MORE THAN a GAME

by Sylvester Young

  ‘It need a sharpen, man. Me take it to Walker later on.’ Horace, who had already been made aware of the same kind of talk Frank had heard in the pub, nodded in the direction of his own machete and laughed quietly to himself.

  Mark Beckford was not laughing, he was crapping himself. He had visited the toilet three times during the morning, each time quite certain that he had completely emptied himself and any subsequent visit would lead to him flushing vital organs down the pan. And he prayed: if by chance George Rowley had chosen this day, of all days, to follow proper procedure and re-lock the safe after every time he opened it, Mark would take it as a sign from the Lord. But if it were left open … well, that would be a kind of sign too.

  Though he had at first denied it to himself, Mark had been planning the robbery for some time; he had started off by pretending it was just a sort of intellectual problem he had set himself to pass away the time. Because his office was the nearest, he had always been the first to turn up at George’s, usually two minutes before a draughtsman called Tom and a further minute before anyone else. Upon Mark’s arrival George would disappear for a few seconds to wash his hands in the toilet that was adjacent to his office. It was as if the ablutions were part of the religious service and George had made a ritual out of cleansing his fingers that had been soiled by the dirty banknotes. For the last four weeks Mark had turned up with his sports bag and informed his fellow Christians that he was running during lunchtime to increase his fitness, first for the semifinal and then the final. George thought it a praiseworthy sign of dedication and had even asked for prayers for a Sabina Park Rangers’ victory in the semifinal. After that match he had promised Mark he would ask his congregation to have a word with The Lord about winning the cup. Following the prayer meetings, Mark would change in the showering room close to the foundry and walk out to the car park where he would then deposit his sports bag in the boot of his car. Though he was tempted to spend his lunchtime sitting in the park, he always ran for around fifteen minutes, just in case any of his co-workers saw him. On his return to the works, he would retrieve his bag and have a quick shower before changing and getting back to his office. Today he had two identical holdalls in his car boot.

  At five to one he began the walk to George’s office. He tried to look relaxed but every muscle in his body seemed to tense: he could feel the blood pumping through his veins. ‘You’re early,’ said George.

  Mark didn’t want to be too early; he didn’t want to be seen doing anything out of the ordinary. ‘I’ll come back in a minute then.’

  George checked his wristwatch. ‘Actually, you’re not that early. Time has flown; we had a problem with the wages this morning, the truck had a puncture and turned up late, so we’re a bit behind schedule.’ He got up from his desk and looked down at the bag between Mark’s feet. ‘Running again, eh?’

  Making sure he didn’t let his gaze drift towards the safe, Mark said, ‘Keepin myself fit for the final, George. Jus one more game an’ then I can relax.’

  ‘Right, well I suppose I’d better give the old donnies a wash before the rest turn up.’

  Once George had disappeared from view, Mark’s heart began to thrash wildly against his rib cage as he saw that the safe door was slightly ajar. He looked to the office door and thought it was now or never – he had to go to the safe. Now he could hear his heart drumming in his ears as he pulled the safe door open. There were bags of various colours sitting in it, coins at the bottom and notes on a shelf. He reached over towards the back and took hold of a bag, thrusting it into his holdall without even looking to see what denomination of note was in it. Resisting the urge to take another bag, he quickly got back around George’s desk just as someone stepped through the office door. It was Tom the draughtsman. He laughed and said, ‘I thought I’d beat you to it today.’

  In less than ten seconds his life had utterly changed and Mark could feel his jawbone shaking. He smiled, ‘Jus’ by two seconds, didn’t you see me come in?’ Before Tom could reply George returned and Mark had regained enough composure to swap a bit of banter about Wolves’ lucky escape from relegation to Division Two. For the first time that Mark had noticed, George went behind his desk and locked the safe before the prayer meeting began. Mark felt comforted that his crime hadn’t been discovered right away and closed his eyes, silently giving thanks to whoever was up there. The prayers seemed to go on and on until George said that Mark had to go for his run and that he had to get to the canteen for a sandwich. They were running a little late and Mark was grateful that he now had the excuse to rush and get changed. As he ran along the streets, feelings of elation, fear and guilt took turns to make him feel queasy. The fear of getting caught would remain until he drove home with the money in the boot of his car. And then there was the guilt that he had betrayed the trust of a man like George but he looked for some comfort in that he had robbed the company and not him personally. By the time he had got back to the car park and retrieved the second holdall he was back to feeling excited again. He had often imagined how it would feel once he had got his hands on the money and it didn’t feel good – it felt way better than that.

