2009

It was a bright cold day in March, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Luke Chadwick, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of the Smith Jones Victory Stand, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a woman of about sixty-five, with heavily dyed hair and strangely petite features. Luke made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for the use of the floodlights at next week's evening game. The Turner Club was two flights up, and Luke, who was twenty-nine and had a dodgy shoulder and couldn't run anymore, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DELIA SMITH ENTIRELY FINANCED THIS, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the Turner Club a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of steak pies for the long-term benefit of the community. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Luke turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the Xara training kit which was the uniform of the team. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Posted By: Mr Creosote, Jul 19, 10:51:40