Experiment With Destiny (16 page)

Ivan gave up on the verbal abuse, saving his breath in a bid to prove a point by winning the battle of wits with his enemy. He failed. Twice more he was soundly beaten by the number 11’s speed and skill and twice more he found the net to make it 4-0.

It was a minute or two before half time when Ivan had another chance to prove his worth. This time the centre-forward crossed inside, wrong-footing him, but this time he regained his balance, turned and gave chase. Saverstore’s centre-back was closing in to provide cover, so the tall striker slowed the ball and crossed to a team-mate racing in from the right wing. The manoeuvre gave Ivan the second he needed to catch him. He seized his opportunity and charged the player down, both feet well off the ground as he connected. The number 11 toppled, bounced and rolled toward him. Ivan flicked out his elbow and grinned as he felt it slam into the striker’s ribs, winding him.

“Fuck you!” he snarled at the ref as he saw the red card go up. As he marched off he felt a hint of satisfaction that he had, at last, succeeded in inflicting pain upon his enemy. He watched smugly as the number 11 received treatment on the sidelines then hobbled back onto the pitch for the free kick, punched clear by Saverstore’s keeper. Ivan’s glee was short-lived, however. After the break the tall striker showed no sign of having been injured and went on to score two more in what proved to be a 7-1 rout.

Ivan was still considering the injustice of this when Scabies tugged him from behind.

“Oi, shitface!” Ivan turned. “Get dressed. Simon wants to see us at the den.”

With Saverstore’s final humiliating minutes in the Sunday league cup ticking away, Ivan turned his back on the game and trudged back toward the changing rooms where he showered and dressed, wondering what Simon might have up his sleeve. Christine and Scabies waited outside in the cold, watching the end of the game in silence. The final whistle blew and the Troedyrhiw players and supporters cheered loudly.

             
“What does Simon want with Ivan now?” asked Christine, not looking at Scabies. The gangly youth turned on her.

             
“What fuckin’ business is it of yours, you slut?” She cringed. “It’s fuckin’ men’s business, what we do. Why don’t you piss off and see you mam or somethin’. Ivan doesn’t need you here now. We’ve got work to do.”

             
Christine walked away, tears running down her cheeks. She wished for a better day, a better life. She wished Ivan would wake up to himself.

              “Got a fag?” Scabies asked when Ivan emerged from the changing rooms.

             
“Where’s Christine?” he asked, extending the half empty packet.

             
“Said she was bored and wanted to go see her mam.” Scabies pushed the crumpled cigarette into his mouth then gestured for a light.

             
“Stupid fuckin’ tart. Always round her mam’s,” muttered Ivan. They left the park, the wind seeming less bitter as they neared the rows of terraced houses that marked the outskirts of town.

             
“What was the score?” Scabies asked.

             
“Fuck knows! Seven-one, I think.”

             
“Shit!”

             
“Yeah, shit.” Ivan agreed mournfully.

             
“That fuckin’ darky was good, though, wasn’t he!” Ivan snatched the cigarette back off his friend and crushed it into the pavement. “What ya do that for, cunt?” protested Scabies, but he was offered no explanation, just a snarl.

* * *

“Things are hotting up, boys,” Simon said quietly as they sat around the table that afternoon. The den was lit by the pale streams of sunlight that fought through the clouds and penetrated the skylight. The swirls of blue smoke and dust particles danced around them. Ivan listened intently. “This morning I’ve been at a meeting of branch commanders. Some of the other South Wales branches are getting more militant. We feel it’s time to pull something big and really hit the headlines.” Simon played with his thin, meticulously manicured fingers as he spoke, his eyes passing over each of their faces, searching for the slightest sign of wavering or fear. “The more publicity we get, the quicker our numbers grow…and the quicker we grow, the sooner we will be ready for all out war on the Eurostate.

             
Ivan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Simon noticed at once. “Yes Ivan, my friend?” Ivan looked into Simon’s almost feline eyes, half wondering if he dared speak.

             
“The pigs came round last night…roughed me up a bit and said they knew who we were and we should drop the political stuff…or we’d be fuckin’ with them from now on.” Pigpen snorted in derision. Blackbeard’s eyes narrowed to form tiny black points. Foggy and Scabies remained impassive.

             
A smile weaved its way from one corner of Simon’s mouth to the other. “And I mistook your bruises to be the result of your silly pastime…your ever so important cup game this morning.” Ivan scowled. “You forget, Ivan, football is nothing more than a vehicle for our cause.” Ivan nodded, reluctantly. “The fact that the pigs are taking an interest in us now is proof that we’re starting to get somewhere. Don’t let them bother you with their idle threats. Remember that we have friends in high places…” Simon looked to each of them. “…very high places indeed.”

             
Ivan lit another cigarette, deliberately ignoring Scabies’ unspoken plea for him to offer the few he had left. Going up against stewards was one thing. Tackling the police was another altogether. Ivan remembered the chilling warning he had been given and the terror that accompanied it. How could Simon hope to go up against the police and win?

             
“Tomorrow,” continued Simon, “you are going on a mission.” Their attention focused. “Pigpen will let you know the details when you get there. I can’t say much more for now but let me assure you this is the real deal now…the big stuff. From tomorrow, there’s no looking back.”

Ivan didn’t like the sound of that.

              “Are you with me?” Simon stood, raising his fist.

             
“Yes!” They chimed in unison, standing with him.

             
“Death to Eurostate!” he barked.

             
“Death to Eurostate!” they echoed.

             
“We will be a nation again.”

