1

Bobby’s mum was filled with a black worry, ever since she got up, all morning long. More worried than she had ever been in the whole of her life. She knew something was wrong, she just didn’t know what, but she could not settle, not settle at all. And so after lunch, when she still didn’t feel right, just couldn’t shake it off, Cissie put on her coat, her hat and her gloves, and went out into the snow, the thick, heavy snow, and trudged down the backs, round to her friend’s, and she knocked on her door –

I thought it’d be you, said her friend, I just knew. So come on, get yourself in, pet, out of the cold.

Cissie stamped the snow off her boots on the step, went into the warm and said, But how did you know?

I just knew, said her friend. Can you not sense there’s something in the air, something not right?

Aye, you’re right, you’re right, said Cissie, but what is it, what’s wrong, do you know? Can you tell us? Because it’s driving us mad. I just want to know.

Her friend helped Cissie out of her coat, brushed the snow off its collar, then guided Cissie into the back and the kitchen, sat her down in a chair at the table, and said, Well, the one thing I know is that fretting won’t help. But a nice cup of tea, of hot, strong, sweet tea, well, that just might. Then we’ll put our two silly old wooden heads together and see if we can’t think what it is …

8This is it, thought Bill, his head jammed into his chest, crouched right down in his seat and strapped in so tight he could barely breathe, the snow racing past, the engines surging, but not enough, he knew, not surging enough, one, two, three sickening bumps where there should have been none as Bill closed his eyes and thought again, This is it, thrown up, around and into darkness, darkness –

Get the bloody hell out of there, man …

Bill could hear a voice, someone knocking on the window. He opened his eyes. Albert Scanlon had been in the seat in front of Bill, but Albert was gone, he’d disappeared, the whole of the right side of the aircraft with him, Roger and the lads who’d been sitting with him all gone, disappeared. There was just sky now, only sky. But Bill was untouched, still strapped into his seat –

What the hell are you doing in there?

Bill turned to the window, saw a man with a tiny fire extinguisher in his hand banging on the window, yelling at Bill, Get out, man, get out!

Harry thought he was dead. They all must be dead. That this was the end. He’d never see his wife, his daughter, his mother and his father, his brothers and his sister again. That this was death: one second light and noise, the next dark and still. In a country from which he could never return, a language he would never learn. The only sound the sound of hissing, like snakes hissing, hissing in the dark. His mouth full of salt, the taste of salt. He did not dare to raise his hand, to touch the crack across his head. The top of his head taken clean off, like a hard-boiled egg, sheared straight off, and left for dead, without his head. That this was death, his end. But just above him, to the right of him, then he saw the light, a shaft of light, streaming down 9on him, calling out to him, Harry, Harry, come on, Harry, and he realised he was lying on his side, still buckled in his seat. He reached down, unfastened the belt, and he started to crawl up, up towards the light, the light coming from a hole. He reached the hole, his head out of the hole, he looked down on the ground below and he froze: Bert Whalley, the youth-team coach, was lying in the dirty black slush in his bright blue cardigan, his eyes open, looking up at Harry, staring back up at Harry. There was not a scratch on Bert, but Harry knew he was dead, that Bert was dead. Harry took a step back. He kicked at the hole, made the hole bigger, then he dropped down through the hole, onto the ground. The engine to his left was burning, the rest of the wing gone. Maybe everyone was dead, everyone but him. No, that couldn’t be right. He could hear voices, in the distance, could see five people running away, away through the snow. They were shouting, shouting at him, Run, man, run!

Bill didn’t need telling twice, but when he tried to get up to get out, he couldn’t get up to get out. He was trapped in his seat, still wearing his strap. He unbuckled the belt as fast as he could, then clambered out through a serrated hole in the side of the plane, careering past shards of twisted, burning metal, certain the plane was going to blow, its engines explode at any moment, in any second, blown to kingdom come, running as fast as he could through the thick, wet snow, but never touching the snow, his feet never touching the ground, just sprinting as fast as he could, away from the plane, from kingdom come, running for dear life, dear life.

10Run, you stupid bastard, run! It’s going to explode!

The captain had appeared from around the side of the cockpit. He had a small fire extinguisher in one hand, waving at Harry with the other, yelling at Harry, telling him, ordering him to run, man, run. Then he disappeared again, back around to the front of the cockpit, and Harry would have run, was about to run, but then amid the crackle of the fire, the hissing in the air, the shouting in the distance, Harry heard a cry, a kiddie crying, and Harry shouted at the people running away through the snow, the figures disappearing in the distance, Come back, you bastards, come back! There’s people still alive in here!

But they didn’t come back, they kept going, and in anger and in rage, Harry cursed them. He cursed them as he climbed and he crawled his way back inside the aircraft, scrabbling through the darkness, thinking of his daughter, his own daughter, that someone would do the same for his daughter, go back for his daughter –

He felt a coat, a tiny coat in his hand, in the darkness, afraid of what he would find as he lifted the child’s coat, but there was nothing there, under the coat. He heard another cry, coming from further back. He crawled, he clambered deeper into the wreckage, towards the cries, towards the child, and he found the child, the tiny child, pinned under a pile of debris. He cleared away the debris, he freed the child, lifted up the baby and held it in his arms. Then Harry began to crawl again, back over the debris, through the wreckage and out of the aircraft, with the child in his arms, and when Harry came out of the darkness, back into the light again, the kiddie in his arms, pinned to his chest, he headed in the direction of the people in the distance, tried to catch them up, calling for them to stop, to wait, to take the child from him –

The radio operator stopped running, turned and came back towards him. Harry handed the kiddie to him and said, There’s people still alive in there. 11

The radio operator nodded, took the child from Harry, then he turned and began to walk away again, the baby in his arms, pressed to his chest.

But Harry didn’t stand and watch him go. Harry went back to the aircraft, back inside again he went, found a woman under another pile of wreckage, in a terrible state, an awful gaping wound to her face, the mother of the child, and Harry had to push her out of the wreckage with his own legs, her legs both twisted and broken, then to drag her clear of what was left of the aircraft –

He still could not understand what had happened to the aircraft, how it could be so utterly destroyed, whole sections disappeared. But back again, inside he went, through the tangled, twisted hell, searching for survivors, calling out to his pals, his best pal –

Blanchy! Blanchy?

Harry came across Ray Wood in his big orange sweater, but Harry couldn’t shift him, couldn’t get him to move an inch. He found Albert Scanlon nearby and he was almost sick was Harry, the injuries Albert had, he struggled not to throw up did Harry as he tried to budge him, but Scanny wouldn’t budge either, and Harry was sure he was dead, both of them dead, Albert and Ray, and Bobby Charlton and Dennis Viollet, too. They were still strapped in their seats, hanging half in, half out of what was left of the plane, not a mark on Bobby and not much wrong with Dennis, but Harry couldn’t rouse them, he was sure they were dead, but he grabbed them by the waistbands of their trousers and dragged them through the slush and the snow, still in their seats, away from the aircraft, away from the flames, and then back again went Harry, back around the aircraft, searching, calling out for Blanchy! Blanchy …?

12Frank lay trapped in a tangle of metal, watching flakes of ice fall through a gap where only seconds, less than a minute before, had been the tail of the plane. He didn’t know why, but Frank was thinking about the crash at Ringway the year before, in March it was, when a British European Airways flight from Amsterdam had crashed as it came in to land. It was a Viscount aircraft, and about a mile from the runway, it made a sudden right turn, at such a steep downward angle that its right wingtip had touched the ground. The plane broke up, burst into flames and crashed into a house on Shadow Moss Road, killing a mother and her baby inside the house and all on board, fifteen passengers and five crew. The chap whose house it was in Wythenshawe, who had lost his wife and son, he was a former fireman at Ringway Airport, and only the year before, he had launched a petition to highlight the dangers of low-flying aircraft. But when it happened, Frank remembered wondering what flashed through folk’s minds in those last fatal few seconds before injury or death struck them down. Well, now he knew, he thought, watching the ice flakes fall down from the dull grey sky onto the twisted tangle of carnage and chaos around him, this was what it was like, and it was a bloody silly way to die, and Frank closed his eyes, a very silly way to die, and stepped into the darkness.

When Bobby opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the sky, the big, grey, dirty sky looking down on him, big black and white flakes of snow falling down on him. The taste of smoke, of dirt, of blood in his mouth. He closed his mouth, tried to turn his head, but Christ, it hurt. His whole body, from his head down to his toes. It bloody ached, but most of all his head, staring back up at the sky, flat on his back in the snow, still strapped to his seat, his seat from the plane. He closed his eyes. He’d been looking out 13of the window, watching the world bounce by, then there’d been that almighty thump, the harsh grind of metal on metal, then the lights went out, everything black.

Bill stopped, stopped running. He was out of breath, bent double and panting. He caught his breath, then turned to look around, look back, and Bill could not believe his eyes, the sight that met his eyes. The aircraft had been sheared in half, was now just two great, jagged, twisted masses of smouldering, steaming metal, burning bushes and fuel drums scattered here and there. The back end of the plane looked to have speared a house and some trucks, looming over them the Union Jack, blazing away on the tail, the pitch of the fire in the air, piercing the air. But worse, worse yet were the bodies strewn in a neat and ordered line, amid the carnage and disorder, all present and correct in pools of slush, of dirty slush. Bill started back towards them, walking back towards them, the bodies in the slush, the bodies in a line, in the dirty slush, their neat line, unable to understand, to comprehend how he’d survived, unmarked, unscathed, looking down at his hands, raising his hands, holding them up to his face, his eyes, looking for marks, looking for wounds, wondering how, wondering why, not knowing how, not knowing why. He couldn’t understand, just couldn’t comprehend, in a daze, an absolute daze, he hadn’t a clue, he didn’t know why, just couldn’t think why.

