The airbus gave an unexpected lurch. Turbulence is an unfortunate but unavoidable feature of hotter climes. Several unseasoned travellers fought hard to keep stomachs and contents thereof in tact. ‘Bet the driver’s a Spaniard,’ offered one of the flock. ‘Si,’ replied another, trying to show a brave, although somewhat ashen, face. Bodies milled around like abandoned sheep, much to the annoyance of the overworked stewardesses. Please take your seats gentlemen, we are preparing to land,’ pleaded a blond stewardess, in a sensual Latin accent which belied her hair colouring.’ ‘Anything you say babe,’ came a reply form the rear.
‘OLE, OLE, OLE, OLE,’ sang some idiot furnishing the cue to a spontaneous eruption of the most boring football song in the annals of the game. The hostesses assumed the mantle of diplomats amiably smiling as the melee exited from the aircraft whilst secretly dreading the return journey, which fate and an unpopular scheduler had decreed was their penance for some long forgotten transgression. Predictable mishaps befell the troublesome clientele. Some over indulged losing all sense of decorum, direction or both. Others blindly strolled away from the airport concourse causing mayhem with the tour reps but most made it to the buses and were courteously shuttled to their temporary residences. Tuesday night in Madrid. An adolescent’s playground which, the majority became, once freed from the marital leash. Ultimately the place to have a great time, as long as one stays clear of the local constabulary. Unfortunately, nobody had warned the N. Ireland Supporters Association of this minor detail. Suffice to say that this oversight brought about the arrest of four over exuberant farmers from Doagh. The men in question had set off to explore the city. Drinking, eating, drinking, sightseeing, drinking and inevitably fighting, albeit with each other. Mishaps withstanding, the trip would be remembered, for the better part, with a large degree of fondness. As for the rural foursome. They were fortunate enough to be released from jail the following morning upon their promise of good behaviour. ‘A Presbyterian’s word is his bond,’ was the solemn oath of William Masterson, the others sagely nodded affirmation. Fines paid and honour satisfied, all parties returned to their respective duties. ‘What is a Presbyterian?asked a bemused Spanish cop?’ ‘Search me,’ answered his colleague shrugging his beefy shoulders.’
As kick off time rapidly advanced the fans donned their colours in anticipation of the impending battle. ‘A draw would be great,’ enthused a young boy, whose pandering father, showing somewhat less conviction, agreed.
‘The only draw we’ll be seein, is the pints getting pulled after the game,’ chuckled the boy’s uncle.
‘Ach, stop teasin the boy Ralph,’ pleaded the youngster’s protective father.
‘I was only jokin son, we’re gonna stuff em eh?’ this seemed to reassure the lad whose frown blossomed into a beaming picture of anticipation. Fully prepared the expectant fans boarded the buses and set off for the stadium. Fortified by good humour and amply plied with gallons of Dutch courage most hoped for a draw but prayed for the upset of the century. As expected, things went the way everyone had feared. The Spanish team attacked from the first whistle, cheered on by one hundred thousand fanatical fans. Wave after wave of relentless surges ensued but the Irish defence stood solid. One hack poetically described it as, ‘Another Reurke’s Drift.’ The home fans became more agitated as time ebbed away, barracking and jeering at the Spanish side’s futile attempts to break down the underdog’s courageous rearguard action. When frustration sets in, mistakes are always waiting to inflict cruel retribution. Such was the case with the much-vaunted Spanish team. Eighty-seven minutes had elapsed when the unforgivable occurred. Northern Ireland scored. At first there was a deathly silence, then sporadic cheering from the minority away support and finallyhowls of derision from home fans. The atmosphere in the stadium became threatening, distressing parents who feared for the safety of their offspring. The crowd began spitting and baying for blood. Some of the Irish supporters stood agog, whilst others remained oblivious to their perilous situation. Chanting continued until the referee despairingly blew the final whistle, prudently ensuring that he was within close proximity of the tunnel before raising the implement to his lips. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, the official made a hurried beckoning gesture to the far away linesman and spurning the outstretched hands of ecstatic Irish players made hurriedly for the sanctuary of the tunnel. The referee did escape physical injury but the poor man had to run the gauntlet through a kaleidoscope of saliva. The Irish team suffered a similar fate much to the embarrassment of the Spanish Football Association.
