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John Harvey

Wasted Years

One

1969

“Don’t forget the Boat, Charlie. Half-eight, nine. Okay?” Resnick turned at the sound of Ben Riley’s voice, picking out his face without difficulty, the only one among the crush of supporters hard against the fence not jeering, calling abuse. Two minutes from the end of an apparent nil-nil draw, a war of attrition played out in the no man’s land of late-season mud, the ball had skidded out towards the wing and the few blades of grass remaining on the pitch. The winger, shaking off one challenge, sprinted thirty yards before cutting in. At the edge of the area, uncertain whether to pass or shoot, a defender felled him from behind, sliding in, feet up, to leave his stud marks high inside the winger’s thigh. The free kick, mishit, spun off an outstretched boot and crossed the line into the net. One-nil. Fifty or so visiting fans charged their opponents’ end, sharpened coins bright in tight fists.

Resnick had lost his helmet in the first scuffle, something wet sticking to his hair that he hoped was spittle, nothing more. They were trying to pull the troublemakers out of the crowd, the worst of them; diving in among the flailing feet and words, punched and kicked, not caring, get your hands on one and drag him clear, show you mean business.

He had one now in a headlock, blue and white scarf, bomber jacket, jeans. Doc Martens with steel toe caps that had caught Resnick’s ankle more than once.

“Better be there, Charlie. ”

The last of the players had left the pitch, those in the crowd who’d come with their kids were pushing them towards the exits. “Get down here and give a hand,” Resnick called above the noise. “I’ll be away sooner. ”

“No chance,” laughed Ben Riley. “Off duty. ‘Sides, you’re doing okay. Overtime, i’n’t it? Come in handy later, buy me a pint.

The youth wriggled his head out from under Resnick’s arm and ran on to the pitch. His feet had already started to slither when Resnick’s tackle sent him sprawling, the pair of them headlong and thick with mud.

“Right state you’ve got yourself in there, lad,” Resnick’s sergeant said to him outside the ground, vans filling up with those arrested, shuttling them to the station to be booked. “Have your work cut out getting that clean. Early shift tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Resnick walked along the riverbank towards the bridge, the football ground at his back. The last straggle of fans moved grudgingly aside to let him pass, muttering, avoiding his eyes. Oarsmen were lifting their boat from the water and carrying it towards the nearest of the two rowing clubs that stood back from the path, side by side. Later that evening the buildings would be transformed by flashing lights and speakers pushed almost to distortion. “The Boat, Charlie. Half-eight, nine. ” Resnick thought he might be lucky to get there at all.

Resnick’s landlady had his uniform jacket off his back almost before he was through the front door. “Let me have them trousers, duck, and jump into bath. Water’s hot. I’ll have this lot like new by morning, not to fret. Trouble at match, again, I s’pose. Ship lot of ’em off into t’army, best thing for ’em. Nice bit of fish tonight, keeping warm in oven. ”