Big and Clever (26 page)

“So what about you?” Raks asks. “How's things with your dad?”

I bring the swing to a halt.

“We haven't really spoken to each other since Tuesday night. Probably just as well. Quite a lot of stuff was said.”

Raks nods.

“And how do you feel about it all now? You know, after the dust has settled?”

I shrug.

“It's just one of those things isn't it?” I say. “It's an occupational hazard, getting arrested. In time we'll look back at it and laugh, feel a bit nostalgic, like the lads at The Shakespeare do when they think about Italia 90 and The Battle Of Southlands.”

Raks looks uncomfortable.

“I feel a bit ashamed,” he says, voice low. “Like I've let my family down.”

“Oh come on. It's no big deal. It's just what happens from time to time when you do the sort of things we've been doing. It's a validation, really. And anyway, we were released without charge.”

Raks mumbles something under his breath. He twists his swing seat through three hundred and sixty degrees then spins back to his starting position.

“How's school been?” he asks. “Does anyone know about what happened?”

I laugh.

“Too right they do. It's the bush telegraph again. Word was right round the place by the time I got there on Wednesday morning. I don't know how it happens. It just does.”

“And what are people saying?”

“They love it. You wait till you get back. See the way everyone acts around you. We're heroes now.”

Raks shakes his head.

“Heroes for getting ourselves arrested? That's not right.”

“Get real,” I tell him. “You know how it goes. Have a bit of a brush with the law and people treat you differently. It's like you've got an aura. And here's the bit you'll like — the girls are well into it. Susie and Carly and all their mates. Nice girls like bad boys.”

Raks furrows his brow.

“But we're not bad boys,” he says. “We're good boys who've got ourselves into something we should have steered well clear of. It's all got to end.”

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing.

“You're joking aren't you? It's only just getting started. We can't let Ryan and the rest of the lads down.”

Raks goes quiet, thinking. I look across at the cricket pavilion, reading the graffiti. It's pretty crude stuff. Nobody's ever going to mistake it for urban art. Badly sprayed tags and random insults.
SARAH IS A SLAG. MARTIN SUX COX
. Beyond the pavilion there's a row of trees, abandoned crows nests dotted about through their bare branches, black against the slate grey sky. I swing sideways, gently bumping into Raks.

“Come on mate,” I say. “Don't quit on me. We're well on the way to being the top boys. We got a mention in the
Argus
and everything. No names, but when it said
nine arrests at Southlands
, everyone knew it meant us. Giving up now would be like selling a load of shares when their value is about to go through the roof. You do Business Studies. You know how stupid that would be.”

Raks sighs.

“Do you know why I told Zoe about last Tuesday night?” he asks.

“Not really.” I've not really had the time to think about it.

“It's because I knew you'd be like this. No regret, no remorse. I knew you'd ignore what the police said to you, what your dad said to you. I knew you'd just carry on like nothing had happened. I thought that she might be able to make you see sense.”

Things are slowly clicking into place in my brain.

“So you didn't send her round because you thought I needed to talk then. You sent her round to bully me into not going to Southlands any more.”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” Raks says. “It looks like I was wrong.”

“Well yeah.” I'm starting to get annoyed. “You were wrong. Until the law actually says I can't go and watch Letchford Town, I'm going to keep on doing it. Why shouldn't I? I'm in the clear. We're both in the clear. We were lucky, but we got away with it. I don't get what the problem is.”

Raks looks exasperated.

“No, that's right,” he says. “You don't get it. I mean, what did Zoe say when you told her you were still going to go to matches?”

I scratch my chin.

“She doesn't know. She's just assumed I've packed it in and I've not told her any different.”

Raks's mouth curls into a sneer.

“Oh, I get it. You're a big hard football hooligan, but you haven't got the bottle to tell your missus the truth about things.”

There's tension in the air now. He's narked and I'm narked. I decide to go for the jugular.

“So come on then. What are you saying? That's it? You're finished with the NLLF? Finished with Letchford Town?”