Harry was shocked, he was stunned when he got around to the other side of the aircraft. There was a house with half of its roof torn off, and then further on was another building, in a sort of compound, behind a big wire fence, with the rest of the aircraft 14sticking up out of the ground of the compound, surrounded by fuel drums, the drums exploding, sending huge plumes of smoke up into the sky. But here, between the burning building and the remains of the plane, Harry found the Boss. He was propped up on his elbows, his hands across chest, rubbing his chest, but his left foot was pointing the wrong way, in the wrong direction, and he was moaning, My legs, my legs.

Hang on, Boss, hang on, said Harry. He found a piece of wreckage, brought it back and propped the Boss up, talking to him, telling him, You’re doing all right, Boss. You just hang on now. It’s going to be okay –

But Harry could see some bodies further on, about thirty yards off, thought he could hear voices, someone crying out. He stood up, left the Boss, went towards the bodies and found Jackie, Blanchy lying on his back in a pool of melted snow, pinned down by the body of Roger Byrne, Roger draped across Blanchy’s waist, not a blemish on him, nor hardly a stitch, in just his vest and underpants, without a mark, a single scratch, just looking up at Harry, staring up at Harry –

I can’t move, Harry, cried Blanchy. I can’t move. I’ve broken my back, I know I have. I’m paralysed, I know I am. I can’t feel my legs …

Harry said, You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay. But Harry knew he didn’t sound as though he thought Blanchy was going to be okay, that anything was going to be okay, because Harry was looking down at Roger, Roger looking back up at Harry, and later Harry would always regret that he didn’t bend down then to close Roger’s eyes. But Harry had just noticed Jackie’s arm, the lower part of his right arm looked almost severed. He had to try to stop the bleeding, had to try to save his arm. Harry took off his tie to make a tourniquet, but he pulled too tight and the tie tore in two. Frantically, looking here, there, standing up, kneeling down again, Harry searched 15for something, anything, in the mud and the slush that would do and felt, then saw someone standing over him. He looked up, saw one of the stewardesses from the plane, just standing there, barefoot in the mud and slush, looking down at him, staring down at Roger and at Jackie –

Don’t just stand there, screamed Harry. Get me something to tie his arm. But the poor girl didn’t move, never moved, she just stood there, barefoot in the snow, staring down, down at the ground, the abysmal ground.

Bobby opened his eyes again. He could feel the damp, the wet of the slush soaking through his clothes into his skin, but it didn’t bother him, he didn’t care. He tried to turn, to move his head again, to look, to see, and saw a house on fire. Men in helmets, running around, screaming words he did not understand, a din of bells and whistles, sirens coming closer from afar. He could see flames flickering under and around the front half of the plane, great plumes of black smoke rising up into the dirty grey sky. He must be about forty yards or so from the plane, Dennis lying next to him, not in his seat but out of his seat, laid out in the slush and the snow and covered in blood. Dennis was not moving, not speaking, but then from somewhere, behind him or to the side of him, Bobby could hear someone groaning, calling out in pain. He thought it was the Boss, sounded like the Boss. Bobby tried to turn, to look, to see, but there was a body, saw a body, a body he knew instantly was dead, knew instantly was a teammate, a beloved mate he’d never name, the injuries he wished he’d never seen, and beside him other bodies, some of the other lads, his mates all in a line, stretched out in the slush and the snow, in a line from the plane. Still and stricken, nobody moved. Bobby felt he was in the middle of a painting, a terrible 16painting of a terrible landscape, and he turned away, he looked away, heard the sirens coming closer and closed his eyes again. He hadn’t seen his best mates, his firmest friends Eddie and David, nor Duncan. He didn’t want to see them stretched out in the snow, not moving, wanted to see them alive, hear them say –

Bobby? Bobby? Can you hear me?

Bobby opened his eyes, turned his head again. Dennis was sat upright in the snow –

What’s the matter, Bobby, said Dennis. What’s gone on? Have we crashed?

It’s dreadful, said Bobby, then wished he’d not.

Bill took off his jacket, knelt down in the slush beside the Boss, wrapped him in his jacket, took his hand in his own, held it in his own, and said, It’s going to be all right.

My side, it’s my side, moaned Matt.

Bill looked up, around. He could see Harry close by, blood all over his face. He was running here, running there, like a man possessed: one minute on his knees in prayer, in tears, the next haring here, tearing there, now Harry was kneeling down again, tending to Jackie, Bill thought it was Jackie, could hear him groaning, calling out in pain, in fear. Bill thought it must be only Harry and him who were up and about, walking about, but then, just then, quite suddenly Bill saw Bobby and Dennis get up from their seats as though from a nap, they’d just been having a nap. They walked over towards him and the Boss, looked down at him and the Boss. They didn’t speak, didn’t say anything, and Bill wasn’t sure they knew where they were, who they were.

Bobby began to unbutton his jacket. He took off the jacket, bent down, placed it under the Boss, then stood back up just as a man came running up with a stretcher. 17

The man dropped the stretcher on the ground beside the Boss and said, Someone’s coming for you soon.

And not a minute too bloody soon, thought Bill, and he and Bobby and Dennis began to gently, gently lift the Boss up out of the slush, the dirty black water, and onto the stretcher, ready for the ambulance or whatever help was on its way, Bill wondering what was taking it so long, wishing they would hurry up, just bloody hurry up.

Quick! There’s someone else here, Pete. Give us a hand.

It looks like Frank Taylor. Yes, it’s Frank –

Frank felt himself being raised up, pulled along, taken out of the wreckage. He opened his eyes and saw Ted Ellyard and Pete Howard carrying him, putting him down on the ground, onto a stretcher –

Hold on now, Frank, they were saying. Hold on, help’s on its way, just hang on …

Frank wanted to speak, but he could not speak, he could hardly breathe, it hurt so much when he did. He just looked up at them, stared up at them, but then they were gone, and he tried to sit up, to see where they had gone, but Harry Gregg was there now, his big hand on his chest, gently pushing him down –

Don’t worry, Frank, you’re going to be all right, you just lie still now …

Frank had a cigarette in his mouth, and he couldn’t think how or why he had a cigarette in his mouth. His wife had advised him to stop smoking, and he had stopped, so God only knows what Peggy would say if she saw him like this, thought he’d started up smoking again. She was going to be mad enough as it was about the state of his suit, the mess he’d made of his suit, a new suit, all covered in mud and slush, all soaked in blood. Frank 18looked down at his feet, saw his right foot, almost severed it was, with blood oozing out, his blood it was, and Frank passed out.

The Daily Mail had sent three men to Belgrade to cover the game against Red Star: Eric Thompson to write the words; Peter Howard to take the pictures; and Ted Ellyard to wire the pictures back to London. After the crash, after going back to the wreckage, and having done what they could, the best that they could, Pete and Ted were led back to the airport building, where Pete asked to use a telephone. He dialled the Mail’s offices in London and said, I am phoning the terrible news, the Manchester United plane has crashed at Munich. We were just taking off. We had only just got off the ground. Can you hear me? I am all right. I feel a bit wobbly. Tell my wife I’m okay. Please let her know. We had a pleasant trip from Belgrade. Everyone was happy and laughing and joking because we were coming home and United were in the semi-final. It was snowing when we landed at Munich. Then we went back to the aircraft to continue the flight. I was sitting in the second row of seats on the starboard side with Ted Ellyard. When the pilot tried to take off, there seemed to be some kind of slight fault with the engines. He stopped. Then he tried a second take-off. That didn’t seem satisfactory, so he taxied back to the apron to get things checked up. It was on the third take-off that we crashed. I think we were about at the end of the runway. Only a bit above the ground. The plane suddenly appeared to be breaking. Seats started to crumble up. Everything seemed to be falling to pieces. There was a rolling sensation. All sorts of stuff started coming down on top of us. There wasn’t time to think. Everybody seemed to be struck dumb. No one cried out. No one spoke. Just a deadly silence for what could only have been seconds. But it seemed a long time. 19I can’t remember whether there was a bang or not. Everything stopped all at once. I was so dazed that I just scrambled about. Then I found Ted Ellyard and I was still together. We found a hole in the wreckage. We crawled out on our hands and knees. As soon as I got clear, my first instinct, quite frankly, was to run away. I was terrified. But I managed somehow to stay put. I turned around, and there was big Harry Gregg the goalkeeper, who managed to get out. He seemed to be unhurt, too. Anyway, his voice was in working order, for he was shouting, Come on, lads. Let’s get stuck in. That got us going. Gregg, Ted Ellyard, the two stewardesses, the radio operator and myself went back into the wreckage. It was a terrible mess. It made me want to shut my eyes. I was conscious of the same deadly silence that was there just before the crash happened. We turned to and did what we could. I saw Captain Thain get hold of a fire extinguisher. He started putting out small fires. I looked around to see if there was anyone I knew. I saw Captain Rayment trapped in the cockpit, but he was got out. A Yugoslav woman passenger and her small baby were pulled clear by the radio operator, Mister Rodgers. I remember getting Frank Taylor, sports writer of the News Chronicle, out. He was badly hurt. We also got Ray Wood out and one or two others. Bodies were strewn in the snow for a hundred and fifty yards. I went to look for Eric Thompson. I could see no sign of him. I am just realising what an awful thing that is. It looked as though all those who had been sitting in the forward part of the plane were the lucky ones who got out, those in backwards-facing seats, sitting with their backs to the crew’s cabin. Just before it happened, I’d been moaning about our seats being too near the cabin, because it was noisy and there was a bit of vibration. Good job we chose them. It was the part of the plane which got least damage. Everybody had done all they could. Just before I left the wreckage, it suddenly came to me that I had had a camera and that I had taken some pictures before taking off. I 20looked for my camera but I couldn’t find it, there was wreckage all over the place. Part of the engines of the airliner had gone forward a hundred and fifty yards and hit a small house, which burst into flames. But the fuselage did not catch fire. I wish I could say what has happened to the rest of the party other than those I have mentioned. I didn’t see Matt Busby after the crash. Now I am thinking about my wife, Pam. She is bound to be worried. Please tell her I’m safe. I think I’m perfectly all right, but they are insisting I go to hospital. I’ll have to go now, but the sooner I can get back to Manchester, the better. My mind seems stunned. I wish I could tell you it was not too bad. I’m afraid some have gone for good. But it was all over very quickly. There was no panic. It makes me feel proud of United. These lads are my friends. I have been everywhere with them. I shall never forget this. I’ll have to pack up now. They want to drag me off to hospital. See you soon.

