Rule of Night by Trevor Hoyle Page A

sweater.
    â€˜Give us it, Fes,’ Crabby shouted.
    â€˜Get your own,’ Fester said, gulping beer.
    â€˜Tight bugger.’
    â€˜Sod off.’
    A paltry cheer rang out as the home side ran into the sunshine, the smell of embrocation wafting on the breeze. They danced and jigged on the turf, testing their limbs like mechanical dolls released from a dark box under the stairs. Then a greater cheer as the opposing team trotted on to the field, rattles crackling like toy machine-guns, and moving bands of colour as the Blackburn supporters held their scarves aloft between outstretched arms, swaying to and fro, from left to right, their cries deafening the boos.
    â€˜Rov-
ers
! Rov-
ers
! Rov-
ers
!’
    â€˜Wait till half-time,’ Arthur said sourly.
    â€˜They brought at least ten coaches with ‘em,’ Skush said.
    â€˜So what?’ Crabby said with heavy bravado. ‘Rochdale lot could beat them any day. Eh Kenny?’
    Kenny just grinned, the strong silent man of action, confident that he could out-punch, out-kick, out-stab, out-maim anythingwearing a Blackburn Rovers scarf. Despite the cold (and it was only a few degrees above freezing) he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up tightly to the elbows and a vee-necked pullover: his neck and arms were pink and his lips were white, turning gradually to blue at the edges. With one arm he held Janice to him, their thigh-bones pressing hard. She was his girl; he felt strong with her beside him: the pride of possession and the smug knowledge of sexual conquest and the fist-clenching tenseness of the coming confrontation all mixed up inside him, generating a fever in the blood. It was good to be alive, the crowd surging forward to press against the barrier, the feeling of being packed tight amongst many bodies – and across the field of battle, the Enemy – a bond of antipathy joining the two camps that was almost a tangible force, something palpable in the air spanning the pitch.
    A scuffle broke out down in front of them, directly behind the barrier, and the police moved in and hauled a youth head-first on to the red shale track, his shirt having been pulled out of his trousers and his braces dangling. He flailed with both arms but they pressed his head into the ground and dragged him away by the scruff of the neck. The crowd behind the goal seethed, like a large formless sea creature slithering about on the steps of the terrace, and the chant went up:
    â€˜Hooli-gans! Hooli-gans! Hooli-gans!’
    Somebody threw a toilet-roll which uncurled in a fluttering yellow streamer and caught itself in the netting. At the other end the Blackburn supporters were cheering an attack.
    â€˜Have they scored?’ Janice said, craning to see.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Kenny said. ‘Come on.’
    He pulled her through the crowd.
    â€˜Where we off to?’
    He didn’t answer, holding her firmly by the hand and dodging through the spectators scattered thinly near the corner flag. A roar went up as they went behind the stand; they were on a narrowdirt-path, a brick wall to their right and on their left the grassy bank sloping down to the fence which encircled the ground. Kenny pressed his cold nose into her warm neck and Janice slipped her hands under his pullover. He could feel her trembling.
    â€˜What’s up?’ Kenny asked her. The gentleness in his voice came as a surprise.
    â€˜Cold.’
    â€˜Get away.’ He curved his hand and held it to her breast. ‘You’ve got great tits.’
    Janice felt herself blushing, but at the same time his tenderness and solicitude pleased her; compliments from him were so rare and unexpected. Behind the wall at their backs the crowd moved restlessly, the roars and groans rising and falling in a continuous rhythm, seemingly for no reason. Kenny was feeling randy; he stood with his pelvis thrust forward so that the hard lump in his jeans would press into her. He moved