Streakers

by Gary Davison

  ‘Who told you that, like? Corbitt? The nosy fucker.’

  ‘Tommy, I’m in bother.’

  Long pause, big sniff.

  ‘Bother?’

  ‘Major.’

  Long pause, big sniff.

  ‘You still there?’ I asked.

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  I told him I needed him to come straight to the flat and not to drink anything.

  ‘I’ll have to get shot of Lucy first.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  The phone went muffled again, then, ‘That’s where I’ve been all week. She’s only forty-eight. Used to be a model,’ big sniff. ‘Been at her gaff all week, haven’t I?’

  ‘So where’d you meet her?’

  ‘Errrm, can’t remember.’

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  ‘Ermmm, I think it was the, what’s its name?’

  ‘The club?’

  It wasn’t

  ‘The Anchor?’

  ‘Not the Anchor.’

  So it had to be the

  So it had to be the bookies and he’d had a big win.

  I told him to get straight to the flat.

  After I had finished getting dressed, I stood at the window and had a smoke.

  Becky shouted and I came back in and she handed me the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘They gave me the job. I’m manager.’

  ‘Well, I hope I’m in for a promotion! We’ll have a right old knees-up after the big one today, eh?’

  ‘I’ve already told the regulars it’ll be a free bar for an hour, but just this once.’

  ‘Fantastic. Fantastic. Count me in. Look, Brian, I need your help.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Can you leave the bar now and meet me outside the Strawberry in Newcastle?’

  ‘Who’s going to look after the bar?’

  ‘I’m desperate. I’ll explain when I see you.’

  As I hung up, Tommy appeared at the door, huffing and puffing.

  I turned him around. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’

  22

  Standing at the top of the stairs at the entrance to the Newcastle Brown Ale stand, I looked down across the car park and China Town and it was a mass of black and white shirts. There were police on horseback and in groups along the front of the stadium and on the corner next to the Strawberry. I kissed Becky off and went through the turnstile.

  With five minutes to kick-off, supporters were still necking pints, stuffing pasties and sauage rolls down, placing bets at the Ladbrokes stands and watching highlights of Newcastle’s famous 5 – 0 thrashing of Man U many seasons ago. I looked along the line of exits and there were two stewards on every door. I thought about having a swift half to calm my nerves, but I needed some air – and fast.

  I made my way through to the lower-tier seats, found mine and picked a programme off the floor and tried to read the notes from the manager. The MC announced that Newcastle United were coming out and the crowd went crazy, waving scarves above their heads and chanting ‘TOON TOON, BLACK AND WHITE ARMY, TOON TOON, BLACK AND WHITE ARMY!’

  I looked around the amazing stadium, packed out with black and white shirts, the pitch lush green, stewards and ball boys spaced out along the touchlines and police at the exits. I stared at the edge of the pitch, the way it curled up to the white line, how clear it was, how real. I sat down, taking slow breaths, nice and easy. If I passed out, I couldn’t do it. And there was no question I was going to. That edge of grass, down there just right of the goal, was where I was going on, not now, not now, but soon, maybe after half-time. Hands on my thighs, off with the jeans, sweatshirt, mask on, down to the edge, over the white line, on the pitch, in play, doing it. Oh, Jesus God.

  Manchester United were all over Newcastle and the home supporters had quietened down. After only thirty minutes, Newcastle made the substitution the crowd had been waiting to see all season. Newcastle United legend Alan Shearer was coming on. I stood up with everyone else and clapped, then sat down and gripped the jeans, deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths, nice and easy here we go, AHHHHHHHHHHH! The vomit shot out of my nose and mouth all over the people in front. I rushed along the row, apologising, hand over my mouth as more sick squirted out of the sides and onto people’s laps.

  A steward followed me into the toilets, then left when he realised I wasn’t drunk.

  I had a drink of water from the tap and stood in the middle of the toilets. The pale walls were the same colour as the cell Sam was in. I walked around in the sodden mess, lap after lap after lap, thinking of Sam on that concrete bed. You’ve got to do it, Al. Everything you need is under my bedside drawers. Not everything Sam. Not everything. Come on, come on, deeper breath, come on, you can do this, edge of the pitch, arms going, come on, come on.

  I stopped plodging and lifted my head and stared at the light blue wall above the urinals. I saw straight through the wall, Sam urging me on, pointing at the pitch, Becky and Tommy waiting, screaming for me to make it. An old fellow came into the toilet and stood looking at me. I nodded at him and ripped off my top and handed it to him, then my jeans and t-shirt, pulled the mask on and ran out of the toilet, through the access and sprinted for the edge of the pitch.

  As I hurdled the advertisement board, an almighty roar went up and I was off, running for my life…

  Short sharp breaths – one two, one two, one two, heart hammering, eye on the centre of the pitch, come on!

  Straightening up, I saw the crowd for the first time, screaming for me, punching the air, kids, dads, mams, going crazy. I reached the centre circle, stewards and police closing in like they were being sucked down a plug hole. I turned a full circle, arms aloft, and yelled, ‘COME OOOOOOOOOON!’

  The roar got louder and I got faster, swerving round one steward, then another, past two police, you’re not fast enough mate, or you, or you, or you, or you, come on!