Slow down, shouted Bill. You’re going too bloody fast.

The Volkswagen minibus was bouncing and skidding over the snow, going as fast as it could, away from the plane, Dennis and Bobby sat up front with the driver, Harry and Bill in the middle seats, Jackie and Johnny lying in the back, with the Boss beside them, all on makeshift stretchers, the Boss wrapped in Bill’s jacket, holding his chest, mumbling, It’s my side, my legs …

Bill and Harry reached back over their seats, trying to hold the Boss and the stretcher steady –

I said slow down, will you, shouted Bill again.

But the driver wasn’t listening. He just shook his head, repeating, Krankenhaus, Krankenhaus …

Suddenly, he braked hard and the minibus skidded to a stop, everyone thrown forwards – 21

What the bloody hell are you doing, shouted Bill.

But the driver ignored him again, opening his door and jumping out into the snow. He went round to the back to open the doors of the minibus. Two men loaded a lady into the back, next to the Boss. She appeared very badly burnt, but Bill and Harry recognised her: it was Missus Miklos, the wife of the travel agent.

The driver got back behind the wheel and set off again, even faster now, swerving this way and that, lurching through the slush and the snow –

Bloody slow down, will you, shouted Bill again. You’re going to fucking kill us …

Nein, nein, said the driver. Krankenhaus, nein …

Bill turned back from the Boss in the back. His hand in a fist, he began to punch the back of the head of the driver as hard as he could. Slow. Fucking. Down.

But still the driver didn’t stop.

Bill grabbed the driver from behind, his hands around his neck. But still the driver did not stop, did not slow down, swerving one way, skidding another, driving on, faster and faster, into Munich, Dennis and Bobby beside him, staring straight ahead, their eyes blank, their faces blank, the slush on the roads, the spray on the windscreen, Jackie and Johnny and the Boss in the back, on their stretchers, mumbling and whispering, Eleanor Miklos passed out from the pain, a police car ahead of them now, leading the way, police on the streets now, clearing a path, more ambulances behind them, the driver up front, Bill’s hands round his throat, going faster, still faster, shouting louder and louder, over and over –

Krankenhaus, Krankenhaus …

22It had been another cold, wet day in Manchester, but another busy, expectant day at the Old Trafford ticket office, what with all the applications for the League match against Wolves the day after tomorrow, then for the Cup tie against Sheffield Wednesday the following Saturday, the familiar, steady stream of fans coming to the office to get their tickets, as well as the usual sackfuls of post arriving for the players, so young Les Olive, the assistant club secretary, was short-handed, what with his boss, Walter Crickmer, having gone with the team to Belgrade, and with the telephone ringing off the hook, every second minute it seemed to Les, picking it up again for the umpteenth time that day and saying, Ticket office –

Les, is that you, said Joe Armstrong, the chief scout. I’ve just heard some terrible news …

Les listened to Joe, the news he was telling him, the words he was saying, then Les put down the telephone, then Les picked it back up again and he dialled the house of the Chairman, the home of Harold Hardman, who had not gone to Belgrade, had not flown with the team because he was ill, he was home sick in bed, and Les said, I’m very sorry to call you at home, Mister Hardman, sir, but I’ve just had some bad news …

And after Les had told Harold Hardman what Joe had told him, Les put down the telephone again, then he got up from his desk, closed the ticket office, went down the corridor and up the stairs to the office of the Boss, where he knew Alma George, the Boss’s secretary, was still working, making the most of the peace and the quiet while the Boss was away.

Manchester, Manchester, back again, in Manchester, stout and hearty Jimmy Murphy came flying out of London Road, bearing a box of oranges from the Promised Land, no less, and before 23flakes of snow from skies above had had time to melt on hat or collar, he crashed down into the back of a cab with his bag, the box and a, Hello there, son, how are you then?

Back to barracks, is it, Mister Murphy, sir, asked the driver. Or home, straight to the wife and kids?

Jimmy laughed. You know me, son. Old Trafford first, please, if you will. And here you go …

He leant forward to put four oranges on the seat beside the driver. Fresh from the gardens of Zion.

Thank you very much, said the driver. The taxi spluttered into life and pulled away from the station. That’s very kind of you. And congratulations.

Jimmy laughed again. Thank you, son. I’m in a more generous mood with you than we were with them, I’ll tell you that. Afraid we’ve sent them back to Israel empty-handed. Though I’ll tell you this, they showed some fight, they really did. And their keeper, their captain, Chodoroff, now he’s some player, he really is, and brave, too, up against Big John. Dislocated shoulder. Broken nose. Concussion, and still on he played. Then straight off the pitch at the whistle he goes, into an ambulance and off to hospital. Best player on the pitch he was.

But Wales in the finals, said the driver, and for the first time. Now that’s some achievement, Mister Murphy, that really is. England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, too, all off to Sweden now.

Jimmy glanced out of the window of the cab, glimpsed folk gathering in groups, standing on street corners, under the lamps, all coming on now, in a late afternoon that was already half night, just standing there in the falling, open-mouthed silence, an evening paper shared in their red, raw hands. Bit cold and wet for that, thought Jimmy, but he smiled and said, Well, we were not at our best, son, and we’ll need to be better. But the best thing for me, the best news of all, is the boys won in Belgrade. 24See you do a good job, I’d said, the last thing I’d said, and they did, they have. But I didn’t like not being there, so that’s a great weight off my mind, son.

Well, we can’t have everything, laughed the driver. You’ll probably go on and win the bloody thing now, and then we’ll never hear the end of it. But I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, you should get yourself over to Maine Road, Mister Murphy. You’re wasted, hiding your lamp under Matt Busby’s bushel.

Jimmy laughed. No, no, second fiddle’s the fiddle for me, son. And you’re doing well enough without me.

Maybe, but we’d be doing even better with some of the old Jimmy Murphy black magic, I know that.

Jimmy looked out through the sleet, the streets of Stretford running down the window, Old Trafford somewhere out there in the late-afternoon gloom, the League Championship flag already at half-mast. Well, we’ll need to work our magic on Saturday, he said, if we’re to keep the Wolves from our door …

Two of the oranges rolled off the seat beside the driver and onto the floor of the cab, the vehicle creaking along, something on the wind, the air –

Something, some thing …

They’ve brought the weather back with them, said the driver. Typical of you lot. As if we haven’t got enough bad weather of our own.

It was freezing, fucking freezing, deep in the guts of Old Trafford, but the lads on the ground staff had done their jobs for the day and were just mucking about in the dressing rooms, joking and pissing around, keeping the cold from their bones, waiting for little old Arthur Powell to come waddle in and decide whether to make them wait until five on the nail or to let them off early, 25all depended on his mood, the miserable old bugger, but young Nobby Stiles, he thought there was a chance today, like what with the weather and because they’d have all the boots from Belgrade to clean and do tomorrow. But when Arthur came in, Bill Inglis, who looked after the reserves, was with him, and they both had faces on them like the grave, and Bill said, Sit down, lads, settle down, I’ve got some bad news for you, and all the lads dropped silent and was sat down in a second, wondering what could be up, or who had done what, even if one of them was for the chop, the chop or not, but then Bill said, The plane has crashed, but we don’t have many details yet, so let’s just hope it’s not too serious. And old Arthur nodded, and said, Aye, we’ll let you know later, boys. Then Arthur and Bill went back out, left the lads to their silence, sat in the reserve-team dressing room, no one not saying anything, until someone said, Be something and nothing. Few broken arms. Or maybe a leg. And someone else said, Aye, and if it’s enough of them, then we might get bumped up, get a game in the A team. Then someone else laughed, Some of us might, but not you, pal. They’d all have to be dead and gone ’fore anyone picked you.

Into the ground and up the stairs, two at a time, went Jimmy, up to the offices, up at the top, the ground, the building, all quiet he thought, no one about, most strange is this, no one around, no one at all, the Boss not back, his office dark, only Alma at her desk, their secretary she was, sitting in the black, her lamp not even on. Jimmy set down the box of oranges and his bag, switched on the office lights and said, You’ll strain your eyes, you will, Alma, love, you really will, sitting in the dark like that.

