Bad Blood

Football horror short story. Jack wants to conquer his fear of the beautiful game. But when he braves the stands, a shadow lingers...

This story deals with some challenging themes, including domestic and childhood abuse, and includes some outdated offensive terms.

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Present day

‘That’s a foul, ref, you wa—’

Jack went up to the bar, the expletive roaring over his head. This was meant to be a quiet drink. A nice peaceful Sunday afternoon with a pint and a packet of crisps and two old mates. How was he to know there’d be a game on? 3’o clock on a Saturday, that was football time. He’d have that engraved on his brain until he died.

He lingered at the bar as long as possible, dithering between cheese and onion and salt and vinegar until the barman got annoyed with him and he went for ready salted. He sloped over to the table where Dave and Chris were sitting, transfixed by the giant telly.

‘Good cross there.’

‘Keep it together, lads, hold the ball.’

Jack plonked himself down on the furthest seat, fiddling with his crisp packet.

‘Alright, Jack?’ Dave reached out a hand. ‘Give us a crisp, then.’

Jack dutifully handed round the crisps. He wished was sitting in his garden with the Sunday paper, instead of listening to his friends’ running commentary. He had no idea what was going on.

‘Oh, that’s a dive.’

‘Should give that man an Oscar.’

On the TV, the player on the ground rolled around a bit before getting up. The player accused of fouling started shouting at the referee, waving his arms around. A player on the opposite team tried to muscle in on the argument, much to the first player’s chagrin. Despite the lack of audio, it was clear words were not being minced. You could see the spittle flying in real time.

Jack tried to focus on his crisp mouthful, but his jaw seemed to have stopped working. His stomach muscles contracted, readying for a punch that wasn’t coming. The skin beneath his blue polo shirt became alive, conscious of every polyester fibre.

Just a game, he told himself. Just a game…

The first player grabbed the second one’s shirt. The referee, blowing his whistle like a trooper, attempted to break it up, but it was like holding back two rabid cats. They launched at each other, fists flying—

‘Bloody hell,’ said Dave. ‘He’s punched the ref!’

Clutching at his bleeding nose, the referee still had the presence of mind to red card both players. A roar went up from the crowd and the pub simultaneously.

‘You can’t red card ‘em both,’ shouted Dave. ‘Wasn’t his fault!’

‘Yeah,’ said Chris. ‘It was the other guy, whats-is-name—’

The name was lost to the roaring in Jack’s ears.

The 1970s

Jack knew it was bad when Dad came home before dinner. If it was good he’d have a booze up and come home late, rowdy and happy. Sometimes he’d give Jack a chocolate bar or some football cards, or even money if he was feeling particularly happy.

But if it was bad, there’d be a slam on the door and this fizzing in the air, like it was made of Coke. Dad would swagger in, all cock of the walk, and there’d be blood on his shirt and a shiner on his face and he’d mutter something like.

‘We had ‘em Spurs, we showed ‘em right.’

But he wasn’t talking to Jack. He was narrating his life, making it real.

He’d bellow up the stairs then, ‘Shelly! Shelly!’ And Jack knew he should do something, but he’d just run and hide in his room. He’d hear talking, then shouting, then silence. And after that, Mum going upstairs and the smell of smoke wafting from the bathroom. She always had a fag after he did it. She’d stay up there for half an hour and he never stopped her.

After, Dad was calmer, and he’d walk around the house shirtless, even in winter, holding the football shirt with its bloodstains. Mum would never mention how he got them, and Jack didn’t need to ask either. He already knew.

He ought to feel afraid of his father. But mostly, he felt ashamed of him.

Some of the oldest kids at Jack’s school got involved in the punch ups sometimes, running around with The Herd. Jack would hear them laughing his dad. They stopped when Jack came near of course, because while he might look too old to be a football hooligan, he was still a right vicious thug. It was why Jack never got bullied, and why he had so few friends.

Sometimes Jack prayed his dad would die.

