Authors: Dan Tunstall
Dave's laughing so hard now, he can hardly speak.
“Fuck knows,” he splutters.
Chris grins.
“Well anyway,” he says, “Jez pissed off after that. He'd rented himself a shitty flat down in Blue Gate Fields, but when we went over to see him, he weren't there, yeah? He'd cleared all his clobber out and gone back home to Mummy. Never did get round to producing his
serious anthropological study
.”
I smile, nodding my head.
“I bet you wish he'd gone ahead with the book now though, don't you?” I say. “You could be one of these celebrity hooligans. On the telly talking about cracking heads back in the day.”
Chris laughs.
“I'll survive.”
I stand up and nip to the toilets for a piss. As I'm coming back, I have another look round the pub. The place is packed with Letchford fans now. It's mainly the replica shirt and woolly hat-wearers, but there's also a fair number of our sort of people, the short hair and sports gear mob. There's no sign of Gary, Rob and Jerome, or Jimmy and Scotty, but there are plenty of lads I recognise. It's pretty cramped in the back bar, but people seem to be happy enough, standing together in groups, drinking and laughing. The atmosphere's quite relaxed.
I sit back down and take a swig of my pint. I'm just about to say something to Ryan when I notice him straighten up in his chair. He looks past me and narrows his eyes.
“What's up?” Raks says.
Ryan's got a stern expression on his face.
He nods towards the other side of the pub.
“Whitbourne lads,” he says.
I look across. A bunch of four blokes, in their late twenties or early thirties has just come in. They're standing halfway between the door and the bar. They're all quite thick-set. Short hair and zip-up jackets. There's no visible clue that they're Whitbourne lads, no green and white scarves or replica shirts, but if Ryan thinks they are, I'm not going to contradict him. It's like Gary Simmons said. Ryan's got a nose for trouble. As I carry on watching, four more men come through the door. There's quite a posse growing.
Dave and Chris are instantly on the alert. They've noticed what's going on and they're sitting upright, casting glances across the bar.
Raks lifts his pint glass and watches the bubbles rising to the surface.
“They can't be Whitbourne lads,” he says. “It's only five past seven. The away coaches don't usually come until fifteen or twenty minutes before kick-off. Half an hour at most. It's too early.”
Chris adjusts a couple of his sovereign rings. He shakes his head.
“Raks, lad,” he says. “Let's be honest, yeah? You might get the odd one or two, but the proper lads don't come on the bus. That's the bobble hat brigade. The proper lads come under their own steam.”
Raks still looks confused.
“But when we ran the Castleton lot, they headed straight for the buses.”
Ryan rolls his eyes.
“They were just trying to get out of the way,” he says. “They'd have got into an ice-cream van if there was one standing there.”
I have another swig of beer, fiddling with my T pendant. I look back across towards the door. There's a gang of about ten there now. Some of them have been served at the bar, and they're standing around holding pint glasses and bottles. They're all flicking their eyes around, sussing the place out. Any remaining doubts I might have had that they were Whitbourne lads are disappearing. They couldn't look any shiftier if they tried.
The atmosphere in the pub is changing. The jukebox has been playing quietly in the background for all the time we've been here, but now it's run out of credits. As the music fades away, a sort of ominous silence comes down. The only sound is the wind howling outside, whistling through the hole in the wall and making the awning rattle. All eyes in the room are turning towards the group by the door.
Dave and Chris are grinning from ear to ear. It's like all their Christmases have just come at once. They're not allowed to cause trouble at football matches any more. But now the trouble looks like it's come to them. As I watch their grins get wider and wider, I feel my own face breaking into a smile. My heart thuds against my ribs. I'm starting to feel dry-mouthed and out of breath, tingling with nervous energy. Dave and Chris aren't the only ones who live for moments like this.
The silence is stretching on and on. I'm just about to reach out for my pint again when there's a whistling followed by a sound like an explosion. Instinctively I duck down, hands over my head. The next thing I know, I'm covered in beer and fragments of glass. I peer up at the wall behind us. Beer is cascading down the
Stripers
poster. A piece of green glass is sticking out of the propeller of the Spitfire. Another bottle comes hurtling through the smoky haze towards our table. It ricochets off the wall and ceiling and hits a bloke standing just over to our right.
