Fitchett and Alex stepped out into the late-afternoon sunshine. Both were relieved to escape the frantic din of Baker Street tube station but for different reasons. Alex because it got on his tits and Fitch because of the oppressive atmosphere. Two trips to London in four days would normally have been their idea of hell on Earth, but this one was different. This one was more social than sporting, and the first blast of the England fans in full cry brought an instant smile to both their lips.
‘I love this place,’ said Alex. ‘Every time I come here, it's like a reunion.’
Fitchett laughed out loud. ‘You fucking idiot. Half the lads here would kick your arse given half a chance.’
‘Wouldn't get near me mate, I'm like Linford Christie on acid when I do a runner.’
‘Yeah I know, I've seen it enough times.’
Alex stopped and raised his eyebrows. ‘You've got a bloody nerve, you cheeky bastard. You're like the fucking roadrunner when you do the off. And I've seen that enough times!’
Fitchett looked at him and laughed again. ‘You bloody tart.’
And there it was, the Globe. The unofficial meeting place of England's finest. The front of the building almost hidden behind a huge mob of men and a sea of red crosses, each flag covered in black writing marking out who they were and which club they were from. Like a sea of battle flags. The two of them stopped for a moment to take it in and then set out across the busy West London road to take their place among their peers.
Like many of the people there, neither Fitchett nor Alex felt any kind of affinity with the national side when they played at home. They cared, of course, but England and Wembley in the caring, sharing nineties was all about kids and corporate money, the atmosphere under the twin towers more akin to a Spice Girls concert than a football match. Not for the likes of them, the true fans who made all the noise and carried all the pride and passion with them in their hearts. They were only ever seen on the away trips these days. But when England played, they still came down. It was a social thing, when they could meet up with friends and acquaintances from former trips, exchange information about various mobs or just catch up on the gossip. And the Globe was where they met. It was neutral ground. Everyone knew that.
At the traffic island in the middle of Baker Street, they both felt a tap on the shoulder and spun round to see the face of someone they had first met in Rimini during Italia 90. Graham Hawkins, known universally as Hawkeye. As ever, his clothes were immaculate and Fitchett noted them in an instant: brown Camel boots, beige Diesel jeans, blue checked Teddy Smith shirt and a beige Burberry jacket that must have cost over £200. Flash bastard. Yet despite his expensive clothes, his bony features and cropped hair always gave him the appearance of being ill. Alex had once said he reminded him of an AIDS victim and it had become something of a running joke.
‘ ‘Ello lads, long time no see. What brings you down to the land of class and style then?’
‘Fuck me, Hawkeye. You're still alive then? I didn't know they'd found a cure for the old arse fever.’
‘Course boy. It'd take a fuckin’ double dose to put me away.’
They all laughed as the lights changed and they made the final short trip across the road into the welcoming environment that can only ever be created by groups of football fans. Without a word, the three of them forced their way through the melee outside and made their way inside. Only once they were in did they visibly relax and Alex pushed through the crowd and headed for the bar. It never did to hang around outside the Globe. It wasn't the uniformed police who were the problem - although there were always plenty of them hovering around - but the plainclothes lot from the NFIU. Hiding in the windows opposite with their video cameras, recording every face and hoping to get lucky. Best not to give them the chance if you could avoid it.
Fitchett and Hawkeye moved over to the side of the pub and settled against the wall to wait for Alex. ‘Back in a sec,’ said Hawkeye, and walked over to another group, leaving Fitchett standing there soaking in the atmosphere. He genuinely liked Hawkeye. He wasn't bad for a Cockney, and a West Ham one at that. Fitchett was, however, slightly puzzled. Despite his sickly appearance, Hawkeye was a nasty piece of work - Fitchett had seen him in action enough times to know that. But he wasn't the top man at West Ham: that was Billy Evans. And, like Alex and him, they were rarely seen apart at games. But Evans was nowhere to be seen.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked around. The Globe was a typical pub. Wood panels on the walls, beer stains on the carpet and the ceiling stained yellow by a million cigarettes. But there was something about it. It had a mood, an ambience. Fitchett had never been able to put his finger on what it was, but Alex was right, this was a great place to be. There were lads from all over in here, you only had to listen to the accents to realise that. Hereford, Exeter, Stoke, Newcastle - almost every top boy in England standing within fifty feet of each other and not a hint of trouble. Fucking amazing, he thought, as yet another chorus of the obligatory ‘No Surrender to the IRA’ broke out outside.