The plane’s crashed, she said.

Well, let’s have a drink then, just to warm us up. Just a little one, you know, while the cat’s away. 26

Haven’t you heard, Jimmy?

Jimmy walked over to the tray of bottles which stood on top of the cabinet. Heard what, love?

About the plane?

Jimmy poured two drinks. What about it?

It’s crashed. The plane’s crashed.

Jimmy handed Alma a glass. Cheers.

You don’t understand. Listen to me, Jimmy, please, she said. Please. The plane has crashed. A lot of people have died. And she put down the glass on her desk, sat back down in her chair, and she started to cry.

The bottle of Scotch and the glass in his hands, Jimmy stood there, just stood there, frozen, in the middle of the office, Matt’s office, staring down at Alma, her shoulders, her body shaking, her words in his ears, in his head, inside his skull, going round and round inside his brain: The plane has crashed. A lot of people have died. The plane has crashed, a lot of people have died, a lot of people have died, have died, have died …

Jimmy tried to shake his head, to silence the sound, the echo of her words, to feel his legs, to lift his feet, his legs of ash and feet of stone, to leave the room and walk away, but then back in again, back in again to start this all again, that this then might not have been –

A lot of people have died …

Jimmy looked up. He saw the clock on the wall, its hands pointed to four. He stared at those hands, stared and stared at those hands, trying and trying to get them to stop, to make them go back, back, back to before, but they would not go back, would not stop –

A lot of people …

He turned away from the clock on the wall, its every cut a deeper wound, closed his mouth as tight as he could, his lips, his teeth as tight as he could to swallow a scream, a terrible, 27howling scream, and then on legs of ash and feet of stone he walked into his own little office. He put down the bottle and the glass on his desk, closed and locked the door behind him, then poured himself a drink. He drank it down, then filled his glass again, and then again, once more, and then, and only then, did he begin to cry, to cry himself at last. But then he stopped, rubbed dry his face, took another drink and got back up again, on his feet and to the door again –

Alma, love …

It was between half past four and a quarter to five and already dark outside, and Mrs Dale, the doctor’s wife, was sharing the daily happenings in the life of her family on the Light Programme, when suddenly a sombre voice cut her off and said, The reason we are interrupting Mrs Dale’s Diary is that we have to report a serious air crash at Munich Airport. We haven’t the full details yet, but the aircraft was on charter from British European Airways and was travelling from Belgrade to Manchester. On board was the Manchester United football team, returning from a match in Yugoslavia with sports writers of Fleet Street newspapers and team officials. As far as we know, twenty-five of the passengers and crew are believed to have died.

Bobby’s mum had not been back an hour when she felt a shadow fall across the yard. She looked up from the sink, out of the window, and through the snow, the falling snow, she saw Ted Cockburn, the man who had the paper shop, coming into their yard, up to her door, but Cissie had got to the door before he’d knocked, even raised his glove, and Cissie said, It’s our Bobby, isn’t it? 28

Yes, said Ted Cockburn. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I wanted you to know before it went up on the placards, because I was afraid you didn’t know, you’d not been told, but the Chronicle has made up bills saying your Bobby’s been in a crash, a plane crash, but I wanted to make sure you knew, before they went up.

Thank you, Ted, thank you, said Cissie, looking up at the snow, watching it fall. But I knew, I just knew.

I’m sorry, said Ted Cockburn again. I’m sorry.

Cisse looked at Ted. What are they saying?

I’m sorry, love, said Ted again, but they’re saying there are no survivors. That everyone’s dead.

Cissie didn’t believe that. She knew something was wrong, had sensed it coming all day. But she couldn’t believe Bobby was dead, not deep down, she didn’t feel it within her, not in the place from which Bobby had come. But she needed to know, know he was safe. She turned back to the kitchen, grabbed her purse and her coat, but not her hat and her gloves, not this time, running out of the yard, down the backs, through the snow, down to the call box on the corner, trying to ring Old Trafford, trying to find out the truth, the coins cold in her hands, her fingers red as she dialled. But the snow and the wind had brought down the lines, the telephone lines all dead, so maybe she was wrong, she began to think she was wrong, that Bobby was dead, lying in the snow, alone in the snow, the German snow, his eyes open to the sky, looking up at the sky, searching for her, seeing her now, in the call box on the corner, the receiver dead in her hand, crying, No, Bobby, no. Wake up, Bobby, please, wake up.

Frank was in and out of the light, thought he’d been in some kind of minibus at one point, bouncing and bumping over fields, then speeding along, faster than the devil, Billy Foulkes holding 29him down, telling him, You’re going to be all right, Frank. Just lie still. Don’t worry, but he was worried because he couldn’t breathe properly, still only with difficulty, terrible difficulty, and the pain in his leg, Jesus Christ, the pain shooting up his right leg, why was that, he didn’t know, in and out of the light, trying to think of Peggy and the boys, his two little sons, Andrew and Alastair, back home in Manchester, running around, he could hear them running around, pestering Peggy as she prepared the tea, How long before Dad comes home? How long is it now? But he was going to be late, very late now, and he was sorry, thinking how sorry he was, for the worry he’d caused as someone, a doctor, he thought, hoped was a doctor, tore off the sleeve of his jacket, the jacket of his new bloody suit, ripped up his shirt, then plunged the needle of a hypodermic syringe into his arm, deep into his arm, and said, Ssh now, ssh, this will put you to sleep, and Frank nodded, Frank smiled and closed his eyes again, Frank already weary, so very, very tired, out of the light again, but happy now, happy now that sleep was here, was here at last.

Elizabeth Wood was changing her daughter’s nappy, wondering what to cook Ray for his tea, thinking he might like a nice piece of gammon, English gammon, after having been abroad and away, when Elizabeth heard a tapping at her window and looked up and saw her neighbour beckoning her over, and Elizabeth picked up their Denise, carried her over, and opened the window –

Have you heard the news, Missus Wood?

No. What news, asked Elizabeth.

The neighbour shook her head and said, It’s awful. It was on the radio. They interrupted Mrs Dale’s Diary.

Why? What’s happened, said Elizabeth. 30

There’s been an accident at Munich, a plane crash with the boys. But your Ray’s all right, isn’t he?

In Munich, asked Elizabeth.

But your Ray’s at home, isn’t he, said the neighbour again. He didn’t go, did he?

Wilf McGuinness was having a bad week. He’d twisted his knee playing for the reserves on Saturday against Arsenal. The knee had locked, and when he went into the ground on Sunday, Ted Dalton, the physiotherapist, told him he’d probably torn a cartilage. Ted had sent him to see a specialist on the Tuesday, who told Wilf he’d need to operate, and so he was supposed to be going into hospital tomorrow, Friday. This then being his last day of freedom, Wilf had called up his pal Joey, who worked on the sales side for the News Chronicle, and arranged to meet him in town for a last hurrah, and it was when they were walking down Princess Street together that he saw the placard: ‘UNITED IN CRASH ON RUNWAY’ –

Be just a bump, said Wilf.

Aye, said his pal Joey.

Your lot will write anything to flog a few extra copies, laughed Wilf. But all the same, he bought a first edition, and they stood there, in Princess Street, on the corner with Bloom Street, reading the paper. But it was all a bit vague, so –

Tell you what, said Joey, let’s go up the office, find out what’s going on. Just to put your mind at ease.

They set off walking up Bloom Street to Sackville Street, then turned up Portland Street, cut through Piccadilly Gardens, and were jogging by the time they were going down Shudehill, Wilf not worried about his cartilage or the weather any more, worried about his mates now, the sudden, awful silence that 31seemed to have fallen from the sky, blanketing the city centre, until they came to the Chronicle buildings and went inside, and that was when it hit them, the noise of the news, the news of –

‘Heavy loss of life feared …’

The telephones were going mad, ringing off their hooks, and Joe and Les were in the main office with Alma now, trying to help her and Jimmy, calling the police again, calling the BBC, the Chronicle, the Evening News, the Guardian, every paper they could think of, every journalist they knew, to find out details, to pass information along to the families, the relatives, trying to reach the families, the relatives, those that had a phone or a contact number with a neighbour or a local shop, but the minute they put down the phone, the phone would ring again, someone asking them for details, asking them for information, and then they’d have to wait again for an outgoing line, minutes passing, and when they did get an outside line, manage to ring the families, the relatives, half of them weren’t answering, weren’t home –

They’ll be at the airport, said Alma, suddenly. They’ll have gone to meet the plane …

British European Airways Flight 609 had been scheduled to land at Manchester Ringway Airport at 5 p.m. that afternoon. Many of the wives and girlfriends, along with some fans, the ones who never missed the chance to welcome home the team, had come out to the airport. The fans were particularly pleased because Jean Busby had come out to meet her husband. But Jean had come because she was worried. It was less than a month since Matt had had the operation on his legs for his varicose veins. 32He’d been told to take time off, to go to the south of France to sit in the sun and its warmth and recuperate. But that was never very likely, not in the middle of the season, with the League, the FA Cup and the European Cup all still to play for, no. Matt wouldn’t even hear of missing this trip to Belgrade. But Jean knew he’d be shattered, it would have taken its toll, so that was why she was here, though she’d never let on, not to the fans. They were all sitting in the lounge, laughing and joking, the mood jubilant after the result last night, light and expectant until –

People waiting for BEA Flight 609 from Belgrade should call at the reception desk in the main hall, came the voice of a BEA hostess, in almost a whisper, over the public address system, into the air.

