by Dan Tunstall
“So are there any questions?”
The silence seems to go on and on. Over to the right someone makes a hollow whistling sound. All we need now is some tumbleweed blowing across the floor.
Mr Dickinson takes this silence as a good sign.
“Alrighty then. It’s up to you now. First, choose a topic, maybe something that could help you with your studies in other subjects. Geography, say. Next, choose a search engine. Then finally, enter some keywords, and see what you can come up with.” He slides his buttock down from the table and scans the room again. It’s time to get started.
I look at Raks.
“What’s it going to be then?” he asks.
“Dunno.” I’m not feeling too inspired. I look at my watch. It’s already gone two o’clock. Dicko’s been talking for half an hour.
“Come on, man,” Raks says. “Guns? Porn? On-line gambling?”
I shake my head.
“You’re not going to get any of that stuff on the school network,” I tell him. “There’ll be all sorts of filters.”
Bradley Ellis starts laughing. Glancing across I see that he’s managed to find a dogging website. Joe Humphrey has got an amateur strip show on YouTube. Further over, Snoop’s screen is showing a photo of a bloke in a leather mask with spikes attached. I’m not sure what it’s all about but it’s not Geography. I think it’s fair to say the filters aren’t working.
Raks clicks on the Internet Explorer icon and types in Google. The cursor flickers in the empty search box.
“Any ideas?”
I shrug. Sitting up in my chair I pull the keyboard across. Something’s just occurred to me. A flash of inspiration.
“I just want to give this a go,” I say.
I take the mouse from Raks and select Pages From The UK. I type in the keywords FOOTBALL+HOOLIGAN. Then I click on Google Search.
Half a second later the results are in. 238,000 matches found.
Raks laughs.
“Nice one,” he says. “But looking through that lot will take us until Christmas.”
I nod.
“Yeah. We need to narrow it down a bit.” I delete FOOTBALL+HOOLIGAN and try HOOLIGAN+FIRMS.
Another click of the mouse and we’re down to 25,000 hits.
I scroll down the first ten, selecting one or two at random. To be honest it’s all a bit disappointing. It’s mostly anti-hooligan stuff. Highbrow articles about disenfranchised youth and the inner motivation of the thug, from The Guardian and The Times. Stuff about The Psychology of Violence. Messageboards full of daft comments.
I think violence spoils football. I want to keep the beautiful game beautiful.
Raks tuts.
“This is all a bit dull and worthy,” he says. He grabs the mouse and leans over to type in +LEAGUE TWO after HOOLIGAN+FIRMS.
This time we’ve got 5,500 matches. Three down from the top of the list of the first ten is a site called LOWERLEAGUELADS.CO.UK.
Firms League table/Latest Odds/Your Views/ Newsdesk/Previews/New And Archive Photos And Video.
I get a little jolt in my stomach. Somehow I just know this is the one.
Another click of the mouse and we’ve struck gold. Rolling straight onto the screen, superimposed over a CCTV image of a broken-chair-wielding pitch invasion, is a league table. A League Two table. But it’s not the usual table, with Letchford struggling down in 18th. It’s a hooligan table, and in this one we’re 5th. Right up in the Play-Off places.
“Fucking hell,” I say, trying but failing to keep my voice down. “Check it out.”
“And just look at this.” Raks is pointing. “Last week’s positions are in brackets. We’re up four places, and Castleton are down from 5th to 10th.”
“Yeah. Because we ran the bastards out of town on Saturday.”
We both laugh. A few people glance in our direction, trying to see what we’re up to. Mr Dickinson has started circulating, so we need to watch out. He’s loitering around the girls as usual though, so we’re probably in the clear for the next couple of minutes. Over by the door, Nita and Cassie are squirming in their chairs as Dicko leers over them.
Raks is still looking at the monitor. He clicks on the Letchford logo and selects the Latest Odds option. We’re in at 3/1.
Mainly youth firm. Don’t travel in numbers but home form very promising. Need 2 prov their not just gobby kids.
“Gobby kids?” I say. “Fucking cheek.”
Raks clicks us back to the league table.
