MORE THAN a GAME

by Sylvester Young

  Because Horace and Frank had been away the previous Saturday, Mervyn Palmer turned up at the barber shop on Tuesday morning with his blackened dutch-pot of cow-cock soup as well as that morning’s edition of the Daily Mail. He sat in his usual chair in the corner and, raising his voice above the buzz of Horace’s razor, gave the customers his take on events as they waited for their turn. None of Mervyn’s comments provoked much of a reaction, except for a few grunts, as the majority of the men waiting for a haircut were feeling resentful that Mervyn did not have to concern himself with whether the double-your-money scheme was genuine or not. He’d had the cheek (or feistiness as Jamaicans call it) to win thirty-five thousand pounds and get himself on the front page of the Express and Star, and now to sit there and go on as if nothing had happened. The very least he could have done was to head to his local (which he had avoided since he’d found out he’d won) and buy everyone two or three rounds of drinks. Of course, if Mervyn had mentioned his pools win at all they still wouldn’t have talked to him because then he would have been showing off. If Mervyn was aware of the hostility he didn’t let on and continued to read out loud to amuse himself, if no one else.

  Mervyn’s chuckling was getting on everyone’s nerves more than usual and Frank Grant took it upon himself to bring it to a halt. ‘Oi, Mervyn,’ he said, while sweeping away the fresh cuttings from the red lino floor, ‘Are you puttin’ any money into dat double-your-money ting?’

  ‘An’ wha’ dat?’

  ‘You nah ’ear? De coolie who runs de unnertakers in Sweetman Street, him bringin’ in coffins from hIndia an’ anyone who can raise a t’ousand will get two t’ousand back.’

  ‘Nah, me nah ’ear.’

  ‘Well it’s your son who’s collectin de money.’

  ‘Desmond? Ras … clart, if it anyting to do wid him, me seh it mus be a skank.’ He saw the glances exchanged by those on both sides of the argument and went on, ‘You know me sent him to Jamaica an’ mi brodda seh him never know a pickney so bad. Dem beat him, you see, but dem couldn’t beat de badness outta him. Desmond don’t tell me ’bout it ’cause him know me would run im clart if him did.’ The mere mention of Desmond put Mervyn in a sour mood but at least he’d stopped laughing to himself and annoying everyone. In fact, he said nothing much until lunchtime when he announced to Horace and Frank that he would prepare the soup. ‘Man, dis stuff good, me-a tell unno,’ he said referring to his dalliance with Marcia Yuell. ‘It strengthens a man’s back for true … Me found hout de odder night dat me still like a li-on.’

  He was a bit disappointed that when his laugh faded neither Horace nor Frank had bothered to ask for any details about his so-called night of passion. He went downstairs to the small kitchen to heat up the soup, muttering to himself as he went. Both Horace and Frank had other things on their minds. They had heard only snippets of what had gone on after they left Nottingham and were still wondering how many of the squad would turn up for training at the YMCA later on. Three of the players had been picked up by a patrol car as they walked along the A5 in the early hours of Sunday morning, while heading in the direction of home. Horace had spent most of Monday ringing around but had still failed to make contact with nearly half of his squad. His feeling that something bad was going to befall his team before the cup final had grown stronger by the hour. He thought he was about slide into depression until he heard the news that Aston Villa was interested in Ian Beckford and not his brother Mark. Ian may have had more potential but Mark was still his best player – and he knew for a fact that both of them had safely returned to Wolverhampton.

  The other thing on the minds of Horace and Frank was the double-your-money scheme. It had caused some friction between them as Frank, like Mervyn, was still of the opinion that it was a skank, despite Horace ringing Steve Patel to ask if it were true that he was bringing in a shipload of coffins from India in the next couple of weeks. Steve confirmed that he was but had refused to let Horace in on the deal directly and said that he’d made an agreement with Nestor and Desmond that they would get a cut if they could raise a certain amount of money. ‘And if you can’t give me a number with six digits, Horace, we will have to do business through Nestor and Desmond. Thanks for calling.’

  ‘See?’ said Horace, ‘Nestor an’ Desmond would not skank us.’

  ‘Okay,’ replied Frank, ‘you ’ave it your way but me nah give dem my money.’

  Besides young Ian Beckford, it was no coincidence that those who turned up first for training at the YMCA were the married members of Sabina Park Rangers: Norman Longmore and Audley Robinson. Horace had rung around and left messages with various girlfriends and baby-mothers, at three and four numbers in some cases, to try and make sure that there would be a good turnout. Mostly, the young women had not seen the men Horace was leaving the messages for and he spent a lot of his time being on the receiving end of a good deal of vexation. The phrases ‘good fe nutten’ and ‘wukless’ featured frequently and Horace felt it inappropriate to counter that the young men were at least good for something on the football pitch.

  Nestor Riley arrived in his work clothes again. It was clear that his season had finished as far as he was concerned due to his send-off in the semifinal. He told Horace that Desmond was still working and was at the Royal Hospital collecting a ‘customer’ as he spoke. ‘So, ’ave you the dunsai?’ he asked.

