Rule of Night (10 page)

‘Jan,' Kenny says, coming to his senses, and overpowers her with a brutal kiss that shuts off the breath in her throat. His tongue is in her mouth, probing, insistent, tasting her saliva; and with her mouth inside his she finds herself struggling for air.

‘Kenny—'

‘Come on.'

‘Wait—'

‘Come on!'

Before she can draw breath his lips and tongue are working on hers, hard and insensible, until she is smothering in his embrace. There is no escape. His hands begin their search for her breasts, encountering the stretch-nylon and the thin cotton cups and the small pink nipples whose response to his caress is guarded and unsure, eager and yet cautious and not fully awakened. His other hand goes between her legs, rummaging past her coat and under
her skirt to locate the place where his hand can slip down her tights and across the firm young belly, warm beneath his fingers, towards the hidden cleft that it is imperative to reach. They stand awkwardly in this position, their mouths clamped together, both his hands engaged in foraging operations. Struggling for air Janice finally manages to break away.

‘Kenny!'

‘Uh?'

‘Kenny.'

‘What's up?'

‘Not here.'

‘What?'

‘No.' She succeeds in removing one of his hands, the other still holding her breast.

‘What's up with you?'

‘Me coat's getting all dirty.'

‘So what?'

‘It's for best.'

‘Oh, bloody hell,' Kenny says with mock tragedy. ‘Her best coat's getting dirty. Oh I am a bad boy. Oh chop me hands off.'

‘It isn't that.'

‘It isn't what?' Kenny says, looking at her in the darkness.

Janice swallows. ‘That.'

‘That what?'

‘That.
You know.'

Kenny doesn't know what she's talking about. ‘I don't know what you're on about.'

‘I don't mind you doing
that
,' Janice says in a rush, ‘but not here.'

‘Oh.' The penny drops. He doesn't say anything: it's up to Janice to make the next move. She buttons her coat and they walk along the rutted track towards the main road, leaning against each other. Near the flat where she lives Janice says: ‘There's a light on.'

‘Your mother's all right,' Kenny says reassuringly.

Suddenly they hold one another very tightly, and Janice has the feeling she had that night they ran down Sandy Lane past the cemetery, her heart in her mouth, almost sick with excitement. Fluids gurgle in some mysterious part of her anatomy and she can't seem to quite catch her breath. Her hands are cold and in comparison Kenny's large rough paws feel to be on fire.

Mrs Singleton is alone in the flat watching a play on television.

‘Where were you today?' she says as Kenny dumps himself in an armchair.

‘Short of brass,' Kenny says, sprawled out.

‘You're always short,' Mrs Singleton says, puffing on a cigarette. ‘I don't know. What with the amount you earn, you should be rolling in it. When I was your age we didn't have two ha'pennies to rub together.'

Kenny cocks his head on one side. ‘Did they have ha'pennies when you were young, Vera?'

‘No, beads,' Vera Singleton says. ‘Cheeky bugger.' She blows a gust of smoke into the air and stubs out the cigarette in a full ashtray. ‘Are you making this lad a drink, Janice?' she calls to her daughter; there's the sound of gushing water from the bathroom. Then to Kenny: ‘Are you hungry?'

‘Depends what for,' Kenny says stolidly, sunk in the chair.

Vera Singleton raises pencilled eyebrows above mauve eyeshadow. ‘You're all the same, you fellas. Your belly and the other thing, that's all you're bothered about.' She lights a cigarette with an expensive-looking lighter; then as an afterthought throws a cigarette to Kenny. ‘How's your mam keeping?'

‘All right.'

‘She still bingo-ing?'

‘Aye, silly cow. Throws money away hand over fist.'

Mrs Singleton sucks the smoke into her lungs with a sharp
intake of breath, already the end of the cigarette covered in lipstick. Her face is heavy, over-ripe, with the powder settling into the cracks and lines that radiate from her eyes and mouth and down either side of her nose: too many late nights and too much Guinness have robbed the skin of its bloom and tautness, and the dragging inertia of approaching middle-age is pulling wearily at her features so that it requires constant animation to keep the truth from showing. Her body is packed solid, like an overstuffed cushion: she seems constrained inside the clothes she wears as though at any moment something is going to burst and spill its contents over the rug. And yet you wouldn't describe her as fat; well-built, ample, a shade overblown perhaps. Janice comes into the room, a slip of nothing in her school blouse and grey pleated skirt. ‘Do you want a drink?' she asks Kenny quietly.