The crowd spilled out into the cool evening breeze that apportioned welcome respite from the cauldron inside. The horde menacingly spewed forth enveloping every obstacle having the audacity to prohibit its progress. Slowly yet irresistibly forward it rolled, like a river of human lava encompassing everything in its path. Some of the Irish fans became interspersed with the locals but the throng seemed oblivious to their presence. After what seemed an eternity, the crowd mercifully began to thin. Gaps miraculously appeared but only served to expose the terrified away supporters. Tullen became completely detached from the others. His scarf was an insulting abomination, a humiliation, taunting the seething Spanish. Furtively he removed the offending garment concealing it beneath his sweat soaked jacket. Some were appeased, others laughed but one was so incensed that his Latin blood boiled over. Slowly he edged toward the Irishman withdrawing something from his waistband. With murderous determination he raised the implement above his head taking aim at Tullen’s unprotected back. The knife reached the top of its arc and began driving downwards toward the oblivious unsuspecting target. The knife did not achieve it’s objective. In a flash Clements exploded into action covering the distance between himself and the ensuing attack in a matter of strides throwing his body at the assailant. The blade sliced laterally across Tullen’s left shoulder, mercifully deflected from its fatal path. The Spaniard gave a surprised yelp as the breath was forced from his body. Tullen screamed in shocked surprise, a searing pain emanating from his ruptured shoulder. Clements quickly subdued the Spaniard wrenching the weapon from his grasp. The crowd stood open mouthed, visibly shocked by what they had witnessed. There was a great deal of shouting and agitated waving of arms. Clements steadied himself wielding the knife, fearing another attack. He need not have worried as the crowd’s anger was directed not at him but at Tullen’s flailing assailant. Tullen reached down and gripped Billy’s right arm dragging him to his feet. ‘Lets get to fuck outa here mate.’ He had to scream to make himself heard above the jabbering local’s protestations. His rescuer required no second invitation. In an instant the pair were running, running, as they thought, for their lives. The crowd paid scant attention to the strangers’ departure. Instead they vented their frustration on the would-be assassin.
They ran until their chests ached. Never turning to look at their pursuers. Darting around the corner of an alley Connor grabbed Clements arm spinning him violently around. The other gave a howl as he collided with a breeze block wall. Both men stood stock-still backs against the wall, fighting to regain their breath. Tullen put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘I’ll take a look around the corner. Don’t think they followed us.’ His judgement was confirmed as he scrutinised an empty street. ‘All clear,’ he informed his rescuer. Clements tentatively stepped out from the alley.
‘Fuck me!’ was all Tullen could manage to say. ‘These Spanish bastards are mad..Jees, imagine wanton to gut somebody over a fuckin futball match.’
‘You know something mate, I think yer right, they are fuckin mad,’ assented Connor, with a smile and proffering his hand. ‘Graham’s the name, Dave Graham,’ he lied. ‘Where did you come from? Christ what does that matter? I’m just glad ye came when ye did. You saved my bacon. No doubt about it. God I’m babblin away, must be the shock. Anyway thanks a million mate.’
‘Hey no problems,’ smiled the stranger. ‘Billy Clements is the name. Jesus mate!’ he exclaimed, ‘I hope ye’ve got a new shirt, I think the, off the shoulder look, is out this year.’
‘Bastard, that cost me a score in Burton’s and my back’s fuckin achin into the bargain,’ added Tullen, as if becoming aware of his discomfort for the first time.
‘What hotel are you staying in?’ asked Clements.
‘El Rancho, or somethin like that,’ he was informed.
‘Mine’s The El Cordoba,’ said Clements. ‘Wonder why they call everything El over here?’ pondered Billy, which sent Tullen into rapturous laughter. Clements, infected by his new friend’s mood, joined in. It was at that precise moment that an undeniable bond was formed. Connor was bleeding quite badly so they agreed that Billy should go in search of a clothing store. A replacement shirt was required to conceal the wound from prying eyes. Once back in Billy’s room the damage could be more thoroughly assessed. Clements informed his new friend that his medical skills were rudimentary but he had once completed a course in first aid. Taking great care to avoid contact with other locals they made their way back to one of the main thoroughfares. Tullen nudged Billy, drawing his attention to a covered bus terminal. Without further invite, the other headed toward the structure but they were frustrated in their effort. Casually putting his arm around Clements’ shoulder, Connor guided him to a shop window. The taller man had espied a possible hazard. A passing police patrol was casting a suspicious eye in their direction. Clements held his scarf aloft shouting, ‘Noarin Ireland.’ One of the policemen parried with something derogatory in Spanish, waved and retreated smiling. ‘See they’re not all bad,’ he observed, with an impish grin, before moving on. Fearing that the local force may have been informed of the incident and were possibly seeking them, Connor was less than pleased by the other’s show of bravado. Discretion being the better part of valour they decided to put some distance between themselves and the police. Having re-crossed the road they arrived at the shelter. The policeman remained on their side of the road, their interest in the Irishmen quickly forgotten. It was decided that the injured Tullen would wait in there. Assuring Connor that he’d return as soon as possible, Billy set off at a gallop. ‘Us Ulster men have to stick together eh,’ Billy informed his injured friend conspiratorially over his shoulder, catching Tullen unaware.