It was never a painful death. He’d just not wake up one day, and then Jack and his mum could move somewhere where no one knew them. Then Jack could get his head shoved down the school bog a few times, like a normal kid, and everything would be OK.

Present day

After the pub disaster, Jack had gone home and had a long think. As a result of the long think, he’d decided that he needed to get a grip on himself and run headlong into the fire.

He was going to a match.

He’d never actually been to a match. His dad tried to take him a couple of times, but his heart wasn’t in it, because what his dad really wanted to do was get pissed and start a scrap with a bunch of youths, because apparently that was made you really manly.

So, he let Jack stay home, and then later, when he was drunk, he’d call Jack a pansy and a girl and get a real kick out of it.

But now, as the Americans liked to say, it was time to “rip off the band-aid”.

Chris and Dave had invited him to watch the local team. It was a nice atmosphere, they told him, a real family club. Not like these overpriced, Premier League wallies. Dave then launched into a passionate diatribe that could have been entitled “the commercialisation of professional football as measured by the increasing price of chips at half time”, which Jack hadn’t really followed, but it was nice to see his old mate so enthusiastic.

He followed his two friends through the metal gates towards the stadium, passing the burger stand, the club shop, and a weird animal mascot selling programmes. He was struck by how calm it all seemed. There were even little kids running around.

Still, the closer they got to the actual ground, the sharper the prickling in his chest became. He had to do his best to stop his hand from shaking when showing his ticket.

Get a grip, mate.

Jack pushed through the turnstile to the ground proper, staring out at the grassy pitch. It was a bit lumpy and muddy, surrounded by advertising hoardings for various local newspapers and plumbers.

Parking himself on one of the hard plastic seats, Jack tried his best to relax. The unseasonably warm spring sunshine blared right on the balding spot of his head, as if the weather itself was glaring down on him in judgement. Announcements echoed across the stands from an ancient Tannoy system that reduced all human speech to a distorted garble. He shifted in his seat, the sweat sticking his legs to the chair.

At last, to a huge surge of chanting, the players ran onto the pitch, lining up for kick off. The referee blew his whistle.

It was finally starting.

Jack watched the players kick the ball about a bit, trying to remember which ones he was supposed to be supporting. At least Chris and Dave were providing a constant and enthusiastic, if rather confusing, narration.

‘Pass it, Robinson, pass it!’

‘Don’t be a solo artist, Robbie.’

‘That’s it, come on.’

‘What’s he doing? Pass the bloody ball!’

Jack shuffled in his seat. ‘How much longer is it?’

Dave stopped mid commentary flow, looking offended. ‘It’s only been ten minutes.’

Jack grunted. He watched the ball zig zag across the field, feeling his eyes glaze over. Pass, pass, pass, a massive kick and then—

‘GOAL!!!’

Everyone went absolutely bananas, jostling and screaming and cheering like they’d just won the lottery. Even the old woman next to them jumped at least a foot in the air. Only the small band of away fans on the opposite stand looked miffed, shaking their heads and throwing up their hands in abject despair.

Jack stayed firmly in his seat, applauding politely. He was happy for his friends, of course he was. But he couldn’t shake off the strange feeling that was on show. That someone was looking at him.

Someone was.

While everyone was still celebrating the goal, an old bloke in the standing terrace was looking in Jack’s direction. He was too far away for Jack to see his face properly, but he could sense it. That intensity.

The game restarted and the old man turned his head away. It was probably just co-incidence. And yet, there had been something about him that Jack couldn’t get out of his head, an aggravating, mental itch.

It’s all in your imagination, Jack.

For the next half hour, he did his best to focus on the game. It was a kind of theatre, he realised. You cheered when your side was cheering, and booed when they booed, and did your best to join in the chanting, mumbling through the more creative sections. By half time, he was almost starting to enjoy himself.

Chris and Dave, who’d been busy jawing through most of the game, took themselves off for a piss, leaving Jack alone in his seat. Jack had no idea how long half time was. He tried to google it but the signal was too bad. He gazed out across the pitch.

