by Dan Tunstall
The battered old supporters’ coaches we saw on our way in are standing over to the right, doors open and engines revving, but there’s a no-man’s land of about fifty yards between the exits and the buses. Some of the Castleton fans are making a run for the coaches, but fifty or sixty are standing their ground as we advance towards them. Stewards are starting to appear, but there’s nothing they can do. The two sets of fans are twenty yards apart and closing. Everything seems to be happening at about a million miles an hour. Ryan’s up ahead and Raks is next to me.
“Fuck,” he says. “What are we doing?”
There’s no time to answer. The first punches are being thrown and Ryan’s throwing them. A couple of the lads in front of me are hesitating, holding back, but I’m on autopilot. I barge my way through and run straight into a kick in the stomach. The funny thing is, I feel the impact but it doesn’t actually hurt. I double over slightly and then look up at the bloke who kicked me. He’s a bit older than I am, about the same height, chubby with short blond hair. Nothing special. He grins at me then swings his left fist into my cheek. There’s a thud and the taste of blood in my mouth, but again, it doesn’t hurt. In an odd sort of way I quite enjoy the feeling.
I’m grinning now, and the bloke who’s been hitting me has an uncertain look in his eyes. I take a step forward, swinging my right fist towards him, but he puts his arms up and I hit his elbow. Straight away I launch another right and this time I connect with the tip of his nose. There’s a squishing sound and blood spurts, black under the orange car park lighting. It looks unreal, like a bad special effect. I shift my weight across to the other side, driving a left uppercut into the bloke’s face as he lurches forwards, trying to fend off the punches. One more whack to the back of his head and he’s on the deck. It’s an almost indescribable sensation. I suppose deep down every lad wants to know if he could handle himself in a fight. Well now I know. I can.
I’m about to aim a kick at the blond kid but I’m knocked sideways by a big bloke in a denim jacket, flailing backwards, trying to keep his balance. Fists and feet are flying everywhere. The air is filled with the sound of trainers scuffling on wet tarmac. In that split second I don’t know if the big lad is Castleton or Letchford. Just to be on the safe side, I hit him in the side of the head. Another body comes flying past me, and this time there’s no mistaking the identity. It’s a Castleton fan in a replica shirt, ducking and diving, trying to avoid a volley of haymakers from a skinny Asian lad. Raks.
The whole area is in complete chaos. Trying to take it all in is like watching random frames from a film projected at five times the normal speed. I whirl round on the spot, dodging under a left hook from a gangly kid with black gelled hair, swinging my elbow at him as he stumbles to one side. I miss and nearly touch down as someone falls against the back of my legs. Spinning to my left I catch sight of a tall red-haired lad, a lad I’ve seen on the Parkway bus, landing a forearm smash into the face of a big bald-headed bloke. It’s the chap who gave me the finger at half time. As the bald bloke staggers away, the Letchford lad sees me and winks.
The fighting is over in seconds. The Castleton lot are outnumbered and coming off worst. One by one they’re breaking away and scattering towards the coaches and we’re chasing after them, raining punches and kicks on anything that moves. I’m just starting to think that we’re actually going to follow the Castleton fans onto the buses when a police riot van screams around the corner from the back of the Main Stand. The back doors fly open and a team of coppers in helmets and visors and body armour starts charging towards us.
Now we’re the ones running. Back along the North Stand, round the corner and along the side of the Family Stand, zigzagging through the lads and dads and the family groups, our army breaking up, trying to get lost in the crowd. As I run I look around, hoping to catch sight of Raks and Ryan, and sure enough there they are, keeping pace as we sprint across the final few yards of the car park and head towards the Letchford Industrial Estate.
By the time we’re a hundred yards up the road, there’s no need to run any more. The coppers gave up the chase long ago. Raks bounds across towards me, gasping, out of breath, laughing like a hyena. He jumps up and puts me in a headlock.
“Tommy Boy,” he says, ruffling my hair and letting me go.