“There’s just one problem with this,” he says.
“What’s that?”
Raks points at the screen again.
“Look who’s leading.”
I hadn’t noticed it before. I was just so pleased to see where Letchford were. But there, at the top of pile, is the worst team of all. Mackworth.
“Shit,” I say.
Raks shakes his head. Two more clicks and he’s found Mackworth’s Latest Odds. 6/4 favourites.
Top mob in this division can pull 100+ lads for awaydays. A match 4 anyone.
We stare at the screen in silence for a few seconds.
“A hundred plus fans?” Raks says eventually. “That doesn’t sound like many.”
“It doesn’t mean a hundred plus fans,” I tell him. “It means a hundred plus lads. Fighters.”
Raks nods, catching on.
“So when are we playing them at Southlands?”
I narrow my eyes, trying to visualise the fixture list in the back of the programme.
“It’s not long. Middle of next month. December 16th, I think.”
Raks nods again.
“That’s the day we go top of the league then.”
I smile. I get another churning sensation in my stomach. December 16th. It sounds like a date with destiny. I take the mouse from Raks again. I’m just about to select Latest News, when Mr Dickinson calls a halt to things.
“Alrighty then,” he says, hitching his backside onto the table again. “I know you’ve not had long, but we’re going to have to shut the network down now. We’ve got a bit of a problem.” There’s a slight edge of panic to his voice.
People stop what they’re doing, shrugging at one another, looking puzzled. Bradley Ellis leans across.
“The Dalton twins have hacked into some sort of US Government site,” he whispers. “Something to do with the Pentagon. Dodgy stuff.”
I’m not sure if that’s what’s really happened, but Dicko’s definitely rattled. Beads of sweat have sprung out on his top lip and patches are spreading out under his armpits. He certainly bears the haunted look of a man who just knows he’s going to get a visit from MI5 in the not-too-distant future.
There’s about fifteen minutes of the session left, but Mr Dickinson lets us go early. Usually that would be good news, but today I feel cheated. Still, I’ve jotted down the LOWERLEAGUELADS website address for future reference. We go down to the canteen for a bit, then make our way to Room 16 for the last session of the day, Tutor Guidance.
Tutor Guidance is a chance to have an informal chat with Mr Green, sort out any problems you might be having, that kind of thing. Most weeks it’s fairly pointless, but today it’s a total washout. Alan’s not finished dealing with Sophie Reed and Tanya Fielder yet. If anything, the situation’s getting worse. Even as the bell rings for the end of the afternoon, both girls are still red-eyed and tearful, bickering and jabbing their fingers at one another, while Mr Green sits between them shaking his head.
“Shit,” I say, as Raks and me make our way out into the corridor. “I hope Greeny never tries to join the Samaritans.”
The Preston’s coach is already waiting as we go up the slope from reception. The driver is standing on the pavement smoking a cigar. It’s the same bloke as always. In his fifties, greasy grey hair, beer gut and a burgundy jacket with the sleeves rolled up. I FOUGHT THE LAW is tattooed on his left forearm. It looks like he did it himself. As we go past, he gives us a sideways glance and coughs.
Clamberi
ng up the steps, we head towards the back. The Year Eleven girls from Medstone are halfway along the bus on the right hand side. Seeing us coming, they nudge one another and giggle. Raks looks at me and smiles.
“I’m liking this popularity lark more and more,” he says.
Gary Simmons and the other lads are already in place on the back seat, so we slide ourselves in, one row down, nodding in their direction. It’s usually quite rowdy up at the back, but today there’s a middle-of-the-week feeling in the air and nobody’s really in the mood for saying anything.
By twenty-five to four the bus has filled up. The driver has finished his cigar and we’re heading out through the gates. As we go down along the perimeter fence there’s some activity up ahead. They’re having an emergency drill at The Tony Mantle Health And Fitness Factory. The fire alarm’s ringing and the car park is full of orange women in velour tracksuits clutching energy drinks and mobile phones.
After that, the journey is pretty dull. It’s warm on the bus, and as we come through the outskirts of town I can feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Before long I’m spark out, dozing with my chin on my shoulder. The next thing I know, Raks is digging me in the ribs.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” he says. “We’re home.”