The old man was back in his position, leaning on the hoardings.

Watching. Waiting.

Jack found his nails against his thighs, scrabbling at the fabric. He was being stupid, he knew, but he really wished Chris and Dave would hurry up.

The old man started moving.

Jack followed him with his eyes as the old man walked across the stand, disappearing into the crowd. He must have gone through another exit to get a pint. In all likelihood, there was nothing sinister about it.

Yet Jack sat there, hands in pockets, unable to drag his eyes away from where the old man had been. He was still sitting like that when Dave and Chris returned, chips in hand, grumbling about queues. Jack barely heard them. If the old man would just come back…

But he didn’t come back. He wasn’t there when the second half started. He wasn’t there when the away team scored five minutes later, and the home side moaned in agony.

‘Getting tense, isn’t it?’ said Chris. ‘Don’t worry, our lot love a last-minute comeback.’

Jack hadn’t realised he was biting his nails. ‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’

He watched the ball pass back and forth, barely able to pay any attention. He scoured the adjacent stand, trying to pinpoint the figure tormenting him in the sea of faces. But there were too many people and too many giant flags.

‘Foul, ref! Foul!’

To the home side’s joy and away’s dismay, the referee awarded a penalty.

The entire home side crossed their fingers and touched their lucky rabbit’s feet or whatever other superstitious thing football people did, as Number 19, a tall blonde man with the standard football fade haircut, stepped into position.

‘Our star striker,’ Dave whispered in Jack’s ear.

Jack nodded, pretending to understand. Still, he found himself holding his breath as Number 19 struck the ball. It sailed through the air, right on target. The goalie leapt towards it and—

Someone leaned into Jack’s ear. A voice, low and gravelly and smelling like cigarettes, said,

‘Thought you’d never see me again, eh, pansy boy?’

The ball missed the goalie’s gloves by a hair’s breadth, slamming into the back of the net. The home crowd erupted into crazy celebration. Jack whipped his head round.

The seat was empty.

Caught on the general wave of jubilation, Dave and Chris forced Jack to go to the pub after the match. For the sake of his friends, he’d tried to keep up a cheerful act, but found his smiles wearing thin. He felt jumpy and ragged. The beer tasted like iron. All he wanted to do was go home.

At last, after the obligatory three pints, Jack was finally allowed to leave. But not before Chris had thrown him his football scarf and made Jack promise to wear it.

‘You’re our lucky charm, mate!’

Jack pressed his face against the cold glass of the bus window, watching the sky darken as the unfamiliar weight of the scarf tightened around his neck. He didn’t feel particularly full of luck. Just tired.

With the hiss of compressed air, the bus drew to a halt.

‘This bus terminates here. All change, please.’

Jack slowly got off the bus . Perhaps the beer had gone to his head, but he felt a little wobbly. It was definitely time to go home.

A blast of cold air as the bus sailed past shocked him into wakefulness. Home was, according to Google Maps, only 20 minutes’ walk from here. 15 if he cut down the alleyway.

Jack held himself close as he approached the short cut, grateful for the football scarf. After such a sunny day, the sudden nighttime chill was a shock. What he wouldn’t give for a sit down on the sofa and a nice cup of Bovril…

‘Where you going, old man?’

Jack stopped. The two hooded youths, both almost a head taller, had come up from behind. He hadn’t seen them coming.

‘Going home,’ he said, trying to sound jovial and failing. ‘Ain’t you lot got ones to go to?’

He tried to walk on but a third lad stepped out in front. The two lads backed up a little, blocking him in.

‘Not so fast, mate,’ said the lad in front.

Jack glanced behind him. The main road wasn’t so far away but it might as well have been on another planet. He could cry for help and no one would notice, or if they did, they’d choose not to make it their business. He was completely alone.

Mocking laughter rang all around. I’m being mugged, he thought with odd calmness. Better to pay up than get my skull caved. He reached into his trouser pocket for his wallet, wondering if they’d want his phone too.

‘Shit, Ryan, look at this.’