  15

  Mervyn Palmer may have been sixty-three years of age but he hadn’t got past the stage of thinking that just saying something (loudly and often in his case) made it true. It may have been a minor miracle that he had travelled along life’s bumpy road with this notion intact but his capacity for self-delusion seemed limitless. For example, he figured he could pass for a man of forty-five (with his teeth in); that he was a popular man around the town and that the pools win had made him more popular; that he had been a good and loving father to all his children, even Desmond; that his Austin Princess was a gal-magnet and that the powers of cow-cock soup had made him a formidable lover-man once again. All of it was ridiculous, particularly his new idea that his new car and aphrodisiac soup had made him into Wolverhampton’s Casanova. It was Marcia’s arrival at his front door that served to reinforce Mervyn’s fantasy that she had had the time of her young life and was back for more.

  She sat on his sofa and crossed her long ‘creamed’ legs. ‘I was jus passin,’ she lied, ‘an’ thought I’d pop in an’ say hello … an’ thanks for the other night, Mervyn.’

  He liked how she said his name, so soft and suggestive. ‘Like a rum?’

  ‘Hmm, that would be nice.’

  Excited by her response, he went out to the kitchen and found two small glasses that could pass for clean and poured the drinks. ‘Pop in an’ say ’ello, to rahteed,’ he muttered while laughing to himself. It was well known by men of his generation that a woman who came to a man’s yard and accepted a drink was really looking to ‘forward the punnani’. He gave her a drink and sat beside her. As he took a sip of rum he let a hand wander over her thigh. She laughed and put some space between them. ‘Wha’ sort-a girl do you think I am, Mervyn? Behave yourself, I did only come in to say hello.’

  ‘Glad you did, glad you did,’ he said, not believing her. ‘I was tinkin of you the odda day when me was out shoppin’.’

  ‘Oh? An’ wha’ were you shoppin’ for?’

  ‘Finish your drink an’ me’ll show you. It hupstairs.’

  ‘Now you’ve got me rushin’ my drink, Mervyn.’

  ‘No, man, don’t rush, we ’ave plenty-a time.’

  ‘Then why don’t we jus’ take our drinks upstairs?’ Mervyn laughed that whiney high-pitched laugh of his that betrayed his excitement. He’d always thought that young women would not be able to resist the charms of an older man once they had been persuaded to take that first sample. He led her to his bedroom and let her gaze at the magnificence of his purchase. ‘King-size waterbed, wid it own ’eater, to rahteed. G’wan, man, try it out.’

  Marcia looked over the rim of the glass as she took a slow drink before she sat primly on the corner of the bed. ‘Yes, I imagine it mus be very comfortable,’ she said.

  Mervyn was about to suggest that she lie down and find out just
how comfortable but his troublesome bladder signalled to him that it needed emptying again. ‘Blouse an’ skirt,’ he muttered, ‘me ’ave to go to the bat’room. Me soon come.’

  When it finally started, the piss seemed never-ending: he thought he had finished twice and he gave ‘de bwoy’ a good shake only to find out there was a little more emptying to do. Mervyn peered down and saw the large stains on the front of his trousers. He cussed for a few moments while figuring out what to do: his other trousers were in his bedroom and he did not want to spoil the moment by going back to Marcia with two big piss stains on his legs. The only thing for it was to take off his trousers and wrap a bath towel around his middle. While he was at it he might as well take off the rest of his clothes: they both knew what the woman had turned up for.

  Marcia stood up as soon as she saw his almost-naked form (if it wasn’t for the towel and his socks) come through the door. ‘Hey, mister lover-man,’ she said, ‘I thought we’d jus have a chat … about us … see if there’s any future, see if we want the same tings, you know?’