Suddenly there's blood everywhere. The bloke who's been hit by the bottle crashes to the ground and all around him people start diving for cover, crushing into the corner near the fruit machine and the toilets, shouting and screaming. In the blink of an eye, a big space has opened up in the middle of the floor. The Whitbourne crew are up at the far end, jeering, trying to yank the chained-up stools away from the bar, beckoning, inviting us to come and have a go.
We don't need to be asked twice. Dave and Chris are the first onto their feet, hurdling the table and charging across the room. Ryan and me are right behind them and a load of other Letchford lads are bringing up the rear.
Immediately I've sobered up and I'm at absolutely 100% of my full capacity. My brain is operating at warp speed. In the couple of seconds it takes to get to the other side of the bar, I've sized everything up, calculated all the possible angles of attack, selected a target, assessed the danger. You name it, I've done it. As I pile in, I'm as prepared for combat as I possibly could be. It's becoming second nature now.
Like the skirmish with the Castleton fans, the whole thing is over in a few seconds. As soon as they realise we're up for it, the Whitbourne boys don't want to know any more and they make a bolt for the door. I manage to land a couple of punches on my target, a fat bloke in a denim jacket, and I get a kick in at another lad as he jumps out of the way of a righthander from Chris, but that's about it. Nobody manages to lay a finger on me. In a funny sort of way I'm slightly disappointed.
We chase the Whitbourne mob out across the car park and into the street but they're running like rabbits, skittering through the traffic on the main road and heading down into the Industrial Estate. There's no point going after them.
I nod at Ryan. He smiles.
“Advantage Letchford,” he says.
I look towards the Industrial Estate again. The Whitbourne lads have vanished. In the distance, the lights of Southlands are filling the sky with a white glow. My pulse rate is coming down. I feel an odd mixture of satisfaction and frustration. We've scored a victory, but it wasn't enough. I'm like a junkie who's been given just a little taste of gear. I want more. I need it. I touch my T pendant, puff out a breath and follow Ryan, Dave and Chris back into the pub.
Inside, the clear-up operation has started. Nobody really seems bothered that there's just been a near-riot. Everything's calm again. The bloke who got bottled is sitting at the bar with a Fosters towel clamped to his head. I think of the cover of
Terrace Warfare
. By the looks of him, he's OK. He's probably going to need a few stitches though. Most of the broken glass has been swept away and the splashes of blood have been wiped off the furniture.
We head back to our table and sit down. Raks is still there, looking dazed, picking bits of glass out of his hair.
“Sorry lads,” he says. “It all happened a bit too fast.”
Chris laughs.
“Don't worry about it,” he says. “I think you need to cut down on your booze intake though, yeah? It's interfering with your hooliganism.”
Dave leans back in his chair. The grin on his face shows no signs of going.
“That was fuckin' great,” he says. “Just like the good old days. Away fans trying to take over our boozer, getting sent off with their tails between their fuckin' legs.”
I look down at my trainers. There's a scuff on the left one, but it's just superficial. I lick my finger and it wipes straight off. The first two knuckles of my right hand are red, and there's a little indentation on one of them. It could be a tooth mark. I smile. Scars of battle.
“Do you think that's it from the Whitbourne lads?” I ask.
Ryan shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “That was just a minor squabble. A run-in with the scouting party.” He finishes his pint and puts the glass down. “After the match. That's when the real battle begins.”
The first thing I notice, arriving at Southlands, is that there are a lot of Police around tonight. As we come round the corner of the Family Stand and head along towards the North Stand turnstiles, there's one everywhere I look. They all seem twitchy and on-edge, as if they're expecting some bother. Word has probably reached them that there was a bit of trouble at The Shakespeare. They're taking people at random out of the queues, patting them down for concealed weapons. They don't seem to be interested in us.
