Death in a stairwell

They lived it, breathed it, wore it, spoke its language and practised its culture. It was a religion that had sparked as much passion and conflict as any other. It had its own unique codes, its own tribes with their own face paint and style of dress. To them it was a living breathing entity upon which interdependence was bred. There were the warriors and the followers both dependent upon each other for sustenance. There were stark inequalities between the tribes, the haves and the have-nots, the weak and the strong. They were largely territorial in behaviour although in recent times improved communications and the mass media had made geographical separation a thing of the past. Some spent vast resources upon well-constructed arenas in which to do battle with their enemies. Some had to make do with less salubrious surroundings.

 

Leicester City Football Club had been transformed since moving up from the First Division. They found great difficulty as most did in competing with the likes of Liverpool, Manchester United, Newcastle or even Chelsea on a financial front, limiting buying power for top players and the development of their ground. But all in all they had performed very creditably and their manager Martin O’Neil, who replaced Mark McGee, was seen as the orchestrator of this transformation since Brian Little had left unexpectedly in 1994/1995, leaving a seemingly insurmountable gap. In recent years they had enjoyed a modicum of success. Promotion from the play offs in 1996, winning the Coke-a-Cola Cup against Middlesborough following a draw at Wembley and a one-nil victory in the replay at Hillsborough in the 1996/1997 season. And a credible ninth place in the Premiership on return from the relative obscurity of the First Division. The Foxes had done well but success to a hard core of devotees, who wore the blue jersey with its vertical stripes and its Walkers Crisps logo and adorned their cars and homes with “Blue Army” bumper stickers and other paraphernalia, was not all-important. To be in the battle was. Things had settled somewhat since the move to the Premiership and trouble at matches was less frequent.

 

Their following was really quite remarkable particularly bearing in mind the national success over a decade or more of the other main sports in Leicester, cricket and rugby union. From Filbert Street the roars and chants from Welford Road, home of the “Tigers”, could be heard plainly when both had home matches. The city was big enough for them both and there was little rivalry between these two religions. But the football opposition feared coming to Filbert Street, the Leicester City fortress where away teams were subjected to a crowd with passion hard to match anywhere else.

 

His predilection was The City. Despite being unemployed, he took pride in attending home games and travelling to the majority of away matches. Each was a challenge to overcome both on and off the pitch. Many a battle was won or lost on the terraces, despite the heralding of all seated stadiums. Leicester folk either took the game seriously or showed more than a passing interest in the results over the tele-printer on Saturday Grandstand or in the mid week “Mercury”.

 

He took the game seriously. It was what underpinned his very existence. He had surrounded himself with the artefacts of the “Blue Army” tribe; posters of his heroes, mugs, scarves, flags, button holes, books, programmes and ash trays. He also had the spoils of war that he had captured from opposition fans. His flat, a one bedroom on the seventh floor of a council tower block in Beaumont Leys, was a shrine to his faith.

He wore his colours with pride, and before each match went through an elaborate ritual that saw him don the uniform and face paint of a tribe at war. And he was prepared to do battle for his beliefs. It was a crusade; the numbers of crusaders had dwindled since the First Division days but still a hard core took up the cause.

 

They were the dark side of football; the anti heroes whose delusions and psychosis led them to commit mindless acts of violence in the name of the game. They worshipped in small packs and fed from each other’s thirst. They mirrored each other’s actions, with each vying to show the god of soccer their superior devotion.

 

When the packs met together they would whip themselves into a group-frenzy, a catatonic, trance-like state during which they seemed to feel no pain, and would wreak the most terrible violence upon their rivals if the opportunity presented itself. The drink and drugs helped this, like they helped most warriors through the ages going into hand to hand combat.

 

He had the scars to show his warrior status; the abdominal stab wounds that almost ended his life away at Chelsea in the cup, and saw him on a life support machine for three days in Charring Cross hospital in Fulham. The weal on his back where the machete had caught him when he had become isolated and surrounded by a group of Palace fans on the way to Selhurst Park. He also bore the thick half-inch scar under his left eye where a sharpened coin had hit him during the Ireland vs England international.