  Mervyn inflated his chest. ‘Well, me know we want same tings, ’cause dat’s why you come to mi door. Me hunnerstan dat you nah get wha’ me can give you henywhere else, to rahteed.’ There was a moment in which Marcia thought she was going to be sick but she took a deep breath and cleared the feeling of nausea by thinking of why she had come. ‘Yes, that’s true an’ I came here because I know you are a very sweet man …’

  ‘True, true, many people say the same ting to me.’

  ‘… Sweet an’, erm, attractive …’

  ‘Yes, yes, many-a ooman tell me dat too.’

  ‘… Sweet, attractive, in a distinguished sort-a way. A man with a good heart, the sort-a man a woman can turn to when she’s in trouble …’

  Suddenly suspicious, Mervyn asked, ‘Trouble? Wha’ kind-a trouble?’

  ‘It’s, erm, money trouble, Mervyn, erm, not much … an’ I’ll pay you back within a month.’

  ‘Not much, ’ow much is not much?’

  Marcia paused as the figure changed rapidly in her head, spinning like the symbols of a one-armed bandit until it came up with the jackpot. ‘Five thousand,’ she said. ‘It’s not like you don’t have it, or it’s gonna leave you short.’

  Mervyn let out a disdainful snort. ‘An’ ’ow you gonna give me dat back in a mont’? Blouse an’ skirt, you mus tink me’s daft. Is it you gonna pay me when Desmond gives you it back hafter dem coffins come in? It a skank! … Otherwise me put mi own money in it.’ Perhaps he’d misinterpreted her motives but he’d managed to get her into his bedroom without too much effort – and it would be a shame to waste the chance. He knew what he had to do to get her to stay. ‘But look,’ he said as he whipped away the towel so she could see the entirety of his manliness, ‘me will tink about it, right, an’ give you mi hanswer over breakfast.’

  ‘Lend me the five grand,’ she said, determinedly staring into his eyes, ‘an’ we’ll share more than one breakfast together.’

  ‘Get on mi blasted bed an’ me tink about it.’

  ‘If it turned out to be a skank I would pay you back in other ways, Mervyn, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, well let’s ’ave de first down payment.’

  ‘It’s repayment when there’s a loan involved. Mervyn, I need this money an’ I promise I will come round to you any time you call.’

  ‘Mi ras! You tink me-a jus get off de boat? Look, me is prepared to nice you up again an’ ting, give you lickle treat an’ ting, but me nah give no ooman five grand to see ’er cratchies! Cha, man, get outta mi yard ’cause you too damn feisty!’

  Marcia knew it had been a long shot trying to get any money out of Mervyn but she felt that even a slim opportunity was too good to pass up. She tilted back her head, swallowed the rest of the rum and thrust the tumbler at Mervyn’s bare chest. ‘Nice me up again?’ she sneered. ‘Man, the only ting ’bout you that make me feel nice was the two hundred pound.’

  As she left, Mervyn shouted from the landing, ‘Two hundred an’ ten pound! You feget de taxi fare, you hungrateful, gravelitious bitch!’

  Horace sent his players out to do four laps of the athletics track at Aldersley Stadium. He watched as they jogged past a group of female athletes from the Wolverhampton and Bilston club and was momentarily concerned that they would be distracted, trip over one another and injure themselves. It was a good turnout for a Thursday night; nearly every member of the squad was in attendance. Even Nestor Riley had decided to put on his tracksuit even though he had no chance of playing in the final, which was now only eight days away. Horace wondered how many coaches in the country had his worries. Not only did he have the usual concerns about injuries and team selection but he’d also had to fret over potential arrests because of the real possibility of riots in the town and most of his squad getting caught up in the violence. He watched them laughing as they ran; life at one level seemed so easy and carefree for them.

  Instead of circuit training with weights, Horace thought he would have them concentrate on stretching and ball skills on a piece of ground adjacent to the stadium. As he watched the likes of Cecil Grant, Audley Robinson and the Beckford brothers juggle the balls, he could not help but marvel at their skill and regret how their gifts would never be seen by more than a few. Sabina Park Rangers was supposed to be their platform to greater things but, perhaps with the exception of Ian Beckford, for most of them it would be the one and only showcase for their talents.