As I go through Gate 20, I notice Comb-Round Man's having a night off. In his place there's a fat bloke with stubby little fingers. He's red-faced and sweaty and his breath's wheezing in and out like he's got a punctured lung. I hand over a twenty-pound note and get twelve quid change, then I meet back up with Ryan and Raks inside Gate 19.
We don't bother hanging around in the concourse. Kick-off's in less than five minutes. We head straight across and up the steps to the top of the terracing.
Ready To Go
by Republica is on the PA. Perhaps it's just the alcohol making me sentimental, but there's something magical about the way the stadium looks this evening. Everything seems to be gleaming. The grass seems greener, the pitch markings seem whiter, the floodlights seem brighter. There's a good crowd in tonight. At least 7,000, I'd say. Looking over to the right I see that Whitbourne have brought a pretty decent travelling support, too. At least as many as Castleton. Maybe more. The fans are evenly spread out across the concrete slope. St George flags with
Whitbourne
and
Seasiders
painted onto them are attached to the Perspex panels at the back of the stand and are hung over crush barriers near the front.
“Evening boys,” a voice says.
I turn to my left and see Gary Simmons. Another one of his sudden appearances. He's with Rob and Jerome, as usual.
“Gary,” I say. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Gary laughs. He points over to the Whitbourne fans. One or two are already rattling the fencing separating them from our lot. Doing their best to stir up trouble.
“They look lively,” he says.
I smile and nod.
Gary carries on.
“I've heard there's already been a bit of a barney tonight. Down The Shakespeare. Some Whitbourne lads tried to smash the place up and got a good hiding for it.”
I smirk, scratching my nose.
Gary does a double-take.
“Fuck me. It was you lot wasn't it?”
Ryan pats him on the shoulder.
“Gary,” he says. “I
could
tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”
We leave Gary and the lads laughing and set off down towards our crush barrier. As we get there, all the usual punters are standing around, present and correct. Pessimistic Granddad hasn't started moaning yet, but it won't be long. Twitchy Bloke is chewing his fingernails. Big Fleece Woman has got her phone in one hand and a cup of hot chocolate in the other.
I peer through the mesh into the Whitbourne section. A couple of stewards are trying to persuade the fence rattlers to pack it in, but they're not having much success. I start scanning faces, trying to pick out the lads who were at The Shakespeare. I can't see them, but it doesn't really matter. There's something in the eyes of all the Whitbourne fans. They know some of their boys got a kicking earlier on. They want to even the score. One lad has seen me looking, and now he's trying to stare me out. I wink at him and blow a kiss, mouthing wanker at him as he does his best to look threatening.
On the PA,
Ready To Go
fades out as
The Boys Are Back In Town
fades in and the teams run out. There's no confetti tonight, but in the Family Stand there's an outbreak of black and orange balloons. The wind's getting stronger, and it doesn't take long for the balloons to start blowing around on the pitch, swirling in circles with bits of paper and crisp packets.
All the Letchford players are applauding the fans this week. Tony O'Neill and Tommy Sharp are pumping their fists in the air, trying to get the crowd worked up. To be fair, we're being as enthusiastic as anyone could be, preparing to watch Letchford Town on a freezing cold Tuesday night in December.
It's getting very close to kick off now. The tannoy announcer has given out the teams and Carl Butterworth has shaken hands with all the hangers-on in the centre circle. I'm expecting us to start the match defending our end, but Jimmy Knapper is collecting his stuff from the goalmouth and heading towards the halfway line.
“Fuck,” Ryan says.
“What's the matter?” Raks asks. It's the first thing he's said since we got here. I think his pissedness is gradually wearing off.
“Those bastards must have won the toss,” Ryan says. “We're kicking the wrong way. We always lose when we kick this way in the first half.”
As the Letchford players trot up to the far end, the Whitbourne team trundle into the half in front of us. They're wearing garish green and white hooped shirts and white shorts, like a down-market Celtic. As they start getting into position, it looks like they're going with some sort of Christmas tree formation. It's either 4-3-2-1 or 4-4-1-1, but the number 13 on the left hand side doesn't seem to know how far up the pitch he's supposed to be playing.