Ryan steps in between us, throwing his arms round our shoulders and squeezing, like a father with his two favourite sons.
“What did you think of that then lads?” he says.
Raks shakes his head.
“Fucking amazing,” he says. His eyes are sparkling. He looks completely off his head, high on violence.
Ryan looks at me.
“What about you Tom?”
My lips move but no sound comes out. The lining of my throat is ripped and sore from all the chanting, but that’s not the reason why I’m saying nothing. I’m completely lost for words. All sorts of thoughts are swirling through my mind. I think of Zoe’s text before the game. Have fun. Take care. I think of my dad this morning, telling me to keep out of trouble. I think about what’s just happened. The sights. The sounds. The feelings. It’s just mad. I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Twenty minutes ago, ten minutes even, I was a completely different person. But now everything’s changed. And I just don’t know how I could possibly describe what I’m feeling. One thing I do know though. I’m hooked.
six
It’s bright today. Late October, just gone half past seven on Monday morning, but the sun’s in the sky and the birds are singing. It feels like it’s going to be a good day. I heave myself up onto the wall of the Bulls Head beer garden and Raks boosts himself up next to me.
“Come on then,” he says.
I look around. We’re earlier than usual and hardly any of the other kids have arrived at the bus stop yet. I reach down into my bag and get out the newspaper I’ve just bought. The Sun. The headline says NEW PRISONS FIASCO, but it’s not the news I’m looking for. Opening the paper to the middle pages, I pull out the Super Goals supplement. 28 Pages. Britain’s No 1 Pullout. Wayne Rooney’s on the front cover, snarling and looking aggrieved about something, but I’m not interested in that. I’m flicking through the Premier League reports and the Championship reports and the League One reports, back towards the League Two news.
“Anything?” Raks says.
“Not yet.” I keep on scanning, across the pages and down the columns. The League Two table is on page 24. Letchford are down to 18th. “Come on,” Raks says. “You must have gone past it.” He reaches across me, pulling the edge of the paper up so that he can look too.
I turn over another page, and there it is.
WHYMAN RUES DEFENSIVE LAPSE
Letchford Town 1 Castleton Rovers 1
Letchford boss John Whyman fumed as his League Two strugglers failed to hold onto their lead.
In a match that sprang to life in second half stoppage time, record signing Danny Holmes shook off his injury woes to head the Tangerines ahead, only for Mark Young to level for Castleton after a scramble in the Letchford goalmouth with literally seconds remaining.
Whyman said : “To say the least I’m truly disappointed. It was two points thrown away.
“I thought we defended well all match. We showed great control but a momentary lapse has cost us dear.”
In a final blow for Whyman, on an afternoon he’ll want to forget, Letchford and Castleton fans clashed in ugly scenes in the minutes after the final whistle.
I look at Raks. He looks at me.
“We’re in!” I shout.
We both start laughing. We were there. We were involved. And now it’s here in black and white. In The Sun. Validation. In the oddest sort of way it feels like the biggest achievement of my life.
“Unbelievable,” Raks says. He takes the paper out of my hands and reads the last sentence out loud. “Fans clashed in ugly scenes in the minutes after the final whistle.”
We both laugh again, and we’re still laughing when a voi
ce I recognise cuts in.
“What’s so funny?” It’s Zoe.
Instantly I’m embarrassed, caught unawares. I grab Super Goals back from Raks and shove it into my bag. It’s like cramming porn mags under the bed when I hear my dad coming up the stairs.
“Oh, nothing much,” I say. I slide down from the wall and give Zoe a kiss. She smells nice. Freshly washed hair and body spray. “You OK? I’ve not seen you all weekend.”
She nods.
“I tried to call you yesterday afternoon but your phone was off. Was the match good on Saturday?”
I sniff. I’m calmer now.
“Yeah. It was alright.”
Zoe smiles. She’s wearing lipstick today.
“I looked out for the result on Sky,” she says. “It was a draw wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. One-all. We should have won though.” I look at her and notice that her eyes are being drawn down towards my feet. Or to be more precise, my shoes. Blue and white Nikes with a red swoosh.
