Hawthorn and Child (25 page)

– What matches has he done? Name some clubs.

– He’s done them all. He’s, you know, one of the top ones. One of the top referees in Europe. He does the big games.

– You have no idea.

– He was in Frankfurt last week. Next week he’s in Italy. This weekend he’s not doing a premiership match, he’s doing some other thing.

– It’s a cup weekend. Frankfurt?

– Some youth thing, that was. He said. Germany and Spain or something. That was an international, but a youth one.

– He told you this? What age is he?

– He has photos of players on his walls. Photos of him shaking hands with captains. You know, Van Persie … Vidic, John Terry. All those guys. He’s …

– He can get you tickets, then.

– What?

– Tickets for games.

Hawthorn rolled his shoulder and hummed.

– When do I get to meet him?

Hawthorn shook his head.

– Is he out?

– No. Very not out.

– How did you meet him?

– Online. He believes in ghosts.

– He believes in ghosts.

– He says he sees them all the time. You know. In his home. On the pitch. In his car. In airplanes …

– On the pitch?

– On the pitch.

– During games? On the pitch during games?

– Yeah.

– He sees ghosts?

– Yeah.

Child laughed.

– I want a cigarette.

Child said nothing. Coughed a bit, artificially. Indicated left. Turned left.

– Me too, he said.

They drove for a while, the radio crackling. Hawthorn poked text into his phone.

– Why is that?

– Cigarettes?

– Yeah.

– It’s an afterwards thing. A taste-smell thing. Back of the throat. Roof of the mouth. Mints don’t get to it.

He turned on to the Holloway Road. Traffic was stopped. He pulled in behind a bus advertising tanning lotion straight at them, the ad the size of their windscreen. Hawthorn tried not to read it. Looked at his phone.

– No note.

– No note.

– The way she did it speaks volumes.

– To who? The firemen? Us?

Hawthorn thought maybe the smell had crept into the car on their clothes. In their hair.

– When was the last time you had a cigarette?

Child hummed.

– A straight-up fag? I don’t know. Years. Six fucking years or something. You?

– Three or four.

Hawthorn looked at the pavement. A woman was standing outside a shop, smoking. Looking at him.

– I really want one.

– Get some.

– What?

– Hop out. Get a pack.

He laughed.

– Of what?  

– Cigarettes, you fucking numpty.  

– What brand?  

– I don’t fucking know.  

Hawthorn opened the door. He was still wearing his seat belt. The bus moved on.  

– Shit. Hang on.  

Child pulled up on the kerb. The cars behind started blowing horns. Hawthorn undid his seat belt. Opened the door properly.  

– Not Silk Cut. Don’t get Silk Cut. I hate Silk Cut.  

– They don’t even make Silk Cut any more.  

– They don’t?  

– Not in years, man.  

He had no idea if this was true. He slammed the door and the horns beeped at him. He glanced back to see Child stick the light on the roof and turn it on, silently. The horns
stopped
, the nearest first and then backwards in a wave.

They still made Silk Cut. He felt like a schoolboy. He bought a packet of ten Benson & Hedges. He couldn’t believe how much they cost.

They pulled in beside the Emirates and Hawthorn peeled the cellophane off and flipped the lid and slid the foil away from the filters packed tight, and Child watched him and they looked at each other and smiled and looked at their cigarettes.  

– This is great.

– You got matches?  

– No.  

Child frowned and Hawthorn pulled a lighter from his pocket and Child smiled again. Bic. Black.  

– You diamond.  

– Open the windows.  

Hawthorn pulled a couple, three, of the cigarettes proud of the pack and offered them to Child. He pulled one out fully, sniffed it like it was a cigar, and put it to his lips. Hawthorn took one for himself, and tapped the filter end a couple of times against the packet. Child laughed.  

– You so classy.  

Hawthorn threw the packet on the dashboard. He put the cigarette in his mouth. He held the lighter in both hands. He scraped his thumb on the wheel, once, twice, and sparks flew and died in front of him, and on the third a nipple of flame pulsed and grew and steadied, and he bowed the tip of his cigarette to the fire and sucked, gently, as precisely as he could, for a moment only, and he released his thumb and pulled his head back and let his mouth empty and a billow of smoke filled the air in front of him and he was smoking.  