‘Not bothered,' Kenny says, looking straight at Janice, whose colour deepens as her eyes meet his. Kenny gnaws at his fingernails and his eyes flick back and forth from her face to the passage leading to her bedroom. Janice frowns and shakes her head slightly, and behind her mother's chair motions him to be patient. In the middle of this Mrs Singleton turns round.

Janice blushes and clears her throat. She says, ‘Do you want a drink, mum?'

‘What's up with you?' Mrs Singleton says. She looks annoyed. ‘I can make my own drink, thank you.' There is a brief silence. ‘Well?' she says. ‘You haven't brought the lad back at this time of night for a cup of cocoa.'

AT THE ROCHDALE V BLACKBURN ROVERS MATCH ON THE
8th December there was a crowd of 5,116, the largest gate of the season so far. Kenny and Janice and the others had been in position behind the goal since two-thirty – half an hour before the kick-off. Kenny wore his blue-and-white striped scarf knotted onto his belt so that it hung down nearly to the ground. At the other end of the pitch the Blackburn Rovers supporters in their striped scarves and bob-caps were massing: a sea of heads and upraised arms spilling out of the low stand and down the concrete terrace. Already the police had been in and removed three of them, to a chant of ‘Ani-mals! Ani-mals! Ani-mals!' from the home crowd.

It was a clear blue brilliant day, a sharpness in the air, perfect for football, the green turf stretching smooth and neatly trimmed in the sunshine, and the breeze ruffling the corner flags. Queues formed at the refreshment stands, waiting for Oxo and sweetish coffee in plastic cups and hot meat pies wrapped in soft absorbent squares of paper. Under the metal gantry in the main stand the directors filed into the box, muffled to the chin in bulky suede jackets lined with sheepskin and double-breasted camel-hair coats. With ten minutes to go the police had stationed themselves in front of and amongst the crowd, nodding to one another while they kept a careful watch on the pockets of potential aggression; the Rochdale and Blackburn supporters were known to hate each other's guts, having clashed at previous games both on the ground and in the streets of the town.

‘We hate Nottingham Forest.

We hate Liverpool too.

We hate Man. United…

But Rochdale we love you!' sang the crowd to the tune of ‘Land of Hope and Glory', followed by the chant and counter-chant:

‘Rochdale…'

‘SHIT!'

‘Rochdale…'

‘SHIT!'

‘Rochdale…'

Kenny and Janice were in the centre of a tight swaying mob about fifty in number, stabbing their arms upwards in time with the chants, an action that was dismissive of the away supporters and at the same time an overt threat. Fester, in-between surges, was drinking from a pint can of Long Life, the pale liquid gushing from the triangular slot – some of it, due to greed, missing his mouth and running down his chin and soaking into his crewneck sweater.

‘Give us it, Fes,' Crabby shouted.

‘Get your own,' Fester said, gulping beer.

‘Tight bugger.'

‘Sod off.'

A paltry cheer rang out as the home side ran into the sunshine, the smell of embrocation wafting on the breeze. They danced and jigged on the turf, testing their limbs like mechanical dolls released from a dark box under the stairs. Then a greater cheer as the opposing team trotted on to the field, rattles crackling like toy machine-guns, and moving bands of colour as the Blackburn supporters held their scarves aloft between outstretched arms, swaying to and fro, from left to right, their cries deafening the boos.

‘Rov-
ers
! Rov-
ers
! Rov-
ers
!'

‘Wait till half-time,' Arthur said sourly.

‘They brought at least ten coaches with ‘em,' Skush said.

‘So what?' Crabby said with heavy bravado. ‘Rochdale lot could beat them any day. Eh Kenny?'