Raks nods.

“Exactly. I've had time to think about things. It's all wrong. It's not us. Well, it's not me anyway.” There's determination in his voice. He's not pissing around. He means it.

I try a different approach.

“You're a hypocrite. A few days ago you were right into this. Letchford. The NLLF. The Firms league. We sorted Whitbourne out. Do the same to Mackworth and we'll be top of the table. You understand what it all means. And now what? A bit of a run-in with the Old Bill and you give it all up? That's fucking sad.”

“Tom,” Raks says. “Even if I wanted to go again, I couldn't do it. My dad's banned me. He says no more Letchford games while I'm living under his roof.”

I laugh.

“My dad said the same thing. So what? I don't care what he says.”

Raks shakes his head sadly.

“You should respect your dad.”

I pull a face. It's easy for him to say. I brush my hand across my hair. I'm not having much success breaking his resolve. I try yet another angle of attack.

“So what about Friday night then? Mackworth at home. Imagine the tension. The nerves. The danger. Won't you be getting a bit of an urge then?”

Raks laughs.

“Friday night's out for you anyway,” he says. “It's
Oliver
, you daft bastard.”

I sniff.

“Raks. It's Mackworth. Do you honestly think I'd miss it?”

He looks horrified. He wasn't expecting this.

“But what's going to happen about
Oliver
? You promised Zoe you'd go, man.”

“Well, you'll be there won't you?”

“I can't go,” Raks says. “I'm grounded. In before five every night. But anyway, that's not the point. She's your girl. You've been together for years. How would you explain yourself?”

I shrug.

“I haven't thought yet.” It's true. I've just sort of blanked it out of my mind, assumed something will occur to me eventually.

Raks puts his hand on my shoulder. He looks deadly serious.

“Tom. You've got to go to Zoe's play. It's going to be bad enough when she finds out you're still going to Letchford games. Imagine the shitstorm if you miss
Oliver
to go to a match. She'll finish with you. You know she will.”

“Maybe.”

Raks tightens his grip.

“Look,” he says. “Letchford-Mackworth is live on Sky. You go to the show and I'll record the football for you. You could watch it on Saturday morning. I'll bring it round. Just avoid finding out the score until then.”

I rub my hands over my face. I take deep breaths.

“Raks, I see what you're saying, and I appreciate what you're offering, but it's pointless. I've got to go to Southlands. It's not just for the football. You know what I mean. I'll just have to face the music afterwards.”

He lets go of my shoulder. He's run out of patience.

“I don't understand you any more,” he says.

“You've turned into an arsehole.” He stands up.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I'm going to leave you to it,” he says. “This conversation's going nowhere.”

I shrug.

“Right. Suit yourself.”

Raks looks like he's about to go, but he's hesitating.

“I'll see you around then,” he says.

I glance up at him.

“Suppose so. Can I trust you not to blab your mouth off to Zoe about Friday night?”

“You needn't worry about that, mate,” he replies. “I'm saying nothing. If you want to fuck your life up, that's your business. But if I was you, I'd be thinking hard about things before I came to any decisions.”

Before I can say anything else, Raks is gone, marching away across the white grass towards the gate on the other side of the Rec. I stay sitting down, watching him go. Pretty soon he's out of sight.

I try to take a breath, but it's difficult. There's a lump in my throat. It feels like an era of my life has just come to an end. For a brief moment I'm struggling to hold back the tears, but then I get a grip of myself. I remember where I am. I remember who I am. And I remember I don't do crying.

I couldn't face getting the Preston's bus into college this morning. It wasn't so much that I didn't fancy the journey. It was just that I didn't want to stand outside the Bulls Head yakking away to Zoe about how much I was looking forward to
Oliver
this evening. It just wouldn't have been right. Because I'm not going.