Child laughed again and took the lighter and lit his own.  

They sat there saying nothing for a minute.  

– So.  

– So.

– Rivers, eh?

– Yeah.

– Ex, do you think?

– Nah. Hardly. You think so?

Hawthorn took another drag. Slightly too much. Child was experimenting with his hold. He looked awkward when he transferred it from one hand to the other.  

– I don’t know. We’ll find out. No doubt.  

– It’s gotta rankle. Either way.  

– It’s gotta what?  

– Rankle.  

– Rankle?  

– Seeing someone you know. Who’s done that to themselves.  

– It
rankles
?  

– Yeah. Rankles. What’s wrong with you?  

– I don’t think
rankle
is the word you’re looking for.  

– Well what is the word then?  

A centimetre of ash fell on Hawthorn’s thigh. He brushed at it, it left a mark.  

– Horror. Horrifies. It would horrify me. Grief, shock, all that.  

– Yeah, but anger too.  

– Some anger. Why anger?  

– It’s quite a statement.  

Child looked at him.  

– Oh. Hey. I get it. You think she knew Rivers would be on scene.  

Hawthorn shrugged. He felt a little dizzy.

– Well. She knows it’s his patch I presume. Maybe she knows that he wasn’t working yesterday but was today. Maybe she knows he’ll hear about it, come running. I mean. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it hasn’t. Occurred to her. But …  

Child laughed.  

– Oh, you pulling a whitey.  

– A what?  

– You’ve gone white as a ghost, man. You’ve got a sheen on you. Clammy. Getting a touch of the queasies, yeah?  

– Shut up.  

– Do not throw up in my car.  

– I’m not going to fucking throw up. And it’s not your car.  

– First time I smoked, I was about twelve or something, I got into it for a while, and my buddy Malcolm got into it too but he would throw up. Every time. He would take a couple of drags and he’d hurl. Every time. For months. Never got used to it. He looked like fucking death. His mother thought he had anorexia.

Hawthorn wanted to say something but his mouth had dried up. He took another drag of his cigarette, carefully, not inhaling.  

– You should have got water. Oh. We have water. Here.

Hawthorn took it.

– So Malcolm, eventually he decided that smoking wasn’t for him.  

Hawthorn looked at the cigarette in his hand. It shook slightly. He threw it out of the window. He felt sick and embarrassed. He wanted to belch. He sipped from the water bottle. Child was laughing at him now. But he wasn’t smoking his either.

– This was a bad a idea.

– No it wasn’t. It was a great idea. Great idea. Your best idea ever. You’ve got ash all over you.

It seems wrong. The door half open. The light on. It is
mid-afternoon
. He looks at the photographs on his phone. They aren’t very good. If you didn’t know what they were, you wouldn’t know what they were. He puts it away. The light is on because no one is there. If there was someone there the light would not be on. The referee’s left it on. Or one of his ghosts has left it on. And the door is open. But he only notices it’s open because the light is on. He looks out of the window. Three floors from the top, middle balcony. He’s there. But the light is still on. He’s there but he shouldn’t be. He doesn’t know what to do, now that he’s there. He doesn’t care what might be in the drawers, the cupboards. He doesn’t mind. He stands at the window. He has an erection and he presses it against the glass and tries to see the street but can’t. The place should have an alarm system. He’ll tell him. And the lock is useless. He’ll tell him that too. Casually. As they’re going out the door sometime, together. Community policing. He thinks about coming. On his clothes or into his laundry basket or the bar of soap in his shower. On his window. He goes to look in the bedroom. He remembers the angle of the open door before he changes it. The bed is made, neat. The duvet folded back. It’s the bedside lamp that’s been left on. There is no one in the room. Except Hawthorn. He thinks about getting into the bed. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. There is no one in the room. The made bed. He returns the door to the angle it was at. One third open and the light on.

There is no one anywhere.

He leaves.

– He sees ghosts.

– Yeah. He says they’re just like people except they shimmer a little. They’re half transparent. He can walk through them.

– Fuck’s sake.

– He says he’s always seen them.

– Arsehole.

