Bron-14

Continued from Chapter 13:   Bron-13 | ABCtales

Charing Cross McDonalds was loud with football chants, lads jostling and scuffling as they stuffed fries into their gobs, getting some drinking ballast into their stomachs before embarking on the real business of the afternoon.

Bron elbowed her way through the crowd, heading for the door. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” A tall guy, black stonewashed jeans, curly black hair and neat goatee – not your typical football supporter. The other guys with him looked much more the part stocky, standing, legs apart.

“Come in to use the toilet, like everyone else I should think. Why?”

“Not tempted by the culininararary delights on offer in this shrine to Stateside cuisine then?”

“Nah, not really. Anyway, I’m skint.”

“Have my chips.”

“Oh, don’t mind if I do…”

“I’m Raoul. You’re?”…

“Bronwyn …. Bron. These your mates, then?”

“Yeah, this is Igor, Gus …”

“You going to football, then?”

“Got it! Got it in one. We’re off on the Charlton train to see the pride of South London do battle with the mighty…er, who we playin’, Gus?”

“Stoke.”

“The mighty Stoke City … Actually, I’ve got a spare ticket. Fancy coming?”

What Bron couldn’t know was that Raoul habitually bought an extra ticket in the hope that he’d entice attractive women to tag along with him. So far, the ploy hadn’t been noticeably successful. If it had been Chelsea, Arsenal or even Spurs, it could well have worked, he thought, bitterly. But so far, the prospect of watching Charlton Athletic grinding out a nil-nil draw on grimly hanging onto a one-nil lead had enticed few females away from their usual pursuits on Oxford Street or the King’s Road.

But Bron said: “Yes, OK! But you’ll have to buy my train ticket. I’m skint, like I said.”

“Eh? Really? No problemo, seniorita…”

 

The crowded train lurched through the points after London Bridge. Raoul staggered, theatrically, his thigh brushing against Bron’s for the fourth time since Charing Cross. Igor, Gus, Headcase and Hardnut braced themselves against the carriage partition.

“D’you have a team back in Wales, then? Wrexham, Chester…?”

“Bangor City, Holyhead Hotspur,” Igor chipped in. “Ever go to Farrar Road?” He knew his football.

“Nah. My Uncle William, he goes up to Liverpool to see Everton…now and again. My brother, JohnJohn. He played for Rangers.”

“RANGERS? Wow, that’s really, like…”

Llanfairyngmochnant Rangers. Not now though.”

“He got dropped?”

“Kind of. There was a bit of an incident. His elbow sort of…got into the face of one of the other’s team’s players. Just accidental, like … Anyway, they say he can’t play until the court case is decided.”

“Court case? What did he DO?”

“Oh, the other guy’s out of hospital now. Bit of concussion - only in for a week…”

“Could use him at Charlton, bit of bottle…” said Gus.

“Ever any aggro at Charlton?”

“Nah! Nice family club. You’ll be safe enough, Bron.”

“Though there was the Battle of Stamford Bridge. Back in…when was it, Gus?”

“Search me. Few years back…”

“May 1988,” said Igor.

“Yeah,” said Gus. “We wanted a draw to avoid having to do the playoffs, Chelsea need to win…”

“Then Chelsea scored. Some of their lot had managed to get into our end. It all kicked off…”

“Kicked off? You mean, like, a fight?” said Bron

“Yeah!” Gus said: “There was this Charlton bird; suedehead, Doc Martens  Laid about her; took out two Chelsea…”

“Four, surely?”

“Wow!” said Bron.

She listened enthralled. Raoul hadn’t actually been at the match, not that you’d know it from his detailed account of the events of that Saturday afternoon. In fact, he’d been trailing round Debenhams in Bromley with his then fiancé, looking for matching eggshell blue pillowcases. They’d broken it off three months later.

“Will there be any aggro today?”

“Could be. Stoke have got a bit of a firm; up in the Smoke, might fancy a bit …”

 

 

Elated, the Charlton home support flooded down Floyd Road and right into Church Lane, heading for the station. They could hear a commotion at the end of the road.

“Come-AHN if YER think yer ‘ard enough. “Bunch of South London pansies!”

A solitary bloke, in a Stoke scarf, standing by the wall of a chip shop, making the two-finger sign both hands at the oncoming throng.

“Must be fuckin’ MENTAL!” said Gus. “He’s on his own…”

“What about that crew just there? Could be a trap,” said Igor.

 “Something funny about this – HEY Bron – DON’T!”

Too late. Bron picked up the litter bin and swung it wildly at the Stoke bloke’s head. She missed. Suddenly, the bunch of guys lounging by the corner shop leapt into action, aroused from suspended animation. The biggest of them grabbed Bron by the shoulders. “ROIGHT Little Miss SUNSHINE! You’re NICKED!”

Bron felt the cold steel of handcuffs around her wrists. Gus and Igor stared, open-mouthed. Raoul had disappeared into the crowd.

To be continued in Chapter 15: Bron-15 | ABCtales