  Horace knew that his team had many other attributes besides ball skills. He was aware of how many of them were involved with downright illegal activities, as well as just the usual slightly dodgy business that a lot of people indulged in, just to get by. He made allowances for them and turned the proverbial blind eye because he felt partly responsible for their plight. Horace and Agnes McIntosh had come to England with all sorts of ambitions for themselves and their children. His two kids had done well, against all odds, mostly because their mother had an education to pass on to them. Like a lot of men of his generation, Horace thought he had done right to tell his kids as they grew up that they could do anything, that there were no limits for them. Now he thought it had been crazy, unrealistic talk: the land of opportunity had turned into a country of limitations and unforeseen prejudice. On reflecting on all the angry faces he had seen outside the police station, he pondered over how much people like him had unwittingly added to their rage. He asked himself who they really aspired to be equal to: the likes of the white kids in Low Hill and The Scotlands, known in polite circles as ‘sink estates’, or the prosperous middle classes of the Tettenhall and Castlecroft areas? Truth was, no people in their right minds wanted to live like the unfortunates in Low Hill, where there was lots of unemployment and crime and little in the way of facilities or education. Houses on Low Hill were only just getting inside toilets; and there would be few, if any, doctors or bank managers coming out of the secondary modern school that was supposed to educate the local kids. It was on Horace’s mind that he and his friends had a stoked the frustrations of black working class kids by giving them unrealistic expectations. Maybe the criminals like Cecil and Bryce had it right when they took what they could in some of the few ways that were open to them.

  Cecil and Bryce had seen their latest opportunity all right. Bryce had asked around the people he knew in Birmingham about the man who was Mr Big when it came to heroin importation. He had then hung about close to a sportswear factory in Balsall Heath and on the second day he’d caught sight of Steve Patel’s Mercedes pulling into the car park. He told Cecil what he had seen and they decided it was best if they spent their time watching Steve. The money collected in Wolverhampton was small change in comparison to the eventual sum that was to be handed over. They had also found out that at some time over the weekend Nestor and Desmond would give the collected cash to Steve and it would be only a matter of days before the really big money started to change hands. It would be then that they would make their move. />
  Bryce McBean handed over two grand to Nestor after the training session and noticed how Mark Beckford had hovered in the background until he had moved on. From a distance he watched Nestor look into Mark’s car boot and start laughing. Desmond joined them and shook Mark’s hand. It seemed as though church-bwoy had just bought himself a piece of the action, maybe a big piece. Bryce thought it a pity; he did kind of like Mark, and felt sorry for him because as a footballer he had never got the break his talent deserved. Bryce didn’t want him losing too much. He and Cecil had already talked about (once they had carried out their plan and made some serious dunsai) reimbursing some of their relatives and team members. Norman Longmore and Audley Robinson would be among those who got nothing back – those two were too full of this preachy-preachy nonsense and would have to learn a hard lesson. Maybe he was going soft but he’d have a word with Cecil about giving Mark’s money back too.

  16

  That Thursday night Marcia Yuell went to bed vexed. She had sold herself too damn cheaply. It was bad enough that she had gone to bed with a man, if only just to sleep, for two hundred lousy quid (plus taxi fare) but because that man had been Mervyn Palmer her vexation grew – she should have asked for more money in the first place. The only silver lining was that old Mervyn’s soup made from ‘cow-cock’ turned out to be more ‘cock and bull’.

  Mark Beckford had slept soundly. He had been relieved to hand over twenty thousand pounds in cash to Nestor and Desmond. He’d watched enough of The Sweeney on telly to know that he would have had a problem getting rid of so many new banknotes, as their serial numbers would have been recorded and easy to trace. He briefly regretted that he hadn’t kept just a few pounds as he stopped for petrol on the way home but he figured that people like Nestor and Desmond were the best at ‘washing’ the money and making sure it was not traceable back to him in any way. Now there was no evidence to link him with the stolen money and in a fortnight’s time he would receive a different stash of cash. He wasn’t greedy, he wasn’t sure how much he had stolen until Nestor had counted it out and called Desmond over to tell him that they had almost reached their target. Mark felt strangely disconnected from the money and if he didn’t receive another twenty grand on top of his initial investment he didn’t think he would feel too hard done by.