– Except now he’s worried, because he’s starting to see them on the pitch. You know. During matches. They distract him.

– No shit.

– And he worries that they’ll make him screw up or do something stupid.

– And you slept with this guy.

– Yeah.

– Was he seeing ghosts?

– Yeah.

– Oh for fuck’s sake.

Hawthorn laughed.

– I need to hear this, said Child.

– Well I asked him what he was looking at. He was looking past me, you know.

– You’re having sex?

– No, no. This was just sitting in his place. He pauses
mid-sentence
and looks past me. Over my shoulder. And I just glance back. You know. Behind me. He looks like he’s seen something. But also like he’s remembered something. I think he’s remembered his dry cleaning or someone’s birthday or something. And I look around in a half joking sort of way. You know. When someone does that pause, and stares off into space. And you look at where they’re looking. Even though you know they’re not actually looking at anything. I looked where he was looking, then turned back to him, and he stares at me as if I’ve done something weird. And I say
What
, and he says
Oh
. Just that.
Oh
. And he says,
for a second I thought you saw him too.

– Oh my God.

– So then he just tells me that he sees ghosts. Or people. People I suppose. He assumes they’re ghosts. Or, no. Hang on. He sees some people who aren’t dead. But he sees previous versions of them. Including himself.

– This is not getting better.

– He sees, like, himself as a kid. Or he sees his mother as a young woman. Or his grandfather as a teenager. And he recognizes those people. He sees loads of people he doesn’t recognize. He assumes they’re the ghosts.

– And you stayed?

Hawthorn shrugged.

– Do they speak to him?

– No. He says that used to drive him mad. That he’d endlessly try to get them to talk to him. But they never do. And now he’s used to it.

– How can he be a referee?

– He’s completely sane. Except for this thing. It’s like all his weirdness is contained in this. In you or me weirdness is spread out over everything. Half an inch of weirdness. Over everything. With him, it’s just this one thing that’s weird. Two foot deep.

– There’s nothing weird about me.

– He doesn’t drink. He is very fit. He’s clear-headed. Seems very smart, intelligent. Do they make a lot of money?

– No. Referees? They’re amateurs mate.

– They are not.

– Well. They get fees and that. I don’t know really. I think most of them are schoolteachers or cops or something. There’s that sergeant in Enfield is a Championship ref.

– Because he seems loaded. His place. His things. He likes nice things. He has about three computers. Art. Kitchen stuff. He has one of those high-tech kitchens. Takes about half an hour and seven different machines to make a cup of fucking coffee.

– This guy is not for you.

– He likes all the anti-referee stuff too. Seems to love the fact that he’s hated. Likes travelling on his own. Hotel rooms. Driving up and down the country. Likes no one talking to him. Likes to show up and be really professional and eat on his own in the hotel and move on. He has languages. You know. Smart guy.

– Sees ghosts.

– Sees ghosts.

– I was doing a game in France. In Marseilles. Early round UEFA Cup match. This was a couple of years ago. It was the first time it happened. Second half. There was a stupid
free-for
-all in the centre circle after a bad tackle. Something like that happens, when there’s shoulders charging in and a couple of mimsy head-butts, you stand back and watch. You let the captains sort it out, and you make a mental note of anyone who does any serious damage. So I’m standing back watching. I see one guy connect with a head. He’s going. I see another guy spit. He spits but misses. He’ll get a yellow. I see a lot of shouting and milling about and it’s all just dumb and it calms down and eventually they all get the message because they see me standing there saying nothing. I call over the assistants to see if they’ve seen anything I’ve missed. And sure enough one of them has the head-butted guy bang to rights for an elbow which started the whole thing. So. That’s fine. I call the captains over. I read them the riot act, I point out the three players I want, I red card the elbow and the head-butt, one from each team, that’s fine, and I yellow card the spitter and he smiles at me and then I think I’m going to have to yellow card him again and send him off because he’s taken his shirt off and I’ve only noticed and I don’t have his number, and then the assistant and one of the captains are asking me to clarify who the yellow is for, and I’m saying that guy there, and then I realize, ’cos he’s just smiling at me, that they can’t see who the fuck I’m talking about, and that’s it, first time. I’ve got one on the pitch.