The Life of Death Read online

  From:

  Beth Porter

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Saturday

  Yeah, yeah … Promises promises!

  See you later. Loves you xxxxxx

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Beth Porter

  Subject:

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Saturday

  LOVES you. xxxxx

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Joe Hatcher

  Subject

  Bad news …

  Mate … I’M IN!!

  From:

  Beth Porter

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Bed-head

  I’ve just sat through an entire accounts meeting with the WORST bed-head ever! Ali just pointed it out to me as we were leaving … . Mortified!

  Worth it though – you’re a bad man, Mr P…

  xxx

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Beth Porter

  Subject:

  Re: Bed-head

  Told you I’d make up for leaving you to it this weekend. Worth an early wake-up call, eh? See you later, Mrs P. Xxx

  From:

  Nick Turner

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Quarterly figures

  Rob,

  Can you swing by my office this afternoon? About 3-ish? Need to have a chat with you about this quarter’s figures.

  N

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Nick Turner

  Subject:

  Re: Quarterly figures

  Nick,

  Sure – no problem. See you at three. Rob

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Beth Porter

  Subject:

  !!!!!!!!

  Shit! Turner’s just called me in for a meeting about quarterly figures. He never asks for meetings – he usually just ploughs in. Oh God. And I was late this morning as well …

  Wish me luck … :-/ How much is the dole nowadays??? Xxx

  From:

  Beth Porter

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Re: !!!!!!!!

  Calm down, you daft old thing! Honestly, you’ll be fine – he’s got no reason to fire you! Has he … ??

  And you were late for a perfectly good reason. Well … I thought so anyway … Good luck! Call me when you’re out OK?

  Loves you. Xx

  From:

  Jim Wright

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Turner??

  Mate – just heard Turner asking his secretary to book you in for a 3 p.m.! What’s going on??

  Pint after work? Judging by Turner’s face you might need it!

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Jim Wright

  Subject:

  Re: Turner??

  No idea – just mailed me and asked me to go in at three. F*ck’s sake. Did he look like he was about to kick off??

  Probably shouldn’t be going for a pint after work – want to get home and see the kids before bed. And if this afternoon goes as badly as I think it’s going to, I’ll probably be checking out the job pages …

  Laters.

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Beth Porter

  Subject:

  Pack your bags!!

  Where are you?? I’ve been trying to call you and I keep getting voicemail.

  So … you’re now officially married to the new Operational Manager for the North-west of England and North Wales!!! Apparently my team leadership in what has been a ‘difficult financial quarter’ (blah blah blah) has been ‘incomparable’ and with Geoff leaving last month, Turner can think of no one he’d rather have take on the role! BOOM!

  I start a week on Monday. £10K pay rise. And a frigging company car! So … Maldives or Seychelles this year … … . ?

  Call me!! Loves you Xxxxxx

  From:

  Beth Porter

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Maldives please!!

  I’m SO proud of you! (Sorry – was on the phone to Mum about next weekend.)

  Well done! Calls for a celebratory dinner, I reckon. Chuck in a bottle of champagne and you might get lucky when we get home too … ;-)

  What time will you be back? Shall I book La Gioconda? 8-ish? I’ll ask Debs if she can come and watch the kids.

  Loves you. So much. Xxxx

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Beth Porter

  Subject:

  Re: Maldives please!!

  Twice in one day, woman?? What’s got into you … ? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining …

  Let’s go to The Plough. I’ll be home by seven so we can take the kids too. Late night won’t hurt them once in a while right?

  Xxx

  (And don’t worry, I’ll book a cab – we’ll still get that bottle of champagne you’re after :-) )

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Jim Wright

  Subject:

  Re: Re: Turner??

  Bloody hell! Never known anything like it. I’m going to have to take a rain check on that pint, mate – got to go home to the wife and celebrate being made ‘Operational Manager for the North-West of England and North Wales’, don’t you know. Don’t know what’s got into him, but Turner was like a different bloke.

  Turns out I’ve been doing something right for the past few months … Get in!

  From:

  Jim Wright

  To:

  Rob Porter

  Subject:

  Re: Re: Re: Turner??

  Get in! Blimey – wondered who was going to step in for old Geoff. Well played, mate. Well played. I’ll keep that pint for you. Have a good one.

  From:

  Rob Porter

  To:

  Joe Hatcher

  Subject:

  Saturday

  Let’s make it a big one on Saturday, my ginger friend. Just got a shit-hot promotion – start the Monday after the match. And Beth and the kids are away for the night. So let’s do it in style, yeah??

