Big and Clever (13 page)

“Hands up who wants to go to French, then?” he says.

I check my watch. It's just after eleven, Thursday morning. The dining hall is starting to empty out. We're due in Room 42 in less than five minutes.

Raks leans back in his chair.

“I quite like French,” he says, stretching his arms above his head.

Ryan laughs.

“You just think you're in with a shout with Miss Amis.”

Raks grins. Miss Amis is fit.

“Paul Darwin reckons she's shagged one or two of the students,” he says. “So you never know.”

“Paul Darwin's full of shit,” Ryan says. “Anyway, we're getting away from the point. Hands up who really wants to go to French?”

“Well, I'm not too keen,” I say. I put my feet up on the edge of the table. I've got a suspicion that Ryan's about to suggest a spot of skiving. “What about you, Raks?”

“Dunno,” Raks says, shrugging. “Do you think we'd get away with missing it?”

“Well what do you think they'd do?” Ryan asks. “Send us to the Head? Smack our little bottoms?”

We all laugh. It's starting to look like we'll be giving French a miss.

I brush my fingers over my hair. It's been over two weeks since I had it cut now. It definitely needs another trim. Zoe won't be happy, but that's nothing new these days. We had another run-in last night. She said how she'd like it if I was a bit more caring and considerate. A bit more like Simon Matthews. I had to laugh at that. From the sounds of him, Simon wouldn't last two minutes at Parkway.

“So if we're skipping the next lesson, what are we going to do?” I ask.

Ryan brushes crisp crumbs off the table-top.

“There's some blokes I want you to meet,” he says. “On Thursdays they're down The Shakespeare. Well, they're there most days really, but I told them we might drop in today.”

“The Shakespeare?” Raks looks surprised. “Isn't that the rough-looking place near the Industrial Estate?”

“That's the one.”

“Shit. That's miles away. It's right on the other side of town. It'll take us ages.”

Ryan tuts.

“You lazy sod,” he says. “We're young lads. Not pensioners. A walk will do you good.”

Raks laughs.

“Who are these blokes at The Shakespeare, then?” I ask.

“Terrace legends, my son,” Ryan says. “Members of the original Letchford Lunatic Fringe.”

Raks and me nod. It sounds interesting.

“So are you up for it, then?” Ryan asks.

“Yeah,” Raks says. “Let's go for it.”

We leave the dining hall, heading into the foyer and reception area. We go out through the front doors as casually as we can, then set off up the path. Mr Sankey, Mr Khan and Mrs Flanagan are standing under a tree having a crafty fag. We go right past them but they're not paying any attention.

Up near the main gates, Ryan makes a sudden detour to the left, cutting across the car park. At first I'm not sure what he's up to but then I get it. Over by the caretaker's bungalow, next to Mr Dickinson's turquoise soft top, is Mrs Wetherall's VW. It's hard to miss it. It's bright yellow. Without breaking his stride, Ryan brushes along the driver's side. There's a scraping sound and he keeps going, arcing back round to join up with Raks and me again.

“Fuck,” he says, grinning. “I'm a right clumsy bastard. Look what I had in my hand.” He holds up a Yale key on a Letchford Town key fob.

I glance across at Mrs Wetherall's VW. A jagged black line has appeared across the width of the door. I laugh and shake my head.

“You're going to get us into some serious bother.”

Ryan shrugs.

“Maybe. But I told you she'd get hers one day, didn't I?”

We're right at the gates now. We have a final look around, making sure we've not been spotted, and then we go left, down the hill, over the river towards town.

Twenty minutes later we're in the centre of Letchford. It's quite busy. In the precinct, council workmen are shimmying up and down ladders putting up the Christmas decorations. The usual shabby stars and angel shapes in red and green light bulbs strung between the buildings. Glowing plastic icicles dangling from the ledges.
Letchford Borough Council. Working For You
. We cut through the Ainsdale Centre. Raks is getting twitchy in case he runs into his mum doing the shopping, but by the time we get to the back doors he's calming down again. We cross the car park and start heading out of town.