I blink and look out of the window. The Bulls Head is coming into view. I must have been asleep for twenty minutes or so. The bus trundles to a halt and the Thurston kids start standing, making their way down to the doors. Raks gets up and I heave myself out of the seat, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder.
“See you tomorrow,” a voice says.
I turn round. It’s Gary Simmons.
“Yeah,” I say. “See you Gary.” I nod towards Rob and Jerome and follow Raks down the bus.
As I step onto the pavement I check my watch. It’s just gone five past four but the sun’s already on the way down, a big orange ball sinking behind the outline of Thurston Community College away to the left. Somewhere in the distance I can hear someone letting fireworks off. The bus pulls away and we head across the road, round the corner by the pub and down Lindisfarne Street towards the shops. Ahead of us, the front of Talking Heads is lit up. I suddenly remember what we were talking about in the toilets at dinnertime. Haircuts. I’d almost forgotten. A flicker of anxiety goes through me. I look at Raks.
“Scalping time,” I say.
Raks looks uncertain.
“You sure about this?” he asks. “I don’t know what my mum and dad are going to think about me turning up with a skinhead. I mean, what’s your old man going to say?”
I snort.
“God knows,” I say. “But he can hardly give me lectures on the subject of grooming can he? Half the time he looks like he’s just stumbled out of a bus shelter.”
Raks nods.
“What about Zoe?”
“Oh, she’ll be alright about it.” I sound a lot more confident than I actually feel. Zoe’s always telling me I should grow my hair.
Talking Heads isn’t busy. It never is. The sign in the window says Appointments Not Always Necessary. It’s a bit of an understatement. I push through the door and sit in one of the red plastic chairs dotted along the right hand wall. Raks sits down next to me. The radio is playing quietly in the background. The Danny Morrissey Drivetime Show on Letchford Sound. There’s only one woman working this afternoon, doing what she can to what’s left on an old man’s head. She’s in her late twenties, good looking, with black shaggy hair tinged red at the tips. She did my hair the last time I came in. She’s wearing a low-cut black top and a short black skirt over a pair of red leggings. Right on cue, Raks starts tugging at my elbow, raising his eyebrows, nodding towards the hairdresser.
I laugh.
The woman looks over in our direction.
“Be with you in a few minutes, yeah?” she says.
We nod.
I take my coat off and hang it on the back of my chair. There’s a low table to the right covered with dog-eared magazines. I hand Raks a Cosmopolitan and get myself a copy of Heat. On the front cover there’s a photo of some former girl band member, still trying to cling onto the arse hairs of celebrity. My New Man’s A Bad Boy. But We’re Trying For A Baby.
By the time I’ve flicked through the magazine, the hairdresser is brushing clippings off the old chap’s shoulders and dusting his neck with talcum powder. She helps him put his coat on, he pays and he makes his way to the door. The hairdresser turns towards Raks and me.
“Who’s first then?” she asks.
I glance across at Raks. He’s sitting rigid, eyes glued to Cosmopolitan. Something about Posh’s new diet. It looks like I’m going to have to take the lead. I cross to the chair and sit down as the hairdresser puts a grey vinyl gown over my shoulders. I look straight ahead, at my reflection in the mirror. My cheek still looks slightly swollen. On the shelf in front of me there’s a set of clippers. My stomach twists. “Right,” the hairdresser says. “What’s it going to be?”
I flick my eyes towards Raks. He’s finished with Cosmo now, and he’s looking at me. Daring me.
The hairdresser runs her hands through my hair, pulling up my fringe between her first two fingers.
“Four round the sides, some of the length and weight from the top, yeah?”
I swallow.
“No,” I say. “I want to go for something different this time. Something not so long. Number two all over.”
The hairdresser stops what she’s doing. She stares into the mirror, right at me.
“Are you sure about that?” she asks. “Compared to what you’ve got, number two will seem very short. It’ll be totally different.”
I nod.
“Yeah, I know.” I look across at Raks. He’s giving me the thumbs up.