 

His passion could be displaced and transferred to the red and white of England. On such occasions tribes would bury their differences and join forces to take on a foreign enemy. This was primitive stuff, the sub culture that lays beneath the surface of any society and at times of conflict leads to the committal of terrible atrocities. It had parallels with the ethnic cleansing visited upon neighbours in the former Yugoslavia. He was proud of his achievements. He had won more victories than he had lost and he led his own pack of dedicated anti heroes and anti heroines-four guys and two girls. When they were together he stood out and could easily be identified as the leader. His five-foot-eleven inches and dyed blonde spiked-Sid Viscous-hair style made him noticeable. Notoriety was a badge to be worn with pride. He was proud to be in the top forty of the national police football hooliganism intelligence list. He had earned it.

 

Barkley Stephens-Pride had a reputation as a hard man who didn’t take any stick from anyone. He was fearless and naturally attracted followers. When not engaged in the religion of football he was surviving on state benefit among the so-called underclass. He used and dealt in drugs, which provided his main source of income. He had been convicted for several drug related offences and imprisoned for eighteen months for his second possession with intent to supply cannabis resin and LSD. He also had several convictions for violent offences including criminal damage and wounding with intent to endanger life. He was awaiting a committal hearing on a charge of grievous bodily harm after repeatedly kicking a rival drug dealer, who he had felled with a vicious head butt during a territorial dispute; he fully expected to be given a prison sentence.

 

He was cohabiting with his girl friend Sarah in an illegally sub let council flat. Sarah was eighteen and shared his passion for soccer and the violent side of the game. She was one of the pack even before they became involved. She had shared in and supported many violent acts and often carried a concealed weapon for Barkley.

 

He had seen his “brief” who had warned him to expect a custodial sentence. With his record and this, a second violent offence, there was no other possibility. Strangely enough his solicitor had done her homework and had noted that Barkley had been ordered to submit to a psychiatric report prior to sentencing for the previous wounding conviction. Although the psychiatrists who had seen him, and put their views in writing to the court, had found no evidence of formal mental illness they did recommend that he attend an anger management counselling course. The judge in the case gave him eighteen months and dismissed any mitigating circumstances. His view from the bench was that anger was a personality issue and if every criminal who came before him had sentence reduced because they needed anger management, there would not be enough therapists world-wide to cope with the demand. They’d soon be taught anger management inside he believed.

 

His solicitor was married to a consultant psychiatrist and after discussing the case with him-in the strictest professional confidence-she had thought it worth a try and recommended he approach his family doctor with a view to being referred to a local psychiatrist. He saw the locality psychiatrist within ten days, who after hearing his account of his violent conduct and lack of control, suggested a short period of in-patient care at the local district general hospital psychiatric department. This, believed the psychiatrist, would allow a suitable period of observation by nursing staff and although he didn’t state it, mean that he did not have to see Barkley in his out-patient clinic were he might be at risk of attack. He agreed to be admitted informally and went into the ward within forty-eight hours.

The third floor ward was somewhat cramped, smoky-despite only one room designated as a smoking area-and noisy. He thought it worth putting up with if it meant getting his sentence reduced, or even better suspended. During his period in hospital he largely kept himself to himself, which seemed to alarm his named nurse and his ward doctor. The truth of the matter was that he did not relate to the mixed bunch, of as he saw it, loonies with whom he was forced to cohabit. Mary the manic-depressive of fifty who wore the most garish thick, red lipstick-a bit like the man eater out of the cartoon “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”- she had run up and down the ward almost totally naked for two days and nights. Bernie the taxi driver who had tried to hang himself while in the depth of depression after the death of his wife of twenty years. Martin the eighteen-year old schizophrenic who said the most bizarre things and who would stand right in front of a people and stare into their eyes for lengthy periods, interspersed with periods of near manic excitement. Martin had needed to be grabbed by a group of the “warders” and taken off to a secure area when he started attacking one of the nurses. Steve the twenty-two year old who had suffered a bad LSD trip and had tried to fly off the top of the Lee Circle car park. His fall broken when he landed on top of a Citroen car. He had survived with a broken left leg, several broken ribs and a slight concussion. Following physical stabilisation, he had continued to exhibit bizarre thoughts and believed that the Mafia was sending a hit man from Palermo to kill him for breaking omerta, the code of silence.

