Big and Clever (14 page)

“There's something I was wondering,” I say.

Trev glances at me.

“What's that, then?” he rumbles.

“Well, if you lot are the proper geezers, the original LLF, then why weren't you at the Castleton match?”

Trev and Steve start to laugh. Dave is wheezing away like Muttley again. Chris is making his way back from the toilets. He starts laughing too.

“What?” I say, looking at Ryan. “What have I said?”

Ryan smiles.

“Let's just say that this lot are known to the Police around here,” he says. “And the coppers wouldn't be impressed if they found them in the crowd at Southlands.”

Chris has stopped laughing now. He sits down and takes a swig of his pint.

“You see me, Dave and Stevie Boy, yeah? We're banned from all Football League and Conference grounds until 2022.”

“Shit,” I say. “How come?”

“You've heard of The Battle Of Southlands, yeah?”

I nod.

“Well, a matter arising from the events of that afternoon led to one or two legal difficulties, yeah? I'll leave it at that.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“God, that's a bit of a bastard then, isn't it?”

“Mmm.” Chris stuffs a fag in his mouth and lights it, throwing the dead match into the ashtray. “I've been trying to convince this lot we ought to start going to tennis matches or lawn bowls, seeing if we can start some aggro there, yeah? But no-one's going for it.”

I laugh.

“So that's you, Steve and Dave. What about Trev?”

Dave leans forward. His gold identity bracelet jangles against the table-top.

“Oh, Trev's the real fuckin' naughty boy,” he says. “One of the ringleaders, they said in court. Trev has to report to the fuckin' Police station every Saturday afternoon during the football season, and on all other Letchford match days. Isn't that right Trev?”

Trev grins. Dave carries on.

“And that's not the whole fuckin' story is it, Trevor?”

I look at Trev and he shakes his head.

“Nah,” he growls. “I ran into a spot of bother at Euro 2000. Got arrested in Charleroi. Spent a bit of time in the Belgian nick. So now I have to surrender my passport whenever England are playing abroad.”

“Bloody hell,” Raks says. “So you're banned from all football. Domestic and international?”

Trev nods. Just for a second, his huge frame slumps forward. For the first time he actually looks a bit sad.

“Yeah. But I'll always have the memories.” He smiles, straightening up again, confidence instantly restored. Leaning back in his chair, he pushes his hand into his jeans pocket and brings out his wallet. Flipping it open, he pulls out a dog-eared photograph and lays it on the table, taking care to avoid the beer splashes.

Craning my head round, I look at the photo. It's five blokes, early to mid twenties by the looks of it. They're all in shorts and white trainers. Four are wearing red England tops and the fifth is in a white T-shirt with a bulldog on it and
These Colours Don't Run
across the bottom. They're all badly sunburnt. I squint, looking more closely, and then things start making sense. I recognise four of the faces. Trev, Steve, Dave and Chris. They're much younger and much thinner, but it's definitely them. The other face, I don't know. It's a big bloke, built like a brick shithouse.

Trev picks the photo up again. He coughs, clearing his throat.

“England versus Holland. Cagliari, Sardinia, June 16th 1990.” He recites the date like it's something that's indelibly etched onto his heart, like a special birthday.

Dave takes the picture from Trev and shakes his head, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Fuckin' hell,” he says. “What a day. Fuckin' Eye-tie police with rifles. Baton charges, tear gas….” His voice trails off and he shakes his head again.

“So was the match any good?” Raks asks.

Chris laughs.

“The match were shit. 0-0. Stuart Pearce scored a free kick right near the end but it were disallowed. The thing is though, it didn't matter, yeah? The day were about much more than just the football.”

Steve leans across, looks at the photo and then sits back again.

“And we had the big fella with us back then, too. Letchford's Top Boy.”

“So who was he, then?” I ask. I glance at Trev's picture again, assuming that Steve means the fifth bloke.

“Mickey,” Steve whispers. “Mickey Dawkins.”

I blink.

“Dawkins?” I say. “So he's…”

Ryan finishes the sentence for me.

“My dad.”

