Big and Clever (29 page)

The whole match seems to be taking place in the middle third of the pitch. Nobody's risking anything. Mackworth win a corner but only send four men up into our box and Jimmy Knapper claims the ball without any trouble. Up at our end, Leroy Lewton has a shot from thirty-five yards but it sails high and wide.

The tension is getting uncomfortable. A few of our fans at the back start a chant of
Come On Letchford
. Nobody joins in. Letchy The Lion is down at the front of the stand, kissing the badge on his shirt and raising his arms, geeing us up. It's a waste of effort. We're all too tightly wound. Nobody wants to sing. Nobody even wants to talk. I've not said a word to Ryan or Gary or anyone since half-time.

The timer ticks over to 69:00. Danny Holmes starts warming up. After a couple of minutes of sprinting and stretching, he's ready to come on. Leon Marshall makes for the dugouts and Danny jogs out into the middle.

Ryan shakes his head.

“It's a red-letter day,” he says. “Danny Holmes plays twenty minutes of a match. They'll be giving him a testimonial if he makes it to the end.”

Danny's immediately into the game. He takes a ball from Paul Hood on his chest and runs at the Mackworth defence, forcing a throw-in over on the right. A ripple of excitement goes through the crowd. Jeff Hawkins takes the throw, finding Danny Holmes again. Danny spins to his left, away from his marker, and starts weaving towards the Mackworth penalty area. Two defenders are blocking his path. Danny dummies to the left, does a step-over and falls on his arse. Straight away he's waving to the bench, clutching his face. He's tweaked something. Thirty seconds after coming on, he's finished for the night.

Ryan sighs.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” he says.

Danny Holmes departs on a stretcher. The game never really gets going again after that. As we head into the last ten minutes, we're back to extreme caution, the odd cynical foul and nothing in the way of goalmouth action. It's like the teams have signed a truce. They'll both be happy with a point. The crowd is hushed again. The only way the deadlock is going to be broken is if there's a piece of stupendous skill or an absolute howler.

And on eighty-seven minutes, Tommy Sharp provides that howler. A long, aimless punt heads towards him, twenty yards out from our goal. He brings it down, turns and knocks it back to Jimmy Knapper. Only Jimmy's come right off his line, Tommy's overhit the back pass, and the ball's bouncing into the corner of our net.

The Mackworth fans' celebration is so loud, I swear I feel the ground shaking. The cheering seems to go on forever, and even when it dies away, they're still going mad, stamping their feet, banging on the Perspex panels at the back of the stand, chanting
Going Down
,
Going Down
,
Going Down
. They're probably right.

In a few seconds, the atmosphere has changed beyond all recognition. The tension holding everyone back has evaporated and there's danger in the air. The hostility that's been bubbling quietly in the background has just boiled over in a big way. A huge surge starts on our side of the Kop, lads climbing over one another, trying to get at the Mackworth fans. The green jacket mob along the fence know they've got trouble, and they're linking arms, advancing forwards, trying to drive people back. A couple of boys are wrestled to the ground, dragged down to the front and led away, struggling.

Choruses of
Whyman Out
reverberate around. The stadium is emptying rapidly. People have concluded that the game is lost, and they've seen what's brewing behind the goal. The tannoy announcer is giving out warnings from the Safety Officer, pleading with people to calm down, but no-one's listening. The Mackworth fans are baiting us, singing
Who The Fucking Hell Are You?
, jumping onto one another's shoulders to flash wank signs. They're charging at the fence too, and one or two of them are breaking through the line of green jackets on their side, snarling at us, spitting, throwing coins and stones and cups of lukewarm coffee.

My body is suddenly filled with electricity. It's like all the tension of the evening has been charging me up like a battery, and now I'm up to full power. And if I don't find a way to release some of the voltage that's built up, I'm going to explode.

I look at Ryan. There's a sort of smirk on his face. Instinctively, I know what he's thinking. The result on the pitch isn't important. It's what happens outside that really counts. I remember all the stuff the Mackworth lads posted on the Internet. All those words.
Mackworth rule supreme over Letchford scum
. It'll soon be time to ram those words back down their throats. And I can't wait.