Kenny just grinned, the strong silent man of action, confident that he could out-punch, out-kick, out-stab, out-maim anything
wearing a Blackburn Rovers scarf. Despite the cold (and it was only a few degrees above freezing) he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up tightly to the elbows and a vee-necked pullover: his neck and arms were pink and his lips were white, turning gradually to blue at the edges. With one arm he held Janice to him, their thigh-bones pressing hard. She was his girl; he felt strong with her beside him: the pride of possession and the smug knowledge of sexual conquest and the fist-clenching tenseness of the coming confrontation all mixed up inside him, generating a fever in the blood. It was good to be alive, the crowd surging forward to press against the barrier, the feeling of being packed tight amongst many bodies – and across the field of battle, the Enemy – a bond of antipathy joining the two camps that was almost a tangible force, something palpable in the air spanning the pitch.

A scuffle broke out down in front of them, directly behind the barrier, and the police moved in and hauled a youth head-first on to the red shale track, his shirt having been pulled out of his trousers and his braces dangling. He flailed with both arms but they pressed his head into the ground and dragged him away by the scruff of the neck. The crowd behind the goal seethed, like a large formless sea creature slithering about on the steps of the terrace, and the chant went up:

‘Hooli-gans! Hooli-gans! Hooli-gans!'

Somebody threw a toilet-roll which uncurled in a fluttering yellow streamer and caught itself in the netting. At the other end the Blackburn supporters were cheering an attack.

‘Have they scored?' Janice said, craning to see.

‘I don't know,' Kenny said. ‘Come on.'

He pulled her through the crowd.

‘Where we off to?'

He didn't answer, holding her firmly by the hand and dodging through the spectators scattered thinly near the corner flag. A roar went up as they went behind the stand; they were on a narrow
dirt-path, a brick wall to their right and on their left the grassy bank sloping down to the fence which encircled the ground. Kenny pressed his cold nose into her warm neck and Janice slipped her hands under his pullover. He could feel her trembling.

‘What's up?' Kenny asked her. The gentleness in his voice came as a surprise.

‘Cold.'

‘Get away.' He curved his hand and held it to her breast. ‘You've got great tits.'

Janice felt herself blushing, but at the same time his tenderness and solicitude pleased her; compliments from him were so rare and unexpected. Behind the wall at their backs the crowd moved restlessly, the roars and groans rising and falling in a continuous rhythm, seemingly for no reason. Kenny was feeling randy; he stood with his pelvis thrust forward so that the hard lump in his jeans would press into her. He moved his hips in a grinding motion.

‘Can you feel that?'

‘Yeh,' Janice said, the word so soft as to be lost in her breath.

‘Do you like it?'

‘Yeh.' Softer still.

Immediately she said this it became harder still and stuck out as far as his clothing would permit, and the blood-red mist glimmered behind his eyelids. He could have ripped her dress off, unzipped himself, and pushed it up then and there. Janice said:

‘Oh Kenny don't.'

‘You like it, don't you?'

‘Yeh.'

‘Well then.'

‘It's no use here. You know we can't do owt.'

Kenny held her wrist. ‘Put your hand here.' Obediently, like a good little girl, Janice pushed her hand between the two of them and felt him. ‘Fuckinell,' Kenny said, shutting his eyes. Janice was
breathing loosely and yet it was as if there was something binding her chest and preventing her from drawing in enough air.

Five lads were coming along the cindery dirt path towards them, walking in single file. Their heads were shorn and their trouser-bottoms ended just below the knee, leaving several inches of sock exposed; they wore scarves in their belts, which Kenny recognised as Bury colours; Bury were playing Swansea at home, so why they should be here he couldn't fathom – unless they'd been barred.

The one in front wore a bowler hat several sizes too small for him and had make-up on his eyes. Kenny thought: Another bunch of yobboes been to see
Clockwork Orange
. He pressed closer to Janice to allow them to pass, her hand still trapped down below. The lads went past, each lad staring into Janice's face as he did so. Kenny could feel their eyes on the back of his neck, like the burning sensation of the sun through a magnifying glass as the five stepped round him. The last one made a remark, which was enough.

The other four stopped, came back, and were all around. They had been short of an excuse, that was all, and none but the last had been bright enough to think of one.

‘After tomming it were you Charlie?' one of them said.

‘Rochdale lad,' said Bowler Hat, plucking at Kenny's pullover.