Unsure and reluctant, but standing, uncertain yet slowly now walking, the wives and the girlfriends went through to the BEA desk, some of the fans, the fans whom they knew, following behind, hoping it was just a delay, an overnight stay at worst, not wanting to intrude, but wanting to know why the BEA airport manager was leading the wives and the girlfriends off to another lounge, a private lounge, where he was very sorry to have to tell them, But there’s been a serious accident, and we don’t yet have the full details, but it seems the plane has crashed on take-off at Munich Airport …

But they weren’t flying from Munich, someone said. They are flying from Belgrade. It must be a mistake.

The BEA airport manager said he was sorry but, It’s not a mistake. The plane had stopped to refuel.

You say serious. How serious?

The BEA manager said he was sorry again, But I don’t have the full details yet, but –

But you know it’s serious. You said it was serious, said one of the girlfriends. What do you mean, serious? You mean people are dead, is that what you mean? 33

The BEA airport manager nodded, was sorry to say, But yes, we believe there are fatalities, yes.

Oh, God, screamed someone. No –

And the wives and the girlfriends, they turned to each other, they reached for each other, holding each other, some crying, one screaming, They’re all wiped out, I know it! I just know it. All wiped out –

Jean Busby felt her legs go from beneath her, then a BEA hostess was holding her up, guiding her to a chair, raising a glass of brandy to her lips, putting a cup of tea in her hands, telling her there were survivors, some survivors, and that taxis were being ordered to take them back home, and that BEA were making all the necessary arrangements, and that they would be the first to know any news as it came through, but to remember there were survivors, some survivors –

Only ten left, said a woman in the main hall as Jean Busby was being half led, half carried out to her taxi, and Jean stopped and she turned and she looked at the woman, the woman in a thick, white winter coat, standing in the main hall of Ringway Airport, and Jean said, What did you say?

I’ve just heard it on the radio, whispered the woman. There are only ten survivors.

There was no more news, or no news that they were saying, so Arthur Powell came back to let the ground-staff lads go, but when they came out of the ground, they found loads of folk just standing around, in groups or pairs or just on their own, just stood around, people who had come for tickets who’d then heard the news and stayed on, others who must have just heard the news and then come along, straight from the factory, the office or home, journalists, too, knocking on the doors, trying 34to get in, policemen with whistles, trying to hold people back, to move people on, but more folk were arriving, from factories, their offices, not knowing what was true and what not, what else they could do. Nobby had never seen or felt anything like it, heard a silence like this silence, and he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t bear it, none of the lads could, and so he wasn’t going to hang around here, no chance, none of them were. Nobby got the bus into Piccadilly, gnawed by a rising sense of dread. He got off the bus in Piccadilly. There were people standing around here, too, loads of folk, in groups, in the shadows, in the sleet, just standing around, not speaking, not saying nothing. Nobby waited in a line for a paper, a paper that said, ‘MANY DEAD’. In a trance, his feet walked him through the silent crowds to his stop, took him onto the 112 bus and sat him down inside. He could hear a woman weeping as the bus went up the Rochdale Road through Angel Meadow. In a trance still, his feet stood him up and got him off at Cassidy’s pub, then walked him round the corner to Saint Pat’s on Livesey Street and through its doors and put him down in a pew, then onto his knees, where Nobby prayed and he cried. He idolised United, this team. United were his life. He was United from the start: his earliest memory was when he must have been a six-year-old, sitting on his dad’s shoulders at Old Trafford, watching the ’48 team of Carey, Mitten, Rowley. Then he’d gone with his brother Charlie. They’d be there two hours before kick-off, stood at the scoreboard end. Eddie Colman was his idol. He used to try to copy him, coming side-on and shimmying, but he was nothing like Eddie, he knew. Not fit to clean his boots, though he did, now he was on the books at Old Trafford. But that changed nothing, except to make him even more in awe of how good they really were, when you saw them in training and games and you’d think, I’m never going to get this. But Jimmy Murphy, he’d put fire in his belly, had given him a red shirt and said, See this red shirt? It’s the best in the world. 35When you put on that red shirt, nothing can beat you. Nobby had put on that red shirt, and he’d never take it off. He would go through a brick wall for Jimmy, for these lads. For United. He was a punter, a supporter; first, last and always a punter, a supporter. They were his life, he lived for them. Nobby lived for them, and he would die for them, rather him than them, please, God, just take me, please, he prayed. Just let them live, he cried, just please, please, God, let them live.

In its theatres, on its wards, in all its rooms and corridors, the Rechts der Isar Hospital, on the right bank of the River Isar, had enacted its emergency plan. All off-duty staff had been called in, all shifts extended. Doctors and surgeons were scrubbed up and ready, nurses and porters running backwards and forwards as stretcher after stretcher was carried into the hospital and taken up to theatre, past Harry, sat in the corridor beside Bill, staring down at the floor.

What’s happened to your shoe, asked Harry.

Bill looked down at his shoes, but one was gone. His foot in just his sock, sopping wet in a puddle. He looked back up, turned to Harry and said, We should find a telephone. Let Teresa and Mavis know we’re alive.

There must be someone here from the embassy, said Harry, getting to his feet. Come on, let’s –

Gentlemen, please come with me, said a nurse in halting, nervous English, beckoning Harry and Bill to follow her, another nurse holding Bobby by his arm.

Harry and Bill followed the two nurses and Bobby down the corridor and onto one of the wards. They led them to a bed, where a little man was being stripped of his United club blazer, the rest of his clothes. 36

Who is this, please, asked the nurse. His name?

Bobby turned his head away towards a window, but Harry and Bill, they looked at the little man on the bed, his leg broken, his pelvis broken, his elbow broken and his jaw broken. His bottom teeth had cut through his upper mouth into his nose, many of the teeth now missing. His skull was fractured, his face bruised and his hair matted with blood. He was almost unrecognisable, but Bill said, It’s Johnny. His name is Johnny, John Berry.

His wife’s name is Hilda, said Harry.

Please write here, said the nurse, and she handed Bill a label and a pen. His name, please.

Bill took the label and the pen from the nurse. He tried to steady his hand, to write down, to print as carefully as he could the names of Johnny and his wife.

Thank you, said the nurse. This way now –

The nurse led them to a second bed, a second man being stripped of his clothes, a big orange sweater, one you’d never forget. Harry said, It’s Ray Wood, it must be Ray Wood. But I could have sworn he was dead.

Ray Wood looked up from the bed at Harry and Bill, but he could not see Harry or Bill. His eye was half out of its socket, his face gashed, and he had concussion.

His wife’s name is Elizabeth, said Bill.

Please write for me, said the nurse again, and she handed Harry a label and a pen. Now follow, please –

The two nurses led Harry and Bill and Bobby off the ward, down a long corridor and into a small private room, where Peter Howard and Ted Ellyard were sitting side by side on the one bed in the room. There was another man from the plane there, too, a giant of a man whom they did not know but thought was a diplomat or journalist from Yugoslavia, leaning against the wall.

You know what’s going on, asked Pete Howard.

Harry shook his head. No idea, have you? 37

Have you seen anyone from the British Embassy or from the airline, asked Bill. I need to call my wife.

Suddenly, the giant of a man from Yugoslavia began to slide slowly down the wall, one of his legs dangling, pointing in an odd direction, obviously broken.

The nurses cried out, calling for help. More nurses and some nuns came running, some carrying needles, porters following them into the room, trolleys at the ready. They hoisted the big Yugoslav onto one of the trolleys, injected him with something and then carted him off.

Gentlemen, give me your arms, please, said the nurse in her halting, nervous English, but Harry and Bill were having none of that. Not on your nelly –

They ran out of the room and down the corridor, Bill in only one shoe, hopping along, his one wet sock flapping, slapping the floor, back to the doors of the hospital, to the top of the steps, the night and the cold hitting them there, full in the face, at the tops of them steps, everything night and everything cold, and Harry stopped, suddenly stopped and said, Bill, Bill, wait, will you, wait! Where the fuck are we going?

Sandy Busby had never had an apprenticeship at Old Trafford. His father had not wanted that for him, didn’t think it would be good for him. Instead, Sandy was on the books at Blackburn Rovers, under Johnny Carey, the former United captain. They were having a good season, had just beaten Derby away, and were pushing for promotion. But Sandy wasn’t in the first team, Sandy was in the reserves. Not that bad, but just not that good. But Sandy knew all the boys at United, was mates with all the lads, the ones who liked a flutter on the dogs or a night on the town, the Ritz or the Plaza, the Continental or the Queens. 38And Sandy still lived at home with his father and his mother on Kings Road, in Chorlton-cum-Hardy, the house he’d grown up in. So every day, Sandy had to get the bus into town, the train from Victoria to Blackburn, changing and then training, then showering and changing back again, then back again, on the train from Blackburn to Victoria, the bus from town back out to Chorlton, more often than not the bus stuck in traffic on the Palatine Road, crawling its way back out to Chorlton as he wondered what was for tea tonight and who fancied who. But not that day: late that afternoon, he got off the train at Victoria Station with a friend of his, and suddenly this pal of his said, Have you seen the placards, San? ‘MAN UTD IN PLANE CRASH’. But Sandy just walked on, about fifty yards on, because he knew the tricks the papers played, a slight delay becomes a disaster, engine trouble is a tragedy, probably something and nothing, a mountain out of a molehill, another bit of tittle-tattle to sell some more papers, walking on before it struck him cold: Crash? That’s serious. It didn’t say ‘fright’, it said ‘crash’, and the look on the face of his pal said the same, said, You’d better call home. Sandy dashed to the telephone box. An aunty and uncle were staying with them, down from Scotland, from Bellshill, and it was his uncle who first picked up the phone and said, Is that you, San? Thank God. We called Blackburn, but you’d left. Where are –

His aunty grabbed the phone from his uncle, started screaming, kept on screaming, Get home, Sandy, get home! Just get yourself home, as fast as you can!

