David Peace - Red or Dead

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Red or Dead: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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In 1959, Liverpool Football Club were in the Second Division. Liverpool Football Club had never won the FA Cup. Fifteen seasons later, Liverpool Football Club had won three League titles, two FA Cups and the UEFA Cup. Liverpool Football Club had become the most consistently successful team in England. And the most passionately supported club. Their manager was revered as a god.Destined for immortality. Their manager was Bill Shankly. His job was his life. His life was football. His football a form of socialism. Bill Shankly inspired people. Bill Shankly transformed people. The players and the supporters.His legacy would reveberate through the ages.
In 1974, Liverpool Football Club and Bill Shankly stood on the verge of even greater success. In England and in Europe. But in 1974, Bill Shankly shocked Liverpool and football. Bill Shankly resigned. Bill Shankly retired.
Red or Dead

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There you are, love. What are you doing, standing in the dark? Draw the curtains, love. It’s dark now. It’s getting late, love.

Bill smiled. And Bill said, I know, love. I know.

Bill knew if you listened carefully. If you listened closely. There was always the sound of chains. Always the sound of knives. And always the sound of spades. At your back, in your shadow. The sound of chains rattling. The sound of knives sharpening. The sound of spades digging. Rattling, sharpening and digging –

And ticking. The clock ticking.

On the touchline, the touchline at Old Trafford. Bill shook the hand of Wilf McGuinness. And Bill said, Well played, Wilf. Well played. And I wish you all the best for the rest of the season, Wilf.

Thank you, Mr Shankly. And the same to you, sir …

Bill nodded. And Bill looked up into the stand, the Main Stand at Old Trafford. And Bill saw Matt. Matt still looking old, Matt still looking drained. Exhausted and not smiling –

Bill not smiling. Liverpool Football Club not first in the First Division now. Liverpool Football Club third in the First Division –

On the bench, the Anfield bench. In the first minute, Bill watched Evans score. In the tenth minute, Lawler score. In the twenty-fourth minute, Smith score. In the thirty-sixth minute, Graham score. In the thirty-eighth minute, Evans score again. In the fifty-sixth minute, Alec Lindsay score. On his debut. In the sixty-seventh minute, Smith score again. In the sixty-ninth minute, Thompson score. In the seventy-sixth minute, Callaghan score. In the eighty-second minute, Graham score again. And on the bench, the Anfield bench. Bill was smiling now. Liverpool Football Club had beaten Dundalk Football Club ten — nil in the first leg of the First Round of the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup –

On the bench, the bench at Maine Road. Bill watched Doyle score for Manchester City. Bill watched Evans equalise. Bill watched Young score for Manchester City. Bill watched Graham equalise. But then Bill watched Bowyer score for Manchester City. And Manchester City had knocked Liverpool Football Club out of the Football League Cup. And Bill was not smiling now –

On the bench, the bench at the Hawthorns. Bill stared out at the players of Liverpool Football Club. But Bill did not see Ron Yeats. Yeats was injured. And Bill did not see Ian St John. St John was injured. Bill saw Larry Lloyd. And Bill saw Phil Boersma. And Bill saw West Bromwich Albion Football Club tear Liverpool Football Club apart. Lawrence save from Suggett. Lawrence save from Hope. Lawrence save from Brown. Lawrence save from Hegan. And Lawrence save from Suggett again. But then the ball fell to Astle. And Lawrence did not save from Astle. And Astle scored. But in the twenty-fifth minute, Thompson passed to Hunt. And Hunt crossed. Graham met the cross from Hunt. And Graham nodded the cross into the goal. But in the second half, from thirty yards out, Hegan shot. And Hegan scored. And Liverpool Football Club were losing two — one. And the long minutes became short minutes. Again. Bill heard the crowd whistling. The short minutes become dying minutes. Again. The crowd whistling, still whistling. But in the ninety-seventh minute, Hughes passed to Hunt on the edge of the penalty area. The crowd whistling, still whistling and whistling. And Hunt shot. And Hunt scored. And with the last kick of the game, Liverpool Football Club drew two-all with West Bromwich Albion. And Bill saw some of the crowd run onto the pitch. Onto the field. And one of the crowd punched the referee in his face. And the police came onto the pitch. And the police escorted the referee from the pitch. From the field,

down the tunnel.

