Colin’s regular game of five-a-side was facing the usual festive disruption. They were increasingly relying on friends of friends to fill the spots at the last minute as Christmas drew nearer, which had its advantages and disadvantages.
It was a good way to meet new people, and most of the lads who played were sociable and good-natured. They saw the game for what it was: a bunch of old friends having a fun time. Sure, occasionally, the odd mistimed tackle caused a few cross words and a bit of handbags, but overall, it was a friendly game.
On the very odd occasion, someone turned up in studded boots (a no-no on the AstroTurf pitch), thinking that they were Stonebridge’s answer to Messi. They always ended up souring the game and were never invited back. If you were the one who invited them, you were in the bad books too.
Nick was in the bad books tonight.
His mate Phil—Alice-band holding back longish hair and shin guards so small they may as well have been playing cards—was ruining the game by tackling late, rarely passing the ball, and mouthing off when things didn’t go his way.
Colin was furious, and was trying his best not to let it show. He’d been caught by one of Phil’s studs on the shin, and blood had been dribbling down his leg since. He wasn’t one to let his emotions get the better of him, but he was biding his time until the chance for revenge reared its head.
With ten minutes left, Ross played a ball down the side of the pitch, and Colin saw his chance. As Phil collected the ball, he looked up to assess his options and was subsequently flattened against the wall. It was more of an ice-hockey style tackle, and would’ve been a straight red in the Premier League.
Here, it received little complaint, and as Phil lay prone, trying to persuade air to enter his lungs, Colin received a few pats on the back as he walked away from the scene of the crime, ready to form a wall for the deserved free kick.
Phil got up a minute later, though his swagger was gone and he steered well clear of Colin for the rest of the game.
At the end, everyone made their way from the pitch to the bar for the customary post-match pint.
By now, with the edge of his competitiveness blunted and justice served, Colin felt bad. He approached Phil, who was sitting in a booth with Nick watching the Champion’s League game on the big screen TV, and offered his apologies.
Phil waved them away graciously, though did take Colin up on the offer of a drink, which Colin ordered and brought back to the table.
‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking glasses.
Talk turned to the game on TV, and to the weekend fixtures, and to how much Phil had won on a bet the previous evening.
At this point, Phil took a packet out of his pocket and laid it on the table. He took some items from it, and Colin saw that he was setting about rolling a joint. The stench of the marijuana hit the back of Colin’s nose, and he looked around the room to see if this blatant illegal activity was being clocked by anyone else.
Apparently, he was the only stick-in-the-mud, as everyone else had barely glanced before going on with their conversations. Colin couldn’t believe that Phil was being so nonchalant about it.
‘Aren’t you worried someone will say something?’ Colin said.
‘Nah,’ Phil replied. ‘Everyone’s at it, aren’t they?’
He picked up a filter and placed it in the roll, before sprinkling the little buds in. Once he was finished, he cleared up the table and picked the joint up, placing it behind his ear for later.
‘Do you buy from Stu?’ Colin asked.
‘Usually, aye. Funny story, actually. There was word around campus about a month ago that there was a new dealer on the block. Much cheaper. So, we went and found him, bought from him and went back to halls. The new stuff wasn’t doing anything for us, and after a few joints we realised that the new guy had sold us tea. Can you believe that?’ he laughed.
‘That is ballsy. Did he not think you’d notice?’
‘I don’t know what he was thinking.’ Phil took a sizeable gulp of his pint. ‘But we thought we’d go and teach him a lesson. We were a hundred quid down.’
‘I thought you said he was cheaper?’
‘Twenty for a big bag is decent. Stu would be charging closer to forty. Should’ve known it was too good to be true. Anyway, me and my friends had been drinking, but we go looking for this geezer, plan to show him what’s what.’
He took another hit of his pint, and Colin had the distinct impression that Phil had watched one too many Guy Ritchie films in his lifetime. He’d never heard someone from Stonebridge use the word geezer, but then he didn’t run in circles that bought drugs and doled out punishments, either.
‘And did you show him what’s what?’
‘We did. Gave him a bit of a duffing. Nothing too much, you know. When he was on the ground, we found his money and took back what he’d taken from us. And a wee bit more for the trouble he’d caused us.’
‘Did you kill him?’ Colin whispered.
‘Oh, God no,’ Phil said, looking sideways at him. ‘Jesus, it was only twenty quid each. I’m not bloody Scarface.’
‘You’re sure he was alive when you left him?’
‘Sure. He was pushing himself back up when we were leaving, turning the air blue with the names he was calling us.’
Colin didn’t need to ask who the new dealer was. He assumed the stricken man was Gerald, and wouldn’t put it past the fella to put tea in a bag and pass it off as weed. Not many people would go and challenge him when they figured they’d been tricked.
But, Phil’s retribution had been a month ago. Gerald only died last week, so Colin figured that the pocket-Ronaldo next to him had nothing to do with his actual death.
It certainly begged a question, though.
Who else had Gerald Agnew wronged?