MORE THAN a GAME

by Sylvester Young

  Before they had gone to church, Mark Beckford had warned his wife not to say anything to his parents about the pregnancy.

  ‘But why? I’m ten weeks gone, I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ ‘No!’ he snapped, ‘I – I’d like you to wait jus’ a little longer. Call me superstitious but I don’t want to tempt fate. Let’s wait for a while.’ Like wait until I’ve gone and left you, he thought. The news that he was about to become a father had convinced Mark that he had to leave – and soon. It had also made him superstitious: around the time Rachel had conceived he had noticed that the safe’s door was open and the first thought of stealing the money entered his head. He was now sure it had been an omen.

  Come Monday morning he would either find himself arrested and heading towards a prison sentence or he would have an indication that he had got away with it and could plan his future with Marcia. One way or another he would not be around for the birth.

  When the game at the park had finished, Desmond told Nestor to head for his place for something to eat while they waited for a call from Steve Patel to find out where they were to meet up. They had figured they were just going to give the money to him at the funeral parlour but Steve told them there were people they had to meet and it was for the best if these people were not seen in town.

  Nestor sat in the lounge watching a favourite video of Desmond’s called Shogun Assassin. Desmond had told him it was about a little fat Jap guy pushing his pickney around the country in a little cart chopping off the head of almost ‘hevery-rasclart-one’ he met. Nestor figured that his friend should have been a film critic as he had summed up the whole film so well. The fat guy had just killed the three ‘Brothers of Death’ in such gruesome ways he had Nestor calling out a variety of cusses with every sword stroke when Desmond shouted out that dinner was ready. Nestor followed the aroma that set his belly rumbling, only to be met with a sight that almost killed his appetite immediately. Jas was in an outfit that Nestor would later describe as: ‘some sort-a blouse an’ skirt.’

  He lowered himself slowly onto a chair and stared at Desmond’s grinning face. He feared the answer but he had to ask the question. ‘Des, wha’ the bloodclart is goin’ on?’ It took a while for Desmond to get his breath after laughing so hard. ‘Cha, Jas was bawlin’ the other night that him want to go back to im family in Bilston ’cause some skinheads attack them ’ouse. When me tell him he ain’t goin’ nowhere he kept bawlin’ like a gal, so me dress him up like a gal, seen?’

  ‘Nah, Des, me don’t see, me don’t see! Anyone come in ’ere now an’ them think somethin-a go on, man. A man dressin’ up another man like a gal … Man, them would mek out we’s the batty-men! Cha, tell Jas go put on proper clothes or I’m outta ’ere. I mean it, Des!’

  Desmond nearly fell off his seat; he was laughing so hard. ‘It a joke, Nestor,’ he said wiping his eyes. ‘Jas, go put on your clothes before this man gets all emotional.’

  Nestor sat with his arms crossed and refused to start eating until Jas reappeared in more masculine attire. He could take Desmond’s physical cruelty to Jas but he was starting to wonder what sort of twisted mind could even come up with this sort of degrading treatment. If Des ever got found out, Nestor was worried that he would get labelled a sexual deviant by association. After they had sorted out business with Steve Patel, Nestor thought he’d mention that perhaps it would be best for everyone concerned if Desmond let the apprentice mechanic go home. The whole thing was getting too weird for him to handle.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon watching Shogun Assassin again, this time with Desmond giving a running commentary until the phone rang. It was Steve Patel telling them to bring the money to a pub in Willenhall – which was just about the only place lower than Wolverhampton in their estimation.