 

He didn’t take matters seriously, believing that if he completed the assessment period and convinced the shrink that he had an anger problem rather than being bad, it would go down well in court. The fact that he had already taken positive action in seeking help would also go down well his solicitor had said. He was free to come and go on the ward, unlike some patients who were detained under mental health legislation-”sectioned” as it was referred to.

 

He made the most of it and continued to run his drug activities while in hospital; mobile phones were a god send. On one occasion a rival came to the ward to find him but he had gone home for the afternoon and the nursing staff, under the strict rules of confidentiality would not even indicate if he was a patient or not. The rival left and did not return.

 

He had been discharged from the ward after ten days. He had been given an out-patient appointment to see the consultant psychiatrist a fortnight later. He hoped that it would all be worth it and that he would not receive a custodial sentence when he appeared in court next. He had returned to his drug dealing full time and resumed his usual activities.

***

They had arranged to meet in town and do a bit of this and a bit of that before returning to Barkley’s flat to watch the soccer live on TV. City didn’t have a game. They met up with Chaz, Drake, Sally and the new boy Arif. Arif was excited as he had just bought a new pair of trainers. They were day-glow yellow, and expensive. Barkley had called him banana feet and said he wouldn’t be caught dead in trainers that colour, but that he did expect it to be the sort of thing to be worn by a wog from the jungle. The others had laughed, Arif was upset but he had taken the abuse because he wanted to be one of the gang. They went to the pub and downed several pints before jumping into Chaz’s black Ford Fiesta and Drake’s “F” registered Mini to return to the council estate on the North West ring road. They were half an hour too early for kick off so they made themselves comfortable. The girls made a plate of sandwiches and they drank a few cans of cider. Sally passed round a couple of joints that she had rolled.

 

It was a friendly match between England and Italy, a warm up for the European Championship competition. It was not regarded as important by the pundits, but the gang were taking it seriously. The tabloids had billed it as a clash of the two strongest teams in the pending competition and had predicted the winner to have the best chance of winning the championship. They had hyped up the Italians as the enemy and used provocative language to describe them. It worked and the gang were “up for it” by the three o’clock kick off. Barkley was taking it most serious of all and had placed a bet of £50 on England to win.

 

By half time the game was in stalemate with no goals on either side. It was not technically the best match they had ever watched. Both sides were extremely cautious, probing in attack but defending heavily. The Italians were renowned for their defending; they were seen as the hard men of Europe. Early in the second half the Italians scored a breakaway goal. The gang was devastated and mayhem broke out. They threw empty cider cans at the television and swore and cursed. They soon settled back into the game as England began a counter attack from the restart, but it came to nought. The team seemed to lack a certain edge and showed no sharpness up front. It was beginning to get frustrating. Twenty minutes into the second half after a professional foul by the Italian goalkeeper had prevented a certain goal, England were awarded a penalty which they converted. They all danced about and hugged one another, except Arif who was still smarting from the abuse earlier in the day. Barkley ribbed him and accused him of siding with the “Ities”, to which he responded by saying that at least the Italians could play football and could score goals. The comment was absorbed as the game moved from end to end still tight because both sides packed their penalty areas and took few risks.

 

Three minutes to go and suddenly the visitors were enjoying a sustained spell of pressure. They hit the crossbar, forced a spectacular save from the England goalkeeper and had three corner kicks in a row. They were lining up for the last of these with players jostling for position when one of the Italians floored an England player with an elbow in the face. As he did the ball swung high into the penalty area and was caught on the volley by the leading Italian striker. The referee did not see the offence and awarded the Italians their second goal. Barkley was incensed.  He picked up a cushion from the chair he had been sitting on and threw it across the room. Chaz and Drake joined in throwing what ever they could lay their hands on. Sarah and Sally sat curled up on the floor in front of the settee just laughing at the antics of the men.

 

“B*****d” He yelled as he danced round stamping his feet, “f*****g b*****d !!”

 

Arif was pleased to see him upset. He deserved it; he shouldn’t have been so rude. He sat still and was quietly satisfied. Barkley looked at him.

