anything better to do.’
Is there anything better? At 3 p.m. on a Saturday? Anything better than an away day with the boys? A better place to be when the ball hits the back of the fucking opposition net? It’s better than sex. They’ve all long since settled on that.
The highest of highs.
And Webster’s being a cunt, pure and simple. Finchy can see the look in his eye, the poison.
‘I’ll be off then,’ says Finchy, dismissing the bastard. He jumps from the ramp, marches over the yard and out of the
red gates, not looking back, not giving Webster another chance.
‘2–0 to the Crazy Gang,’ shouts Webster. ‘Fashanu double.’
He shoots the cunt the finger, races across the street between the cars, up the alley that cuts through the terraces, to the station, arrives there with three minutes to spare. And they’re all there waiting, BJ, T-Gally, Jeff, Hopper, Stimmo, each with eight hours in the sack behind them and a full fucking brekky in their bellies, each spruced up for a Saturday in the smoke.
Cunts.