  20

  Willenhall, a place of vague boundaries between Wolverhampton and Walsall, was principally famous for lock making and as the birthplace of Alan ‘Sniffer’ Clarke of Leeds United and England, back when Leeds was one of the best two teams in English football. Willenhall was a town of divided loyalties. To the north they had the fairly consistent, Plain Jane, dull-as-dish-water fourth, sometimes third, division football (as they were called in the days before the Coca-Cola Championship and Leagues One and Two) of Walsall FC. To the south there was the unpredictable, once glamorous and fast-fading leading lady: Wolverhampton Wanderers. Nestor and Desmond did not like Willenhall; they felt intimidated because they had never seen many black people around the town. As they met Steve Patel in a car park of a small town-centre pub their discomfort grew. It was bad enough that they were going into unfamiliar territory but having one hundred and six grand in a bag made the experience more intense. But again, Steve surprised them when he did not take the money but instead said they would go into the pub. All the men at the bar were white and middle-aged. A few of them glanced suspiciously at the new arrivals before they turned back to their pint glasses of Banks’ mild. Steve led the way to the snug at the rear where two hard-faced women sat on one of the benches that ran the length of three walls. It was part of the Black Country etiquette of the time that no ‘decent’ women drank in the bar with their menfolk: they had their own enclosure in which they drank beer, served in supposedly more feminine half pint glasses.

  Steve Patel bought three halves of lager and immediately brought the three men’s sexuality into question. Neither Nestor nor Desmond could see any good reason why Steve should have arranged for the delivery to happen here of all places; they were hardly blending in. The strain of handing over so much money finally got to Nestor. ‘Wha’ are these guarantees you’re supposed to have, Steve?’ he hissed. ‘We got a heap-a dunsai here an’ there’s plenty-a people with mash-ates back in Wolves waitin’ for us if them nah see wha’ we’ve promised them.’

  ‘Knowing you guys, the hardest thing about this is handing over all that money,’ said Steve. He lifted the glass to his lips and added a little class to the proceedings by extending his little finger as he did so. He smacked his lips and said, ‘Don’t worry, lads, my guarantees will be here any moment.’ Their glasses were half-empty, or half-full, depending on your viewpoint, when two men came into the snug. They went over to the women whose smiles turned brittle; they then disappeared altogether before they gathered their handbags and quickly left. Nestor and Desmond exchanged sideways glances as the two guys strolled over in the way hard men do: as if they had a pair of melons hanging in a string bag between their legs.

  ‘Thought we’d have a bit of privacy,’ said the white guy, who had a criss-cross pattern of scars all over his shaven scalp. Worse still, in Nestor’s mind at least, he was a Scouser. They drew up two stools and sat down. The other one was a mixed-race man with a pair of hollow, dead eyes. Scar-head put out a hand towards Desmond. ‘The name’s Nigel. A puff’s name, I know, but I think my old man was doing the Johnny Cash bit, y’know, that song he did called A Boy Named Sue, like. A name like Nigel tends to get you into plenty of scraps around Bootle. My mate here’s called Psycho - that’s not short for psychotherapist by the way.’

  Neither Desmond nor Nestor had a clue about who Johnny Cash was or anything about his songs but they did their best to look as though they understood as they shook hands with Nigel. Psycho didn’t offer a handshake. Nigel did the talking: he let them know he had watched them and knew all about their scheme, the football team they played for, and that Nestor still lived with ‘mommy’ and Desmond shared a home with ‘the pretty Indian boy’. He then gave a potted history of his and Psycho’s criminal, and violent, careers. ‘Psycho hasn’t been too well lately, change of medication, and don’t take this personally but he kind of hates black men, something to do with his black father murdering his white mam. I just thought I’d let you know why he isn’t talking much.’

  Psycho’s face didn’t flicker and Nigel then pulled out an automatic pistol from his waistband and put it onto the small round table as he described the weapon as the guarantee of his guarantee. ‘Don’t wor
ry, boys, Stevie here has told us how your arses are on the line due to you collecting this money from members of your community. Personally, I like the idea that so many black people are gonna make a bit of money for a change. And rest assured, we will have no hesitation in shooting anyone who tries any funny business …’

  ‘Like, shoot them dead, like,’ said Psycho, in a distant voice.

  ‘… See, I was worried when I heard how you two fellas raised your stake just in case any of those who contributed might have got around to figuring there isn’t that much money to be made out of the coffins and got curious. Two spades were following you here in a red Escort RS 2000 …’ Nigel allowed himself a smile, ‘… until a car rather stupidly pulled out in front of them and blocked their way.’

