by Lewis Orde
“So help me, it’s true,” Hall said hotly, but he refused to tell where he had acquired such information. Katherine thought he was inventing it all — a joke to ease the tension before going into battle.
It was eleven-twenty when Katherine and Hall entered the station. The Eagle photographer wore corduroy trousers, a thick sweater, and a tweed sportcoat; a brace of Nikons hung from one shoulder. Katherine fended off the brisk early March wind with leather pants, high boots, and a sheepskin jacket over a cashmere sweater. Her silky blond hair was tucked securely into a French braid, and on her head was a red-and-white woolen hat.
The young supporters who would be riding the soccer special north to Birmingham were already gathering. Many wore the red and white of their team, rosettes and badges pinned to clothing, scarves knotted around waists. As they waited to board their own train, another soccer special arrived; this one carried northern fans come to watch their team play in London. The two sets of supporters clashed. Hall took photographs of the police moving in immediately to pick up the ringleaders.
Brian Waters arrived fifteen minutes before midday. He was accompanied by five other youths, all dressed alike in warm, zippered jackets. Brian rattled off names as though he was in a race: “Roger, Pat, Joe, Terry, Steve.” While Katherine tried to join names to faces, Brian pointed to her hat and laughed. “You’d better get rid of that. Makes you a right target, it does.”
“And the scarves you and your friends are wearing don’t make you targets?”
“We know how to look after ourselves.”
“And I can look after Mrs. Kassler,” Sid Hall said.
“No.” Brian shook his head vehemently. “My grandpa had a fit when he found out you were coming with us. Said he’d throw me out if anything happened to you. You’re my responsibility.”
Everyone was concerned about this trip, Katherine thought. Gerald Waller, Archie, and especially her father. Roland Eagles had exploded when he’d learned of the assignment. He had called Katherine into the office he used in the Eagle building, closed the door, and demanded in low but dangerous tones, “Who the hell do you think you are to request such a dangerous assignment? A war correspondent?”
“You’re the one who said fan violence was a legitimate social issue, and we should find out all we could about it.”
“Yes, but I never intended you to be party to this lunacy.”
Then Katherine had played her trump card. “I think it’s the best idea you’ve ever had regarding the Eagle. I want to do it, and if you won’t let me do it for the Eagle, then I’ll damned well do it for another paper on the street!”
The shriek of the guard’s whistle split the air. “Better get on if we’re going,” Brian said.
Katherine turned toward the train. Every window along its entire length had someone leaning out of it. A few wolf whistles were directed at her; other window hangers were yelling to friends, or shouting abuse at regular passengers who came within hailing distance. Brian and his friends climbed into the coach, and formed a flying wedge to clear a path for Katherine and Hall.
“If you can’t find a seat, darling,” a fat young man with long red hair yelled at Katherine, “you can always sit here.” He patted his lap. “Just watch you don’t sit on my broomstick and snap it in half.” He roared with laughter at his own wit; two friends, sharing the table with him, joined in, shouting, “Good one, Ginger! Good one!”
Sid Hall moved quickly, but Brian was much faster. “You apologize for that.”
“I what?” Ginger looked around him. Brian and his allies formed a semicircle from which there was no escape. “Sorry, miss,” he practically whispered.
“That’s better. Now show some manners,” Brian said, in a tone that reminded Katherine uncannily of his grandfather, “and give up your seat to the lady.”
Ginger rose to his feet and walked away, motioning with his head for his friends to follow. Brian made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Katherine and Hall sat down. Brian and his friend named Roger joined them. The remaining four members of Brian’s group took the table on the other side of the aisle, after intimidating the people already sitting there into leaving.
As the train pulled out of Euston, police officers began patrolling. A red-faced sergeant stopped by the table where Katherine sat. “Are you quite certain you belong here, miss?”
Before Katherine could assure the policeman, Brian said, “’Course she does. I take my mother to football every week.”
“Your mother?” The policeman was smiling.
“And that’s my dad.” Brian pointed at Hall.
“And they’re all your brothers, right?” The sergeant indicated Brian’s friends.
“No. Those pansies are my sisters.”
“Thought I spotted a family resemblance. Your sisters are all bloody ugly, just like you.”
“Cheek!” Brian exclaimed.
“I’m with the Daily Eagle,” Katherine told the policeman. “After all the trouble last week, we’re trying to learn something about the causes.”
“Good luck. If you find out anything, you’ll be the first.” He looked down at Brian. “Seems like you’ve picked yourself a good guide, miss.”
Katherine stretched the truth. “He’s also with the Eagle.”
“Really? Well, be careful, all of you. And enjoy the game.” He moved away, carrying on a bantering conversation with each group of fans he passed.
“He thought I was a reporter, didn’t he?” Brian said, with no little pride.
“You?” Roger scoffed. “You couldn’t report a flea crawling up your leg. All you do for the paper is ride around on your moped and deliver stuff.”
“What work do you do?” Katherine asked Roger.
Some of Roger’s cockiness disappeared. “I’m unemployed.”
“Tell her how you lost your job,” Brian urged.
