‘Haven’t you finished that bleeding bottle yet?’
‘Nearly. Anyway, I’m buggered if you’re getting any more of it. You had well over half of the last bottle. I reckon you’ve had about five pints to my three. That’s what I reckon. So, no bleeding more.’
‘That’s just the bleeding trouble, Arthur. I need the empty bottle to slash in.’
Arthur Samuels drained the bottle, adding a touch more colour to his veined face. He passed it to Morry Gannon, who unbuttoned his long grey raincoat, unzipped his flies and carefully positioned the bottle. He cursed as he underestimated his need and wiped his wet hands on the front of his coat. He carefully put the bottle down on the step by his feet. Grinning, Arthur leaned across and nudged it with his foot, sending it rolling down through the crowd, spraying trousers and shoes and chinking along until it hit a metal barrier stanchion and shattered. What was left of the liquid soaked into the dusty concrete.
Nobody saw it happen.
Well, in fact, one person saw it happen. He was about sixteen years old and was standing directly behind Morry and Arthur. He wore tight faded jeans, white shirt with a ruffled front, an elegant embroidered waistcoat and black ankle boots with platform soles nearly four inches thick. His hair was cropped almost painfully short, his skull gleaming bone-white through the stubble. He had long curling sideboards. He saw Morry Gannon pee into a bottle and he saw Arthur Samuels roll the full bottle into the crowd. He had half a dozen mates with him. He told them about it.
There were about eight minutes to go. First Division Arsenal, bidding for the Cup and League double were leading three-one against Third Division Manchester United. Once at the very top, the northern club had slumped badly during the mid-seventies having, at one time, to struggle to avoid relegation from the Third Division. The appointment three years ago of Bobby Charlton as manager had signalled the beginning of a revival. Now top of their Division with promotion a mere formality, they had fought through to the quarter-final of the F.A. Cup.
There were six minutes to go and Manchester were on the attack. In the manager’s box Charlton leaped to his feet, sparse hair waving in the wind and urged his young team forward again.
Happy now the pressure on his bladder had been relieved, Morry sportingly encouraged his team: ‘Kick the fucking poofs off the park!’ Then, as the veteran striker, Charlie George, slipped on the damp turf: ‘Jesus Christ all bleeding mighty!’
A man could choose better words to have on his lips as he leaves this world for the doubtful values of the next.
The long, thin blade of an eight-inch flick-knife had whispered out, slicing through his old raincoat (which let him down) and probing up between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side. The youth behind him – whose name was Charlie Marvell – stepped in closer and supported the corpse (for that’s what Morry had become so suddenly) pulling out the knife and passing it quickly back to one of his mates who immediately left with it.
On the field, Manchester were mounting a last attack and the Arsenal defence was forced to give away a corner. Arthur spoke to Morry without turning his head: ‘Last chance, eh, Morry? Get this one clear and we’ve done it I said, nearly there. Morry. Hey!’
‘I think your mate’s come over all queer.’ That was Charlie, who coincided his words with letting go of Morry’s arm and letting the deceased slump to the floor. The body dropped to the terracing with the gentle ease that comes only to the very drunk or the dead.
Unfortunately for Charlie, the late and not-yet-lamented fell on his face revealing the torn and bloody back of his coat. When people “come over all queer” in a football crowd they don’t usually have a gash in their back that’s poured out their life.
Arthur was no fool and he knew a knifing when he saw one. Killings were too much of a feature of football matches for it to be a total shock, but you always thought it would happen to someone else. He saw the bizarre figure behind him and grabbed at him, shouting at the top of his voice.
‘You bastard. You’ve chivvied my mate.’
Charlie was two steps higher up the terracing and that, combined with the platform soles to his boots put him at just the right height to swing at Arthur’s groin. But, as he lifted his foot his head exploded and he dropped to the steps. Unable to believe his luck, Arthur kicked him hard, three times, in the face, before a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
‘That’s enough, mate. We don’t want you in court as well as him.’
At that moment, a couple of uniformed policemen, one in his late thirties, the other about sixteen, burst in through the ring of goggling spectators.
‘All right. What’s going … Oh, sorry Sergeant. Didn’t know it was you. Saw the ripple in the crowd and came a’running. He dead?’ Pointing at Morry.
‘Unless he’s got an extra gallon of blood tucked away somewhere in his pocket, then he is.’
Arthur found it all a bit much. He guessed the man who had saved him was one of the many plain-clothes detectives who patrolled football grounds in large numbers in the generally futile effort to stop crowd violence.
‘Er. Excuse me. But, what’ll happen to him?’ indicating the unmoving figure of Charlie Marvell.