  Nestor had always been quick to pick up on things; that’s how he had survived a lifetime of pulling skanks. He reckoned a good proportion of what Nigel had told him was bullshit to put the frighteners on. Well, it was working, because the two Liverpool men were definitely frightening him. But to pull skanks you have to be able to bullshit too and Nestor thought now was a good time to give a bit back. ‘Yeah, well that was our security, Nigel. A bit like you, we got a bit worried that people knew we had collected so much money. So we had two friends of ours, tooled up friends, cover us for the last few days. They must ’ave done a fairly good job if you hadn’t spotted them before now. I think we’d better conduct our business real quick in case they find us an’ get the wrong idea when they see your shooter.’

  Nigel begrudgingly appreciated Nestor’s front. ‘How much did you raise?’

  ‘A hundred an’ six grand,’ said Desmond, feeling as though he should let it be known he was no silent partner like Psycho.

  Nigel put his gun back into his waistband and nodded. ‘That’s not bad. People around here must be very trusting, or very desperate. I take it it’s all in the bag. Let’s have a look then.’ He opened the bag, took out random wads to check they were all notes and not bits of newspaper and then zipped it shut again. ‘Right, lads, me and Stevie will count it out later but you two look honest sorts, I’m sure it will be all there.’

  ‘I can vouch for them,’ said Steve, ‘if they say there’s a hundred and six grand, we’ll be counting a hundred and six grand, no problem.’ They all strolled out of the pub; Psycho in front and Nigel last out, carrying the bag of money. At the car park he said, ‘Thanks for coming, lads. Oh, and good luck with the cup final next weekend.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nestor, ‘an’ I hope your guys win the European Cup after such a crap season in the league. You know it’s been crap when you finish behind West Brom.’ ‘Our team’s not playing in the European Cup,” snarled Nigel, “I think you’re referring to another Liverpool team that neither me nor Psycho think very much of.’

  ‘Right,’ Nestor said quickly, ‘I mean I hope Everton do better nex’ season.’

  ‘We couldn’t do much worse … unless we were Wolves.’ Nigel scanned the vicinity and added, ‘And I used to think we were living in shite.’

  Nigel and Psycho headed to their car and Steve told Nestor and Desmond that he would see them at work tomorrow. On their way back to Wolverhampton, the pair kept a look out for any sign of a red Ford Escort RS2000. ‘Who do you think it was?’ asked Desmond.

  Nestor snorted, ‘Who you think? It ’as to be Cecil for one an’ I guess the other one was Bryce. That’s why them didn’t forward the dunsai we expected, them were plannin’ a big draw whatever them put in.’

  As they pulled up outside Desmond’s place they saw the red Ford Escort parked up. Cecil didn’t look happy as he came over to them and said that they had better go inside for a chat. At first Nestor was just relieved that Jas was not in a dress again but as they entered the sitting room he became angry at Cecil and Bryce about what they had been up to. ‘You guys are lucky,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ said Bryce, ‘an’ ’ow you reckon that?’

  ‘’Cause that car that pulled in front of unno was no accident. ’Cause Steve ’as gone an’ hired himself two professional gunmen,’ said Desmond. ‘You think the guy’s stupid, that once we ’anded over the dunsai you could jus come in an’ tek it? Gosh, man, unno should-a seen these two guys him ’ave. Them call one Psycho, an’ like the one wid the scars all over im ’ead said, that ain’t short for psychotherapist, to ras.’

  ‘To ras,’ said Nestor, as a vision of getting caught in the crossfire flashed through his mind.

  ‘Nah, you got us all wrong,’ said Cecil, ‘we were jus checkin’ that our investment was gettin’ to where it had to go.’

  Nestor sucked at his teeth. ‘Show some respec’, guy, an’ don’t tek we fe damn fools. We know you two a long time, right.’

  Cecil and Bryce laughed like it did not matter that they had been found out; after all, for them robbing was all about never having to say sorry. Bryce said, ‘Look, guys, we wasn’t gonna stick you up today or nutten like that. Why would we, you only had a hundred grand an’ the deal that’s goin’ down is costin’ Steve half a mill. He’s buying the stuff off a guy named Khan an’ then he’s sellin to some Liverpool crew for a cool million. The man will double his money in a few days. It’s the million me an’ Cecil want to share wid you two. It’s when he’s got the cash from these guys up north we wanna mek our move.’