Nobody says anything for a while after that. I look across at Ryan, but he just stares at the floor. Trev puts the photo back in his wallet, and the wallet back in his pocket.

“You see lads,” he says eventually, voice deeper and growlier than ever, “that's what it's all about. Times like that, experiences like that. The Battle Of Southlands, representing Letchford at Italia 90, Euro 2000. Those were the days of our lives. There's not much else on offer when you're a dosser from Letchford. But those times, those memories, they'll stay with you forever. The LLF was something to have a bit of pride in.” There's real conviction in what he's saying. I swear I can see a tear in his eye.

Dave takes up the theme.

“And you boys are the next fuckin' generation,” he says. “It's a young man's game these days. You've got to carry the fuckin' torch for us now. We were the Letchford Lunatic Fringe. You lot are the New Letchford Lunatic Fringe.”

Spontaneously, everyone picks their pint up, slamming them together in the air above the table.

“Here's to the NLLF,” I say.

“The NLLF,” everyone echoes.

The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur. Trev and the lads keep us well supplied with beer while giving us a blow-by-blow account of the chequered history of the LLF. In their heyday they seemed to have had a run-in with every major firm in the old third and fourth divisions, not to mention a few skirmishes with the big boys in cup competitions. Scars on knuckles and eyebrows are pointed out. Dave shows us an indentation on the back of his head caused by a flying chair leg in a pub in Cardiff. Ryan's probably heard it all before but me and Raks are hanging on every word.

We're chipping in with more and more way-out accounts of what happened after the Castleton match. By the fourth or fifth telling, it's sounding like a scaled down version of World War Two. If Dave or Chris or anyone knows we're bullshitting though, they don't mention it.

By ten to three I've put away nearly four pints of Carling. It's easily the most I've ever drunk in one session. On an empty stomach too. I'm starting to think I could quite happily curl up into a ball and go to sleep in the corner of the pub, but it's not really an option.

“We need to think about getting back to Parkway,” I say to Raks. “We're going to miss the bus back to Thurston if we don't get a move on.”

Raks rubs his eyes, trying to focus. He shakes his head from side to side. I'm pissed but he looks shitfaced.

“What?” he says.

“Parkway. We need to get back to Parkway to get the bus. It's Thursday. I've got the Argus to deliver tonight.”

Ryan looks at me.

“I'm staying here,” he says. “And I don't think I'm going to bother with Parkway tomorrow. So I'll just meet you in the Café Rialt at about quarter to two on Saturday.”

I nod.

“Okay. One forty-five, Saturday.”

Ryan nods. He looks pleased with how the afternoon's turned out. We've not let him down in front of his mates. I'm pleased that he's pleased. It's a strange thing, but Ryan looks more at home here than I've ever seen him before. With Trev and the lads, he fits right in. It's like he's a middle-aged man trapped in a teenager's body.

I take a breath and stand up. My legs feel like they want to go in different directions. Raks starts levering himself out of his seat, steadying himself against the edge of the table. For a split second it looks like he's going to fall over, but Chris pushes him upright.

“Careful there, Raks lad, yeah?” he says.

Raks grins a pissed grin. Him and Chris have been getting on like a house on fire since their rocky start.

“See you then lads,” I say, looking at Trev, Chris, Steve and Dave. It takes a fair bit of concentration not to slur my words. “Good to meet you.”

Trev, Chris and Dave hold their hands out and I shake each one. As I turn towards Steve I notice that he's looking at me closely, tilting his head to one side.

“I've got to ask you mate,” he says. “Do I know you from somewhere? It's been nagging away at me all afternoon.”

I shrug, puffing out my cheeks. I'm pretty sure I've never come across him before, but it's hard to think with this amount of lager sloshing around inside me.

“Dunno.”

Steve shakes his head.

“I know your face. I'm sure I do…” His wispy little voice trails away and he furrows his brow, trying to make the connection in his mind.

I shrug again. There's nothing much I can say. I feel like I'm letting him down in some way.

“What's your surname?” he asks.

“Mitchell.”

Steve sits bolt upright. He clicks his right thumb and middle finger and points at me.