  15

  AN INCESSANT BEEPING OUTSIDE THE HOUSE. THE impatient honking of a horn to hurry and harass. Joe’s here – twelve on the dot and raring to go.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, beautiful. Have a good afternoon.’ Rob leans in over Beth to drop a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Bye, Bill! Bye, Emily! Have fun with Grandma and Grandpa! Be good, yeah? Go to bed when Mummy tells you …’

  Beth rolls her eyes at him with a grin. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine. Even if you are abandoning us …’

  He goes back for another kiss. A proper one. A swift nip to the bottom lip. A squeeze around the waist and a pat on the bum. ‘Be good. All of you. See you tomorrow. Loves you! Oh, and Beth … ? I will never abandon you. Not ever.’

  Oh Rob, poor Rob. I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but you don’t have much of a say in the matter. In a few hours they’ll be lost and alone, those three. Abandon them you certainly will.

  He’s out the door and down the path with a quick wave over his shoulder. Joe holds open the passenger door for him, radio blaring. ‘Mate! C’mon! Let’s get going! It’s going to be EPIC! I’ve got to drop the car off at Sarah’s first – said I’d go back to hers tonight. It’s about fifteen minutes’ walk to the ground. Today is going to be an amazing day, my friend, an amazing day!’ He leans forward to wave at Beth out of the front window ‘Don’t worry, Beth! I’ll look after him … Right then, Robert m’boy … Let’s do this!’

  As Joe witters on behind the wheel and Rob looks out o
f the window at the crowds streaming towards the ground in their red and white, I sit in the middle of the back seat. Look from one to the other. Lean in to catch every last drop of their conversation, not that Rob is saying much. He’s happy to sit and let Joe chat while he watches the world go by. His world. The team colours he’s followed since his dad first took him to the terraces on his fifth birthday flood the grey day with colour. Chants jostle on the breeze, the buzz of anticipation is tangible. Rob can taste it in the air. It mingles with the hot mustard, the battered fish, the fat spitting in burger vans. But it’s always there. Nothing tastes like match day.

  We park up outside a terraced house – the home of Joe’s girlfriend for this week. Pull on thick coats and striped scarves. It may be nearing the end of the season, it’ll be spring next week, but there’s a nip in the air and until the third pint of lager insulates them from the wind blowing through the stands they’ll need those extra layers.

  And so, wrapped up and ready, we’re off. Swept into the mass of bodies flooding the street and draining into the ground.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Joe! Who did you sleep with to get these bad boys?’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Roberto. Sarah’s dad works for the sponsors. Think she might be a keeper, that one … Anyway, the guy who normally has them is on holiday or something, so yours truly stepped in to save the day. Couldn’t let ’em go to waste, eh?’

  The pitch lies beneath us – we’re low enough to hear the managers chat to their leagues of coaches and physios, to count the blades of grass on the perfectly manicured pitch. But then we’re high enough to see every second of the action. Slap bang on the halfway line. He was right, the old Devil. These seats are incredible.

  Joe and Rob settle into their seats, beers tucked between their thighs. I perch on Rob’s lap, arm lightly thrown around his shoulder, chin resting on the top of his head.

  Three p.m. The whistle blows. Let the game begin.

  *

  The atmosphere in the ground is electric. Twice I’ve been thrown to my feet as the yelp of an anticipated goal has plummeted to the collective groan of a missed opportunity. All around me, the crowd lob words of advice, of insult, of despair in the direction of the pitch. All around me, the men, the boys, the women, the girls, urge their team onwards and upwards, carrying eleven men in their cherry red shirts on their shoulders to what must surely be a victory.

  The home team score and the fans go wild. Joe and Rob leap to their feet, spilling beer to the floor. Wave arms high about their heads and grab each other in a bear hug. Turn to strangers either side and clap them on the backs. The goal-scorer’s name flows up and around the stands again and again. ‘There’s only oooonne Johnny Mason! Only oooonne Johnny Mason!’ The managers stand just yards apart on the touchline. Furiously chewing gum and shouting orders out to their legions battling on the pitch.

  Minutes later and the away team equalise. Around the stadium, heads are held in hands and barbed comments tossed in the direction of the isolated few who dance and sing in their corner stand. Who taunt these proud fans in their cherry red. Remind them that they are fallible, that their invincibility is a transient beast, and what goes their way one minute can surely turn in the tide the next.

  Half time: 1–1. The mood in the ground has dulled. Where once went arrogant chants of a certain win, now the fans seek to reassure, to recover, to regroup. There are forty-five minutes to pull this off, they say. Forty-five minutes to seal the win they need, for position and for pride.

  Rob and Joe head off for a pie. Mouths water in anticipation of flaky pastry and rich meat filling. It’s not gourmet by any stretch, but on match day, with Joe in tow, nothing else comes close.

