a blur. He passes Jeff on the way, Jeff all Best Company denim, all bristle and aftershave.
‘See you at the station, you fat bastard!’
‘Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
He swings the bike into the yard, slams it into the cycle rack. 9.45 a.m. Plenty of time.
‘Funny how you can make it back on Saturdays.’
Harcross on the ramp in crisp winter sunlight.
‘It was a light day. Just the one bag.’
Harcross smiles. He knows the fucking score.
Finchy pushes through the plastic doors into the office,chucks his bag on the facing table and turns it over. Mail spills out. Longs and shorts. Firsts and seconds. Packets on the belt. Persil packet well hidden, heart pounding all the same, in his nature to please, to be a good lad despite himself. He turns to look at the door. Harcross is miles away, staring at the signing-in sheets. Other blokes are ambling back in, blokes that didn’t start early, blokes who aren’t sweating, blokes that never seem to rush. Either they have it easy or he’s fucking useless. He chucks his bag into his locker and makes for the door. 9.52. Eighteen minutes. Plenty of time if…
Webster’s waiting for him.
‘Nicely does it,’ says Webster. ‘Don’t sweat, son. One day you can kiss twenty-one walk’s backside and take your pick of something more leisurely.’
Finchy nods, tries to manoeuvre his way past.
‘Not so many single mums mind. Any luck yet?’
He shakes his head.
‘Fuck me,’ says Webster. ‘You’re a slow cunt at everything.’
Two other blokes are on the ramp, chugging at cigarettes, laughing when Webster laughs, bleating when Webster bleats. Fucking sheep.
He looks at his watch. 9.54 a.m. He doesn’t have time for this bollocks.
‘Fucking Wimbledon away,’ says Webster. ‘It’s a pity you haven’t got anything better to do.’
Is there anything better? At 3 p.m. on a Saturday? Anything better than an away day with the boys? A better place to be when the ball hits the back of the fucking opposition net? It’s better than sex. They’ve all long since settled on that.
The highest of highs.
And Webster’s being a cunt, pure and simple. Finchy can see the look in his eye, the poison.
‘I’ll be off then,’ says Finchy, dismissing the bastard. He jumps from the ramp, marches over the yard and out of thered gates, not looking back, not giving Webster another chance.
‘2–0 to the Crazy Gang,’ shouts Webster. ‘Fashanu double.’
He shoots the cunt the finger, races across the street between the cars, up the alley that cuts through the terraces, to the station, arrives there with three minutes to spare. And they’re all there waiting, BJ, T-Gally, Jeff, Hopper, Stimmo, each with eight hours in the sack behind them and a full fucking brekky in their bellies, each spruced up for a Saturday in the smoke.
Cunts.
Sunday
You traced your fingers over these walls.
You ran through these fields.
You played in these parks.
You grazed your knees on these streets.
You laughed on these corners.
You wept on these benches.
You drank in these pubs.
You pissed in these alleyways.
A morning choked with rain and peeling bells. He went to breakfast then sat about the hotel, read the Sundays, only half interested, thinking about BJ, seeking out a report on a violent showdown between rival fans at the Lincoln v Rochdale game. But there was nothing. It was Division Two for fuck’s sake. Nobody in the nationals gave a shit.
By eleven he was lost in himself, aware only that he wasn’t checking out or heading back south, not yet. He requested another night instead.
‘You can have all week if you want,’ said the girl at the desk.
‘I might need it.’
‘I’ll book you in until Friday,’ she said. ‘If you want to check out at any time just let us know. A sort of daily arrangement.’
‘You’d do that?’
‘It’s a forty-room hotel and we’ve got twenty rooms empty,’ she said. ‘I think we can be flexible.’
He went back to his room, changed and
‘See you at the station, you fat bastard!’
‘Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
He swings the bike into the yard, slams it into the cycle rack. 9.45 a.m. Plenty of time.
‘Funny how you can make it back on Saturdays.’
Harcross on the ramp in crisp winter sunlight.
‘It was a light day. Just the one bag.’
Harcross smiles. He knows the fucking score.
Finchy pushes through the plastic doors into the office,chucks his bag on the facing table and turns it over. Mail spills out. Longs and shorts. Firsts and seconds. Packets on the belt. Persil packet well hidden, heart pounding all the same, in his nature to please, to be a good lad despite himself. He turns to look at the door. Harcross is miles away, staring at the signing-in sheets. Other blokes are ambling back in, blokes that didn’t start early, blokes who aren’t sweating, blokes that never seem to rush. Either they have it easy or he’s fucking useless. He chucks his bag into his locker and makes for the door. 9.52. Eighteen minutes. Plenty of time if…
Webster’s waiting for him.
‘Nicely does it,’ says Webster. ‘Don’t sweat, son. One day you can kiss twenty-one walk’s backside and take your pick of something more leisurely.’
Finchy nods, tries to manoeuvre his way past.
‘Not so many single mums mind. Any luck yet?’
He shakes his head.
‘Fuck me,’ says Webster. ‘You’re a slow cunt at everything.’
Two other blokes are on the ramp, chugging at cigarettes, laughing when Webster laughs, bleating when Webster bleats. Fucking sheep.
He looks at his watch. 9.54 a.m. He doesn’t have time for this bollocks.
‘Fucking Wimbledon away,’ says Webster. ‘It’s a pity you haven’t got anything better to do.’
Is there anything better? At 3 p.m. on a Saturday? Anything better than an away day with the boys? A better place to be when the ball hits the back of the fucking opposition net? It’s better than sex. They’ve all long since settled on that.
The highest of highs.
And Webster’s being a cunt, pure and simple. Finchy can see the look in his eye, the poison.
‘I’ll be off then,’ says Finchy, dismissing the bastard. He jumps from the ramp, marches over the yard and out of thered gates, not looking back, not giving Webster another chance.
‘2–0 to the Crazy Gang,’ shouts Webster. ‘Fashanu double.’
He shoots the cunt the finger, races across the street between the cars, up the alley that cuts through the terraces, to the station, arrives there with three minutes to spare. And they’re all there waiting, BJ, T-Gally, Jeff, Hopper, Stimmo, each with eight hours in the sack behind them and a full fucking brekky in their bellies, each spruced up for a Saturday in the smoke.
Cunts.
Sunday
You traced your fingers over these walls.
You ran through these fields.
You played in these parks.
You grazed your knees on these streets.
You laughed on these corners.
You wept on these benches.
You drank in these pubs.
You pissed in these alleyways.
A morning choked with rain and peeling bells. He went to breakfast then sat about the hotel, read the Sundays, only half interested, thinking about BJ, seeking out a report on a violent showdown between rival fans at the Lincoln v Rochdale game. But there was nothing. It was Division Two for fuck’s sake. Nobody in the nationals gave a shit.
By eleven he was lost in himself, aware only that he wasn’t checking out or heading back south, not yet. He requested another night instead.
‘You can have all week if you want,’ said the girl at the desk.
‘I might need it.’
‘I’ll book you in until Friday,’ she said. ‘If you want to check out at any time just let us know. A sort of daily arrangement.’
‘You’d do that?’
‘It’s a forty-room hotel and we’ve got twenty rooms empty,’ she said. ‘I think we can be flexible.’
He went back to his room, changed and
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