Читать книгу The Devil's in the Detail - Matthew S Wilson - Страница 13

CHAPTER 8

Olivia hurried up to David as he returned to the courtroom.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I told you. The toilet.’

He could see from her expression that this didn’t seem like a satisfactory explanation.

‘Was there something wrong?’

David’s cheeks reddened. Why was Olivia asking so many questions? Ezekiel seemed to be examining him suspiciously too. Had the Archangel overheard something while he waited outside the bathroom? Did he know about Gabriel’s proposition?

‘Well, listening to your life played out in a court room doesn’t seem to agree with my stomach, I’m afraid.’

It seemed that Purgatory was not entirely dissimilar to Earth, in that whenever you didn’t want to fully explain yourself, you merely had to insinuate some form of diarrhoea and everyone was quick to change the topic. He brushed past her and sat in the witness stand again. The doors at the rear of the courtroom sprang open and Gabriel strode through.

‘Perhaps both the prosecution and defendant would be so good as to allow us to continue now,’ Dominion Galloway added sarcastically.

‘Of course, Your Honour.’

Gabriel checked some notes at his bench before approaching David again. Nothing in his demeanour conveyed the conversation that they’d just had. He was very firmly back in the role of smartly dressed prosecutor. David felt himself tense up, not knowing from which angle the Demon would attack next.

‘Earlier we were speaking about a bully at your school named Michael O’Connor. As we have established, he was expelled.’

‘Objection – we have already covered this, Your Honour,’ called out Olivia.

Before Dominion Galloway could rule on the matter, Gabriel waved a dismissive hand.

‘Forgive me. Allow me to re-phrase. Did you ever see Michael O’Connor again after his expulsion?’

‘I did.’

‘Can you remember that first time you saw him after his expulsion.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

Gabriel looked down at his folder.

‘June 22nd of the year 1986.’

David shrugged his shoulders.

‘I believe England were beaten in a game of football by Argentina?’

Suddenly, David remembered everything. England hadn’t playing just any old game of football. They were playing a quarter-final in the ‘86 World Cup, which for a sixteen year old boy in England, effectively amounted to war. It had only been a few years prior that Britain had been embroiled in an actual war with Argentina in the Falklands. That conflict was decided by Britain’s military superiority, where as the war played out in the World Cup on that day in 1986 was decided by the “Hand of God” himself.

‘Handball!’ the sweaty, fat, overweight man behind David spat. He wasn’t alone. The entire pub seemed to be full of middle-aged fat men who were bald, or at the very least thinning at a rate of knots. And tattoos. Lots of tattoos. Mainly Arsenal ones, which was unsurprising in a pub that was less than a mile from Highbury and was called “The Gunners”. But there were other tattoos too. Sparrows on hands. A woman’s name on a set of knuckles, with the word “BITCH” on the other. Teardrops on cheeks. You wouldn’t have wanted to be on the wrong side of this lot, David thought. And right now, a small Argentinean named Diego Maradona was just that.

‘He punched the fucking thing through the goal,’ roared the bartender, oblivious to the fact the pint he’d been pouring was now gushing over the top of the full glass.

‘The bloody referee is a friggin Mexican, what do you expect?’ said another fat, bald bloke.

‘No – he’s from Tunisia,’ clarified a fat, hairy bloke.

‘Same fucking thing,’ said the bartender, putting the matter to rest.

David squeezed past the sweaty beer bellies to the bar. He was only sixteen, but everyone was too drunk, or angry, to take any notice of him. He saw a half pint glass on the edge of the bar and grabbed it.

‘Oi! You’re not eighteen.’

He turned slowly around, dreading the sight of the bouncer, but it wasn’t him. In fact, when David turned and saw who had shouted it to him, he almost wished it had been.

Michael O’Connor stood behind him holding a bottle of cider. Like David’s, his hair was long, almost to his shoulders. But aside from that, he was no different - he was still a good four inches taller than David, still with a permanent smirk on his lips and that maniacal look in his eye.