  ‘Cha,’ huffed Desmond, ‘Steve’s a coolie, him don’t even trust his ole lady when it comes to the dunsai. Him was never gonna tell us when this deal is goin’ down.’

  ‘Well, you guys ’ave gotta mek sure you go wid him when him go north with the gear,’ said Cecil. ‘If Steve gives you nonsense about handlin’ it alone then he’s plannin a double-deal. You’re im partners in this deal an’ you say he ain’t goin nowhere without you, right? Once the dunsai’s collected you call us. Who else beside unno who’s workin’ for Steve knows about the heroin?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ asked Nestor. ‘No one but we knows what’s goin on. There’s two deals, him cut im two cousins called Gully an’ Sunny in on the coffin bisniss but as far as them are concerned everyting is legit, they don’t know nutten about no heroin.’

  Cecil and Bryce began to smile broadly. ‘We’re gonna keep an eye on tings,’ said Cecil, ‘an’ you guys get ready to head north an’ mek some serious money. We’re talkin’ a hundred grand to cover the money you raise an’ then another hundred grand a piece.’

  Greed overcoming his fear, Nestor asked, ‘So what’s gonna happen to the other seven hundred grand?’

  The smile disappeared from Cecil’s face. ‘This deal is non-negotiable,’ he said.

  21

  There had been a lot of wailing going on in the Robinson household. Devon had collapsed during Sunday afternoon and had been rushed to hospital. It was soon discovered that he had suffered massive kidney failure and he had to be hooked up to a dialysis machine after being transferred to the Queen Elizabeth medical centre in Birmingham. The hospital management had even brought in an Indian consultant specially to break the bad news. They figured his colour might make a difference to how the family would respond to what he was saying – but none of the Robinsons were going to believe it was due to a disease and not the beating to the body the cops had given him.

  The rage within Audley that had slowly started to cool was burning fiercely again. On his way home from the hospital he took a left turn to call into the Wrights’ house in Blakenhall to tell them what had happened. Oliver and Patrick were there. He told them he had previously stood up for Horace McIntosh and said the man’s motives had been the right ones, even if what he had done might have been a mistake as far as Devon was concerned.

  Oliver was never going to be even-handed when it came to Horace and said, ‘Audley, I was sayin’ to Courtney yesterday that black people in this town had better start buckin’ up them ideas, ’cause we is too easily controlled, man. Anyting Horace do has been to help control black guys. Look, over the years him tek grants off the council, him even try to arrange a friendly match wid the
cops an’ you guys still go on as though him do you a favour. It’s the white man him do the favours for but you don’t see it yet.’

  Horace had been cutting Audley’s (and Devon’s) hair since they were small kids and the kind of stuff Oliver was saying was akin to describing an admired uncle being caught doing something very embarrassing in a public toilet. It put a sick feeling in Audley’s stomach. ‘You’re a grown man,’ said Patrick, ‘with wife an’ family so why are you still playin’ football? You don’t mek money from it, it teks up a lot of your free time, don’t it?’

  ‘I play because I like playin’ football,’ said Audley, ‘I like keepin’ fit. Wha’ are you sayin’, I shouldn’t ’ave some kind-a hobby?’

  ‘Nah,’ replied Oliver, ‘it’s a good ting to do, I play it miself, when there ain’t nutten else to do. But this is wartime, black guys are dyin’, maybe Devon’s dyin’, an’ you’re tellin’ us playin’ football is helpin’ guys like him? It’s a luxury that none-a we can afford right now.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Patrick, taking advantage of Audley’s hesitation. ‘Even Donovan says he ain’t playin’ no more.’

  ‘Are you talkin’ about Donovan Brown?’

  ‘Who else? He was down London the other day at the inquest for all them black people who got killed in the Deptford fire. He’s already tellin’ us the verdict before it gets started properly. Look, man, there ain’t no justice in this country for the likes of we.’

  It embarrassed him but Audley’s mind was immediately full of thoughts about the team and its chances in the final: if Patrick was right about Donovan it was now three players down. He was confused: about his feelings toward the sport; toward Horace; and about if it was such a bad thing to be distracted sometimes when life was turning out to be a heap of shit. ‘I gotta get back home,’ he said.