“No school shoes today?” she asks.
“Nah.” I try sound offhand. In truth my school shoes are stuffed in my bag. I took them off and changed into my Nikes the minute I got round the corner into Wolverton Road. Raks did exactly the same. We’ll be putting our jeans on as soon as we get into the toilets at Parkway.
“Your dad not mind?”
I shake my head.
“Nah,” I say again. But of course my dad doesn’t know.
Zoe’s looking at my face now. There’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. She reaches up with her hand, running her fingers over the bump on my right cheek. It’s where I got punched by the blond lad, outside Southlands on Saturday.
“What’s happened here?” she asks. Her green eyes are watching me intently.
“Bloody hell,” I say. “It’s like Twenty Questions. I got elbowed yesterday morning, playing for Dynamo.” I thought she might ask about my face so I already had my answer lined up. I hope it doesn’t sound too rehearsed.
“Looks sore,” she says.
I shrug.
“It’s alright.” I push my tongue into the side of my mouth, into the rough patch where my teeth mashed against the inside of my cheek. At the same time I reach up to feel the lump on the side of my head where the coin hit me. The lump’s still there, but I don’t think Zoe can see it. “Anyway, am I going to see you tonight? Mondays are usually good for you aren’t they?”
She shakes her head.
“Not tonight. I’ve got Oliver rehearsals after school, right through until seven o’clock, so I’ll be whacked out by the time I get home.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Rehearsals already?”
She nods.
“We’ve not got long you know. It’s only six weeks, so I’m going to be staying late at college quite a lot this half term. I’ve got pages of dialogue to learn, and I have to sing a song too. That’s Your Funeral. Well, not just me. Simon too.”
“Simon?” I say, trying to keep the concern out of my voice.
“Simon Matthews,” Zoe says. “Mr Sowerberry. He’s really nice. You’d like him.”
“Right,” I say, as cheerfully as I can.
“Actually, I can give you the date of the performance now.” She dips into her shoulder bag and brings out her diary. “Friday December 15th. Eight o’clock in the drama studio. You’re definitely coming, aren’t you?”
“Course,” I say.
“You too, Raks?”
Raks nods.
“Count me in.”
I check my watch. It’s just gone quarter to eight. There’s a hiss of air brakes and I look up to see our bus at the crossroads.
“Right then,” I say, picking up my bag. “Got to go.”
Zoe stands on tiptoes and gives me a peck on the lips.
“See you then.” She pulls a strand of hair out of her eyes. “And sorry about tonight. It’ll be hard this next few weeks, but I’ll make it up to you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say.
The bus stops and the doors swing open. I climb on board and follow Raks along the aisle. I wave to Zoe, she waves back and then the bus pulls away.
We sit down. We’re behind the Dalton twins. Matching blue parkas, matching telephone-directory-thickness sci-fi novels. I put my bag at my feet and fish out Super Goals, flicking through to page 27 again.
“Is it still there?” Raks asks, grinning.
I laugh.
“It’s still there.”
We don’t say much for the next ten minutes. The Tobemeister’s playing Three From The Eighties on Letchford Sound but I’m not really listening. I scroll up and down the menu on my phone and think about the History assignment I was supposed to be working on yesterday. Raks is staring out of the window, at the leaves swirling in the breeze and the rubbish rattling in the hedgerows. As we turn onto the Medstone road he takes a deep breath and puffs out his cheeks.
“So what did your dad say when you got back on Saturday evening?”
I wrinkle my forehead.
“Not a lot. Asked how it was. Said he might come to a game one time.”
Raks laughs.
“What did you say to that?”
I shrug.
“Just said I didn’t think it would be his cup of tea.”
We watch the countryside flashing past for another couple of minutes. Every now and again Raks is shaking his head, the way he does when he’s trying to get something straightened out in his mind.
“It was one hell of a day, wasn’t it?” he says eventually.
I push my tongue into the ripped inside of my mouth.
