fucking chin.
Him and the lad.
The lad and him.
Billy Stubbs and John fucking Finch.
In the corridor. In the camera’s eye.
And then everything falling away. A void.
Dark fucking matter.
Kelly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking high and mighty, like he had some burden to bear that would damage the both of them, like she was tied to his shame.
‘It’ll not be a week,’ she said.
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘It might be weeks and weeks.’
‘It won’t be.’
‘What if they sack you?’
‘They won’t sack me.’
‘What if they take your teaching licence away?’
‘They won’t do that either. Nothing happened.’
He could see her dropping out, see the faraway look in her eye. He was pushing all the buttons, aggravating her to ‘tilt’.
But he couldn’t fucking help himself.
‘Whose side are you on, Kelly?’ he asked at last.
‘How about the mortgage? Or the fucking credit card? How about I’m on their side? And you being the man I moved in with instead of the miserable bastard you’ve become.’
He felt the bad stuff rip through him, the two of them adept at crucifying each other.
‘Something’s going on,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen you like this before.’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
She turned away from him.
‘Kelly,’ he said. ‘Kelly…’
He could tell her now, he realised, tell her everything. Tell her about the phone call, about Clough and Stimmo, the whole fucking mess. Maybe she’d listen. And perhaps if she listened she’d understand. But she wouldn’t fucking listen and she wouldn’t understand because people didn’t understand. They carried the burden on their own terms, slotted it in a neat little place of their own design and chose to leave it there. It didn’t matter if that person was a pal, a parent or a fucking fiancée.
Brussels
A hot day in May.
Serene outside Brussel-Centraal station.
Peaceful on rue de la Montagne.
Not so in the Grote Markt, the central square.
The Grote Markt occupied by two thousand fans.
Fans bathing in the fountains of the Grote Markt.
The Grote Markt swamped with beer.
The Grote Markt littered with broken glass.
A carnival atmosphere or the first sparks of a riot.
One drunk fan in a dress-up police hat directing traffic.
Fans robbing. Fans pillaging.
A stand-off with the police.
Tear gas and trouble.
In the streets surrounding the stadium.
A ban on the sale of alcohol not enforced.
Bar upon bar making the most of the opportunity.
Fans drinking their beer.
Fans singing their songs.
The police watching on.
Two cordons of token security checks.
Fans with genuine tickets.
Fans with forged tickets.
Fans without tickets.
Two cordons of nonchalant, blasé policemen and baying police dogs.
Too easy.
At the turnstiles.
Fans using their tickets.
Fans passing tickets back to fans waiting outside.
Fans paying cash for entry.
Holes in the cinder block perimeter wall, holes big enough for grown men to push through.
A fractured water pipe.
A sea of mud.
A mess.
Inside the stadium.
The Liverpool sections packed to their limit.
Two sweltering cesspits.
Belgian police pelted with missiles by Italian fans.
Twenty-seven Belgian police injured by flying debris.
The temperature rising as the temperature falls.
Fans with genuine tickets.
Fans with forged tickets.
Fans without tickets.
Liverpool fans.
Juventus fans.
And neutral fans.
Neutral sections for neutral fans occupied by the partisan.
Neutral section Z occupied by Italian fans.
Neutral section Z placed beside Liverpool sections X and Y.
Cricket-ball-sized stones littering the crumbling terraces.
Perfect ammunition for those inclined.
An exchange of missiles.
From section Z into section Y.
From section Y into section Z.
Flares and rockets.
Rockets and flares.
Provocation and fighting on the terracing.
A free-for-all.
Three waves of assault on section Z from section Y.
A wall collapses.
A poorly constructed wall.
Thirty-nine
Him and the lad.
The lad and him.
Billy Stubbs and John fucking Finch.
In the corridor. In the camera’s eye.
And then everything falling away. A void.
Dark fucking matter.
Kelly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking high and mighty, like he had some burden to bear that would damage the both of them, like she was tied to his shame.
‘It’ll not be a week,’ she said.
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘It might be weeks and weeks.’
‘It won’t be.’
‘What if they sack you?’
‘They won’t sack me.’
‘What if they take your teaching licence away?’
‘They won’t do that either. Nothing happened.’
He could see her dropping out, see the faraway look in her eye. He was pushing all the buttons, aggravating her to ‘tilt’.
But he couldn’t fucking help himself.
‘Whose side are you on, Kelly?’ he asked at last.
‘How about the mortgage? Or the fucking credit card? How about I’m on their side? And you being the man I moved in with instead of the miserable bastard you’ve become.’
He felt the bad stuff rip through him, the two of them adept at crucifying each other.
‘Something’s going on,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen you like this before.’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
She turned away from him.
‘Kelly,’ he said. ‘Kelly…’
He could tell her now, he realised, tell her everything. Tell her about the phone call, about Clough and Stimmo, the whole fucking mess. Maybe she’d listen. And perhaps if she listened she’d understand. But she wouldn’t fucking listen and she wouldn’t understand because people didn’t understand. They carried the burden on their own terms, slotted it in a neat little place of their own design and chose to leave it there. It didn’t matter if that person was a pal, a parent or a fucking fiancée.
Brussels
A hot day in May.
Serene outside Brussel-Centraal station.
Peaceful on rue de la Montagne.
Not so in the Grote Markt, the central square.
The Grote Markt occupied by two thousand fans.
Fans bathing in the fountains of the Grote Markt.
The Grote Markt swamped with beer.
The Grote Markt littered with broken glass.
A carnival atmosphere or the first sparks of a riot.
One drunk fan in a dress-up police hat directing traffic.
Fans robbing. Fans pillaging.
A stand-off with the police.
Tear gas and trouble.
In the streets surrounding the stadium.
A ban on the sale of alcohol not enforced.
Bar upon bar making the most of the opportunity.
Fans drinking their beer.
Fans singing their songs.
The police watching on.
Two cordons of token security checks.
Fans with genuine tickets.
Fans with forged tickets.
Fans without tickets.
Two cordons of nonchalant, blasé policemen and baying police dogs.
Too easy.
At the turnstiles.
Fans using their tickets.
Fans passing tickets back to fans waiting outside.
Fans paying cash for entry.
Holes in the cinder block perimeter wall, holes big enough for grown men to push through.
A fractured water pipe.
A sea of mud.
A mess.
Inside the stadium.
The Liverpool sections packed to their limit.
Two sweltering cesspits.
Belgian police pelted with missiles by Italian fans.
Twenty-seven Belgian police injured by flying debris.
The temperature rising as the temperature falls.
Fans with genuine tickets.
Fans with forged tickets.
Fans without tickets.
Liverpool fans.
Juventus fans.
And neutral fans.
Neutral sections for neutral fans occupied by the partisan.
Neutral section Z occupied by Italian fans.
Neutral section Z placed beside Liverpool sections X and Y.
Cricket-ball-sized stones littering the crumbling terraces.
Perfect ammunition for those inclined.
An exchange of missiles.
From section Z into section Y.
From section Y into section Z.
Flares and rockets.
Rockets and flares.
Provocation and fighting on the terracing.
A free-for-all.
Three waves of assault on section Z from section Y.
A wall collapses.
A poorly constructed wall.
Thirty-nine
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