  Second half and the heavens open. The perfect pitch becomes a quagmire as sliding tackles score earthy brown rips in green velvet. Both play and players get dirty, lashing out with studded boots and clawing fingers. We huddle, the twelfth man, high above tightly choreographed combat. Songs and chants have given way to grim determination, to muttered words of advice mouthed in every seat creating a low hum that hovers in the air. Eyes fixed on the play below, not daring to miss a second.

  A hiss echoes around us. A simultaneous sharp intake of breath from every member of that crowd. A late tackle from a defender on the opposing team has left a home player writhing in agony just yards from the goal. Necks crane to see whether he will make it to his feet. To play up, play on and play the game. But a stretcher is hurtling its way across the pitch to scoop him up and cart him off. Opposition players in their sky blue swarm round the ref to reason, to rebuke. But their protestations come to nothing as a red card is flourished high above his head and the offending defender walks from the pitch – head hanging, insults tossed from the crowd to bounce off slouched shoulders.

  The penalty is lined up. Deep breaths from the chosen one as he paces backwards. One, two, three. A step to the right. A glance to the heavens. His rival dances on the line, jogs on the spot. Tries to anticipate the direction of the missile that will shortly be flying towards him. Breaths are held as leather makes contact with leather with a dull thud before the soft swish of a ball hitting the back of the net.

  The rumble of the crowd thunders into a roar. 2–1 and only minutes left on the clock. Eyes turn in unison to the ticking red figures counting down in the far corner. To a linesman holding an electronic board above his head, proclaiming five minutes of extra time. The longest five minutes of the week. Endless seconds stretch ahead.

  Finally, short and sharp. The final whistle.

  ‘Mate! What a game!’ A huge grin is plastered across Rob’s face. ‘That tackle – I mean, seriously, the man should be locked up for that. But, Christ, what a game. Thanks for the tickets, man – best game I’ve seen in ages.’

  ‘You’re welcome. What a joker, eh? Going in that high and that late. Jesus. Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. You’d be a bloody dead man. Right. Now then, young Robert. I think it’s time for a pint, don’t you? I think those boys down there deserve nothing less than for us to drink to their collective health.’

  Dark clouds hang full and heavy, throwing the red rivers flowing from the stadium into shadow.

  ‘Mate, I said we’d meet Jim and Matt at the Red Lion? You good with that?’ Joe always meets the same lads after the game. Same lads, same pub.

  ‘Absolutely – lead the way.’ It’s not often he gets to the game, not often all the decisions are taken out of his hands, so when it happens, Rob revels in the long-standing tradition of Joe and his mates and habits that started with their dads before them.

  And so they go to the pub. And they meet Jim and Matt. And they toast Rob’s promotion with a couple of pints, toast the win with a couple more.

  And after a few pints here, a couple of shots there, the cajoling starts, the convincing. It’s the same every time.

  ‘C’mon, Rob! Let’s go into town!’

  ‘Yeah, mate – come on! You’re on a free pass aren’t you?’

  ‘Roberto! Don’t leave us hanging, mate!’

  And though he protests, those protests are futile, because that’s all part of the dance. He’ll laugh, and he’ll argue, and he’ll tell them he needs to be up early for the kids. But he knows, and they know, and we know that eventually he’ll give in, and before long they’ll be heading down Deansgate, that jubilant foursome, to the same old haunts, treading the same old path.

  And because I know this, I’m already there. Tracking down a partner in crime.

  It’s not hard. In this city centre on Saturday night the streets are alive with potential cohorts. Thick-set men who spend their weeks in the gym and who’ve travelled in from the outskirts – from Moss Side, from Longsight, from Hulme. Who come into town to get drunk, get laid and get out. Thick-set men who are bristling with pent-up steroidal anger, primed to perceive even the most unintended slight.

  But it can’t just be any of them. I need to know that when I flick that switch, there’s going to be no conciliato
ry backing down, no being led away by mates looking for a quiet night. I follow a few, ducking in and out of bars. But something always gives them away. A text message from a girlfriend that makes a granite face soften and smile. The glimpse of a small child clutching a huge teddy when a wallet is flipped open and twenties are slapped on the bar.

  And then I see Reece. Reece Andrews. He’s not terribly tall. Five ten at the very most. But he’s wiry. And he’s jittery. Eyes glitter and glisten from his last snort of low-grade coke off the back of his hand in the loo. On that very hand, a quincunx of blueish-black dots from time spent inside. What do they mean, Reece, those dots? Find her, Follow her, Finger her, Fuck her, Forget her? Lovely. I can’t think of a better man for the job ahead. I’m sure there are men who have those very same dots, who look at them every day and hold their heads in their hands in despair at a life lived wrong. Who scratch at them and try and burn them away so they can start a new life without that old one hanging over their heads. But you don’t, do you, Reece? You wear them like a badge of bloody honour.