Gareth Roberts - Whatever Happened to Billy Parks

‘You silly, silly boy. I-only-asked-you-to-do-one-thing. You silly, silly boy.’

As the force of the blows diminished, I looked up, my own face now a mass of rushing tears, and I could see through the kitchen the back of Father’s head tilted upwards, looking, as ever, towards the heavens.

‘Dad,’ I shouted through sobs. ‘Dad, I scored a goal. You should have seen my goal. Stanley Matthews crossed it and I smashed it into the net.’

Father didn’t turn around.

A few weeks later they fished him out of the canal.

Details: Match 1, March 1955

Venue: The Waste Ground by Singleton Street

Chris Cockle’s XI 8 v. Lads from Manor Park 8

(Match abandoned after brawl erupts following Eddie ‘Spider’ Linton’s controversial disputed winner)

Line up:Lanky Johnson (Bert Williams), Billy Parks (Alf Ramsey), Tommy Weston (Bill Eckersley), Ginger Henderson (Billy Wright), Topper Winters (Jimmy Dickinson), An Other (some lad with glasses who was never seen again), Archie Stevenson (Alfredo Di Stefano), Peter Scott (Wilf Mannion), Johnny Smith (Stanley Matthews), Chris Cockle (Ferenc Puskas though changed to Nat Lofthouse shortly after half-time), Brownie Brown (Tom Finney)

Sadly, other than Lenny Hansen and Eddie ‘Spider’ Linton, the Manor Park line up has been lost in time.

Attendance: 6 (including Charlie Scott’s little sisters and a policeman who arrived to break up the fight)

The first thing I see is the drip. I know it’s a drip and that must mean that I’m in a hospital. But I can’t for the life of me think why? The last thing I remember is looking at the grass on Southwark Park. What was it about the grass?

I look at the drip and see a little blurry bubble – which may be a droplet of my blood – make its way down the drip-line towards the needle that leads, via a vein in my hand, to me.

I’m uncomfortable: I’ve been sleeping at a weird angle with my neck turned sideways in a different direction to the rest of me.

I turn my neck – that’s better, that’s comfy. My eyes close again and I give a warm welcome to the wondrous feeling of sleep without giving any more thought to where I am or why, or the drip that’s happily filling me with some kind of liquid.

Funny how sleep can do that.

The next time I wake up there’s a doctor staring down at me; a smiling Asian fella, who’s close enough for me to taste the cheese-and-onion butty he’s had from the canteen. Behind him are two nurses; one of them is looking at a clipboard and nodding at something the doctor is saying, the other one is smiling at me like I’m some kind of half-wit.

‘Ah, hello, Mr Parks,’ says the doctor. ‘Nice to have you back in the land of the living. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, and instantly try to get up on my elbow. One of the nurses intervenes, plumping up my pillow and easing me slightly forward – she’s got nice breath; she must have had the salad.

‘I am Dr Aranthraman,’ says the doctor. ‘They tell me that you are a famous footballer?’

I am. I am Billy Parks.

He doesn’t wait for any response, instead he starts to say things to me in a doctor-type of way, talking quickly in heavily accented English. I can’t understand him. What’s he going on about? He tells me something about some tests. Then something about my liver and only 15% of it working or perhaps he said 50%, I’m not sure. But they were going to clean it or something by giving me some medication.

And how often do I drink?

‘Now and again,’ I say, then I try to smile at one of the nurses. ‘The crowd expects it,’ I add. But the nurse doesn’t appear to understand.

Dr Aranthraman gives me a lecture about not drinking. I’ve heard it before.

‘Your liver is in a bad way,’ he tells me, ‘just one more drink could kill you.’ Then he tells me that he’s placed me on the waiting list for a transplant, but I won’t have one if I continue to drink alcohol. As he speaks I start to feel very tired: perhaps it’s his halitosis?

‘Do you have any questions?’ he asks me.

‘Has anyone been in to see me?’ I ask. The doctor’s lips thin and I see a nurse shake her head.

When I wake up the third time, I am startled by the sight of Gerry Higgs sitting quietly in the corner seat of my room. What’s he doing here? I stare at him. He appears to be asleep, his hat on his knee and his head bowed. What the fuck is he doing in my room?

I remember now, his question, and the park, and what was it he told me he was part of? The Institute or something, no, not the Institute, what was it? The Service. Yes that’s right, the Service.

As I look at him, one of his manic eyes jerks open and stares at me, before the other one joins it. He smiles, like he’s played a really good joke.

‘Mr Higgs,’ I say. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here.’

‘All part of my work,’ he says, then quickly changes the subject before I can ask him what in the name of God he’s going on about. ‘So, what have the doctors said then?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘Oh it’s nothing, something about me liver not being too good,’ I say and I mutter something about a transplant, which gets me thinking that surely I should have some say about whether I actually want a transplant: I mean they just can’t haul out bits of you. Can they?

‘You don’t want to worry too much about what these doctors say, Billy,’ says Gerry Higgs, ‘half the time they’re more interested in their statistics: it looks good if they perform so-many operations and procedures and transplants.’

He’s probably right.

‘You see, Billy,’ says Gerry Higgs, who’s now pulled his chair closer to my bed, ‘I need you fit and well.’

What? I find myself smirking at the incredulity of this. ‘Why’s that, Mr Higgs, does that Russian bloke want to sign me for Chelsea?’

I watch Gerry Higgs’s face crease up scornfully as I mention Roman Whatshisname from Chelsea. ‘Don’t talk to me about that gangster,’ he says. ‘No, Billy, I’m talking about proper footballing men, geniuses.’

Now, for the first time, it crosses my mind that Gerry Higgs might actually be a few players short of a full team.

‘Gerry,’ I say. ‘Mr Higgs, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’