Sandy hung up. He ran over to the taxis, told the driver he needed to get to Chorlton as quick as he could, then sat back in the cab and closed his eyes, thinking, still thinking, She’s prone to panic is my aunty, thinking again, It’ll be something and nothing, mountains out of molehills, but when they got to Kings Road, pulled up in front of the house, saw the cars all parked up, 39and he got out of the cab, the lights all on in the house, the front door standing open, wide open, Sandy knew he was wrong, that something was wrong, really, properly wrong –

The house was pandemonium, but his mother was just sat in a trance, in the front room, on the sofa, staring into the fire, not blinking, not speaking –

Mam, Mam, said Sandy. It’s me, Sandy?

She’s been like this since the airport, said his big sister Sheena. We can’t get a word out of her.

Mam? Can you hear us, Mam?

I don’t think she can, said Sheena.

Sandy turned his head, put his hand to his mouth, whispered, But what about Dad?

Nothing yet, said Sheena as quietly as she could, her head turned, her hand raised. Only rumours.

The whole house, the whole city was filled with rumours, rumours of the dead, the whispers of the dead, the news of the dead, the names of the dead, the name of Frank, some said, not Frank, but yes, Frank Swift was dead, surely not, not Big Frank, I know, but yes, I just heard, they just said, Swifty was gone, Frank Swift was dead, these rumours, these whispers, under breath, behind hands, just as Frank’s wife Doris arrived at the door, she only lived round the corner, her daughter and son-in-law, they were with her, too, her daughter named Jean, after Sandy’s own mam, as they stepped into the hall, a sudden circle of silence surrounding Doris and Jean –

Does Monsignor Sewell know, asked Sandy.

Sheena nodded and said, Uncle Paddy went to pick him up, to bring him over.

Hear that, Mam, said Sandy. Do you hear that? Monsignor Sewell is on his way. He’ll soon be here.

But his mum was not listening, not hearing, not hearing him or hearing Sheena, the friends and the relatives, the crowds 40of friends and relatives who were filling the house, the hall, the kitchen, more people arriving every minute, on the stairs now, as Sandy pushed his way up, up to his room, where he fell to his knees –

Beside his bed, head bowed and hands together, Sandy began to pray, to say aloud, Please, God, let my dad be okay, let my dad be alive, please, God, please –

Sandy, Sandy, shouted his Uncle John, running up the stairs, straight into his room. It’s your dad, your dad, we’ve just heard he’s alive. He’s alive!

The doctor smiled at Bobby, told Bobby that he was lucky to be alive, that he was just suffering from a mild concussion. Bobby touched, could feel the small bruise on his head. It didn’t seem much, it didn’t seem fair. The doctor turned from Bobby, said something to an orderly in German. The orderly nodded, looked and smiled at Bobby, as if to say, it seemed to Bobby, that all this was just routine, that the world was still turning, that you’re one of the lucky ones, that you’re alive and well, and you’ll soon be on your way again, see your family soon again. But Bobby knew that wasn’t true, that he’d not be on his way because the world had stopped turning, and Bobby started to scream, to scream and to rage at the orderly and his smile, raging and screaming, howling in pain, Don’t you smile at me! Don’t you dare smile at me! There’s nothing to smile about, nothing to smile –

The orderly grabbed Bobby, held him by his shoulders, and the doctor stuck a needle into the back of his neck, then they sat him back down and left him to stare, to stare at the wall, the corridor, the hospital, the world drifting in and out, out and in,

then out, just out. 41

The lady from British European Airways found Bill and Harry sat outside on the steps to the hospital. Bill had no shoe on one foot and Harry had no tie around his neck. They were not wearing coats or even jackets. The lady from BEA said, You’ll catch your deaths sat out here like this in the cold. Come on, get back inside with me.

The lady led them back inside the hospital, sat them back down in the corridor. She introduced them to a man from the British Consulate in Munich. He told them that the names of all the survivors had been forwarded to the relevant authorities in London and Manchester. He told them not to worry, their families would know they were safe. Then he gestured at Bill’s feet and he said, Now let’s see what we can do about some dry socks, shall we?

Will you bloody shut up for one minute, said Harry. Can’t you hear what they’re saying …?

What are they saying, asked Bill.

Harry pointed up at the tannoy speaker on the wall. I could swear they just said Frank Swift is dead, but I couldn’t bloody hear for this fellow wittering on.

That can’t be right, said Bill, looking up at the lady from BEA. Not Big Frank? Not Swifty?

The lady from BEA glanced at the man from the British Consulate, then she nodded at Bill and at Harry, and she said, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.

I’ll just go and see about those socks, shall I, said the man from the British Consulate, with a quick smile, then a brisk stride, off and away, down the corridor.

Not Big Frank, said Bill again. Not Swifty.

I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here, said the lady from BEA. We’ve arranged a hotel for you, and I can take you there 42now, if you’d like? If you’re both feeling well enough. It’s not far, less than ten minutes by car.

Neither Bill nor Harry said anything.

I’ll find you some shoes and clean clothes, too, said the lady from BEA. Warm clothes.

Bill looked up from his hands. He turned to the lady and asked, Ten minutes by car, did you say?

Yes, said the lady from BEA. It’s very near.

Do you speak German, do you, said Bill.

Yes, she said. I speak German.

Will you ask the driver, then, not to go fast. I can’t stand it. The way people drive. The speeds that they go.

It was around about six o’clock by the time his pal Joey had driven Wilf McGuinness back home. Wilf had just sat there, all the way home, in a state of shock, knowing that Bobby, and that Dennis, and that Bill Foulkes and Harry Gregg had survived, they were probably all right, but he’d not heard anything yet about Eddie Colman, or Billy Whelan, or David Pegg, or so many of the other lads, the rest of the team, his mates. But then when he got back, went in through the door, everybody already knew what he didn’t want to know, that it wasn’t a dream, was a nightmare, and all of it true when his mother and his father told him to keep his coat on, that there had been deaths. Many deaths. And Wilf followed them straight back out the door and round to Our Lady of Mount Carmel to say a novena: Lord of Mercy, hear our prayer, may our brothers, whom you called sons on earth, enter into the kingdom of peace and light, where your saints live in glory. We ask this through our Lord, Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God forever and ever. Amen. But Wilf didn’t want to think of Eddie 43and Billy and David being dead, or any of them dead, and he prayed instead, he prayed and cried and said to God, he said, I’ll do anything, anything if they’re all right, anything you ask, just please let them be all right, let them be alive.

Everyone alive that day would have a tale to tell of death, of who and when and where they were upon that cold, unwanted day, and for some alive that blackest day of all, that tale would have a twist, a twist that paused the pulse, that made one stop and think that but for fate or grace or economic considerations, that could have been me upon my back upon the snow, the hands of my watch, the words in my throat stopped, silent in the slush, the ice –

It was the manager of The Times whom Geoffrey Green had to thank for keeping him from the snow, the slush and ice that day, the manager of The Times who, almost at the eleventh hour, and on purely monetary grounds, had ordered Geoffrey to cancel his tickets to Belgrade and to go instead to Cardiff, to report on the World Cup qualifying match between Wales and Israel.

You must be bloody joking, Geoffrey had said.

I’m not, he’d said, and he wasn’t, and so Geoffrey had gone to Cardiff, watched Wales ‘dismally complete the second leg’, written and filed his report – ‘WALES QUALIFY FOR WORLD CUP / But No Glory in Win Over Israel’ – then returned to London overnight from Cardiff, read the reports from Belgrade – ‘MANCHESTER REACH SEMI-FINAL / Red Star Rally in European Cup’ – and gone off to sulk in the warmth of a cinema all that afternoon: Chase a Crooked Shadow, followed by Witness for the Prosecution, and he’d even toyed with seeing The Man Who Wouldn’t Talk but decided on a drink instead, and that 44was when he saw the evening-paper placard, under a streetlight surely switched on by the devil himself, screaming out the most dreadful news in the heaviest of types – ‘MANCHESTER UNITED IN AIR CRASH’ – and unlike some, and unlike him on any other day of the week, he didn’t think this time this was a stunt, a newspaper screamer to catch out the gullible, no, he somehow knew, deep down he knew, knew this was true, so he didn’t stop to buy a paper, to ask the stranger standing beside him, a copy in his hand, reading the news, a crowd around, to ask him what it said, no, Geoffrey knew, he somehow knew, and so off he set for home, like a hare from a trap, just in time to hear the telephone ringing –

Where the hell have you been, said the office. We’ve been trying to reach you for the past two hours.

It’s true then, said Geoffrey. Christ.

Precise information is still scarce and confused, but yes, the stark fact is that United’s aeroplane crashed on take-off at Munich Airport, with heavy loss of life.

