Mouth of the Tyne

[wesleysonck]

I have attempted to write two stories before, only for them to be cut short due to my job as a Merchant Seaman. For this I apologise, as I know there were a handful of people who enjoyed reading them. However, I have now moved from the deep-sea trade over to the cross channel ferries, and I now feel like I can commence a story which will have an ending.

I am using SuperBladesman's update, with all English leagues loaded. As with my previous stories the football side of things will take a backseat, but all events will be built around the players - real and regens - of South Shields FC.

[wesleysonck]

Beneath an expanse of blue skies pigeons land on the head of Earl Grey, showing no respect to the grand old reformer. Far below a bustle of people ebb and flow, some exiting the Metro station, squinting as they emerge from below the ground into bright daylight. Others wend their way towards shops, already clutching bags bulging with the bounty of their morning. The shout of the political activists, arms waving as they stand behind trestle tables stacked with leaflets barely disturbs the birds perched far above, and the sounds from an accordion clutched in the loving embrace of a busker plying is caught in the zephyr of a faint easterly wind, and never reaches the stone ears of the Earl.

One of the pigeons stretches its wings, and steps off into the void. It falls for just a second before flapping urgently, gaining altitude. It passes over Eldon Square, where teenagers dressed in purple and black congregate, laughing and playing - each individual in their uniformity. Onwards it flew, towards the magnificent façade of St. James’ Park sat atop the hill, overlooking the city it represents. Heading south, the bird passes over cars and buses, its frail head searching for a place to alight. Passing alongside the glass fronted facing of The Gate - a complex of shops, bars, a cinema and a casino - the bird voids its bowels. A small mass of white liquid falls towards the ground below, and comes to a halt on the lapel of a man’s jacket as he shuffles into the arcade.

The man, however, is oblivious. A sheen of sweat coats his face, and he pauses to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. He has done this before, but he still finds it nerve-wracking, despite the near-sexual thrill he gets observing the aftermath of his handiwork. He is interrupted by a voice on his left.

“Excuse us mate, but a birds taken a dump on ya shoulda!”

He looks, confused at first, then mumbles in understanding and shuffles away, wiping the excreta from his jacket. He heads past bars towards the escalator. Stepping on, he ascends to the second level, where the smells from various food outlets assail him, but he has no appetite. He carries on. Another escalator takes him towards the cinema, his final destination. There is a large queue for tickets, but he takes his place and waits patiently, stepping forward in time with the rest of the waiting customers. Glancing at the large screens above the food concession, he chooses a film which is starting shortly. It is a children’s film, but that doesn’t matter - in fact it makes it better, as hatred burns in his heart from the wrong done to him so long ago.

Purchasing his ticket, he makes his way towards the screens, handing his ticket to an attractive girl, who tears it in half and hands the remnants back to him. The picture is to begin shortly, and he enters the cinema, already darkened. The advertisements are playing, and there is a low babble of conversation as adults fuss around their children, feeding them hot-dogs, ice-cream and popcorn. The man makes his way to his allotted seat, and sits. He can feel the blood pumping through his head, a heightened sense of awareness that he recognises from the other times. Reaching into his jacket he pulls out a manila envelope, slightly bulging in the middle.

He glances to left and right, but no-one is interested in him. He looks down at the package in his hand. So insignificant he thinks, with a burst of pride. He remembers the initial, clumsy efforts he made, constructions which showed none of the elegance and sophistication he had reached today. Leaning forward slightly he slips the package under his seat. He sits back, savouring for a moment the knowledge that beneath his seat lies destruction. He glances round, scanning the faces illuminated by the projectors glare, but feels no emotion. Any remorse he had was long gone, now there was only the task.

Standing, he crabs sideways along the aisle, nodding acknowledgement to those who lean their legs sideways to allow him to pass. Head down, he leaves the cinema, passing the girl who tore his ticket. He glances at her, but she is engrossed in her mobile phone and doesn’t notice. He descends via the escalators to the ground floor, and leaves the building. He hurries to the spot he had chosen as the best vantage point available to him. He looks up and can see the shuffle of people in the lobby of the cinema through the tinted glass two stories above him. He glances at his watch, and waits.

The signs of his mayhem are subtle. There is no explosion, no ball of flame rending the glass asunder. The first he notices is a shambolic procession of people, staggering from the cinema. Shocked parents clutch their crying children, whilst the cinema staff look around, unsure how to handle a situation for which they’d all been trained but none had expected. Inside his chest the man can feel his heart swell with pride, and a frisson of electricity passes from his stomach to his groin. Clutched in a sweaty palm thrust into a jacket pocket is a note, like all those he had sent before. The years had not dampened his desire for vengeance, and it is only the sound of approaching sirens that wake him from his reverie, and send him striding off into the town.