As he stood there, a few people looked over at him and nodded. Fitchett returned the compliment but that was all. No conversation. Not yet. He was the top man of one of the biggest mobs in the country and he was under no misapprehensions that everyone who counted knew who he was and where he was from. You didn't play the game as long as he had without people knowing. That's what it was all about. Reputation. If they wanted to talk, they would come to him. Another round of singing broke out among the crowd outside, but inside the pub the atmosphere remained loud, but almost dignified. His eyes settled on a table in the corner and he made a mental note of the people sitting there. They were talking among themselves but Fitchett knew from numerous trips abroad who and what they were. He had never been into all that and neither had any of his lads. He wouldn't allow it and, in any case, they had a few black lads in the Selector, Nick for one and Pillow for another. They were good lads and, what's more, good scrappers. He'd gone to Dublin, of course, and played the right-wing game, but that had been an exception. And for once, Alex had refused to go with him. ‘Waste of fucking time,’ he'd said. ‘That's not what football's all about, not for me anyway. That's all bollocks.’ And he was right.
‘How've you been then you old wanker?’ Hawkeye was back, charming as ever.
‘Yeah, we're all right mate.’
‘So I hear. In fact I heard you had a bit of a result Saturday.’
Fitchett looked at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘What d'you hear then?’
‘Just that you stumbled across some Chelsea lads and gave them a lesson. They're none too pleased I can tell you. They were on their way to a meet with some Spurs.’
Fitchett was still laughing as Alex appeared back with a handful of plastic glasses. ‘You're not gonna believe this. That lot in Camden were only fucking Chelsea!’
Alex put his hand to his mouth. ‘Oops!’ he said sarcastically. ‘Well if they were Chelsea, then that club has gone right downhill I can tell you. Either that or it proves how top we really are because we gave them a right spanking!’
Hawkeye laughed, ‘No I'm telling ya, they were from Slough way. A right tasty little firm by all accounts.’ He paused, took a long drink from his pint and then added, ‘Mind you we did them a few weeks ago. I mean, they ain't that good. We put the Under Fives on ‘em just for a bit of training.’ More laughter.
‘Yeah, right-oh! The fuckin’ Cockney Suicide Squad? You'll be getting your pensions soon. You're a right bunch of old cunts.’
Hawkeye rubbed his eyes and said, ‘That hurts that does.’
Alex gave him a broad wink. ‘Truth always does mate. Face it, your lot are finished. History.’
Hawkeye reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes as a chorus of ‘Come on England, Come on England’ broke out by the door.
‘Where's that twat Evans?’ asked Fitchett over the noise, ‘I'd have bet money that he'd be here.’
Hawkeye looked around and said quietly, ‘He's out the race mate. He
hardly even goes to games any more. Just had enough, he says. Fuckin’ tragic.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Alex. ‘They'll bury that cunt in Upton Park.’
Hawkeye shook his head. ‘I'm telling you straight, lads, he's given it all up.’
Fitchett looked at Hawkeye. He couldn't believe it. Billy was the nearest thing to a mate he had ever had at another football club. They'd even met up a few times, when he had been in Birmingham on business. ‘He is going to Italy though? I mean, it's the Euro 2000 qualifier for fuck's sake!’
Hawkeye shook his head. ‘Tell you what mate, I don't know. Haven't spoken to him for a while now. His business takes up all his time these days.’
Alex shook his head. ‘Well fuck me, I'd never have thought it.’
‘He won't miss Italy,’ said Fitchett. ‘Not in a million fucking years. I'll give him a bell this week.’
They were still discussing Billy Evans twenty minutes later when Fitchett suddenly became aware that they were surrounded by a group of men. Instantly, he recognised one of them from the Saturday although it wasn't that hard. His face was still badly bruised and he was clearly none too pleased.