One of the young men was pointing at Jack’s football scarf. Despite the distance of the street lights, Jack could make out his mocking grin. ‘What sort of stupid team is this?’

‘Leave it, Steve,’ said the one on Jack’s other side.

‘Nah, nah, wait up.’ The one in front, clearly the leader of whatever stupid outfit this was, tugged the scarf off Jack and dropped it on the floor. ‘Spit on it,’ he demanded.

‘What?’

‘What I just said. Spit on that scarf, and we’ll let you keep your pension money, OK? Or are you deaf as well as stupid?’

Laughter rang in Jack’s ears. In the semi-darkness, the scarf looked like a giant slug on the floor.

Better do it, then. It was only a bit of fabric.

Jack found himself leaning forward, the gob already forming in his mouth.

It landed right in the ringleader’s eyes.

‘Fuck! You dickhead!’

Jack’s fist met the boy’s face. There was a crunch and the boy staggered back in shock. Jack landed a kick in his belly and ducked as one of the other boys tried to knock him flat from behind. He wheeled round and elbowed him in the throat, kicked another in the chest, jabbed his fingers in the ringleader’s eyes and twisted. He received a kick to the side in return and wobbled, but didn’t fall. With a scream, he shoved the kid to the floor and punched him in the face, over and over and over again.

The other boys legged it.

The boy on the floor wheezed. Jack leaned his whole weight into him, his arm pressed into the lad’s throat. His boy’s piggy eyes were wide with fright, unable to believe that one of his victims had actually fought back.

‘Some friends you have,’ Jack hissed. ‘Scarpering at the first time of trouble.’

The lad bucked against Jack’s weight, as if suddenly remembering he was much younger than his attacker, but Jack didn’t budge. He had never felt so strong before. So alive.

His fist drew back, ready to pommel the boy black and blue. He could almost taste blood.

And then he saw him.

A figure stood at the other end of the alleyway. Approaching, slowly but surely. The air thick with the stench of cigarettes and cheap beer.

Jack ran.

The 1970s.

Jack trembled in his pyjamas. He stared at the shoes of the two bobbies, struggling to meet their eyes.

It was nine in the morning. His mum was sleeping late, as she often did on a weekend, complaining of migraines. He’d answered the door, thinking it was the postman, forgetting of course that postmen don’t come on Sundays.

Policemen do.

The two bobbies looked at each other. One was younger and had large ginger sideburns and a sticky out chin. The other was older, with a ruddy complexion and large, owlish eyes. They would have been funny-looking, if they hadn’t been the long arm of the law. As it was, they were terrifying.

The younger bobby crouched a little, to reach Jack’s level. ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘J-Jack.’

‘Your dad’s not in trouble, Jack. We just want to ask him a few questions.’

‘Just routine enquiries,’ said the older one. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Jack shivered in the cold morning air. He was conscious of how frayed and faded his pyjamas were, in stark contrast to the bobbies’ bright and shiny uniforms.

‘Is that a chemistry set?’ said the younger bobby, pointing at the box behind Jack.

Jack nodded. ‘My birthday present.’ He didn’t know why he was saying it.

‘Wish my son was as smart as you.’ He chuckled. ‘But you’re a smart lad, aren’t you? A bright boy like you would want to do the right thing, wouldn’t he?’

Jack nodded again, unsure.

‘So have a good think and tell me. Are you sure you don’t know where your dad is?’

Jack took a deep breath. He thought about it. He thought about it really hard.

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’

The policeman sighed and stood up straight. ‘All right. But if your dad comes home, tell him we’d like a word.’ He ruffled Jack’s hair and the two plods left.

Jack waited until the bobbies were little specks in the distance. He closed the door and locked it. He stamped on the floor three times.

There was a creaking behind him as his dad emerged from the cupboard under the stairs.

‘You’re a good son, Jack. A bloody good son.’

Jack’s Dad hugged him. He smelled horrible, like booze and fags and raw meat. His bare chest was a mess of scratches and bruises, and there were brown stains under his fingernails.