[wesleysonck]

It was only a pre-season friendly, but Brian Corderoy wanted to be involved. The opponents were Newcastle United Reserves, and despite the inglorious surroundings of Filtrona Park, a typical non-league ground surrounded by low density industrial units, the black-and-white stripes of Newcastle United looked iconic. The match was half an hour in, and from his position on the crowded dugout Corderoy watched the game unfold. It was his first season playing for South Shields, a team from a small town on the coast, nine miles down the Tyne from Newcastle. As is the nature of non-league football players come and go, and Corderoy had been training with some of the South Shields players over the summer, reconnecting with old school friends after a spell working in London.

The Newcastle Reserve side, whilst not featuring any of the established first-teamers - they had suffered a 2-1 home defeat at the hands of Swiss side Basle the day before - there were still plenty of familiar names. In goal was Tim Krul, who was yet to make a first team start for the Magpies but had played well on loan to Falkirk and Carlisle. Kazenga LuaLua was rampaging up and down the right wing, and pacing the touchline in his tracksuit in front of Corderoy was Andy Carroll, the local lad who had broken through into the Newcastle first team the previous season, but was not selected to start this friendly.

Despite the semi-illustrious names turning out for the second-string Magpies, South Shields were holding them to a goalless draw. Corderoy reached into the pocket of his training top and pulled out his watch, around five minutes to go in the first half. The gaffer had said that he’d try and get everyone a good run, so Corderoy was optimistic about getting on some point in the second half. Corderoy turned his attention back to the game. The Hungarian lad Kadar punted a long ball into space behind the Shields’ defence, it looked to be a hopeful ball, with no obvious end target, and Mark Canning, the smiling, blonde-haired Shields midfielder hoofed the ball back to the centre-circle.

The gap between these Newcastle players, professionals all, and the train drivers, grocers, students and policemen of South Shields seems so narrow, thought Corderoy. Admittedly it was the opening game of the pre-season, where legs are stiff from the intense physical training, but even though they are the second string it was difficult to connect the players in black-and-white before him, and those Newcastle players he had seen on Sky Sports the previous season.

Just as these thoughts were running through his mind, Corderoy watched as the Serbian teenager Vuckic sprayed the ball out to the Irishman Stephen Folan. The Shields defence were tracking back, frantically trying to hold their line as Folan swung the ball infield towards the edge of the 18-yard line. Receiving the ball, Aaron Spear dinked the ball ahead of him with the gentlest of touches, into the path of the onrushing Nile Ranger, who had timed is run to perfection, leaving the Shields defence in tatters and allowing him the time to slide the ball past Stuart Bloom in the South Shields goal and into the back of the net.

And there it was, thought Corderoy - the difference in class between them and us. The speed of the play, the off-the-ball movement and the incisive finish: that was what made these players, many of them 16 or 17-year old children so special. It made Corderoy anxious to get on the pitch and pit his wits against them, so it was with great relief that he found himself running on the spot at the edge of the centre-circle as the second-half began.

Taking the kick-off was Andy Carroll, more first-teamer than reserve player, and Corderoy could hardly believe they were sharing the same pitch.

His first touch wasn’t impressive, with a pass straight to an opposing player, but as the half drew on Corderoy found himself settling into a rhythm. Admittedly he wasn’t seeing much of the ball, but the pace of the game was so slow that there was no urgency, no pressing need to get the ball. Newcastle came forward at almost walking pace, the Shields defence stood off until a mistake gave them the ball, and then Shields returned the favour.

There were perhaps ten minutes left, and Corderoy was looking forward to a shower, a meal and a pint at the Sand Dancer - his favourite beachfront bar - when another steady build-up saw the ball advancing towards the Newcastle goal. James Rooney - the feisty Shields midfielder - picked up the ball in the centre of the pitch and ambled towards the Newcastle goal. He looked up, and played a ball in towards the feet of Corderoy’s strike partner, Nathan Taylor. Inexplicably, both Newcastle central defenders moved towards the ball, leaving Corderoy unmarked. Holding his nerve, Corderoy concentrated hard on keeping his line, moving forwards steadily, glancing across, holding position and giving the linesman no excuse to wave his flag. He saw Taylor lift his head, look right at him, and nudge the ball forwards into his path. Corderoy seized his chance, bursting forward.

Another glance at the linesman saw him moving sideways, his flag pointed squarely at the ground. A glance up saw the Newcastle goalkeeper making himself as big as possible, arms held wide and legs spread. From behind Corderoy could hear a Newcastle defender tracking back, boots thudding on the hard-packed earth. He must take his chance, and with his right boot Corderoy stroked the ball towards the left side of the Newcastle goal. The keeper stretched, but not far enough, and Corderoy felt a rush of jubilation as he turned to celebrate with his new team mates.

The game ended one all, and Corderoy was still on cloud nine as he returned to the dressing rooms, the pats on the back from his colleagues accompanying him. He reached into his sports bag and pulled out his mobile phone, intending to text his friends back in London and tell them he had just scored against Newcastle United. These plans were put on hold, as there was a missed call from work. Stepping outside, he called the office. The colour drained from his face as he was told of the bombing, which had taken place only an hour before. Tersely, he told his colleague he would be making his way into the station immediately. Detective Inspector Brian Corderoy was no longer a footballer, he was now on the trail of a killer.