“You could say that.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Raks says. “Saturday night, I just lay there, thinking about everything that happened. I don’t mean the match. I mean what happened afterwards. It was going over and over in my head.”
I nod.
“Yeah. I didn’t get a wink on Saturday night either. Yesterday morning, playing for Dynamo, I was like a zombie. I spent ninety minutes trundling up and down the right wing, but I hardly touched the ball. I wasn’t into the game at all. Same as you, things were just going round and round my brain.”
The bus stops outside the chip shop in Medstone and two girls get on. Year Elevens. Good-looking and self-confident. Our eyes follow them as they pass by, heading towards the back, but they don’t notice us.
“The whole thing was weird though, wasn’t it?”
Raks says, as the bus draws away from the kerb again. “When it all kicked off, something came over me. I was punching and kicking people, but it didn’t seem like it was me who was doing the punching and kicking. I just didn’t feel guilty about it at all. It’s like because I was part of a crowd I wasn’t responsible for what I was doing.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean.”
Raks has got a faraway look in his eyes now.
“And I felt like I had all this power, like there was danger all around but nothing could hurt me. It was this amazing buzz. It was…” his voice trails off, and he shakes his head again.
I just nod. I know that he probably wants me to help him put things into words, but there’s no point. I couldn’t do it on Saturday, and I still can’t. It was a complete overload. Too intense. But brilliant.
The rest of the journey into Letchford seems to pass more quickly than normal. It only feels like a couple of minutes since we left Medstone, but already my watch is saying it’s quarter past eight and we’re heading along towards the Parkway all-weather football pitches. I’m just thinking about getting my bits and pieces together when someone heaves themselves into the seat behind us, sticks a hand between the headrests and ruffles my hair. Ducking out of the way, I twist round to see what’s going on. A pink, freckly, grinning face looms over me. It’s the big, red-haired Letchford lad who laid out the bald-headed Castleton fan on Saturday. The one who winked at me.
“Well, well, well,” he says, looking at me, then at Raks. “It’s the fucking Kray twins.
”
We all laugh.
“I’m Gary,” he says. “Gary Simmons.”
Raks and me shake Gary’s hand.
“I’m Raks,” Raks says. “And this is Tom.”
“You two are mates of Ryan’s, right?” Gary says.
We both nod.
“You’re dark horses, you are,” Gary says. “I’d never have had you two down as Letchford lads, but you’re a right pair of fucking yobbos.”
I smile, shaking my head. I’ve never been called a yobbo before.
Gary looks out of the window. We’re coming through the gates now.
“You should sit up the back with us,” he says. “Not down here with all these muppets.” He looks around to see if anyone’s going to object to being called a muppet. Nobody does.
“Yeah, thanks Gary.” I try to keep it low-key, try not to show how chuffed I am.
Gary stands up. He’s said his piece. He nods at us both, then heads for the front of the bus. His mates from the back seat pile down after him. They look like a team of debt-collectors. Gary, another white lad, and a massive black kid who virtually blocks out the light as he comes past.
“I wouldn’t want to spill his pint,” Raks says.
I laugh. We watch the lads disappear down the stairs and then we stand up. By the time we’re out on the pavement, heading down towards reception, Gary and the rest of the gang are long gone.
Five minutes later we’re sitting in our tutor room waiting for Mr Green to turn up. When it’s not being used for registration or for tutor group meetings, Room 16 is the GCSE Art and Design studio. The whole place stinks of oil paint and PVA glue. All sorts of artworks are balanced on shelves or against the radiators, drying or waiting to be mounted. Up against the far wall there’s an eight-foot rowing boat made from papier mache. Apparently, some of the Year Elevens did it for a project last year. They never got to try it out though. Health and Safety issues.
The place is packed this morning and everyone seems to be talking at twice the normal volume. At least three types of music are competing for air space, blasting out of mobile phones in different parts of the room. There’s some hip-hop, some indie and some slit-your-wrists dirge about wanting to commit suicide coming from the direction of the black trench coat brigade.