It's not as if I haven't thought about it. To be honest, I've not really thought about anything else this week.
Zoe or Letchford Town? Letchford Town or Zoe?
Round and round in my mind, morning, noon and night. But the answer I'm coming up with every time, is Letchford Town. It's like tossing a coin and always getting heads. Letchford are playing Mackworth tonight. I have to go to Southlands. The guilt is churning me up inside, but there's nothing I can do about it. I don't even feel like I've got a choice.

Because I wasn't getting the school bus this morning, I had a lie-in and got the twenty past eleven number 84 into town. It's quite a walk to Parkway from Letchford bus station. Thirty-five or forty minutes. Sometimes it's nice to be out alone in the fresh air, having a bit of a think. Today, though, it's not doing me any good at all.

I'm trying my hardest not to go off the deep end, but there's no getting away from it. After tonight, a lot of things are going to be very different. If I go to Southlands, instead of
Oliver
, the shit is going to hit the fan in a big way. My relationship with Dad will hit rock bottom, if it isn't there already, and Zoe will probably never speak to me again. Don't get me wrong. I don't want it to happen. In an ideal world it wouldn't happen. But this isn't an ideal world.

According to my watch it's coming up to twenty-five to one now. The school building is just rolling into view up at the top of the hill. There are some roadworks on the bridge and I keep to the right, past the line of orange cones. Someone's chucked a
Men At Work
sign into the river. The top is just sticking out of the murky water. I shake my head and keep walking.

A couple of minutes later I'm coming through the Parkway gates and heading down towards reception. My mind's still churning away like a hamster on a wheel. It's the last day of college before the Christmas holidays, and judging from the broken eggshells and splashes of flour on the path and the grass on either side of it, there hasn't been too much in the way of academic endeavour going on during the morning.

I push my way through the main doors and go left across the foyer, towards the dining hall. Someone's put a Christmas CD on.
Step Into Christmas
is just fading out and
Walking In The Air
is starting up. I'm a bit of an authority on Christmas songs at the moment. I sat through an hour of them on
Top Of The Pops 2
a couple of nights ago. There was nothing better on. I scan around for familiar faces, but the place is rammed. Jimmy and Scotty are sitting in the corner, but they've not seen me. They're too busy dealing with the last minute rush on ropey blockbusters.

A lot of the teachers are in the hall today. Mr Dickinson's over on the far side, sitting with a group of Year Ten girls. Nita Parmar and Cassie Morton and a couple of others. He's in his
US ARMY
T-shirt again, and he's had his fin hairdo sprayed with silly string to show what a zany guy he is. Mr Gillespie has broken out in a replica Newcastle top. Mrs Wetherall is on her own, picking away at an orange Tupperware bowl of salad. Just to my right, Mr Green is sitting with Sophie Reed and Tanya Fielder. They're not friends. Someone's been shit-stirring again. It could just be the light in here, but they both look like they're about four months pregnant, which might go some way towards explaining what their problems are all about.

I head for the canteen to get something to eat. I grab a tray and I'm just about to tag myself onto the end of the line when I hear someone calling my name. I look up. Green Adidas top with yellow stripes. It's Ryan. He's near the front with Gary, Rob and Jerome, beckoning me over. I go straight across, jumping a good thirty places in the queue. I wouldn't have done that a couple of months ago, but nowadays I don't think twice. In any case, nobody complains. If they've got anything to say, they're keeping quiet about it.

“All set for tonight?” Gary asks.

I squeeze myself in front of two Sixth Formers and give Gary a half-smile.

“Yes and no,” I say.

Ryan looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

“Problems?”

“Kind of.” I leave it at that.

I push my tray along the runners, seeing what's on offer. The cooks have laid on some festive stuff today, slices of dry-looking turkey breast, stuffing balls and Brussels sprouts, but they're not finding many takers. I pick up portions of chips and beans and get myself a couple of sausages. I finish things off with a doughnut and a can of Coke and then I cut across to pay for it all. It's the usual woman on the till. She's got tinsel in her hair and baubles for earrings, but she's not looking any more cheerful than she normally does.