The Sunday night drive home down the M1 was fucking murder. I mean, fair enough, I'm not the greatest driver in the world but at least I've got half an ounce of common sense. The way some of the cunts weave about. And in weather like that. I had no reason to rush home, as Jackie had taken Annie to her parents' place for a couple of nights to avoid being at home alone. I could have stayed another night in Sheffield but there was no point. Once you've been away for a bit you end up a stranger in your own town. That had bothered me at first, but not any more. I bet that some of the lads I was at school with, who took the straight road, talk to our old man in the club now. If it's a choice between that and being an outsider—no contest.
By the time I passed the Nottingham turn off, the number of cars on the motorway was getting dangerous. I pulled off at Trowell services for a cuppa. The journey home was going to be like the rest of the day. A fucking nightmare.
The drive up the day before had been OK. Wads of slush and shit, but that was alright. Kept the traffic down. I didn't mind taking it slow anyway. In my head I was away: France 98, I'd prefer Japan in 2002, but South Korea would do. They'd called me on Thursday, Radio 5.
—Would you be interested in being our summariser at Bramall Lane on Sunday?... We feel as an ex-Blade blah blah...own place in Cup folklore blah blah... impressed by your work with South London Sound blah blah.
It was like getting an international call-up. Not that I bought the flannel. It was obvious that somebody had dropped them in the shit at the last minute, but so what? It doesn't matter how you get your chance, it's how you perform. Look at Geoff Hurst in 66.
That's where I fucked up, I was over eager. Too keen to make a good impression. Since Sky started doing all the football, they're way over the top: Andy Gray coming in his boxers over nil-nils at The Dell. As a reaction, all your 5 Live bods are a lot more chilled out: if a game's crap, they admit it, then start bullshitting about whatever, like the cricket dudes always have. All through the match they were just kicking it. Then it's over to me and I'm going off on one. Talking about the systems and who's in what role and how fascinating the tactical battle is—I must have sounded like Alan Green's trainspotter cousin. Fucking nightmare.
I might have been a bit hard on myself. I felt as though I'd had a shot and fucked it up bigtime. Geoff Thomas proportions. All the commentators said I'd done alright when we had a drink after, it was their looks I didn't like. Those 'Get real you has-been' looks. If I'd told Jackie or anyone, they'd have said I was imagining it. Course they would. They'd never been anybody. They didn't know the other look. Still, no point dwelling on it after the event. I finished the last of my cold tea. It was time to get back on the road. The service area was full of nobodies. I realised that being anonymous was a lot less difficult than it used to be.
If anything, it was even colder when I got back to the Mondeo. Eight o'clock. Even at a snail's pace I'd be in the house before midnight. I slowly drove out of the car park, onto the slip road.That's when I saw him. Young lad. I'd guess late teens. Hitching in that weather. I pulled up. He came steaming over.
—Where ya goin?
—London.
—It's yer lucky night.
The kid got in and threw his bag onto the back seat. One of them little Head bags. He was wearing some kind of navy, canvas kagool style top, Adidas ski hat, decent jeans and a pair of Vans. Not bad. He'd have to answer a few Style Patrol questions but Normski would definitely let him off. He looked a normal kid. One of the lads.
—What's yer name?
—Tony.
—I'm Paul.
—Come far today Tony?
—Leeds.
—What's in London?
—Mates.
That was about it for my attempts at conversation. The kid just mumbled. Didn't want to know. I told him where I'd been and that I was an ex-pro. I was getting a few things off my chest really. And I suppose I was showing off a bit. He seemed fairly impressed. Hard to tell though. Dead quiet he was, Tone. My monologue tapered off. I could relate to the way he was acting. I hate cunts who go on about themselves all the time. Smug bastards. They aren't really interested in you. The only reason they chat is to let you know how well they're doing or to see what you can do for them. It went ultra-quiet. I stuck on one of Jackie's mix tapes, Paul Oakenfold I think. In a way, I suppose I chose that one to make me look good, show the lad I was still on the cutting edge. Bit sad when you think about it.
Tony stared straight ahead. Barrel of laughs these Leeds kids. We passed Toddington services. Less than an hour to go. Jackie's old man had brought a bottle of Glenfiddich round at Christmas. It was definitely the night to make a dent in it.
I glanced at Tony through the corner of my eye. He wasn't the world's greatest conversationalist, but he seemed alright. I decided to do him a favour.
—Where yer stayin in London, Tone?
He just mumbled something along the lines of 'don't know'. I reckoned I'd just caught him napping. We hadn't said a word to each other for two hours. I tried again.
