In Pieces (24 page)

‘No, it's nil nil.'

‘How's our guy Jimmy doing?'

‘Okay, okay. Hit the woodwork once, and he's had a busy game.'

But no goals and United really needed to win this match. All three points would give them an almost unassailable lead at the top of the Premiership. There would then be a strong possibility of them winning the mystical Double Double.

Most eleven-year-old boys and all professional players dream of winning the Double. A team achieves this on average about once every fifteen years (although it has happened more frequently in recent seasons than in the distant past). So, by a rough calculation, about one in half a million British males realises the dream, assuming there are no foreigners in the side—a rarity nowadays, so the odds against are likely to be even longer. But Jimmy might just become one of the few, realised Si. All credit to him. Then he would achieve his ambition of entering the soccer history books.

This thought made Si slightly melancholy. How would
he
achieve
his
ambition? What
was
his ambition? With a lost feeling, Si realised he had no clear idea. He'd drifted from college to journalism without a vocation. Chance seemed the only explanation for where he now found himself. It struck him that it didn't need to be like this; he could take control of his life. But how? By chucking in his job? Wouldn't the euphoria of freedom be short-lived, giving way to a realisation that he'd made a great mistake? He might become bored. And wouldn't he miss the money, the status that being a journalist on a national daily afforded? It would be difficult to come back after such a decisive break.

A terrifying abyss started to open beneath Si's feet. Was he just a coward, as Mary had once intimated? Someone who would just drift through life, weak, and with no direction. Or did he have the courage to try and impose some order on his fragmented life? Did he dare leap into the unknown, putting material and social concerns behind him? How did he know that when he landed on the other side life would hold any more meaning? The questions flashed like shooting stars across Si's dark consciousness. Long after the doubts faded in intensity, he continued to mull over the question of meaning. After all, he realised, that was the crux of the matter.

Ricky was settling down to watch the closing minutes of the match. ‘Hit it, you mother!' he screamed as a United player wasted an opportunity to shoot. It looked as if the game would end as a draw.

The commentator noted that a few people could be seen leaving their seats.

Unbelievable, thought Si. If I was there, no way would I be leaving. United matches were always so unpredictable—you never knew when they might score. And then it happened. Sharpe controlled the ball on the halfway line and chipped it forward to Jimmy. His red shirt was hanging out and Si noticed how bandy his legs appeared in the long white shorts. Jimmy took the ball cleverly on the outside of his boot and looked up. There were three Coventry defenders in sky-blue shirts between
him and the goalkeeper. To his right was Giggs, usefully placed to put in a cross. The safe option would have been to pass to Giggs, but Jimmy seemed to have a flash of intuition. He drew in one of the defenders, and just before he reached him, he slipped the ball into a gap on the left hand side of the penalty box. There seemed to be no one else there. But Jimmy's peripheral vision had spotted Cantona gliding ghost-like towards the box. Clearly, the Coventry players were not aware of the threat.

‘Oh Jimmy,' Si moaned as he watched his friend hit the ball into the empty space. But the words were hardly out of his mouth when Ricky shouted, ‘Great pass, beautiful!' Cantona appeared in yards of space, with an open path to goal. He gathered the ball and, cool as a
concombre
, slotted it into the net.

‘Gooooalll!!!' yelled Ricky, and he, Si and two thirds of the crowded pub leapt to their feet. The pub went wild for a few minutes. Many of those watching, the remaining third, obviously loathed United. Their glum faces told the story. But Si and Ricky were over the moon. A great goal, made by Jimmy.

‘Your guy, he's really great,' said Ricky after the match was over and United had established themselves firmly at the top of the Premiership. ‘I'd like to meet him sometime. You must introduce me when he's next down here. Or better, why don't we go to watch the next match, if he can get us tickets?'

‘Yeah, why not?' Si thought about it. He hadn't considered introducing Ricky to Jimmy before. They seemed like separate parts of his life, and he generally preferred to keep his life clearly compartmentalised. It was safer, and less complicated that way. But why not?

~

‘What's wrong?'