The side streets are deserted. There's just the occasional old couple shuffling along, sidestepping the wheelie bins and dogshit on the pavements. We keep going and pretty soon we're at the junction by the Industrial Estate. Up past the shops is The Shakespeare. It's a tall, red-brick building with a stained slate roof. The pub name is painted on the end wall in peeling gold paint on a blue background, and a concrete bust of Shakespeare himself sits in an alcove above the front door. A cross of St George flutters from a pole bolted next to him.

Instead of heading for the front door, Ryan leads the way through the car park towards another entrance.

“They'll be in the back bar,” he says.

We follow him round the corner. Over a low brick wall to our left is the
Family Beer Garden
. It looks like a prison exercise yard with picnic tables. We carry on along the back of the pub, coming to a brown wooden door with frosted glass panels. Ryan grips the handle.

“Come on then,” he says.

I hesitate for a split second, then follow him through the doorway.

The room is in near-darkness. In front of us is the bar, polished wood with brass beer pumps and drip trays. Three old men in donkey jackets are sitting on stools, nursing pints and peering at the TV bolted to a bracket up on the left. Horse racing. The barman is cleaning glasses with a white tea towel. He glances in our direction. If he's noticed that some schoolkids have just wandered in, he's not letting on. Looking around, I can just about make out that the walls are papered in burgundy and gold striped paper. The ceiling is high, with nicotine-stained plaster light fixtures. Dim bulbs give out a faint glow through the haze of fag smoke.

I look across at Raks and he looks back, raising his eyebrows.

“I thought you weren't allowed to smoke in pubs nowadays,” he says.

Ryan grins.

“Loophole in the anti-smoking legislation.” He nods towards the right hand wall.

Squinting through the gloom, I see there's a section knocked out of the brickwork with a sort of metal awning jutting out into the car park. I didn't notice it on the way in. It looks like a glorified serving hatch.

Ryan carries on.

“It's a bit of a piss-take, but technically this counts as a semi-open area, so you can still spark up.”

I laugh.

“Nice one.”

Ryan's scanning the room now, flicking his eyes over the groups sat at tables around the edge, heads buried in
The Sun
,
The Star
and the racing papers. He turns round with a smile on his face.

“Come on lads,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the corner. “They're here.”

Narrowing my eyes again, I can make out the shapes of four blokes sprawled around a circular table, piled high with empty glasses and bottles. They've all got short-cropped hair and suntans. Two of them are wearing golf jackets. The other two are in polo shirts. All of them are festooned with gold jewellery. My stomach flips over. These aren't young lads like us. These are heavy-duty geezers, blokes in their forties. Like Ryan said. Terrace legends. The funny thing is, though, I don't recognise any of them. You'd have thought we'd have seen them at the Castleton game, especially when it all kicked off, but they weren't there. I haven't got time to think of anything else though, because Ryan is already striding across the stained carpet, and his mates have seen him coming.

“Ryan, you little shit,” the biggest bloke shouts. It's meant as a compliment. He stands up and gives Ryan a bone-crunching handshake. He's virtually as wide as he is tall and his head seems to be joined direct to his shoulders. His hair's shaved so close you can see the ridges of his skull. This bloke really does look like a Mitchell. Phil and Grant's much bigger, much madder brother.

“Alright, Trev,” Ryan says. “How you been keeping?”

“Mustn't grumble,” Trev says in an 80-a-day growl. “Mustn't grumble.”

Two of the others stand up and more handshakes are exchanged. Listening in I hear that their names are Steve and Chris. The fourth man is still slumped in his seat. He's got a sort of Neanderthal look about him. Hair low on his forehead, jutting brow. He's missing a couple of his front teeth too. He downs a shot of whisky and slowly shakes his head.

“I'm fuckin' lost here, Trev,” he says. “Who's this little bastard?”

Trev coughs.

“You've met him before, Dave. It's Ryan. Ryan Dawkins.”

“Fuckin' hell,” Dave says, standing to attention by his chair as if a member of the royal family has just come into the room. He laughs nervously, a wheezing hee-hee-hee sound like the dog in
Dastardly And Muttley
. He brushes his hand across the stubble on his chin, wipes the palm on the front of his shirt and stretches out to shake. “Ryan fuckin' Dawkins. Fuckin' nice to see you, mate.”