  Horace did indeed have the dunsai, two grand’s worth of dunsai to be precise. There was a moment’s hesitation before he finally forced himself to place it into Nestor’s hand. The money disappeared so fast that it could have vanished down one of Nestor’s sleeves. In all his dealings over the years, it was one lesson Nestor had learnt quite early on: never flash the cash. He produced a small receipt book and took time to carefully insert the blue carbon paper in between two pristine white sheets. ‘Mr Hector McIntosh,’ he mumbled as he wrote, ‘received the sum of two t’ousand pounds … Wid tanks an’ praise.’

  ‘So when are these coffins landin’?’ asked Horace, while silently praying he had not just blown his hard-earned money.

  ‘Nex’ week. They’ll go to a warehouse in Birmingham; get sorted an’ then go out to customers Steve ’as lined up, right. So in about a fortnight’s time me come see you an’ give you this money back an’ anodda couple-a weeks me come see you again an’ same ting.’ When Horace still wore a worried frown Nestor added, ‘By that time you’ll be manger of the cup holders, yeah?’

  ‘Me hopin,’ replied Horace, still thinking about his money.

  Norman Longmore and Audley Robinson then came over. At the last moment they had decided against giving Nestor a thousand pounds each and thought it best to give a grand between them. ‘An’ wha’ dis?’ asked Nestor in a voice that shook with disdain. These were the two that were only too ready to dismiss his idea and now they were creeping back with a miserable five hundred a piece. ‘Minimum a t’ousand.’

  ‘Dat’s a t’ousand, spar,’ said Norman.

  ‘A t’ousand each, man. If me let you do this, there’ll be ten people comin to mi yard sayin they ’ave a hundred each an’ that meks a t’ousand. If you want in, come in but it’ll cost you the hadmission fee, right? A t’ousand pound me-a talk. Seen?’

  Norman and Audley trotted back to their bags and after the briefest of conversations came back with another thousand pounds. When Courtney Wright arrived he had fifteen hundred; Buckshot Pinnock had brought three grand. Carl Hooper brought his three-legged dog and five hundred. Nestor didn’t feel able to refuse and told Carl, as a favour, that he was putting his money in with Courtney’s to keep things simple, and rewrote Courtney’s receipt. He wouldn’t call Mark Beckford’s non-appearance a disappointment as he had already said he wouldn’t have the money until later on in the week, but Cecil Grant certainly was a letdown when he turned up. He made a great show of slapping a brown envelope into Nestor’s hand, as he knew how many of his team were looking on hoping to see that he too was in the scheme. By the weight Nestor could tell that eith
er the money was in larger denominations than the Bank of England recognised as legal tender, or that Cecil was only putting in the minimum amount. ‘’Ow much?’

  ‘A t’ousand,’ answered Cecil.

  Nestor was doing his best to keep his smile in place for the benefit of the onlookers. ‘Cha, man, me thought a guy like you would be good fe ten times that.’

  ‘Recession, ole man. Beanie reckons he might raise two by Thursday.’

  Nestor felt hot and uncomfortable as he wrote out Cecil’s receipt, as he had been counting on him producing a lot more. A week before he thought it would be impossible – but even though he now had ten grand in cash in his pocket, he could only feel disappointed. He would have been feeling something other than disappointment if he knew Cecil had got together with Beanie and had decided that this was just too good an opportunity to miss. But they had no intention of putting in their own money – except for the minimum amount so as not to raise suspicions about what they were really up to. It seemed obvious to the pair of them that those who were involved at the Wolverhampton end of the operation were hopelessly out of their depth, and they should take any proceeds off them before someone else did. To Cecil and Beanie, Desmond and Nestor were only mere youths; and Steve Patel was not the sort to survive in the nasty, double-dealing world of illegal drug importation. He’d had a privileged upbringing due to his father’s chain of stores and spice importing business, which had funded his private education at a posh school on the Penn Road. During the evenings, after homework, his father had insisted that Steve (whose actual name was Anil) help out at his shop on the Newhampton Road so he would get to learn the business. It was there that he had met Nestor Riley and Desmond Palmer. Steve liked the way they would stop and chat, even if they were filling their pockets at the same time. Later on, as he grew more resentful of his father, Steve gave them a small proportion of the stock every time they called. With profit margins being so tight, it wasn’t long before the Newhampton Road shop became a loss-maker and so his father moved him out and put his cousin in – along with an expensive CCTV system.

  Horace McIntosh, normally not a man for cussing, began to utter several bad words as the JA City netball players left the court. So few of his squad had turned up that he could not even have them play five-a-side. He was wondering out loud how many of them realised how big a game the cup final was, not just for Sabina Park Rangers but for black players in general, when a young Rasta bounded towards the court. From a distance it looked as though he had a black octopus hitching a lift on his head but as he got nearer Horace could tell by his expression that he was the bearer of bad news. ‘Audley!’ he gasped, ‘come quick. Babylon ’ave your brodda!’