‘What d'you mean, what's wrong?' Jimmy slumped over his pint. ‘We lost. That's what's wrong.'

‘Oh that. Yeah, sorry. A bit of a disaster.'

‘Well, not a disaster,' said Jimmy defensively. ‘But certainly a setback. We're still two points clear at the top of the league.' He showed Si the back page of the newspaper in front of him.

 

 

‘Yeah, I suppose you are.'

Jimmy was in London for the day. The afternoon before he had played in United's 3-1 defeat by Southampton. A shock result. Some of the newspapers blamed the new additions to the team, such as Jimmy, for weakening the side and disrupting the rhythm.

‘I doubt I'll get picked for Wednesday.'

‘Yeah, course you will. You're a striker after all—it was the defence that screwed up.'

‘That's not what
The Sun
says. And we didn't exactly score a bundle did we?'

‘Mmmm…' Si hoped Jimmy would cheer up. After all, fortune had hardly neglected him recently; was his a footballing rags to riches story or what? But how quickly people take changed circumstances for granted.

‘I think the worst thing is that Newcastle won.'

‘Yeah, I see.' Newcastle, chasing United for the title, had closed the gap with a 1-0 victory over Aston Villa that afternoon. With three matches left it could now go either way, although United were still the bookies' favourites. Certainly, the title seemed destined to be decided on the last day of the season.

‘Bugger.' Jimmy slammed the table.

‘Cool it, man,' soothed Si.

‘Cool it? You sound like some American twat.'

‘Yeah, well, I've got this Californian mate. He says it a lot. I guess it might have rubbed off.'

Jimmy looked at Si suspiciously.

Si went on regardless. ‘Actually, I thought we might get him out for a pint next time you're down. He's a good bloke. You'll like him.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Is he an intellectual bugger like you? I don't think I could handle another.'

‘No, don't worry. He's a surfer.' Si refused to let Jimmy's obnoxiousness get to him. He'd seen his friend in these moods before. They were generally a pose designed to tell the world that he didn't give a damn.

Jimmy realised Si wasn't going to rise and grinned sheepishly. ‘Oh my God. A surfer. In London? Right… Well, why don't you bring him to the next match then, eh? And tell him to bring his board.' They both cracked up.

‘Yeah, right. Great.'

‘So what's his name then? The surfer.' And Jimmy laughed again at the thought of a surfer in London.

‘Ricky.'

‘Ricky?' mimicked Jimmy. ‘Grief. This is worse than I thought.'

‘Well, if you don't want to meet him…'

‘No, I was only joking. I'm sure he's great. Real cool, eh?' He looked straight into Si's eyes. After an awkward silence, they shared a smile.

‘So are you heading back up north tonight?'

‘No, I'm here until Tuesday morning. No training tomorrow.'

‘Right. Another drink tomorrow night, then?'

‘Yeah, it would be rude not to. After all, one or two won't hurt, will they?'

~

‘I'm just off down the shops. Do you want anything?'

Greta thought for a moment. ‘Pick me up some milk, will you? There's a sweet lad.'

‘Sure, no problem. I'll see you later.'

‘You'll be back for lunch, will you?'

‘Oh aye. I will. Best bit of the day.' They shared a smile. ‘Bye.'

Greta listened to the door click to, and then continued loading the kids' clothes into the washing machine. If only her mother had told her how much washing children generated, she'd surely have thought twice before breeding. But, she thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, her mother hadn't even turned up to her wedding. So expecting her to provide helpful maternal advice was asking a lot.

Greta sighed and stuffed the last bundle of soiled garments into the voracious machine's mouth. After slamming the door shut and turning it on, she straightened up and stretched backwards. The pain in her lower back wasn't getting any better. Old age, she lamented. She flicked on the kettle. Time for a coffee. These days she seemed to measure out her days in cups of instant coffee. Hardly an idyll, but, she chided herself, there were many worse off, and she really shouldn't be complaining.

The sky was overcast and the chill made the Sleeper snuggle deeper in his jacket. At the top of All Saints Road he looked about for Lenny. The bench was empty; a few straggling pedestrians made their way down the hill. A couple of drug dealers loitered in doorways—trade started early these days.