“Well,” the hairdresser says, “if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
I look into the mirror at my fluffy, little boy’s haircut for a final time. It’s the haircut I’ve been having since primary school. Since the days when it was my mum sitting behind me reading magazines. I feel a bit sad and nostalgic. But things have moved on. There’s no going back now.
“Go for it,” I say.
The hairdresser plugs the clippers in and switches them on, moving round until she’s directly behind me. The sound of buzzing fills the air, and then a heap of brown hair falls onto my shoulder, skittering down across the front of the gown like a mouse running for cover.
The heap of hair looks massive. For a split second, a horrible thought starts to gnaw away at me. I’ve done something really stupid. Then I catch sight of Raks. He’s shaking his head, with his hands over his mouth, making out that he’s horrified by what’s happening to my barnet. But I can see from his eyes that he’s only pissing about. From that point on, everything is fine.
Five minutes later the hairdresser puts the clippers back on the shelf. Bringing her eyes down level with the top of my head, she brushes away loose hairs, checking that nothing has avoided the clipper blades. She straightens up and smiles. She’s happy with how it looks and so am I. It’s a transformation. There’s no other word for it. The hairdresser picks up a mirror and shows me the back and the sides, smooth, sleek and brown, a hint of scalp showing through, giving it a bit of edge. It’s not a boy’s haircut any more. I feel like I’ve got my look at last.
“How’s that for you?” she asks.
“Brilliant, thanks,” I say, but that doesn’t really do it justice. It’s perfect.
The hairdresser puts the mirror down. She tears open the Velcro fastenings on the gown and pulls it forwards so that all my hair falls in a pile by my feet.
I stand up and follow her towards the desk at the back of the shop.
“That’ll be £6.50 then, please,” she says.
I fumble in my pocket and bring out a handful of change. I count out six fifty and hand it over, putting another pound into the tips jam jar.
“Thanks very much,” the hairdresser says.
I smile and head back towa
rds my seat. As I sit down, Raks stands up.
“It looks fucking good, man,” he says. He runs a hand through his own hair.
I grin.
Raks makes his way over to where the hairdresser is waiting.
“What’s it going to be then?” she asks.
Raks doesn’t hesitate.
“Number two all over.”
eight
I wanted a lie-in today. Saturday is the only day when I can really have one. I deliberately didn’t set my alarm clock, and I was hoping that when I opened my eyes it would be nice and late. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock. Something like that. I should have known better. Twenty-five past seven it was, when the bloke next door started hammering on his extension. He’s been building the thing every weekend since before I went to primary school. That’s about eleven years. I think it took less time to build the Taj Mahal.
I’ve been upstairs all morning. I had a shower earlier on, and since then I’ve been listening to music, playing on my PS2, just rattling about. Dad’s in the living room, but he was on the beer again yesterday evening. It’s not too much fun being around him the morning after the night before. I went down for a bowl of Rice Krispies around ten, but Dad was flaked out, drooling on the arm of the sofa, so I just left him to it.
It’s getting on for five past twelve now. Zoe’s coming round at quarter to one. We’re getting the bus into town to have a look round the shops. Letchford are away at Kidderminster in the first round of the FA Cup this afternoon, so I’m not going to Southlands. I check myself out in the mirror on the wardrobe door, then I head for the stairs.
As I come into the living room, Dad’s just waking up. He yawns and stretches and tries to give me a smile.
“Morning Tom,” he says.
I sit down and snort.
“Not any more,” I say.
Dad looks guilty. He wriggles himself upright and blinks a few times. He reaches for the remote control, flicking the TV on. It’s a kids’ show on ITV. Two young lads, a sort of poor man’s Ant & Dec, are trying to whip a crowd of bored-looking under-tens into a frenzy. They’re not having much success.
A couple of minutes pass. Neither of us is saying anything. The bloke next door has taken a break from crashing about. Now he’s having an argument with his wife. It’s hard to work out exactly what they’re shouting at each other, but every now and then something comes through loud and clear. What the fucking hell do you expect me to do? What do you think I am? Fucking psychic?