‘That’s Charlie Marvell. He’s been arrested three times, not counting today, and charged with murder on each occasion. Every time, he get off. I would bet anything you like that he hasn’t got a knife on him. It’ll be out of the ground by now in the pocket of one of his mates or in the bag of one of his scrubbers.’ He kicked the recumbent youth casually in the groin. ‘There’s fuck all we can do about it. Once upon a time we could have got him down the station and given him the treatment. Now, with these bleeding-heart liberals running things, he’ll get off. Is the stretcher coming?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I radioed for it.’
‘Well done lad. I don’t think I know this one, do I Tom?’
‘No sergeant. First time out for young Andrews here. Andrews, this is detective-sergeant Warren.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. Excuse me, sir.’ He sidled nearer to the detective, away from the ashen figure of Arthur who had now sat down and was just beginning to think how he could possibly break the news to Morry’s wife. Widow.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I was just wondering.’
‘Come on lad. Don’t stand there like that. You look as though you’re trying to make your mind up whether or not to risk a fart.’
‘Sorry, Sergeant. It’s just that I wondered if there might not be a knife down at the nick that we could fit to this “skull”. If he’s as bad as you say.’
‘Once, maybe. Now, I’m not saying “Yes”. I’m just saying “Maybe”. Not now; not even for a murdering bastard like this skull here. Not even for Charlie Marvell. In the days of good old George Hayes we could have done it. Not now. Things have changed, son. The law’s for the protection of thugs and killers. Look at that poor old sod, down there. Crying because he won’t have anyone to go to Highbury with any more. Marvell’ll get off without blinking. The only thing is, oh, here’s the stretcher, the only thing is, that one day he’ll come up against a bigger animal. And you know what? When they push him up the crematorium chimney I’ll be there taking big deep breaths of the smoke and laughing. Yes, laughing.’
Police-constable Andrews walked away from the station that night with the older policeman, Tom Mayhew. Andrews had been unable to eat much of his soya-sausage and chips and Mayhew had finished it off for him. As they walked together through the grey streets, Mayhew answered the young man’s questions about George Hayes, about the Skulls and about the radical change in public thinking.
How, about a year ago, there had been a General Election, when the reactionary Home Secretary, George Hayes, and the Government he typified, had been narrowly ousted from office by a Labour/Union coalition. Throughout the country there had been a new spirit of freedom and some of the fringe youth movements that had previously been outlawed were now reasonably acceptable. The Hell’s Angels motorcycle gangs had spawned afresh and the working class, football crazy youths had gone back to their roots and formed a counter movement.
‘And that’s the Skulls?’
‘Yes. Mix in the old skinheads of the late sixties and add a dash of “Clockwork Orange”. Work in a bizarre dress sense, odd rules and season well with incredible viciousness. That’s your Skulls.’
‘But, Mr. Mayhew—’
‘I keep telling you. Tom!’
‘Yeah, sorry, Tom. But, I still don’t see what really made things change. I read history for my special entrance to the force and our teacher said that all great movements had one tiny root. What was the root that made the whole country sweep in favour of freedom?’
‘Remember Gerry and the Last Heroes? Course you do. Every kid must remember them. Well, I suppose it must be about a year ago now. When we tried to finally wipe them out and a hell of a lot of people got killed, Angels and coppers. Well, people had had about enough. It was too much. Too brutal. Too savage. So, like the pendulum swept the other way. And this is what we’ve got. Murder on a Saturday afternoon and a maniac killer who’s got away with it before and will get away with it this time. Makes me want to bloody throw up. Makes me want to get out of the force.’
They walked in silence for a block.
‘Tom? What happened to the Last Heroes? A lot of papers said they were all killed. Were they?’
‘No. Most of them were. But the rest rode through the night and joined up with a group of Welsh Angels. They never found Vincent, the bloke who used to lead them, but our Special Branch know that Gerry and his tart are still up there somewhere. Every now and again a gang of bike outlaws pull some caper and it’s always got his finger-prints on the job. No. He’s still alive. I reckon that one day he’ll move back South. Maybe soon. Then you’d better duck.’
Charles Edwyn Marvell was charged with the wilful murder of Maurice Solomon Gannon. He was formally acquitted without the police offering any evidence.
Arthur Samuels stopped going to football matches. He stayed at home instead, and watched the wrestling.
Thomas Mayhew resigned from the Metropolitan Police Force about a month later and opened a small newsagents.
Rachel Gannon, the evening of the cremation of her husband, went quietly from her flat, walked quietly to a nearby canal and quietly drowned herself.
In the third minute of injury time, Manchester United scored again. The final score was three-two.