I’ll be in then as quick as I can, said Geoffrey, and he replaced the receiver, poured himself a drink, then glanced at his watch, switched on the wireless to hear the announcer on the BBC Home Service say, Here is the news. An airliner carrying the Manchester United team crashed in Germany this afternoon …

Bobby’s mum was back in the house, in the parlour with the radio on, then off again, the news always bad, never good, but needing to know, desperate to know, the radio on again when Cissie heard the knock at the door. It was a copper’s knock, she knew, a policeman’s knock, she just knew, bringing bad news, always bad news, never anything good, any good news. She got up from her chair, hollowed and emptied, she went out of 45the parlour and into the hall, her heart already broken, her life already over, and she opened the door –

Telegram for you, Missus Charlton, from the Foreign Office, said their local copper on her step, head to boot in snow, waving a brown envelope in his glove.

Cissie took the envelope from his glove, took the paper from the envelope, and read the words on the paper:

Alive and well, see you later, Bobby.

I knew it, said Cissie, stepping, falling back into the hall, to the floor, the paper in her hand. I just knew.

He was alive, alive. Her husband, her light, the very light of her life, he was alive, Mattie was alive. But others were not, she knew they were not, and her thoughts were for them and their families now and what could be done –

Sheena, Sandy, will you go round to Tom Curry’s house, to see Betty, will you, please, said Jean.

Jean turned to comfort Doris and Jean, her Jean and her husband, to say how all they could do was to pray for Frank, to hope for the best, that good news would come, holding them, hugging them close, praying the rumours weren’t true, that none of it was true.

Bill Ridding, who had played with Matt at City, who had then gone to United, who was now the manager of Bolton, he came over to Jean with Paddy McGrath and Paddy’s son-in-law. They took Jean to one side, told her the news that Big Frank was dead, that the rumours were true, then Paddy’s son-in-law said he’d walk Doris and her Jean and her husband back round the corner to theirs, to see them home, to break the news to them there, in their own home, then help them with the arrangements, if there was anything they could do, but then 46their heads all turned to the door because Elsie Nichols, the girlfriend of Henry Rose of the Daily Express, the best-known, most-read writer of the day, she’d just arrived at the door and was saying, repeating, I know my Henry’s been killed. I know my Henry’s been killed, and Jean took her in her arms, held her in her arms, tried to comfort, to quieten her, while Paddy went to fetch a doctor and Bill Ridding kept on answering the phone, the questions from the press.

The manager of the Stachus Hotel put Harry and Bill on the top floor, where it was quiet, away from the other guests and the press, who were already sniffing about, back at the hospital and around the hotels. The manager walked with Harry and Bill to the elevator, but Harry and Bill said they would rather walk and so they’d meet him upstairs. Bill hadn’t known what his shoe size was in German, and had given his one shoe to the lady from BEA, so he followed Harry up the stairs in his stocking feet, his stocking feet both still wet, but the carpet soft beneath his feet, soft and warm, not cold, not snow, not slush.

At the top of the stairs, the manager was waiting for Harry and Bill. He had two large, warm coats on his arm. He walked them down the corridor to the door to their room and showed them inside. The manager laid the coats on one of the beds, gave Harry the key for the room and said he’d be back again with more clean clothes, and the lady from BEA would also be back soon, but they must call down if they needed anything, anything at all, and he pointed to a bottle of whisky sat on the table between the two beds, a present from someone, and suggested they had a drink and a rest, a good rest, and he’d be back again, he said again, and then left them alone, alone in a room on the top floor of the Stachus Hotel. 47

Harry walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. Bill followed him over to the window. It was night outside, snow still falling. Bill turned away and walked over to the bathroom. Harry followed him. Bill switched on the bathroom light. Harry and Bill saw themselves in the bathroom mirror. They were black with dirt and they were stained with grease, blood on the cuffs of their shirts, under the nails of their fingers. They did not recognise themselves. Bill turned away from the mirror, the man he did not know. He took a piss, then Harry had a piss. Then Harry walked back out of the bathroom. He picked up the bottle of whisky and he opened it. Bill brought two glasses from the bathroom and held them out to Harry. Harry filled their glasses, then Harry and Bill took their glasses back over to the window, looking down and out on the world, a world of snow and slush, staring down at the cars, the people, the city: going home, slant against the sleet, coats up, hats down, never looking up, up into the sky, those two figures at a window up above, so far, so very far from home.

Jimmy kept calling the police, the BBC, the Chronicle, the Evening News, the Guardian, everybody he knew, but the news was always the same. Or worse –

The Chronicle had already had confirmation that Geoff Bent, Roger Byrne, Eddie Colman, Mark Jones, David Pegg, Tommy Taylor and Liam Whelan were dead, and the list of the journalists confirmed as dead, men he had known well, men who were his friends, was long, almost all of them gone: Alf Clarke of the Evening Chronicle, Tom Jackson of the Evening News, Donny Davies of the Manchester Guardian, George Follows of the Herald, Archie Ledbrooke of the Mirror, Eric Thompson of the Mail, Henry Rose of the Express and poor Frank Swift, who 48Jimmy never thought of as pressman for the News of the World, but always, simply as one of the greatest, bravest keepers he had ever known. Now the Chronicle told Jimmy that Matt’s pal Willie Satinoff and Walter Crickmer were also dead. So, too, were Tom Curry and Bert Whalley, Jimmy’s oldest, closest pals, especially Bert, poor Bert –

Poor old Bert, whispered Jimmy into his glass, he had my seat, and he went. Because of Wales and the bloody World Cup. He only went because I didn’t.

Alma tapped on the door. She had a long, long list of names and telephone numbers in her hand, of organisations and of individuals, some known, some not, with expressions of sympathy, with offers of support: a telegram from the Queen to the Lord Mayor of Manchester, expressing her shock and sympathy; the offer of the use of his car from the father of Nobby Stiles …

And the Boss, she said, they called from Munich to say he’d been given another blood transfusion, and that everything is being done that can be done.

Jimmy said, Is he conscious, do you know?

Yes, said Alma, but he cannot speak.

They tell you anything else?

She nodded. They think he’ll survive the night. But his condition is the most serious of all. Duncan and Johnny Berry are in very bad shape, too, and the journalist Frank Taylor, all of them are listed as critical.

Is there any good news?

Well, Ray Wood seems to have been just badly bruised and cut, while Kenny Morgans and Bobby Charlton have maybe only slight concussions. And they’re letting Bill Foulkes and Harry Gregg leave the hospital, letting them go and stay at a hotel …

Jimmy said, Which hotel?

BEA are taking care of it, said Alma. They’ll be looked after, don’t worry. 49

Jimmy said, I need to go, to be there, in Munich. I can’t be here, I should be there, should have been there all along. Never should have not have gone.

BEA are organising a special plane, said Alma, for those families who want to go out there. I know Jean and Sheena and Sandy are going. Tomorrow, first thing.

Jimmy said, I am going, too. I have to go.

Yes, said Alma. I’ll call BEA, make sure they have your name for the flight and the hotel.

Jimmy said, Thank you, love.

But, Jimmy, she said.

Jimmy said, Yes?

There’s still this, said Alma, handing him another list, the list of the dead, their names and the telephone numbers of their families, or their neighbours, or a shop or pub on their street, round the corner, if they had no telephone, the ones they still couldn’t reach, who might not yet know.

Jimmy nodded. Of course, love. Of course. And he took the list from her hand, her hand shaking, his hand shaking, and he set down the list on the top of his desk, looked down at the list on the top of his desk, picked up the glass again, drank from his glass again, set down his glass again, and then picked up the telephone.

Harry held out the phone to Bill. He said, Will you speak to her, Bill? Will you tell her not to come …?

Hello, Mavis, said Bill. It’s Bill here. Bill Foulkes … Yes, I’m fine, thank you … No, really, and Harry’s fine, too, so there’s really no need for you to be coming out here … No, no, Teresa’s not coming, no. I’ve asked her not to come … Well, we don’t know exactly, but as soon as we can … Yes, yes, hang on. Bye – 50

Harry took the phone back from Bill and said, You see, love? We’re fine, I promise you …

And then, when Harry and Bill had finished convincing Mavis not to come out to Munich with the other wives and girlfriends, Harry and Bill set about convincing Teresa not to come out –

You see, the thing is, said Harry, there’s really no need, so you’ll just be making Bill worried, the thought of you flying out here on a plane after what’s happened … Well, I don’t know, but as soon as we can … No, don’t you worry. There’s no fear of that, love. Don’t think you’ll ever get your Bill on another plane for as long as he lives … Well, we’ll walk if we have to, love, all the way home, all the way back to bloody Manchester …

There was still the constant ringing of the telephones, but worst of all was the hammering on the main doors downstairs, the banging and the knocking echoing up the stairs as Jimmy, Alma, Les and Joe tried to keep their heads as best they could, to take and make the calls, then decide who would go where to break the news, the worst news of all, and end all hope, as the hammering, the banging and the knocking went on, on and on –

I’m off down, said Joe. I can’t stand it any more, and Joe got up from the telephone, the desk, walked out of the office and down the stairs to the main doors. He opened the door, saw the crowd outside, in their cloth caps and floral scarves, their raincoats and brollies, men and women, old and young, some silent, some sobbing, all waiting under the shadow of the giant stand, and Joe held up his hand, his face grey and voice tired as he said, Please go away, please. We can’t tell you any more than what’s on the news on the wireless. So please just go home, please, and let us get on with what has to be done. 51

Joe went to shut the door, but a hand touched and caught his own, the hand of a man whose face he knew, a journalist on the Mail, a man he knew well, and the man said, Joe, please, is there really no hope?