“I was an apprentice plumber, before I got sent away for three months after some trouble at West Ham. There was no job waiting for me when I got out.”
“What about your other friends?” Katherine asked.
Brian jerked a thumb across the aisle. “Pat and Joe are working, laborers on building sites. Terry and Steve, they’re on the dole as well. Smile, lads,” he added as he saw Hall aiming a Nikon toward the other group.
Katherine began to understand the social order that existed here. The other five youths were either unemployed or held menial jobs. Brian, who had worked continuously at Mercury Messengers for eighteen months, had established himself as their leader. And even then, what did he really have?
Accompanied by Sid Hall, and under the watchful eye of police officers, Katherine walked along the length of the train. Many of the fans were playing cards, or reading comic books and soccer magazines. She stopped to talk to several. All seemed friendly, and the moment they saw Hall’s cameras, they began to ham it up. They talked willingly about their backgrounds, their work, if any, but mostly they wanted to talk about their team. Katherine just nodded as players’ names were spoken with a reverence befitting royalty.
Shortly before the train reached Birmingham, Katherine and Hall returned to their seats. It was quite obvious now to Katherine that the entire train was filled with groups similar to Brian’s. Some larger, some smaller, but all with the same vital ingredients. Young men sentenced to unemployment or dead-end jobs, products of poor or broken families in neighborhoods from which there was no escape. Except one, the Saturday afternoon or midweek game, when they could cheer on their team. Their rare chance to be a part of something exciting, to identify with a team’s success, just as if they were a part of it. Bonded together by that fanatical support, these small groups formed themselves into an army few generals would have been ashamed to lead. Instead of doing battle for King and Country, they waged war on opposing supporters. Their battle flags were the scarves around their waists. Their war cry was the name of their team. And their victory was the total rout of their rivals before the police could step in and stop the fl
ow of blood.
The train pulled into Birmingham. Doors were slammed back long before the train halted. Bodies cascaded to the platform. Within two minutes of arriving, the young fans from London had taken over the station. Numbering nearly a thousand, they marched in a tight military formation, heavy boots and shoes striking concrete with a steady, fear-inspiring cadence.
Outside the station, police waited to escort the visitors over the long walk to the stadium. Brian’s group was at the head. He chatted happily with the police inspector in charge of the escort, turning on the charm at will. “We really appreciate you blokes showing us the way like this. Otherwise we might get lost, get into right trouble in a place like this. Look at them, will you . . .?” Brian pointed with his chin toward half a dozen crop-haired youths standing on a street corner, who wore the colors of the local team. “If you and your men weren’t here, superintendent, that lot would make mincemeat out of us.”
“Stop promoting me, sonny. I’m just an inspector. And I don’t believe for one moment that any of our home-grown tearaways could last a round with any of you London boys.”
“Glory me! What do you think we are — football hooligans?” Brian affected such shock and indignation that everyone around him, including the police inspector, burst out laughing.
Katherine increased her pace to walk alongside the inspector. She had removed her woolen hat and felt less conspicuous. She introduced herself, switched on a portable tape recorder, and held out the microphone. “How long have you had this detail, inspector?”
“Escorting the visiting fans? A few years, miss.”
“Has the vandalism become worse in that time?”
The inspector scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’d say it’s become more organized. Used to be just a few hotheads blowing off steam, but now there seems to be some moving force behind it. Not with just one group of fans; with all of them. And . . . well, I may be wrong, but I think it’s become more of a racial thing.”
“Racial. How do you mean?”
“In the old days, the shouts and songs were obscene but harmless. Nowadays, there’s a lot of picking on the colored players. Mind you, we have more colored players in the game than we used to, so that might account for it.”
Another group of policemen waited at the stadium, formed into two lines between which the London fans had to pass. Spot checks were made, fans pulled out and summarily frisked. Directly in front of Katherine, a young man was searched. A metal comb was confiscated. When Katherine asked the reason, the policeman who’d made the search answered, “I’ve seen more of these combs used for slashing someone across the face, or gouging out an eye, than for straightening hair.”
Inside the stadium, the fans who had traveled on the soccer special were steered into a small section of the main stand. A double line of policemen kept them separated from supporters of the home team. The chants began, exhortations and songs punctuated by savage clenched-fist salutes. Scarves were raised above head level to form a swaying blanket of red and white.
In the middle of this pandemonium, ears ringing, senses numbed, stood Katherine and Sid Hall. “You know . . .!” Katherine had to scream to make herself heard. “Marx was wrong. Religion isn’t the opium of the masses — sport is!”
Hall panned around with a telephoto lens, selecting faces that best expressed the fanatical hysteria of the occasion. He yelled back at Katherine, “You don’t even need to close your eyes to make believe it’s 1938, and we’re at a Nazi rally in Nuremberg. It’s all here — the salutes, the banners, the songs.”
The game itself was anticlimactic. The movement of the crowd around them prevented all but the tallest or most determined from seeing anything that was taking place on the field; only snatches of play were visible. A few scuffles broke out, where visiting fans managed to sneak through the police line, but these were soon quelled. Brian Waters and his friends, who surrounded Katherine and Hall like an honor guard, were on their best behavior today.