In Newcastle, in the hotel. In the dining room, in his chair. Bill watched the players eat their steak and chips. Bill watched the players eat their tinned fruit and cream. Tommy Lawrence. Chris Lawler. Geoff Strong. Tommy Smith. Ron Yeats. Emlyn Hughes. Ian Callaghan. Phil Boersma. Bobby Graham. Alun Evans. Peter Thompson. And the Saint. Bill heard the players joking, Bill heard the players laughing. And in the lounge, in his chair, Bill watched the players playing cards. Tommy Lawrence. Chris Lawler. Geoff Strong. Tommy Smith. Ron Yeats. Emlyn Hughes. Ian Callaghan. Phil Boersma. Bobby Graham. Alun Evans. Peter Thompson. And the Saint. Bill heard the players joking. Bill heard the players laughing. And in the lobby, by the lift. Bill heard the players say goodnight. Bill watched the players go upstairs. Tommy Lawrence. Chris Lawler. Geoff Strong. Tommy Smith. Ron Yeats. Emlyn Hughes. Ian Callaghan. Phil Boersma. Bobby Graham. Alun Evans. Peter Thompson. And the Saint. The players still joking, the players still laughing. And in his room, on the bed. Bill threw his book onto the floor. His book of names, his book of notes. And Bill stood up. And in his room, on the carpet. Bill paced and Bill paced. And Bill thought and Bill thought. About the players, all the players. About Tommy Lawrence. About Chris Lawler. About Geoff Strong. About Tommy Smith. About Ron Yeats. About Emlyn Hughes. About Ian Callaghan. About Phil Boersma. About Bobby Graham. About Alun Evans. About Peter Thompson. And about the Saint. The games he had played and the runs he had made. The tackles he had made and the balls he had won. The passes he had played and the goals he had scored. On the Friday night, the night before the game. In Newcastle, in the hotel. In his room, his tiny hotel room. Bill paced and Bill paced. Bill thought and Bill thought. And Bill worried and Bill worried. He thought about the Saint and he worried about the Saint. About what he would do with the Saint, about what he would say to the Saint. And Bill paced and he paced. And Bill thought and he thought. And Bill worried and he worried. His jacket stuck to his shirt. The sound of the chains. His shirt stuck to his vest. The sound of the knives. His vest stuck to his skin. The sound of the spades. Until night became morning, until Friday became Saturday. The day here,

the game here.

In the office, at his desk. Bill heard the footsteps coming down the corridor. The angry footsteps. Bill heard the two short knocks upon the door. The angry knocks. And Bill saw the Saint burst into the office. And the finger in his face –

Why didn’t you tell me I wasn’t playing, asked Ian St John. Why didn’t you say something to me? To my face?

You weren’t in the dressing room when I read out the team. If you had been in the dressing room when I read out the team, you would have heard. You would have heard then.

But you could have told me on the Friday night, said Ian St John. At the hotel, before the game. You could have told me at breakfast. On Saturday morning, before the game. You could have told me any time before the game. Any time …

Yes, I would have told you before the game. I would have told you in the dressing room before the game. If you’d been in the dressing room before the game. But you weren’t in the dressing room before the game. I don’t know where you were. But you were not there.

I’d just nipped out to give some tickets to some mates. I was only gone a minute. But you’d already decided. You’d already written it on the team sheet. That’s how I heard about it. Not from you. From Jackie Milburn. In the bloody lobby. Looking at the team sheet. Hearing it from Jackie fucking Milburn. Not from you …

Because you weren’t in the dressing room. You would have heard it from me, if you’d been in the dressing room before the game. But you weren’t in the dressing room …

That’s not the bloody point. That’s not what I fucking mean. You should have taken me to one side. You should have told me to my face. Just you and me. That’s what you should have done …

Why? I’ve never done that with anyone before.

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