David braced himself for the imminent shock of that bottle being shattered on his face, mentally trying to determine what the closest hospital was from here. Probably Saint Barts in the City. He prayed that the ambulance driver had the good sense to avoid Angel/Islington during the journey. Traffic was always chaotic around there. Although he didn’t have his licence, David had a thing for maps and was particularly good at picking the quickest way to travel around London.

That was assuming that Mike didn’t just kill David and stuff his body in Regents Canal.

‘That pint’s Nuttsy’s.’

O’Connor nodded over to a tattooed giant feeding coins into the fruit machine in the corner. He was wearing an England shirt with the name “Nuttsy” on the back.

‘The last bloke to drink Nuttsy’s pint is still picking fucking shards of glass out of his eyes. You don’t want that, do you?’

David most certainly did not. He returned the glass to the bar. Mike shook the cider bottle in front of him.

‘Go on.’

If David didn’t take the bottle, it would come off he was scared of Mike, which of course he was. But he was almost positive that Mike’s new found warmth towards him was simply because he’d probably pissed into the bottle. He was between a rock, a hard place and a 200 pound guy named Nuttsy.

David reluctantly took the bottle, pursed his lips and took a small sip. He was ready to spit it out and run to the bathroom, when Mike snatched the bottle back.

‘Jesus, you drink like a girl, Shepherd.’

Mike took a long pull on the bottle and gasped for air when he’d eventually drank the last drop. David just looked at him in awe.

‘Righto, where are we going to get our next drink from then?’ asked Mike. The two boys weaseled into the crowd, all who were still transfixed by the match. Suddenly, they were squashed by the bellies of the men behind them into the fat arses of the guys in front of them.

‘Get him!’ screamed the skin-head.

The boys caught a glimpse of one of the Argentinean players dashing down the right-hand wing of the pitch on the television.

‘Tackle the bastard!’ spat the bartender.

David saw that it was Maradona again. The Argentine evaded Beardsley, then Reid, then Butcher (for a second time!) before streaming down the wing and darting past Fenwick. Peter Shilton left the goalmouth and all of a sudden, time seemed to slow down.

The spittle from the fat bastard behind David floated through the air. The coins from Nuttsy’s pay-out of £17.25 trickled out from the machine with the word “Jackpot” lighting up. A pint glass flew through the air toward the television.

Diego Maradona edged the ball subtly to his right as Shilton dived towards him. Seconds, if not minutes, seemed to pass as the diminutive Argentinean sent the ball rolling past the outstretched keeper and finally into the back of the goal. The net rippled and time suddenly caught up. Fast.

The spittle splashed on the swastika on the back of the skin-head’s head, prompting him to turn around glaring. Nuttsy let out a massive bellow of ‘Get in!’ while collecting his coins, prompting the entire pub to presume he was actually an Argentinean fan. And the pint glass slammed into the television, showering the people at the front at the pub in glass and beer. Mike grabbed David by the back of his neck.

‘Run.’

Punches started to fly. The skin-head punched the fat guy deep in the belly, upending the gradual digestion of three pies and a pounds-worth of chips. His fat comrades then dived onto the skin-head, calling him a German prick, despite the fact he was from Wapping. A group of blokes who were either too young or dumb not to heed the rule “Never question a bloke named Nuttsy” soon had their heads swiftly introduced by the newly-rich Nuttsy. And the rest of the room started belting the bloke who’d thrown the pint glass, despite the fact he was actually the landlord and therefore the rightful owner of the television in the first place.

Mike and David weaved through the punches, kicks and vomit and burst into the comparatively fresh air of Highbury.

‘Jesus,’ said Mike, catching his breath while also grabbing his smokes from the back-pocket of his jeans. ‘You ok?’

‘Yeah.’