His head jerked up and he was about to shout aye ‘Tiochfaidh ar la,’ {Our day will come} but held himself in check, opting instead for a wry smile. As promised, Clements returned quickly having purchased a black sweatshirt, which brought a scowl to Tullen’s face. Obviously it was not quite his style. Billy had also acquired some gauze dressings and antiseptic, just to be on the safe side. At the same time he procured a half litre of cheap local Cognac. ‘Christ Billy a fuckin sweatshirt. In Spain!’ complained Tullen.
‘Jesus I never thought about that. It was going cheap in the sale and anyway, it’ll cover that maw in yer back.
‘What do ye mean maw?’ chided Tullen. Does your girl’s luk like that?’
‘No but I had a duke at yer sister’s,’ retorted Billy. When a Belfast mans sexual prowess is called into question, it usually starts a repartee which ends in the denigration of someone’s sister or girlfriend.
‘Aye you wud know,’ was usually the final word, this time uttered by Tullen who had neither sister nor girlfriend. After Tullen had bravely pulled the garment over his head they set off heading for the city centre, where Clements hailed a cab. ‘Take us to the hotel El Cordoba por favor,’ the driver was instructed. To which he replied, ‘QE?’
‘Fuck me its Manuel’ jested Tullen, which set them off into another fit of laughter. Eventually they managed to get across to the driver the general direction of the hotel. It was still quite early for Madrid, which meant that the hotel foyer was deserted except for a smiling receptionist. Billy told Tullen to make straight for the lift that was obscured from the desk by a typical mosaic depicting a matador administering the coup-de-grace. Having retrieved the key, Billy rejoined Tullen at the elevator. Safely ensconced in the room Billy began his examination of the wound which ,although requiring sutures, turned out to be superficial.
‘Christ Davy, I thought ye were hurt, it’s only a wee scratch, well maybe a long scratch. Yer girl will think ye got yer mitts on a senorita.’
‘Not too bad I suppose,’ assented Tullen, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at the wound.
‘Know what? I’d say you are the luckiest bugger on the planet. Yer man wud have swung for ye, if this thing had gone straight down,’ said Clements earnestly, gesturing to the offensive weapon he was holding.
‘If ye hadn’t been there to stop him,’ whispered Tullen, the reality of the incident finally penetrating. ‘I don’t know how I am ever going to repay you Billy,’ added Tullen emotionally.
‘Agh away wi ye man. Anybody wud have done the same. Anyway, when we get you cleaned up a bit, you can buy me a pint. Besides this is a crackin souvenir. Shit you never know how many blokes the Cisco Kid has topped we this beauty,’ mused Billy, waving the knife around like Rambo. ‘The easy part is over, sure I’ve seen worse skinned knees. Here comes the hard bit. Ye have te take a wee swig of this pish,’ he chuckled, raising the bottle of cheap cognac. Connor warily complied. ‘Good, now take a deep breath. This is going to sting like a bastard.’ Before the other could argue, Clements quickly lashed the cheap liquor into the wound. The end result was a reasonably acceptable dressing. ‘There!’ he exclaimed stepping back to inspect his handiwork..
‘Superb Billy, Ye must’ve been sent as me guardian angel. I can see there’s no end to yer talents, what now Sherlock?’
‘The bright city lights are beckoning my man. Let us go forth and procreate.’’I hope ye mean with a women wee man. I’m not that grateful,’ quipped Connor.
Billy Clements turned the key unlocking the door to his small flat. He smiled at a pleasant memory seeded in Spain. Smirking at his reflection in the mirror he punched the air. ‘Yes!,’ he shouted, ‘We showed those Spanish bastards a thing or two. Christ yon Davy Graham is some boy. That reminds me, I must ring him tonight.’ Tullen had given Billy a false number. He had hated doing it but the situation was impossible. Sadly and virtually from the outset, he had determined that their paths could never cross in future. One thing was certain, he owed a debt that would be impossible to repay. Nevertheless he realised that Clements would always be there deep in the recesses of his mind. A pleasant, haunting memory available to be evoked in less happier times. ‘Maybe someday when things are different. Shit, what a mess.’ The irony of their encounter had not passed unnoticed. Here he was, a man who distrusted Protestants virtually from birth one had risked his life in order to save him.