Wordsmith Entry I
By Wordsmith Entry I
January 23 2007
E N I G M A
He was shivering. Rain was falling but he was not sure where. His clothes and hair were wet. His head thumped. He was alone and lying on concrete. The odours were those of car-park: oil, exhaust, urine and vomit. Through the ache, memory stirred. He had been here before. The old man on the piebald – was he here now?
* * * *
He started. He looked around – the girl had gone. How suppositious – only he could call that flibbertigibbet a girl. Others would have different words.
* * * *
He was not drunk but he had been drinking. It was post-match and he had needed something to drown his sorrows. Another game lost, another one thrown away. As he looked around the last of his round was waving goodnight. It was time for something else; he made his way to the bar and asked for malt whisky. This was always prescient to lascivious thoughts and, often as not, the deed itself. Tonight was no different.
Argus-eyed, he caught sight of her. She seemed to be with a crowd without being part of it. He was sure she was available. Confident he could cut her from the herd; he performed the customary act of perfidy and slipped the band into his ticket pocket.
He was right. His machinations were not bootless. It was apocryphal but, nevertheless believed all along
Emboldened by the alcohol, they left with an insouciant air, making their way into the murky night through the nascent shower towards the oblong outline that loomed before them.
* * * *
The old man halted the pony. “Do you need any help? Looks like some robustious body got the better of you.”
He shook his head and felt something trickle into his eye. He touched it – blood. The old man held out a clean, white handkerchief that he used to stanch the flow. “Here, let me see that.” The old man pinched together the gash. There was a yelp. Puling was followed by puking as the excesses of his turgid evening came back in nauseating waves
“You look in a bad way but nothing too serious that I can see. Here, hold this and you may get away without stitches.” The old man took a bottle from the satchel slung over his shoulder. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better than that rotgut you’ve been taking.” He hesitated but took the bottle and drank – water. He smiled.
The old man liked to talk. He was like a preacher. “I can help you but you must want to help yourself. I believe that your travails of this evening are but the symptoms of a troubled soul. Where there’s a soul there is always the hope of redemption.” The old man delved once more into his vade mecum. He brought out some official-looking papers. “These are the deeds to the club and this is the bargain I’d like to make with you.”
Since he had drunk the water, his head had felt better. His eye no longer hurt and he listened intently as the old man outlined his proposition. He would not own the club, it was no longer the old man’s to give but he could have power. He would meet people – directors, players and coaches. Without them knowing he would be able to influence them all. He would be granted this virtu and the price in return? Well it was nothing – he would live the life of a Christian gentleman. If he could efface the behaviour of the miserable sinner he was, the benefits that would inhere meant his frustrating but beloved team would gambol to unrivalled success. League titles would be theirs – ours – Cups will be won – we will be Champions of Europe – again and again.
* * * *
How many times had he been here now? In the car park of the bingo hall, with nothing to show but an empty wallet and a bitter self-loathing. The old man had been right. Every time he strayed – every time – he knew what was to come. He would stagger his way home now. Tomorrow he would go through the ritual – the lucky pants, the classic shirt the scarf – but he knew. He had been to this place before and every time he had, his Saints lost.