Later, but Bill and Harry didn’t know how much later, time scrambled, stretching, then suddenly snapping, the lady from BEA returned with some shoes for Bill. Not shoes, but a pair of tall, fur-lined boots –

I just hope they fit, said the lady from BEA.

Bill nodded. Yes, at least they fit.

And there’s two of them, said Harry.

Have you two eaten, asked the lady from BEA.

Bill and Harry looked at each other. They shook their heads. Bill said, I’m not hungry.

Me neither, said Harry.

But it must be ages since you had anything to eat, said the lady from BEA. You really should eat something. Why don’t you both come down and join Captain Thain and the others in the dining room? Be better than just staying up here drinking on your own …

Harry and Bill looked at each other. They nodded, and Harry said, Be good to see the others.

Great, said the lady from BEA. Great. So why don’t you have a wash and get changed maybe, then join us downstairs whenever you’re ready.

Bill and Harry nodded. They thanked the lady from BEA, the lady from BEA who looked absolutely shattered herself. Then they walked back from the door over to the beds. They stared at the new clothes which the manager had laid out for them. The dark suits, the dark ties and white shirts. The clean white 52underwear, the thick woollen socks. Bill put down his drink, put out his cigarette. He picked up one of the sets of new clothes from the bed and he turned to Harry. She did say ‘others’, didn’t she?

June Jones had been in a shop in Chorlton buying cream cakes to welcome Mark back that night. She was standing in the queue at the counter when she heard the ladies behind her talking about United, about a plane crash –

They’re saying many are dead.

What can I get you, love?

In the bright shop, before the white cakes, June just stood there, staring at the woman behind the counter.

Whatever is the matter, love?

My husband was on that plane, said June, and she walked out of the shop, back down the street, with their son in his pram, back to their house in Kings Road to wait, to wait six hours, six long, long hours until Joe Armstrong knocked on the door and told her the worst, his words falling on her with the weight of a stone that she could never roll away, but she sprang up then from her chair, ran up the stairs, grabbed her son from his cot, rushed back down the stairs and out of the house, into the street, clutching their son, into the cold, fleeing from death, into the night, running to Mark.

In their new sets of clothes, on legs suddenly old, old and tired, Harry and Bill walked down the stairs of the Stachus Hotel and into the dining room. It must have been late, very late, the hotel deserted, silent and shadowed. Just one large table, off to the side, lit up under low lights – 53

Here they are, said the lady from BEA.

Bill and Harry sat down at the table. They looked around the table, saw Pete Howard and Ted Ellyard from the Daily Mail again, saw Captain Thain and his radio officer Bill Rodgers, and the two stewardesses, Margaret Bellis and Rosemary Cheverton, but they did not see anybody else, any others. They didn’t see Ken Rayment, the co-pilot, or Tommy Cable, the BEA steward, who they knew well because he was a mad United fan. They didn’t see any of the other journalists or photographers either. And they didn’t see any of their teammates, their friends.

What would you both like to eat, asked the lady from BEA, beckoning a waiter from out of the shadows.

Pete Howard said, The steak’s good.

Harry and Bill looked down at the plates on the table, the plates of untouched food, the untouched steak on the plate before Pete Howard, and they nodded and they said, We’ll have the steak then, please.

I hope you don’t mind us talking about it, said Captain Thain, but I’ve just been asking Pete and Ted here what they remember about it, while it’s fresh in their minds. Trying to get straight what happened, find out why it happened. Obviously we’ll know a lot more when Ken comes round, but I just can’t understand it because, you see, we’d reached Velocity One –

Slow down, Captain, said Harry. What’s Velocity One when it’s at home?

Captain Thain smiled. He said, Sorry, and call me Jim, please. But Velocity One, or V1 as we usually call it, is the point of no return. Once you’ve reach that point on the runway, you can’t abandon take-off safely. Now you’ll remember, we’d had to abandon two attempts earlier. But this time we reached 117 knots, so I called out ‘V1’ and waited for a positive indication of more speed so I could call out ‘V2’ –

V2, asked Harry. 54

The point when you’ve reached the necessary speed for take-off, which in our case was 119 knots.

But, said Harry.

But suddenly the needle began to drop, said Captain Thain. First to about 112 knots, then to 105, but I didn’t actually feel we’d stopped accelerating, so I did wonder, in a flash, if perhaps there was something wrong with the air-speed indicator, because that had happened to me once before. But it was then that I heard Ken shout, Christ! We’re not going to make it!

Two waiters came out of the shadows. They put two plates of steak and fried potatoes down in front of Bill and Harry. They filled their glasses with red wine, then they retreated into the shadows.

Bill looked down at the steak on his plate. He thought he could hear one of the stewardesses crying. He looked up at Captain Thain, saw the scabs upon his knuckle, remembered him …

I remember, said Harry, that I saw the wheels lock and unlock twice, Jim.

Captain Thain shook his head. He said, You can’t have done, Harry –

I’m telling you, I did, said Harry. I was sat under the wing, looking out of the window, and them first two attempts, I watched them lock and unlock twice.

Captain Thain shook his again. No –

I’m only saying what I saw …

Bill pushed away his plate, pushed back his chair, stood up and said, I’m sorry. I’m going to go back up.

It was gone ten when the telephone rang yet again at the two-up, two-down house in Archie Street, in Ordsall, down by the docks, just a mile or so from Old Trafford. Dick Colman picked 55up the telephone. He listened as Jimmy Murphy told him how very, very sorry he was, but it was true, his son was among the dead, Eddie was dead.

Dick Colman thanked Mister Murphy for calling, for confirming the news, their worst fears. Thank you. Dick Colman put down the telephone and told the rest of the family what they had already guessed, what they already knew, then Dick Colman walked out of the house, still in his slippers, his carpet slippers, and he walked down the street, in the sleet and in the rain, into the night, the hours of the night, he walked and he walked.

At three o’clock in the morning, a policeman in Piccadilly Gardens approached Dick Colman, standing in the rain, in his slippers, his carpet slippers, soaked to the skin, and asked him if he was okay.

I’m just looking for my son, is all, said Dick Colman. It’s late and I’m worried that he’s lost, he can’t find his way home.

Bill would never know whether this happened or not, though he thought it did, could have sworn it did –

But he couldn’t sleep, not that first night at the Stachus Hotel. He waited until Harry had gone to sleep, could hear him snoring. Then, as quietly as he could, he left the room, went down the corridor and the stairs and out of the hotel and back to the hospital. Just to see the lads they’d kept in, how they were getting on.

But the nurses, the doctors, they wouldn’t let Bill onto the wards. They kept him waiting outside, in the corridor, pacing up and down, not telling him anything. Bill was at a loss what to do, whether to just wait or what he should do. Then, at the end of the corridor, he saw Captain Thain and one of the stewardesses from the plane. They had a list of names, the names of all the 56people who were in the hospital: the Boss and Ray Wood, Bobby and Dennis, Johnny and Jackie, Bill knew about them, knew they were here, but Duncan and Albert and Kenny Morgans were also on the list, along with Frank Taylor from the News Chronicle and Ken Rayment, the co-pilot.

But where’s everyone else then, asked Bill. What about Roger and Geoff? Mark and Tommy? Billy, David and Eddie? What hospital are they in then? And what about Tom Curry, Bert Whalley and Walter Crickmer? They were all on the plane, so where are they? And all the journalists? There were loads of journalists, not just Frank Taylor. So where is everyone, where are they all?

But the nurses, the doctors, every nurse and every doctor Bill asked, they bowed their heads, shook their heads and whispered, Alle tot, alle tot …

But Harry always said that this never happened, could never have happened. Because it was Harry who could not sleep that night, that first night at the Stachus Hotel, the longest night of his life, he said. Because Bill was tossing and turning all night in his bed, shouting out in his sleep, calling out names, the names of the dead. So Harry had got up out of bed, gone to the window, pulled back the curtains and stared out of the window, out at the snow, watching it fall, falling on the street, falling on the city, every part of the city, falling on the Rechts der Isar Hospital, their friends, their mates, the Boss in their beds on the wards, broken and bleeding, fighting for life, struggling to live. It was falling on the airport, the runway, falling softly on the ruins of the house at the end of the runway, softly falling on the wreckage of the plane, burying the scattered seats, the open suitcases, drifting against the twisted propellers, the broken wings. It was falling, too, upon the mortuary where the bodies of the dead, the twenty dead, lay waiting, wanting to go home. 57

Twelve hours later, twelve hours since he’d first heard the news, gone into his office, picked up that telephone, the bottle empty now, the whisky gone, everything empty now, everything gone, and Jimmy was back at home, at home in Whalley Range, at four o’clock in the morning, and England was asleep. But Jimmy could not sleep, he could not wake, could not sleep, could not forget –

Never should have not have gone …

The voices of the families, the faces of their sons, their husbands, their brothers, these boys, these men he’d known so long, brought up and lived with for so very long, these boys, these men he’d loved, he’d loved –

Never should have not have …

Oh, Bert, oh, Bert, repeated Jimmy in the room, the dark front room, into a glass, another glass. You only went because I didn’t, you’re only dead because I’m not. That seat was mine, not yours …