Things were kicking off on Shaftesbury Street again. We heard a volley of shouts and the rumble of running feet. Fists were banging on the shops and houses, boarded up as they always were on match days. I was with Steve. We were only schoolkids but we felt safe because we were walking with a crowd of our fans, Midlands factory workers who swore and laughed and reeked of corner pubs and bitter and fags.
…..Then Steve said, “Come on, let’s go. We might get some action,” and his breath condensed in a bright cold cloud in the glow from the floodlights of the stadium behind him.
…..I hesitated. He saw, and he slipped away, towards the fighting.
…..I didn’t see Steve much after that, but about two years later we caught the same bus into town. He nodded at my suitcase.
…..“Going far?” he asked.
…..“Yes. London.”
…..“Ah,” he said, and feigned an interest, but I’d already gone.