  Past Ronaldo, more stewards, left, right, I’m flying, past Rooney, another steward, getting faster and stronger, taller, the crowd deafening, you’re too slow, you’re too slow, even slower mate, and you, and you, I’m going to make it, I’m going to make, edge of the pitch, the exit, I’m going to make it, you’re doing it Al, you’re fucking doing it pal, come on, keep it going, come on, come on, come on, come on.

  I spotted Tommy and Becky, faster and faster, never taking my eyes of them, taller and taller. I leapt into the air and reached out for Tommy, our fingers touching, nearly there, then I was slammed to the ground.

  I wriggled and elbowed with everything I had to get the bastards off, but couldn’t move the weight above me. I edged forward, the weight getting less and less. I looked up and Tommy was swinging like a madman, dropping anyone and everyone. Becky sunk her teeth into the steward on my back and I broke free, over the top of a copper, down the stairs, another set of stairs, landing in front of the exit doors. I ran at the two stewards and they stepped aside.

  I tear-arsed down the outside of the cobbles, eye on the Strawberry pub, and hung a right past a burger van as a copper lunged from the side, grabbing at my shoulder. I staggered and fell down the stairs, forward roll and up, in between parked cars, the police one car behind and alongside.

  Brian was outside Fluid Bar, but hadn’t seen me yet. I took a right along the cars, the coppers now ahead and an arm’s length behind, onto a car bonnet, over. Brian saw me and I doubled backed and bolted straight for him.

  I hit the doors at full speed and the fire alarm went off. I ran up the stairs and into the toilet, ripped the mask off and Brian handed me the jeans and t-shirt. I bundled Brian down the stairs and joined the mass surge out of the bar.

  The crowd were forcing the police back and Brian and me tunnelled our way along the pub window and took off down the street towards the taxi rank.

  I was in the taxi waiting, when the funniest thing I’ve ever seen came round the corner. Brian, shirt ripped off, pants ha
lf down, huge hair frazzed up in a ball and a face of pure panic. He looked like he had just escaped from the local nut house.

  I shouted him over and we sped off towards the coast.

  23

  The atmosphere in the Fiddler’s was subdued. The rumours were flying about that the Flash had been caught, others in the know were certain he hadn’t. No one knew for sure and everytime the doors opened, the bar breathed in.

  Newcastle United legend Bob Moncur, who had been commenting on the match, got the biggest cheer when he said, ‘The lad must have escaped, otherwise the police would have released a statement putting an end to all the extra publicity. I for one hope he has because he was so influencial in Newcastle’s victory today. Our twelth man.’

  Becky came through the doors, sporting a cut below her eye and bruises on her forehead. I rushed over to her and picked her up and carried her into Brian’s office. She burst into tears.

  I took a look at her face.

  ‘Nasty little cut, that. You need to concentrate on your defence. More duck, less dive.’

  She wiped the tears off her cheeks and looked up at me. ‘You were unbelievable, Al.’

  ‘So were you.’

  ‘We make a good team, don’t we?’

  I nodded, then, heart pounding, I blurted out, ‘Do you want to get married?’

  She shook her head. ‘Hardly, I’ve only just got rid of the last one. Last thing I need is you getting all soppy.’

  ‘Sound by me.’

  ‘What? So you didn’t really want to get married?’

  ‘No, no. I’m just saying it’s probably for the best that we keep it the way it is.’

  ‘Mmmm, too much relief on your face for my liking.’

  We both grinned.

  It was after eight o’clock when Tommy came into the bar, elbow proudly out to the side for Lucy to hang onto and to be fair, she was a bit of a looker. She was taller than Tommy, with black, shoulder-length hair, bright makeup, and she was looking around like she was expecting a round of applause. Brian went straight over to Tommy and told him he had the freedom of the Fiddler’s for life. Wasting no time, Tommy ordered rum chasers with his first round.

  It was nine o’clock when Sam walked in and the place went stir crazy. I honestly feared for his safety and by the time he got behind the bar with me, he looked like he’d been fighting more than Tommy and Becky. He planted a smacker on me and whispered in my ear, ‘I never wore it for the Darlington streak,’ then jumped up onto the counter and announced that it was a free bar for the rest of the night.

  The last thing I remember, much later on, was climbing onto the bar with Sam, both of us bare-chested, arm over each other’s shoulders, arm aloft, singing our hearts out.

  24

  Rumours soon started about Sam being locked up and what people thought they knew, they now didn’t.

  Film deals, book deals, television interviews, the whole thing went crazier than before and the Fiddler’s was swamped with outsiders looking for the Flash.

  Sam and I thought about coming out and telling our story, revealing our identities and going on a worldwide tour, girls falling at our feet, but, well, it just wasn’t us, was it? And we had Eve and Becky to think about.

  That didn’t mean we couldn’t do with the cash, so we agreed to tell the full story using different names for everyone. There were two provisos, before we got started. Well, three, really. That our identities would never be revealed – like Sam said, how could we do a comeback if they knew it was us?

  Secondly, Sam wanted it made clear to the reader that he was packing downstairs and only used the rubber for the first streak. ‘That was my real member at the Darlington streak. I want that in, word-for-word, or this is a no-go.’

  Finally, with me having won that uni competition, and still having my mother on my back, I wanted to write the story.

  So I started, at the beginning, that first day in the Fiddler’s…

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