Mike lit two cigarettes and offered the second to David. He didn’t actually smoke, but it seemed rude to decline the offer - even if it was from Mike O’Connor. The crashing of tables and glasses became quieter as the boys walked up the hill smoking their cigarettes. Mike broke the silence.

‘Still in school?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah. Mum moved us back to Liverpool. Just came down for the weekend to see Dad.’

David felt sick in his stomach. Had he caused Mike’s parents to split up? Worried that Mike might suddenly make the same connection, he hurried the conversation along.

‘Where does your Dad live?’

‘Pentonville.’

Prison? What do you say to something like that? Luckily Mike just shrugged.

‘I prefer it in Liverpool anyway. At least we have proper football teams up north.’

Both boys grinned. And that was that. No more conversations of bullying in the school yard, false accusations, divorces or prison. As the two boys walked through Highbury Fields they were oblivious to everything around them. The girls sun bathing in their bikinis. The dogs crapping on the pavement. The lager louts vomiting in the bushes. Life was so much easier smoking cigarettes and giving each other’s football teams a bollocking. They eventually got to David’s street.

‘This is me down here.’

Mike checked his watch.

‘I’d better get over to Euston and get the train back. My Mum is going to shit it when she finds out I came down here.’

David couldn’t help but smile. Mike was almost the rebel he’d always wanted to be.

‘You coming down again?’

‘I think we’re playing your boys soon.’

‘Cool.’

David turned into his street, a smile on his lips.

‘Shepherd.’

David turned around.

‘Yeah?’

‘How are things with your old man?’

The smile slipped off David’s lips – replaced with an embarrassed squint.

‘Better.’

‘Yeah? I wish my old man had got better. Maybe my mum wouldn’t have gone to the bizzies and I wouldn’t have to come down to fucking London to see him.’

‘Bizzies?’ queried David.

‘Jesus, you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed are you mate? Bizzies. As in, too busy to help. You follow?’

David didn’t.

‘The bizzies. Old bill?’

Mike laughed, presumably at just how dense David could be.

‘The police for christsake.’

Mike shrugged his laugh off.

‘My dad would’ve fucking killed her if she hadn’t gone to the police.’

David’s eyes flicked to the ground and without another word walked towards his house.

‘See you around, Shepherd.’

And that was that. David wasn’t sure if it was the shared bond of an abusive father, or whether it was the shared bottle of cider, but somehow Mike O’Connor and he had become mates. He walked down his street, eerily silent, no doubt from the fact that everyone was still in shock from the football. It must be getting close to full-time now. He didn’t feel like watching the last part. He unlocked his door and trudged up the stairs.

‘Mum?’

He could hear the sound of running water in the kitchen. Walking in, he found his mother with her back to him at the sink washing her hands.

‘You should have seen it, Mum. Bloody cheating Argie bastards. They punched the bloody ball through the goal.’

He swung the fridge open and grabbed the milk bottle.

‘I swear we shouldn’t have even let those bastards play in the World Cup. What was the point in beating them in the Falklands if they come back and fucking beat us in the World Cup? I’d have preferred losing the Falklands, to be honest.’

His Mum hadn’t turned around. In fact, she hadn’t said a word. It must have been his language. Although she wasn’t exactly Oxbridge material herself, she always maintained that she wanted him to speak decent.

‘Sorry Mum – but do you know how frustrating it is? It’ll be another four years until we have another shot. Four years!’

Still nothing. He changed tack.

‘What’s for dinner then?’

He looked to see what she was washing. Being Sunday, it was probably potatoes for the roast. Or perhaps pumpkin. God, he hoped it wasn’t sprouts – he hated sprouts. But when he looked at his mother’s hands under the running water, he suddenly wished it was sprouts. Blood seeped from her hands into the sink, spiralling around and around the plug hole.

‘Mum? What happened?’

He placed a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. When she eventually did speak, her usually boisterous East-London accent was barely audible.

‘It’s nothing, Davey. The knife slipped is all. Stupid of me, wasn’t it? I should have been paying more attention, shouldn’t I?’