              Ivan spent the rest of the afternoon in the den drinking bottles of cheap lager, smoking and playing cards. Simon and Pigpen went out for an hour or so, explaining they had some arrangements to make for tomorrow’s mission. Ivan switched on the TV and tuned to Eurosat Sport. He waited for the FA Cup third round draw with growing anticipation. This was Merthyr’s chance for a big game, a Manchester United, a Liverpool or an Arsenal. It was for such an occasion that Rhydycar Park had been built for.

             
The Sunday afternoon second round tie between Mansfield Town and Exeter City seemed to drag on and on. The draw should have been made a week ago but so many second round matches had been cancelled because of last weekend’s weather the Football Association agreed to postpone it. The result was that most of the games were played this weekend, replacing league fixtures for many of the second and third division clubs. Merthyr’s game against Worcester had been one of the few to go ahead on schedule and it was fortunate Hereford were already out of the cup or Simon’s ‘uprising’ yesterday would also have become a casualty of the weather. At last the referee blew the final whistle on the dire goalless affair and the two sides would have to swap grounds and battle it out again another night. Ivan drummed his fingers anxiously on the arms of his chair as the draw began.

             
“For fuck’s sake!” spat Blackbeard.

             
“Piss off!” snapped Ivan.

             
With each draw, first the number and then name of the home team and then the number and name of the away team, he held his breath. A home draw was what the Martyrs needed. He could feel his arms palpitating as the ties were called one by one and he ticked off his mental list of Premiership teams, praying there would be one left for his side’s draw.

“Number 32…” He tensed.

              “Worcester City or Merthyr Tydfil.”

             
“Yesssssss!” It was a home draw. He sucked his breath and closed his eyes.

             
“…will play number 11.” Who would it be?

             
“Cardiff City.”

             
“Fan-fuckin’-tastic!” Ivan leapt from his chair, spilling his beer and prompting cries of protest from the others. Okay, so it wasn’t one of the big three, but it was a Welsh derby and that would bring out the fans. It would be a guaranteed sell-out and, chances were, it would also be televised, bringing further cash to the club…cash for new players, fresh talent. Cash to keep the Martyrs from footballing oblivion.

             
“You can bet Simon’ll plan something big for that game,” remarked Scabies. Ivan glared at him. He hadn’t considered that aspect. Surely Simon wouldn’t….not the club’s big pay day. “That’s if we get past Worcester on Tuesday.”

             
“Course we fuckin’ will! Shitting hell, I can’t wait!”

             
“When’s the third round?” piped Foggy.

             
“Fortnight…weekend of the 15th and 16th.”

             
Ivan settled back into the chair. His eyes were focused on the screen but he was no longer listening to the discussion about the more interesting ties, of which Merthyr versus Cardiff would be one. He was worrying about how Simon might sabotage the day and speed the Martyrs’ relegation. “You forget, Ivan, football is nothing more than a vehicle for our cause.” That was what he’d said, the cunt.

             
When Simon and Pigpen returned, with Tufty in tow, Ivan decided to make his way home. He didn’t want to be there for when the subject came up for fear of revealing his true feelings about the game. He made his excuses, his eyes lingering over-long on Tufty’s clinging leather trousers and the plunging neckline of her jumper and the swell of her firm breasts. He blushed when he looked up to see her smiling at his unsubtle admiration.

             
On his way back he stopped for chips. He bought two bags, liberally sprinkled with salt and vinegar, then carried on. He had not gone far before the warm smell through the paper had overpowered him, stirring his hunger. He opened one of the bags and tucked in greedily.

There was no sign of Christine when he arrived back at his bedsit. He waited a while, wondering why she had stayed longer than was usual at her mother’s, then eventually opened the second bag of chips and finished them before dozing off on the settee in front of the TV.

* * *

Scabies, Foggy and Blackbeard were already waiting in the den when Ivan staggered sleepily through the door on Monday morning.

              “Pigpen’s been and fucked off,” said Scabies, sipping hot tea from his Martyrs mug. “He was pissed off about your lateness.”

             
“Shit on the cunt,” muttered Ivan, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

             
“Says we’re to meet him at the bus station by six, in time for the bus to Cardiff. We need to bring balaclavas or face masks and gloves. He says nobody’s to be late or he’ll personally kick the shit out of them.”

             
“Wanker!” Ivan elaborated with a gesture. Scabies smirked, his nicotine-stained teeth peeping below his heavily bristled top lip. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

             
“Pigpen,” stated Foggy. “You talk tough when he’s not here to hear you.”

             
“Go fuck yourself!” snapped Ivan and left.

              His day at work seemed to drag more than ever. His muscles ached from yesterday’s exertions and the previous day’s violence, so shifting heavy crates and boxes from the pallets as they came off the lorries made him feel worse. His boss soon picked up on the fact he was lagging and began to hassle him and his co-workers accused him of slacking, making them work harder. The abuse was particularly fierce from his fellow Saverstore FC players, who blamed him for yesterday’s defeat.

             
Ivan bit his tongue and calmed his fists, wishing he had not already used up so much of his unemployment benefits entitlement. He was close to his limit and any more time on the dole would see his money run dry. Then it was a matter of time before he became a non-citizen. He did not want that. He could not afford to retaliate and lose yet another job.

His daydreams were of Tufty, and of tomorrow night’s game at Worcester. It was more important than ever that the Martyrs won it. It could provide their salvation. The beautiful game, Tufty’s beautiful breasts and pert leather-clad buttocks; what a combination.