The scoreboard timer is showing 90:00. The fourth official has signalled there's only one minute of stoppage time. The Mackworth fans are whistling. The game is virtually over.

Ryan grips my shoulder.

“Now,” he hisses.

He doesn't have to explain what he means. I know exactly what's coming next. The NLLF is moving as one, bigger and stronger than ever, steaming up the steps and down through the concourse. I'm right at the front, Ryan and Gary next to me, Rob, Jerome, Jimmy and Scotty just behind. The police and stewards are lined up, bracing themselves, trying to hold us back, but it's useless. We're knocking them flying, charging through the exit gates, picking up momentum. We're unstoppable.

The Mackworth boys meet us head-on. There's even less time to think than there was after the Whitbourne game. Seconds after getting into the car park I'm grappling with a short-haired bloke in a black leather coat, turning him round, throwing him down. I step to the side, but the bloke in the leather jacket is back at me. He grabs my legs and I feel myself losing my balance. The next thing I know, my skull is bouncing off the floor and I'm staring up through a forest of bodies, blinking against the glare of a searchlight shining from a police helicopter clattering fifty feet overhead.

I spring back up, but my equilibrium is all shot. I can hardly hear myself think over the sound of the helicopter engine, and it's hard to stand in the down-draught of the whirling blades. Dust and rubbish is spiralling up into the air. Savage fighting is going on everywhere I look. I take a step forward and walk straight into a right-hander from a big skinhead in a green check shirt.

I've been hit before and I've quite enjoyed it, but this time I'm dazed and hurt and I'm starting to sense that something's wrong. There are too many Mackworth lads. More and more of them are pouring out through the exits. The whole Mackworth away support seems to be piling in. The NLLF is outnumbered and we're starting to cop a beating. I can't believe it's happening. This wasn't in the script. But it's happening all the same.

A few more seconds of coming off second-best and the NLLF army is scattering. Deserting. And wounded comrades are being left behind. Ten yards over to my right, Rob is down on the ground with two Mackworth boys kicking the shit out of him. Gary and Jerome have seen what's going on, but they're backing off, eyes wide. Jerome might be built like a nightclub doorman, but this is one dispute he's not going to try to sort out.

I start to head across, see if I can do anything, but the big skinhead hasn't finished with me. He grabs my head and pulls down, locking my neck between his elbow and his side. It feels like I'm trapped in a vice. My necklace is cutting into my skin like cheese wire. I'm coughing and spluttering, fighting for air, twisting my head side-to-side. There's a sensation like something snapping and then I'm free. I straighten up, putting a hand to my throat, feeling for my necklace, realising that it's gone. I feel cold. It's too symbolic. A link to Zoe, broken forever.

It's complete mayhem all around me. The police and stewards are everywhere, but they're powerless. The helicopter is no help at all. Riot vans are screeching into the car park, but it's too little too late. The Mackworth mob is rampant. They're roaming about in gangs, lashing out in all directions. They've done what they couldn't do in The Battle Of Southlands. They've come onto our patch and taken over. Rob has finally managed to get to his feet and he's running away across the car park, chased by a lanky Asian kid. Gary and Jerome have disappeared. I've not seen Jimmy and Scotty since the fighting started.

I'm just about the last Letchford boy standing and I'm in real danger now. Three Mackworth lads are heading straight at me, eyes filled with hate. The big skinhead, a bloke in a black coat and a smaller lad in a cream bomber jacket. Everything's spinning out of control. My heart is racing. My breathing is shallow. My palms are sweating. I've got the metallic taste in my mouth again. My body is tingling all over. I'm experiencing all the sensations that first got me hooked on Letchford, on the NLLF, but it's not bringing me any pleasure. It's not excitement. It's terror.

I look around for someone to help me out, to back me up. I'm just starting to think it's useless when I see Ryan. He's over by Gate 20. He's seen me, and he's seen the mob closing in on me. He looks me right in the eye and shakes his head. He's not bothered about the legacy of 1992 any more. He's saving his own arse. Leaving me to it. I've been betrayed. A split second later Ryan has gone and I'm under attack.