Suddenly, the game was over. The visiting fans were shepherded out of the stadium, and escorted by police along the lengthy route back to the station and the soccer special that was waiting to return them to London.
“Who won?” Katherine asked Brian.
“Two-two draw. Didn’t you watch the game?”
“I couldn’t.”
“What did you learn for your newspaper story?”
“A little,” Katherine answered. “I found out what the atmosphere’s like. Terrifying, to sum it up in a single word.” Brian laughed at that. “And I also learned that there’s a common thread among young soccer fans.”
“Oh? What’s that then?”
“For most of you, following a team — hoping to share in its successes — is an escape from a life that’s grinding you down. Unemployment, broken homes, lousy neighborhoods.”
“Not me. Maybe they’re all that” — Brian indicated everyone else in the procession, including his five friends — “but not me. I’ve got a job. I earn. And I live in a decent place.”
Katherine spotted her opening. “Then don’t you think you should be doing something better with your life than causing trouble at football games?”
“Me cause trouble?” He pointed a finger at himself, the picture of injured innocence.
“Stop the act, Brian. You might be able to pull the wool over the eyes of the provincial police, but I know you better. I’ve seen you in court. And I saw the way you controlled the situation on the train at Euston this morning. You have leadership qualities, Brian. Now it’s up to you to decide whether you use those qualities for good or bad.”
The procession reached the station. An instant of chaos ensued when hundreds of exuberant passengers tried to board the train through the nearest door. Police officers, whose humor had not been dented that afternoon by any large-scale trouble, sorted out the mess goodnaturedly. The train pulled out on time.
The same playing cards and magazines came out, but the journey south was quieter than the outward trip had been. The anticipation was missing. The game was over. Now the young fans had time to recuperate. To regain their strength and vocal power for the next contest.
As the train pulled into Euston, a thin, reedy man with a bobbing Adam’s apple entered the coach through the communicating door from the next coach. He walked quickly along the aisle, lips moving, right hand continually dipping into his coat pocket, flipping small packets onto the tables as he passed.
Katherine watched him approach. “Wear them at the next game, lads,” the man said, tossing a packet onto the table. “Show the flag.” Then he was gone.
Brian ripped open the package. Half a dozen circular badges tumbled onto the table. Katherine glanced at one. It featured the Union Jack. What had the man said — show the flag? Then Katherine saw the four words imprinted on the facsimile of the flag: “Niggers back to Africa!”
“Sid, get that fellow!” Katherine urged. She slid out of the seat to allow passage to the photographer. He lunged after the man, who, by this time, had passed into the next coach. But the train was stopping. Doors were being flung open. The man jumped off and disappeared into the crowd of fans spilling out of the train onto the platform. Hall came back, shaking his head.
“Who was he?” Katherine asked Brian.
“British Patriotic League, they call themselves. They’ve been passing this stuff out for the past couple of months.”
“Do you wear it?” Katherine took note of the youths crowding along the aisle toward the door. Some already had the badges pinned to their clothes, sporting them as proudly as the tokens of their team.
“Not me. Stupid stuff, isn’t it? I work with colored blokes. Some of them I wouldn’t miss if they were shipped back to Africa or wherever, but most of them are all right. Like anyone else, right?” He looked to his friends for approval; they nodded their heads sagely.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Brian gave Katherine his cheeky grin. “Don’t want to get my mum mad at me, do
I? She might put me over her knee.”
Katherine took a swipe at him. Laughing, he ducked back out of range.
*
Katherine drove from Euston station back to the Eagle building. She had arranged to share a few hours with John Saxon that night. The property developer was spending part of it in London before leaving for his country home, and Katherine had created the time for the date by telling her own family that she would be returning late from Birmingham. Before she met Saxon, though, she wanted to do some speedy research.
The Eagle file on Britain’s right-wing political groups was extensive. Old and new, some extinct, but more, if not actually flourishing, at least with warm blood running through their veins. And others still that were spin-offs of earlier groups, splits formed over ideological differences, schisms over hatreds that were not violent enough.
Her eyes ran through the list: the National Front, the British National Party, National Party, British Movement, Column 88 (a particularly sick group, Katherine decided upon reading that the numbers signified the corresponding letters in the alphabet — H.H., the initials for Heil Hitler), SS Wotan, another group steeped in Nordic superstition and the Hitler myth of Aryan supremacy, the League of St. George, Racial Preservation Society, the Northern League. The smaller, lesser-known groups that she could be forgiven for never having heard of: the Action Party, Britannia Party, the National Independence Party, the National Assembly. And even more that used the words National Socialist in their title.
Good God, she thought, just how many of these lunatic fringe organizations are out there? It was even more frightening to know that just as many must exist on the other side of the political spectrum, the fanatical left-wing crazies. But nowhere could she find any mention of the British Patriotic League. It was either too new to be included — or else it had done nothing to bring itself to the Eagle’s attention, yet. . . .
She turned up at John Saxon’s Marble Arch home at twenty minutes after eight. He opened the door, saw the red-and-white hat perched gaily on her head, and asked, “Did your team win?”