‘You're one of the cunts we met on Saturday,’ one of them said.
Fitchett looked him up and down, West London, mid- twenties, smartly dressed and full of himself. Everything he hated. The enemy. ‘Hello mate,’ he said, ‘I knew I'd seen you before but I just couldn't place it. How's your top boy? Last time I saw him he was rolling around in the road trying to hide under a taxi.’
By now, Alex was standing next to Fitchett and was about to speak when Hawkeye jumped in. ‘And you are …?’
The enemy glared at Hawkeye. ‘This has got fuck all to do with you, wanker.’
Fitchett moved forward and discreetly touched his friend on the back. Just enough to let him know that he wanted him to move out the way. He had been in situations like this enough times to know that the best way to deal with scum like this was to front them up. Show a bit of bottle and they always backed down. Besides, he wasn't bothered about this runt. ‘Listen shit head, you got a seeing-to on Saturday; don't make me give you another one. Not here. You know the rules. If you want another go, then let's sort it out and we'll be there. Any fucking time you want it. But bring some better lads this time. The ones you had with you Saturday were fuck all.’
The enemy looked Fitchett up and down. ‘You northern cunt. Who the fuck d'you think you're talking to? I should kick your arse back up the Ml.’
Fitchett moved forward as he spoke. His voice lowered almost to a hiss. He was getting angry now and he wasn't going to put up with this bollocks from anyone. ‘You could try, boy. But this time I won't let you run away. This time I'll do you myself and I'll make sure you never walk properly again.’
They were now almost standing nose to nose and he was just about to lash out when Alex moved forward and got between them. ‘Pigs,’ he hissed. Fitchett continued to glare at his adversary as Alex pushed him backwards. His eyes were narrowed and his lips were clenched tight shut. Each second that passed he could feel the tension rising inside him. This wanker would back down before he would. He was looking for a flicker, a blink. Something, anything that showed a weakness, but so far there was nothing.
‘Fitch, the coppers.’ Alex's voice was becoming concerned but Fitchett held the stare.
‘What's going on?’
‘Nothing, officer, just an argument about a spilt pint, that's all.’
Fitchett heard it all; he even felt the jostling as the police moved in, but it was all happening somewhere else. He wasn't going to back down. Not from some little shit who should be showing him respect. ‘OK son.’ The hand on his shoulder tugged him round, breaking the spell.
‘I'm not your bloody son,’ he said. ‘I'm fuck all to do with you.’
The policeman looked at him. ‘Oh is that right?’ he said.
‘Well you are now sunshine. Come with me.’
Fitchett was led out of the pub, round the corner and pushed against the wall. He lost sight of Alex and the enemy but could see that Hawkeye had followed and was within earshot.
‘Listen you fuckwit, I don't know what's going on there, but it stops right now, is that clear?’
Fitchett looked at the policeman in front of him. They were probably the same ages, around thirty, thirty-one. In a different time and a different place, they might have been mates. Now all Fitchett saw was a wanker in a uniform. PC 3876. But the line had been reached and if Gary Fitchett knew one thing, it was when to back down from the law. That was what had kept him out of the courts all these years. ‘Sorry officer,’ he said apologetically, ‘I don't know what came over me. But you know what it's like in there. It takes ages to get served and then some prick knocks your pint over. I just lost it for a bit. Sorry.’
PC 3876 looked at Fitchett and noted his accent. ‘Brummie are you? What club d'you follow?’
‘England of course.’
‘Don't get funny sunshine. What club side do you support?’
‘I'm Villa,’ said Fitchett. ‘Always have been.’
PC 3876 stared at Fitchett for a few seconds. ‘Empty your pockets will you please.’ He knew Fitchett was lying and he half thought he had seen him somewhere before. Maybe on one of the bulletins issued by the NFIU. If he remembered, he'd look into it later on.
Fitchett held out the contents of his pockets. Fags, lighter; train ticket, money, keys. ‘No wallet?’ asked PC 3876. ‘And no match ticket?’
‘Never bring a wallet to London,’ said Fitchett. ‘I had it stolen once. Cost me a bloody fortune and I'm meeting someone up at Wembley who's got a ticket for me.’