I've only really got one option. I duck down and start running. I head to the left, round the corner of the Main Stand and keep going, hurtling through the car park. I stop when I get to the main road, checking behind me, making sure I'm in the clear. It's looking good at first, but then the crowd parts and the three Mackworth lads come careering through, knocking people over like skittles.

In a flash, I'm off again, darting across the road and heading up to the right, aiming for the maze of passages through the Industrial Estate. It's a risky strategy. I'll be OK if I manage to shake the Mackworth boys off, but if I don't, I'll be fucked. I head right, left, right, trying to remember the route Ryan took us on after the Ashborough match. I come to another corner and spin through one hundred and eighty degrees, stumbling, nearly losing my footing, swivelling my eyes around, trying to see if I'm still being chased. I can't see anyone, but I can hear footsteps running, voices shouting, getting closer.

I put my head down and keep going, zigzagging along the metal walls of deserted factories and warehouses, desperately hoping that I'm not going to run into a cul-de-sac, almost praying that I'm on the right track. There are streetlights up ahead. As I come out between two buildings I realise where I am. Morrells is down to the left and the wasteland is in front of me. And on the other side of the wasteland is the main road, The Shakespeare, the bright lights, safety.

I stand still, holding my breath, listening for the sound of footsteps. In the distance I can hear the wail of sirens and the steady hum of helicopter blades. But no footsteps. I think I've escaped.

I start off across the wasteland. Fifty yards into the darkness and the churning fear inside me is starting to die down. Over on the main road, past the pylons, I can see the flashing blue lights of more police vans racing towards Southlands. A huge sense of relief is spreading through me, and I can feel my body coming down off red alert.

But then a fist cracks into the side of my head and I sprawl onto the hard muddy ground. A split second later, kicks and stamps are raining down on me. I haven't escaped at all. I stagger to my feet and try to run, but someone's got hold of me. A forearm smacks me on the bridge of the nose, punches start crashing in from all sides. I'm getting a proper working over. I'm dizzy, winded, feeling sick. I'm not sure how much more of it I can take. A foot sinks into my stomach, and then something thuds into my back, low down on the right.

Instantly, pain shoots up my side. Not a dull ache, like the pain from the punches and kicks, but a sharp, cold pain, like someone pushing an icicle into my body.

The arms that have been holding me loosen and let go. The three blokes disappear into the night and I'm on my own again. I sag to my knees. My head is starting to clear. My nose feels twice its normal size, my left eye is closing, but it looks like I've survived. I run my tongue along my teeth. They're all still there. That's good. The pain in my back and my side just isn't going away though. That's not good. I reach my hand round, gently pressing the area. It doesn't feel right.

Looking down, I see that there's something black and glistening, spreading around the leg of my jeans. As I take my hand away from my back, I see that whatever the black, glistening stuff is, it's all over my fingers now. Only it's not black. It's red. Blood. I've been stabbed.

I start to panic. I try to stand but my legs are gone. My body is beginning to feel numb. But it's not the sort of numbness that I felt at the police station, the numbness that kept me calm and helped me talk my way out of everything. This is bad numbness.
About-to-pass-out
numbness.

I scrabble in my inside pocket and get my phone out. I flip open the front. The screen is dead. The power was low at dinnertime. Now it's gone completely. There's no way to call for help. I'm at least a hundred yards from the main road. I look down at the leg of my jeans again. It's absolutely black. Saturated. The ground around me is coated in my blood, steaming in the freezing night air.

A million and one thoughts start tumbling through my brain. A horrible realisation is dawning on me. This is what the whole Letchford Town thing has been leading towards. I think of all the people who tried to stop me, warned me about the dangers. Dad. Raks. Zoe. Even Steve Fisher at The Shakespeare. I didn't listen to any of them. I just kept ploughing on and on, getting deeper and deeper, even though it meant lying to and letting down the people who loved me the most. I put Letchford Town and the NLLF in front of everyone and everything. And now I'm going to pay the price.