  12

  A large and noisy crowd had gathered outside the Dunstall Road police station. From the steps of the main entrance, a couple of dozen cops looked on from behind their riot shields. In one masterful stroke, the cops from Birmingham had managed to bring most of the young black population of Whitmore Reans out onto the streets with the arrest of Devon Robinson. It was obvious to the cops that if they allowed this misdemeanour of riding a bike on a pavement to pass, Devon could well be committing more serious crimes by the following week. And, of course, the cops just ‘knew’ that the bike had to be stolen.

  Devon had continued to cycle as the police van pulled up alongside him, and did not react kindly to being referred to as ‘Sambo’. His failure to comply with the order to stop had the driver mounting the van onto the pavement and colliding with the rear wheel of Devon’s bike. As he rolled on the ground, Devon was more concerned about his buckled wheel than the cops, who were already swarming from the van. Following the riots of the previous year, particularly as reported in the tabloid press, the young black man had been depicted as very dangerous, so therefore it was only reasonable for eight cops to descend upon Devon with truncheons drawn. Rumours were circulating that Devon was lying dead in a cell, or at least had been very badly injured and a few at the edge of the crowd had already left to get petrol and find some empty milk bottles as Horace pushed his way through to the front. ‘I wanna see Chief Inspector Forbes,’ he shouted at the cops on the steps. ‘Someone go tell him Horace McIntosh wants to talk to him right now.’ Close up he could see the fear in the policemen’s faces. As yells of ‘sell-out’ came up from the crowd at his back, Horace shouted out, ‘Get me in to see Devon right now or dis ting is gonna get outta hand.’

  A cop to the rear went inside and within seconds he had reappeared and ordered those in front of him to let Horace through. Chief Inspector Forbes was waiting in the foyer. He knew of Horace and Sabina Park Rangers FC and immediately bestowed upon him the title of ‘community leader’, which was unknown to most black people in the town at that time (and used by almost none.) ‘Good to see you, Horace,’ said Forbes, as if they were friends. ‘I need you to go out there right away and tell those people to disperse. Reinforcements are on their way and a lot of people could find themselves arrested fairly soon if they don’t move away from here.’

  The naivete of the request brought about a deep, dismissive chuckle from Horace. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘if you’ve gone crazy then I haven’t. De only way people are gonna move is when dem see Devon Robinson come out wid me.’

  ‘That cannot happen, Horace, he’s being processed at the moment.’

  ‘Process him tomorra, I’ll bring him ’ere miself. Word is out dat de police ’ave either hurt or killed him. If none-a it true then let him walk out wid me … Now ridin a bike on de pavement ain’t worth dis whole ting blowin up.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  Horace sucked at his teeth in exasperation. ‘T’reat? Man, look out there, dat’s de t’reat. You really tellin me you can’t let tings cool down an’ sort dis out in de mornin?’

  After a moment or two of rocking on his heels the policeman said, ‘We’ll bail him to appear back here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good,’ said Horace, ‘but do it quick.’

  It didn’t take long for Devon to be brought from the cells and sign the forms presented to him by the custody sergeant. A cheer went up as he and Horace made their way down the steps and although it took another twenty minutes, the crowd did break up after a little coaxing from Horace and members of the Robinson family. Those who had gone to find crates of empty bottles and had bought petrol arrived just in time to see the last of the crowd heading for home. They cussed their missed opportunity but knew that it wouldn’t be long before another came along.

  When Horace returned to the YMCA there were even fewer players there than at the start of the session. The ever-dependable Norman Longmore put the few who were there through a series of drills while Horace rubbed his troubled brow. He figured that most of his players had intended to turn up for training but life outside of football had intervened and directed them elsewhere; and that was just about what he feared most.

  On his way to the YMCA, Mark Beckford encountered a police car blocking the road and diverting traffic away from the area. He turned his car around and once he had found out what was going on he headed for Marcia’s flat. After travelling in a lift that smelt of piss – and worse – he arrived on the seventh floor still holding his breath. He hissed a cuss when he discovered that Marcia had not returned home. Hoping that she had not been caught up in the trouble, he took the stairs back to the car park, where he sat in his Hillman Hunter and waited for her. No one could even guess at the turmoil in Mark’s head. It felt like it was about to explode sometimes. Disillusion: he’d often heard the word but had not known what it really meant until now. It would not matter to him if he never saw his wife or a football again. He had once loved both of them but Rachel had come to embody the misguided duty he felt to both his faith and his parents, and football epitomised all that was unfair in his life. It still stuck in his craw that even though he was the Nottingham tournament’s top scorer it was another player who had received the best player award. That it was his brother Ian who had taken th
e prize away from him only intensified the pain.

  They had never been close; more than six years of an age difference meant that they were always at different stages of development and other than playing for Sabina Park Rangers they had little in the way of a shared experience. Even the way they had been raised was different. When Ian had rebelled and made it clear he was no longer going to church, to Mark’s surprise, his father did little more than shrug his shoulders. Mark figured there would have been a very different reaction if he had done the same. Now he was hurting, it was easier to believe that rumour he had heard all those years ago was true.