While Ryan and Dave get re-acquainted, me and Raks exchange a glance. It looks like Dave's got a touch of Tourette's.

The formalities look like they're coming to an end. The blokes are taking their seats again. No-one seems to have noticed Raks and me yet. I'm starting to feel a bit out of place.

“Trev,” Ryan says, half turning so that he's not blocking us from view. “These are the lads I was telling you about. Tom and Raks. Good Letchford lads. Helped give the Castleton bastards a good kicking.”

Before Trev can say anything, Chris intervenes. Looking us up and down, he starts to laugh. He points a sovereign-ringed finger at Raks.

“You ain't serious? A Paki football hooligan?” There's astonishment in his voice. “Black lads, I can get my head round that, yeah? But Pakis?”

“Don't call him a Paki.” It's out of my mouth before I can think of the possible consequences. I glance across at Raks, but no emotion shows on his face. Ryan looks like he wants to say something but he can't get the words out.

Chris carries on. He's smaller than his mates, and the most aggressive looking. Judging from his flattened nose, he's carried it through on a few occasions.

“So how do you manage to get to the matches then Osama? You take time off from the Mosque, yeah?”

There's no answer to a question like that. Every thing goes quiet.

Steve seems a bit more sensible than the others, a bit less intimidating. His hair is marginally longer and he's got sideburns down to the angle of his jaw. He puts his hand on Chris's arm.

“Fucking leave it, Chris,” he says. His voice is soft and low, hard to hear above the clink of pint glasses and the beeping of the fruit machine.

Chris ignores him. He's warming to the task. His weasely little eyes are glinting with a primitive cunning.

“So they do burqas in club colours then, yeah? Nice veils with the club crest embroidered on them?”

Ryan's looking very uncomfortable now. He's shaking his head, rubbing his nose. I've never seen him like this.

“Chris…,” he says, but no-one's listening.

Raks gives a little laugh. More of a snort really. He must be crapping himself, but it's not showing.

“You know mate,” he says, voice low-key, “I can take my racial abuse as well as the next man, but if you must start all that bollocks, at least get the religion right. You're talking about Muslims. My family are Hindu.”

There's a horrible silence as Chris takes this information in. It probably only lasts a few seconds, but it feels like hours. I'm just starting to suss out the odds of being able to make it back to the door without a bottle sticking out of my head when Chris starts laughing.

“I like this lad,” he says. He stands up and thrusts his hand in Raks's direction. “I were only pissing about, mate. No offence intended, yeah?”

Raks grips Chris's hand and they shake.

“None taken,” he says. “It's just typical of us Pakis isn't it? Come over here, take all your jobs, and now we're taking over the football violence too.”

There's another silence, and then Chris laughs again. Raks has judged it just right. The ice has been well and truly broken.

Two minutes later we've all been properly introduced and we've moved to a bigger table under an oil painting of a Spitfire in flight and a hand-written poster on fluorescent green card.
Floor Show Stripers Every Fri Lunch 12-2
. I'm assuming it means
Strippers
. Steve has gone to the bar to get a round in, and Dave is demonstrating his party piece, punching holes through beer mats with his ring finger. He's managed it with one mat and two mats and he's just about to attempt three when Steve comes back with the drinks.

“Carling OK?” he asks, plonking a pint down in front of me.

I nod.

“Yeah, brilliant,” I say, although I'm not exactly a connoisseur of beers, wines and spirits. I've pinched a few cans of my dad's lager and necked the odd bottle of White Lightning behind the pavilion on Thurston Rec but that's about it. Two quick swigs of the pint and I'm already feeling a bit spaced out. It's fair to say the Carling is OK.

By the time I'm three quarters of the way down, there's a warm fuzziness spreading through me. Any anxiety from earlier on has melted away now, and I'm starting to feel right at home, confident enough to take the piss out of Dave when he retires hurt from his attempt to puncture three beer mats. I look around the table at Trev and the other lads, and the thought that crossed my mind earlier starts to nag away at me again. Why haven't I seen them at Southlands? Before I can consider whether or not it's a good idea to ask, I've already put my mouth in gear.