1971
Sixty-six fatalities.
Judge Smith’s chilling verdict.
‘The board would appear to have proceeded with the view that if the problem was ignored long enough it would eventually go away.’
Tragedy after tragedy.
Warning after warning.
Kelly sniffed. He noticed her breathing had changed, that she was awake as he was awake, locked in her own thoughts.
‘Kelly…’ he whispered.
‘What?’
Agitated. Again.
‘Kelly?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to love me,’ he said.
He just came out with it, like that, could hardly believe it himself.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I want you to empathise with me,’ he said. ‘Just the once. I want to know that it’s possible for you to do that.’
The darkness had him. Somehow it was spiralling and hurtling around him, a fucking maelstrom. He was trapped at its centre. He could hear the discomfort in her voice as she responded, Kelly thrown off balance, the two of them teetering on the brink of two different lives, two separate pathways, neither of them prepared for that.
Not yet. Not yet.
‘You’re incapable of loving me,’ she said. ‘Why should I love you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just incapable of saying it.’
‘So you love me?’
‘Fucking hell, Kelly,’ he said.
‘Tell me you love me…’
‘Shut up. You’re not listening.’
‘Say it,’ she said. ‘If you really feel it, then say it.’
‘You’ve fucking turned it around,’ he said. ‘You always turn it around.’
And that’s what she did. Just like Cloughie, turned defence into attack in the blink of an eye. Slick. Sublime. Ruthless. The irony was fucking blinding.
He climbed out of bed, pulled on his T-shirt and boxers, moved across the room, out on to the landing, down the stairs, heard her shouting after him.
‘Say it! Say it!’
He pushed open the doors and stepped out into the garden, took himself off to the summer house, shut himself away. For a while he was alone with it all, his head a mess, his hands shaking, his heart beating at ten to the fucking dozen. Then she appeared in the doorway, wrapped up in his Paul Smith cardigan, quieter now, calmer, almost understanding.
‘Why can’t you say it?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. He stared at the box of programmes, picked his way absently through the pile that was 88–89, seeking it out. The FA Cup Semi-Final 1989. Liverpool v Nottingham Forest. Hillsborough. He turned it over in his hands, considering that this item and nothing else in his possession had witnessed what he had witnessed. He almost forgot Kelly was there.
‘John,’ she said.
‘It’s not in me to say it,’ he said. ‘Not to you or anybody.’
‘That doesn’t make it better,’ she said. ‘How does that make it any better when you’re talking to your fiancée?’
He felt himself shaking. He stared at his quivering fingers, at the pages of the programme shivering in the damp air. He couldn’t leave them out here, he realised. He had to bring them back inside, look after them, allow them access to the world he inhabited.
‘Look at you. Look at how cold you are. Come inside,’ she said.
‘It’s not the cold,’ he said, but she was already on the garden path, already walking away from him, back towards the house. He replaced the programme in the pile, packed the piles back into their boxes, carried the boxes across the garden into the house. When he reached the lounge she was waiting for him.
‘What the fuck do you do out there, anyway?’
He walked past her into the kitchen, placed the boxes on the table. She followed him.
‘Come on. What do you do out there that’s so fucking interesting it’s better than sitting in here next to me.’
‘I don’t want to watch TV,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You watch TV and I don’t want to watch it.’
‘Except that when I fuck off to bed, then you’ll come inside and watch the thing.’
‘It’s just on,’ he said. ‘I don’t watch it.’
‘No, you just
Sixty-six fatalities.
Judge Smith’s chilling verdict.
‘The board would appear to have proceeded with the view that if the problem was ignored long enough it would eventually go away.’
Tragedy after tragedy.
Warning after warning.
Kelly sniffed. He noticed her breathing had changed, that she was awake as he was awake, locked in her own thoughts.
‘Kelly…’ he whispered.
‘What?’
Agitated. Again.
‘Kelly?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to love me,’ he said.
He just came out with it, like that, could hardly believe it himself.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I want you to empathise with me,’ he said. ‘Just the once. I want to know that it’s possible for you to do that.’
The darkness had him. Somehow it was spiralling and hurtling around him, a fucking maelstrom. He was trapped at its centre. He could hear the discomfort in her voice as she responded, Kelly thrown off balance, the two of them teetering on the brink of two different lives, two separate pathways, neither of them prepared for that.
Not yet. Not yet.
‘You’re incapable of loving me,’ she said. ‘Why should I love you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just incapable of saying it.’
‘So you love me?’
‘Fucking hell, Kelly,’ he said.
‘Tell me you love me…’
‘Shut up. You’re not listening.’
‘Say it,’ she said. ‘If you really feel it, then say it.’
‘You’ve fucking turned it around,’ he said. ‘You always turn it around.’
And that’s what she did. Just like Cloughie, turned defence into attack in the blink of an eye. Slick. Sublime. Ruthless. The irony was fucking blinding.
He climbed out of bed, pulled on his T-shirt and boxers, moved across the room, out on to the landing, down the stairs, heard her shouting after him.
‘Say it! Say it!’
He pushed open the doors and stepped out into the garden, took himself off to the summer house, shut himself away. For a while he was alone with it all, his head a mess, his hands shaking, his heart beating at ten to the fucking dozen. Then she appeared in the doorway, wrapped up in his Paul Smith cardigan, quieter now, calmer, almost understanding.
‘Why can’t you say it?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. He stared at the box of programmes, picked his way absently through the pile that was 88–89, seeking it out. The FA Cup Semi-Final 1989. Liverpool v Nottingham Forest. Hillsborough. He turned it over in his hands, considering that this item and nothing else in his possession had witnessed what he had witnessed. He almost forgot Kelly was there.
‘John,’ she said.
‘It’s not in me to say it,’ he said. ‘Not to you or anybody.’
‘That doesn’t make it better,’ she said. ‘How does that make it any better when you’re talking to your fiancée?’
He felt himself shaking. He stared at his quivering fingers, at the pages of the programme shivering in the damp air. He couldn’t leave them out here, he realised. He had to bring them back inside, look after them, allow them access to the world he inhabited.
‘Look at you. Look at how cold you are. Come inside,’ she said.
‘It’s not the cold,’ he said, but she was already on the garden path, already walking away from him, back towards the house. He replaced the programme in the pile, packed the piles back into their boxes, carried the boxes across the garden into the house. When he reached the lounge she was waiting for him.
‘What the fuck do you do out there, anyway?’
He walked past her into the kitchen, placed the boxes on the table. She followed him.
‘Come on. What do you do out there that’s so fucking interesting it’s better than sitting in here next to me.’
‘I don’t want to watch TV,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You watch TV and I don’t want to watch it.’
‘Except that when I fuck off to bed, then you’ll come inside and watch the thing.’
‘It’s just on,’ he said. ‘I don’t watch it.’
‘No, you just
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