 

“What you looking so f*****g pleased about?” he snarled. “You f*****g banana boy…..you Italian sympathiser…it’s what I’d expect from a black c**t, no f*****g loyalty to Queen and country”

 

Arif blew, he was on his feet. Barkley reacted instantly to the threat and they met half way in an aggressive embrace as both tried to stop the others progress. They tumbled over the armchair and landed locked together between it and the hearth. Chaz and Drake sat transfixed. Sally and Sarah jumped to their feet and took refuge in the relative safety of the sitting room doorway. The combatants tried to slug it out with one another but their proximity meant that their blows were limited in impact. Barkley grabbed at Arif’s face and attempted to gouge his eyes. He took hold of his face with his hand and dug his nails in as hard as he could while at the same time pulling viscously at the other man’s nostrils. Arif felt the pain sear through his face. He felt his nose and the flesh around it would be ripped away from the bone but he was trapped by Barkley’s weight and the grip he was held in. He tried to grab for something to anchor himself, something to gain a purchase on so that he could shake Barkley off and make him loose his grip. He grasped the heavy photograph frame that had tumbled off the side table when they had gone over the arm of the chair; the one which held the picture of Barkley getting Garry Linakear to sign his autograph. He smashed it hard down on Barkley”s skull and heard the dull thud and felt blood spill from the split he had caused to the other man’s scalp. Barkley rolled away, half stunned and half in agony. Arif was on top of him fast punching hard into his face and body. Barkley was thrashing about trying to regain his orientation while avoiding the storm of blows his assailant rained on him. He twisted violently and kicked out hard connecting with the chair, which spun into Arif catching the side of his reddened face. He kicked again this time catching Arif under the chin and knocking him backwards. Sarah returned from the kitchen and thrust the knife into his hand. Arif was trying to squirm from behind the armchair towards the door, still stunned from the kick. Barkley was on top of him in an instant, the blood from his damaged scalp seeping down his forehead and into his right eye. He plunged the knife into Arif’s midriff area. He felt the slight resistance of flesh before the penetration and the give of soft tissue as the blade disappeared into his victim’s abdomen. He pulled the blade out with such force that he ripped flesh with it and tumbled backwards. He was in a red rage and would have kept stabbing had he not lost his balance. Chaz and Drake were on their feet now egging him on and Sarah had joined the fray clutching a second kitchen knife. Sally was screaming to Barkley that he would kill him and begging him to stop. Arif struggled half to his feet and staggered towards the front door of the flat. He held his stomach with both hands and a well of blood soaked into his sweatshirt and stained his hands. Sarah made a stabbing motion towards the fleeing figure as Barkley rushed passed her and plunged the knife deep into Arif’s right kidney area. Arif sank to his knees and slumped to the floor on his face. Sally saw the knife pulled from his back and thought she saw blood on it. She felt nauseous. Arif lay still his eyes staring fixed into the middle distance, Barkley suddenly stopped and dropped the knife. Arif was making gasping sounds and then seemed to gag before he let out a deep sigh, like a deflating balloon, as life voided his slumped body. Less than five minutes playing time had elapsed between the start of the fracas and the ending of a life.

 

“Jesus” gasped Drake “He’s f*****g done for the b*****d” he said in disbelief to Chaz.

 

“Shut the f**k up,” screamed Barkley “lets get him out of here and get this place cleaned up. Chaz and Barkley grabbed Arif by arms and legs. Sarah opened the front door and looked in either direction. She listened but it was silent apart from the sounds of the big match from the TV. She signalled that the coast was clear. The two of them half lifted and half dragged the still warm body to the stairs. They bundled Arif down the two flights and let his body rest in the well of the stairs before returning to the flat. All four took a hand in cleaning up the blood and righting the furniture, then Barkley went and showered before shoving his blood stained clothing into the automatic washing machine. The final whistle blew. They turned off the television and all left the flat. England had lost.

Reviews

[Claire Twinn]

Totally horrible, I could hardly bear to read on! Your writing makes me despair for humanity. I hope Sarah was sentenced too? And the others? Powerful writing indeed.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Gosh Claire you are up for a marathon. Thank you so much for even bothering. Again most of the facts are real in this chapter.