PC 3876 handed Fitchett back his things. He knew that there was only one reason why people who came to the Globe carried no identification, and that was to make sure that if they were nicked they'd be difficult to trace. ‘What's your name then?’
‘Gary Fitchett.’
‘Lying fucker,’ thought PC 3876. He half thought about giving him a tug but decided against it. After all, he was due to leave for the stadium in half an hour and was due a break when he got there. Dealing with this yob would take hours, and what would be the point? He hadn't really done anything. ‘All right, off you go. But no more bother, all right?’
‘Thanks officer,’ said Fitchett, the relief in his voice almost believable. ‘It won't happen again.’
Five minutes later, Fitchett had worked his way back into the welcoming environment of the Globe and had found Alex and Hawkeye. Alex handed him back his pint and, after a long drink, he asked, ‘What happened to Chelsea then?’
‘He said he'll be seeing you again,’ said Alex. ‘I told him we'd look forward to it. Next time they were up our way.’
‘That's a date then,’ said Fitchett. ‘We'll do them and Villa at the same time.’
Hawkeye looked at Fitchett and shook his head. ‘Did you give that copper your real name?’
‘Course, we always do,’ smiled Fitchett. ‘What's the point in lying? I had no ID on me and the chances of him knowing me are zero. Best tell the truth, after all; one of the others could have asked you or Al who I was and what would you have said? Tell them my real name, then whatever I say will match. Makes the rest of it more believable.’
Hawkeye looked at him and shook his head. ‘You're fucking mad. But why d'you tell him you were Villa then?’
Alex stood bolt upright. ‘You fucking traitor.’
Fitchett pulled out a cigarette and then offered the packet to the other two. ‘Had to, didn't I? Better one of them cunts get in trouble than one of ours.’
The three of them were still laughing when a familiar voice spoke out. ‘I see they've relaxed the quarantine laws then.’
‘Well fuck me!’ said Hawkeye. ‘Look what the cat dragged in. Mr Evans. How the devil are you?’
Fitchett turned and looked at Billy Evans with a mixture of happiness and relief. Like Hawkeye, he was immaculately dressed. A mixture of Ralph Lauren and Pep
e topped off with a very nice Burberry jacket. Obviously, a label back in favour among the Eastenders this year. He looked fatter though - well, not fat, more round. Probably a lack of action. One thing Fitchett was sure of, though, he was a vicious bastard when he wanted to be. He hadn't been top boy at West Ham for nothing. Fitchett reached out his hand and Evans took it.
‘Hello my son, I see you've come down for some culture.’
They all smiled. ‘What's this bollocks Hawkeye's been spouting about you turning into a scarfer then?’
Evans looked at his friend and laughed. ‘It's all true, I'm afraid. It's all right for you lower-league lads but us kingpins running with the big boys, well it's a strain. Gets to you. Know what I mean?’
He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them around before realising that all three were already smoking.
‘You're a fuckwit Billy,’ said Fitchett as he held out his lighter. ‘You are going to Italy, though?’
‘Course I am. Matter of fact, I was gonna give you a bell this week, Fitch. I've got something on that might be right up your street.’ He moved forward and pulled Fitchett over to one side.
As he did so, Hawkeye and Alex instinctively moved out of earshot and began talking. They knew their places in the pecking order of their respective mobs and if their top boys wanted to talk, then their job was to make sure no one else listened. They didn't need to know what they were saying, and in truth they didn't want to know. That was the key, keep it quiet and exclusive. That way if anyone got arrested then they had nothing to say.
Evans took a quick look around and leant forward so that he wouldn't have to speak too loudly. ‘Listen Fitch, how d'you and Al fancy a trip to Rome with me and a few others? It'll be a giggle and there may be an earner in it? What d'you reckon?’
Fitchett looked and grinned. He knew all about Billy and his trips with England. Christ, he'd been on enough of them. ‘Count us in. You know us, anything for a crack.’
Evans looked at him and gave a broad wink. ‘Top man,’ he said, ‘I'll be in touch.’
They stood there and looked at each other for a second before the two of them burst out laughing and walked back across the pub to join their friends.