When she turned, he saw her face. Her eye wasn’t black yet, but he knew that in an hour or so it would swell up enough to stop her from seeing out of it. It always did.

‘Where is he?’

‘What? Come on Davey, don’t be silly. What do you want for dinner hey? Shall we get a Chinese tonight? What do you say? You like Chinese.’

She was smiling, but her cheeks were glistening with tears.

‘Did he go down the club?’

‘He’s been working all day, love. He’s just down there for a couple with Sam.’

The Saint George’s Club was a working men’s club on Bronswood Road. It was a place where the local men went to have a mid-week drink and discuss work and football. In truth, most of them had spent all week talking football at work and the club was more of an escape from their families. His Dad usually went there to “cool-down”. Which generally meant drinking with Sam – the guy that ran a betting stall on Blackstock Road. The two of them had gone to school together and been mates since. They nursed their pints, stewing on how good their lives had once promised to be. And some time later, usually much later, his Dad would stumble in drunk offering rough sex to David’s mother as some form of apology. David turned to leave.

‘Where are you going love? Leave your father alone. He’s had a rough time of it – what with how work has been and all. Just leave it darlin.’

He peeled his mother’s fingers off his arm – her blood-soaked fingerprints still on his skin. He looked her squarely in the eye.

‘Mum – he’s going to kill you one of these days.’

She laughed and gasped all at once.

‘Kill me? Now why would your father do that? He loves us, he does, Davey. It’s hard for him to run the shop and keep food on the table. He doesn’t have any time for himself, love.’

He walked backwards towards the hallway. She followed him slowly.

‘Davey, please …’

As his heels passed the threshold into the hallway, she crumpled onto the black and white lino of the kitchen floor.

‘Davey, please don’t.’

Her eyes implored him, her blood stained hands clasped in prayer.

‘He’ll leave Davey. Do you understand me? He will leave. What’ll we do without him?’

His throat burned as he tried to swallow.

‘I’ll look after us, Mum.’

‘How, love? How will you look after us?’

She was right. He didn’t have an answer. Mum didn’t have a job and he didn’t have a trade to support them with. How would they survive? Surely the best he could do was walk over and wrap his arms around his Mum and let her cry into his shoulder, the way she usually did. But something felt different. Perhaps it was Mike’s words still ringing in his ears, or perhaps it was because he couldn’t even hug his Mum properly without hurting her bruised and battered body. Something clicked. He kissed his mother gently on the cheek and then turned to walk out of the kitchen.

‘Davey, where are you going love?’

He walked down the stairs.

‘Davey, come back love. Please, baby. David if you do this ….. if you defy me … and your father...... I will never forgive you. Just leave it ….. just leave it be ….. I am begging y….’

He pulled the door after him before he could hear the final syllable of his mother’s shriek. The streets were still empty. How different it would be had England won. People would be spilling out into the streets, singing, drinking and kissing. Instead, everything was eerily quiet.

He walked down to the club, which looked just like the house either side of it, save for the neon Fosters sign in the window. He’d been in there a couple of times, but only after his father had phoned home for more money to be sent down. This time would be different. This time he was going to walk into the club and grab one of the pool cues from the rack. He’d walk up behind his father, cracking that wooden stick over his father’s temple as hard as he bloody could. And as his father fell off his stool and his stout spilled over the bar, David would push his foot over his throat and hit him again and again and again in the face. He’d keep smashing his face until Sam, or one of the other fuckers, pulled him off.

He placed his hand on the door knob and began to twist. Although it was unlocked, he couldn’t open it. He didn’t have any strength in his fingers at all. Cowardice could be funny like that.

His fingers slipped from the door knob and he turned and walked dejectedly away from the club. As he did, he heard an enormous cheer from within. England must have scored. Perhaps they could still win. And a half hour ago, David would have given anything for England to win that football match. But it wasn’t important anymore.