—It'll be fucking murder for ya gettin across town at this time on a Sunday. If ya tell me where the mates yer stoppin wi live, I'll drop ya near there.
—I ant got no mates.
—Eh?
—I ant got no mates.
I didn't get it. I was trying to help the lad out and he was getting all moody. All I wanted was to get home. I didn't need this shit. I've got a baby at home if I fancy a game of silly cunts. I suppose it was because of that I pushed it. My paternalistic instincts. You get a nose for when something's up. He was a Yorkshire lad, dressed to the nines and giving it the 'Who the fuck are you' bit; but his heart wasn't in it. Last chance Tone lad.
—Where you stopping tonight?
That opened Selwyn Froggat's cupboard. Everything fell out. He started shaking, then blubbing. Just a little at first, then the full Alex Higgins. Lads crying. Man it got to me. Usually I couldn't even bear to look. This was different, though. I felt for the kid. I didn't know him—I'd hardly got two words out of him all night—but I knew his type. For a lad like him to crack it must be bad scenes at Jangles. I wanted to put my arm round him. Not like that. It's just, when you're in the shit, people always say they know how you feel, when really they know fuck all. Thing is; whatever shit he was in, I was going through worse. I could handle it —that's all.
It sounds daft, but I think he could sense it. He let go. We weren't driver and hitcher anymore, we were shrink and patient. He could tell I cared. I envied him. There weren't any mates in London. He had to get away from his life in Leeds. I got the edited lowlights. Tony was eighteen; fresh out of a kids' home. He didn't say too much about the place, just that there'd been abuse. I had to read between the lines. Anyway, he'd been fostered. Seemed a nice family at first, then it fucked up.Tony's foster dad started shagging him. He reckoned the mother knew as well. He got sent back to the home, and more of the same. He'd finally left the home a few months before, and within a fortnight they'd been round, all the scum from his past. All wanting the same. Poor bastard.
He just sat there when he'd got it all out. I say all but I'm sure there was more; from what you hear about these things, there's always more. Drugs, rent, glue, suicide attempts and whatever. I could smell the shame oozing from him. Relieved, but wishing he'd kept his gob shut. He looked as sheepish as you can without actually saying baa. All he could see was me from the outside: Sheffield lad made good. How could I understand with my townie mentality? 'Why dint you stand up to em? Nob'dy'd ever punch mah fuckin doughnut'. How wrong he was. A few years back, maybe, but I'd seen through all that. I was as much a victim as he was.
I put away nearly half of the bottle of malt when I got home. In the dark—no lights, no music, nothing. Tony was upstairs, asleep in the spare room. I had to put him up after all that. Least I could do. Besides, it was freezing outside. It didn't matter how good the whisky was, it still made me feel queasy. Spirits never agree with me. I carried on regardless. I was thinking about what had become of me. Far too painful to do sober.
I thought I'd got a grip on things until I'd picked up Tony. He'd brought it on again. Tony: normal, working class Yorkshire lad. What did he have to look forward to? No job, no home, no family. He'd end up like the other runaways—on the meat rack, getting fucked by fat businessmen then dying. It's all he knew. Being used. Being screwed.
What about me? What excuse did I have? Normal life. Mam and Dad. Wife and kid. Why had I gone into the bushes with that kid?
No. It wasn't the park thing that was really eating me. It was Tony. When I picked him up, did I have something else on my mind? Subconscious like. I didn't know. When he'd opened up I'd felt for him. What was it? Sympathy? Consolation? Lust?
He was asleep upstairs. I could picture him—in bed, naked. I could just walk in and fuck him. When I offered him a bed, he probably thought that's what I meant. What he's used to. He expected it. Nobody had forced him to come. He wanted me.
I finished my glass. God it burned.
Tony got off at about ten the morning after. I bunged him fifty quid. It was all the cash I had in the house. Where he went, I've got no idea. Not my problem. That may sound heartless but what can you do? It's his life. I feel sorry for the kids in Ethiopia, but I can't put them up either.
I set about clearing the house up, ready for Jackie and Annie getting back. As it goes, I felt pretty good about life for a change. It was the look Tony had given me when he'd left. Everyone who'd ever done anything for him had expected something in return. Not me. I'd given him a lift, put him up, heard his confession and slipped him a few quid on his way out. He respected me.
I couldn't wait to see Annie. She always went nuts when she hadn't seen Daddy for a few days. Big hugs all round. Work was dodgy and there was the other stuff, but the important things were still in place. Tony. I could have done anything to him. He wanted me to, but I didn't. I thought about it, sure. Everyone fantasises. That's normal. Anyway, that was the whisky more than anything. When it came down to it, I didn't want to know. The park had been a one-off.