“I knew it,” he says. “Your dad's Tony Mitchell.”

I nod, surprised.

“Yeah. Tony Mitchell.
Hollywood Tony
.” Steve's smiling now, relieved to have made the breakthrough. All of a sudden he's speaking three times louder than normal. “I used to work with him at Morrells. Good bloke. You're the absolute spitting image.”

I stifle a laugh. Steve can't have seen the state of my dad recently.

“So how is he, your dad?” he asks.

“Oh, you know, he's surviving,” I say. “He's still not working. My mum died a few years back and he's been in a bit of a bad way.”

Steve runs a thumb down one of his sideburns.

“Shit. I'm sorry to hear that,” he says. “Still, you tell him Steve Fisher said hello.”

“Will do.” But of course I won't. It would take far too much explaining.

I'm about to start heading for the door when Steve puts his hand on my elbow. He's not finished with me.

“And Tom,” he says, voice dropping right down again, “you take care with this football violence thing. It's not for everyone. I've seen people get hurt. Fucking
badly
hurt.”

Before I can say anything, I'm interrupted by a burst of laughter from Chris.

“Give it a break, Steve. Don't start getting fucking sentimental. You're pissing about with him, yeah?”

Steve ignores him.

“You're just at the entry level now,” he says. “Cracking a few heads, that sort of stuff. It seems like a bit of harmless fun, yeah? The shallow end of the hooligan pool.”

I nod.

“Well, just be careful that you don't get pulled into the deep end before you're ready.”

I look into his face and I see that he's serious.

“OK Steve.” I nod again. “Thanks for the tip.”

Saturday November 18th. Kick-off against Ashborough Town is about an hour and a quarter away, and we're in the Café Rialt, sitting at the corner table, waiting for Ryan to turn up. I've got myself a Danish pastry and a can of Red Bull, and Raks has got himself a can of Coke and a plate of chips and beans again.

“He's late,” Raks says.

I roll my eyes.

“Don't start all that bullshit. He'll be here. You know what he's like.”

Raks shrugs and sticks another forkful of beans into his mouth. I take a swig of Red Bull and look around. The café is much busier than it was last time. It's three weeks nearer to Christmas and the rush is on. The buggy-pushing mums with their heaps of shopping bags are really out in force today. On my left, a fat family in matching Lonsdale sportswear are tucking into all-day breakfasts. On the next table along, an aggressive-looking woman in a long oatmeal-coloured cardigan is trying to feed a Greggs pasty to a kid in a high chair. A sign on the wall says
Customers Must Only Consume Food Purchased On The Premises
. It doesn't look like anyone's going to say anything.

I notice someone's left a copy of
The Sun
on our table. I flick through to the middle pages and find
Super Goals
, scanning through the League Two match previews.

Letchford boss John Whyman has no new major injury worries for the visit of high-flying Ashborough. Visiting boss Tony Jagger could be without defender Ady Samuel.

I put the paper down and look up. Ryan's arrived. He gets himself a bag of crisps and then comes across to our table, pulling his earphones out and sitting down next to me.

“Alright lads?” he says.

We both nod.

Ryan glances up at my hair, then across to Raks's.

“Another trip to the barbers?”

I laugh.

“Yeah. Expensive business, keeping your hair short. Got it done on a number one this time, so it should last longer.”

Ryan grins. He reaches over the table and pulls down the zip on the front of Raks's jacket. Raks hasn't got his replica shirt on today. Ryan's grin gets wider. He picks up his crisps and squeezes the bag until the top pops.

“So did either of you go to college yesterday?” he asks, pushing the first couple of crisps into his mouth.

Raks nods.

“Anyone say anything about Thursday?”

I sniff.

“Greeny had a go, said how concerned he was, all that bollocks. Nothing major.”

Ryan nods.

“I doubt Sankey'll say anything to me,” he says. “He's always happiest when I'm not there.”

I take another swig of my Red Bull and bite into my Danish pastry. It's not the freshest cake I've ever tasted.

“I felt dog rough on Thursday evening,” I say.