‘What did you do, Dad?’

His dad stiffened. Pulled away.

‘Never you mind,’ he snarled, running up the stairs.

Ten minutes later, Jack heard the back door slam. He never saw his father again.

Except on the news, of course.

Present day

Jack woke up on his own sofa.

He hadn’t realised he’d fallen asleep. He’d sat under a blanket most of the night, shivering, side aching, fists smarting, the fight replaying over and over in his head.

What if he’s dead? Dead like the man Dad dumped in the canal.

No, he thought. The boy hadn’t been that badly injured. Beaten up, but breathing.

Then came the other fear, clutching his chest. What if he recognises me? Tells his parents? Tells the police? Comes back to my house with all his mates armed with baseball bats?

‘You’re being a fool, Jack,’ he said aloud. ‘An old fool.’

His hands trembled. He’d scrubbed and scrubbed at them with soap, but he could still feel blood on them, coating him, making him filthy and wrong.

The doorbell went. Jack wrapped the blanket round himself. No, no, he wouldn’t go. Go away, please, he thought, I’m not here.

The bell came again, and then a third time, followed by an insistent knocking.

Jack made a slow walk to the door. It was the police, he convinced himself. He decided to confess everything. Go to prison, if he had to. It would serve him right.

He opened the door. Shut it again, very quickly. Then, after pinching himself hard on the arm, he opened it again.

‘Is that any way to greet your old man?’ said the figure on the doorstep.

Ten minutes later, Jack was making tea in his own kitchen, almost burning himself on the hot kettle in the process. His hands were that shaky, and he still felt like he was trying to prove this was all real.

He stirred in milk and sugar, taking a few steadying breaths, then tucked the biscuit packet under his arm.

The old man on his sofa was making himself right at home. Feet up, TV on, head leaning back. He had more tattoos than Jack recalled and the little hair left on his head was white. His back curved and the skin sagged around his neck and jowls. But it was still, very recognisably, him.

Jack put the tea and biscuits down on the coffee table in silence, stepping away as quick as he could. Now his dad was here, he very much wanted him not to be.

You pansy, you girlie, you little piece of—

‘Nice bickies!’ Dad took three and munched them in one go. He was wearing the same coat as he had at the stadium, and the same trousers too. They looked worn and old, like he might have been living in them for a while.

Jack turned away from his father, from the reminder of his own sins. ‘I should call the police.’

Dad didn’t stop munching. ‘You won’t though.’ He swallowed. ‘You’re a good lad. Always said so.’

You little bastard, you’re a waste of space, tied to your Ma’s apron strings.

‘Why are you here, Dad?’

He took another handful of biscuits, the TV a quiet, steady hum in the background. ‘Can’t I see my own boy?’

Jack didn’t answer that. ‘How do you know where I live?’

The old man shrugged. The TV volume went up a notch.

‘I saw you, at the game,’ Jack continued. ‘You were stalking me.’

The TV blared louder. Some kind of sports commentary.

‘Are you trying to scare me, Dad?’

The old man turned to stare at him. Light, searing eyes in a pock-marked face. On the TV, a commentator was talking emphatically about Arsenal’s positive Premier League chances. Dad switched it off.

‘You think I want to scare you, boy?’

Jack backed away as the old man advanced on him with surprising speed.

He’s come to kill me, Jack thought, he knows Mum’s dead, dead of a broken spirit and a lifetime of terror, and now he wants to finish the job.

‘I’m dying, Jack.’

Jack tried the word for size. Dying? No, it didn’t make sense. Dad might have disappeared out of his life, but he couldn’t die. He was like air, or the sun. You can’t kill the sun.

‘Don’t look so stupid about it,’ growled the old man. ‘Happens to us all.’

He looked around the room, lip curling. Jack became suddenly and irrationally conscious of the fact he hadn’t dusted.

‘Not much comfort for a dying man, is it?’ The old man sneered. ‘My own son, living alone in a one bed flat. A boring, council pen pusher. The same little Mummy’s boy I left playing with his toys.’