The Sleeper disapproved of drugs. He'd tried dope back home as a kid, but his mother had drilled into him the dangers of hard drugs—‘See what happened to your cousin Brendan,' she used to say sadly, and although he'd never known what had really happened to Brendan, whom he'd hardly known, the impression stuck. He thought Michael was probably into charlie. Once coming in from the pub, he'd heard Greta screaming something about coke being all to blame for their problems. But it wasn't any of his business, so he didn't pry.

Abandoning the idea of a quick chat with Lenny, he walked briskly to the newsagent. As usual, Jo stood behind the counter scowling at his customers. When he saw the Sleeper he nodded a welcome. ‘Now then, young 'un. How goes this morning?'

‘Great, Jo. Just fine and dandy.'

Jo looked surprised. ‘That's odd, 'cause what with your team getting thrashed at weekend, I thought thee'd be a bit down in mouth.' Thinly concealed pleasure broke through as he smiled mockingly.

‘Aye, I might have known you'd harp on about that. Well, even champions can't win all the time. And we had a weakened team you know. Lots of reserves and new players.'

‘Eeeh, lad, you can't have it both ways, you know. Only last week you were telling me how fantastic that new striker… What's his name?'

‘Jimmy Sweeny,' prompted the Sleeper patiently.

‘Aye, that's the one. Well, he was playing, wasn't he? So, don't be making excuses for 'em.'

The Sleeper relished his banter with Jo. It was rare that he was on the receiving end as Manchester United had been doing so well recently. Of course, Jo, as a Yorkshireman, hated United. ‘So, how did Leeds do?' The Sleeper knew the result of course: they'd lost one nil at home. But he wasn't going to miss the opportunity to retaliate.

Jo's face clouded over. ‘Bloody awful. Can't even win at Elland Road these days. Hopeless. I reckon they should sack the manager. Then buy a new team. It ain't like the old days… I tell you, when I used to go and watch them in the days of Billy Bremner, now, that was a champion team. They'd have walked all over your poncy Man U, no trouble.'

‘Dream on, Jo. Hey, I knew I came in here for something.'

‘Oh aye, can't be wasting the day, I suppose.
Courier
and
Irish Times
, as usual is it?'

‘Yeah, thanks, Jo.' The Sleeper counted out his change and gathered the newspapers—one for the Andrews and the other for himself. ‘See you, Jo.'

‘Not if I see you first, lad. Oh, and send my regards to that pretty landlady of yours.' Jo winked.

The Sleeper blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Yeah, course I will.' He waved a hand and left the shop as quickly as possible. Behind him he could hear Jo laughing at his embarrassment, a raucous, timbrous laugh brewed deep within that vast beer-invested belly.

He headed back towards home intending to pick up Greta's milk at the Seven Eleven.

Crossing the road by the church, he spotted Lenny. The tramp was lying on the low wall next to the graveyard, apparently asleep. The Sleeper wandered over. ‘You awake, then, Lenny?'

The whimper of a wounded animal emanated from the prostrate figure. ‘I'm dying.'

The Sleeper bent over his friend. ‘What's wrong?' Suddenly a thought struck him. ‘You been hit by a car, is that it?' Lenny was always vulnerable to being run over, swaying drunkenly on the kerb. ‘Don't you worry. I'll get an ambulance.'

A gnarled hand on his sleeve prevented him leaving in search of a phone. ‘No, don't do that. I've not been hit by a car.'

‘So what's wrong with you, then?' The Sleeper's concern was turning to irritation.

‘I knew it was a mistake. I've always kept to the lager before. Tried and trusted. I was a fool to drink it.'

‘Drink what? What did you drink? Meths, is that it? Ah, you stupid eejit.'

‘No, I didn't drink meths. Do you take me for an idiot? I've no desire to commit suicide. And you mind who you're talking to, young man.'

‘Yeah, sorry, Lenny. I'm just a bit concerned for you, that's all.'