A humming began in Jack’s ears. He imagined his fist smacking into his father’s eye socket, his elbow jabbing downwards into his chicken neck throat.

‘I’d like you to leave.’

The old man laughed. Harsh, smoked choked laughter. Jack could see his blackened teeth, the scar on his cheek. The coiled snake tattoo spiralling up his neck.

‘Oh, the little girl’s grown some balls, has he?’ Another rattle of laughter. ‘You’ve got some of me in you after all.’

Jack flinched. ‘I am nothing like you.’

‘Oh, is that right?’

He reached into the pocket of his ancient coat, and pulled something out. It looked filthy, like it had been stamped on. There was even a tiny red stain on it, like blood.

‘Nice bit of work, if I so say so myself.’ He held the football scarf up to the light. ‘Wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up? Beaten him to death, I bet. You had that look about you. The blood hunger.’

He looked back, the same mocking smile, but there was something akin to approval in his eyes, almost respect. He reached out to pat Jack on the shoulder.

Jack sprung back.

‘Oh? Too good for me, are you?’

Wicked humour danced in the old man’s eyes.

‘Go on then, my son,’ he whispered. ‘Why don’t we settle this, like men?’

Jack stared his father down, his heartbeat rattling through his eardrums. He wanted his dad to be wrong about him, but he could feel it. The taste of iron between his teeth. He could see its stain on the scarf his dad was holding, the snakelike curl of the thing. It told the truth.

Jack was his father’s son.

His father swung first, surprisingly speedy for a man in his seventies. Jack dodged the blow, which hit the wall. His old man bounced back, cursing, blood dripping from his cut knuckles. He leapt at Jack with catlike speed, trying to rugby tackle him to the floor. Jack raised his arms, shoving him back in defence.

But Jack’s Dad wasn’t the bully of his childhood. He was old and tired, and clearly hadn’t taken good care of himself. He went flying across the room and landed in a crumbled heap, gasping from breath.

‘Fight me, you girly bastard,’ he rasped. ‘Fight me. Fight me!’

Jack stood over him. He was looking at his father but all he could think about was his mother. Thin. Sickly. Never went out anywhere, complaining of headaches. An agoraphobic recluse fading into her pillow, her skin the colour of old bedcovers.

When he was organising her funeral, a school friend of hers had shared photos from her dancing days. Jack had stared for hours at the black and white images, unable to believe his mother had ever been this bright, grinning, joyful young woman.

And here he was, standing over the man who’d snatched that life from her.

It would feel good to punish him. Deliver the brutality he’d dealt. Get a boot in for justice, preferably spiked.

But that would be too easy.

Jack held out his hand. With great reluctance, the old man took it, allowing himself to pulled to standing. There was a puffiness in his face and a shininess on his cheeks that you might mistake for tears, if you didn’t know him. He looked so small in his big coat.

‘Piss off, you pillock,’ he said.

Those were his final words before he walked away. Walked with Jack’s slow shuffle step, the same splaying of the feet. Left properly this time, and forever.

Jack closed the door behind his father and sat staring at the black screen of the TV. After a while, he turned it on and listened to the sports commentary, like white noise.

The phone rang. It was Chris, sounding a little hungover, but happy.

‘We’re all going to the away on the coach next week. Come with us, it’ll be fun!’

Jack held the scarf in his hand, fingers running over the stains. He couldn’t deny it. There was an itching in his mind, like his father had said.

A blood hunger.

Yet there were other things too. His mother’s black and white face, grinning ear to ear. His peaceful garden in the springtime. Old friends, good friends, people you could have a pint and a laugh with.

He thought of his father. What did he have? A lifetime of blood and anger and loneliness.

Jack smiled.

‘I’d love to come,’ he said. ‘But I need to tell you something first. Something important.’

‘What is it?’

Jack paused. Took a deep breath.

‘Well for starters, I think I’ve ruined your scarf.’