Keith Ridgway - Hawthorn & Child

Hawthorn wanted to say something but his mouth had dried up. He took another drag of his cigarette, carefully, not inhaling.

— You should have got water. Oh. We have water. Here.

Hawthorn took it.

— So Malcolm, eventually he decided that smoking wasn’t for him.

Hawthorn looked at the cigarette in his hand. It shook slightly. He threw it out of the window. He felt sick and embarrassed. He wanted to belch. He sipped from the water bottle. Child was laughing at him now. But he wasn’t smoking his either.

— This was a bad a idea.

— No it wasn’t. It was a great idea. Great idea. Your best idea ever. You’ve got ash all over you.

It seems wrong. The door half open. The light on. It is mid-afternoon. He looks at the photographs on his phone. They aren’t very good. If you didn’t know what they were, you wouldn’t know what they were. He puts it away. The light is on because no one is there. If there was someone there the light would not be on. The referee’s left it on. Or one of his ghosts has left it on. And the door is open. But he only notices it’s open because the light is on. He looks out of the window. Three floors from the top, middle balcony. He’s there. But the light is still on. He’s there but he shouldn’t be. He doesn’t know what to do, now that he’s there. He doesn’t care what might be in the drawers, the cupboards. He doesn’t mind. He stands at the window. He has an erection and he presses it against the glass and tries to see the street but can’t. The place should have an alarm system. He’ll tell him. And the lock is useless. He’ll tell him that too. Casually. As they’re going out the door sometime, together. Community policing. He thinks about coming. On his clothes or into his laundry basket or the bar of soap in his shower. On his window. He goes to look in the bedroom. He remembers the angle of the open door before he changes it. The bed is made, neat. The duvet folded back. It’s the bedside lamp that’s been left on. There is no one in the room. Except Hawthorn. He thinks about getting into the bed. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. There is no one in the room. The made bed. He returns the door to the angle it was at. One third open and the light on.

There is no one anywhere.

He leaves.

— He sees ghosts.

— Yeah. He says they’re just like people except they shimmer a little. They’re half transparent. He can walk through them.

— Fuck’s sake.

— He says he’s always seen them.

— Arsehole.

— Except now he’s worried, because he’s starting to see them on the pitch. You know. During matches. They distract him.

— No shit.

— And he worries that they’ll make him screw up or do something stupid.

— And you slept with this guy.

— Yeah.

— Was he seeing ghosts?

— Yeah.

— Oh for fuck’s sake.

Hawthorn laughed.

— I need to hear this, said Child.

— Well I asked him what he was looking at. He was looking past me, you know.

— You’re having sex?

— No, no. This was just sitting in his place. He pauses mid-sentence and looks past me. Over my shoulder. And I just glance back. You know. Behind me. He looks like he’s seen something. But also like he’s remembered something. I think he’s remembered his dry cleaning or someone’s birthday or something. And I look around in a half joking sort of way. You know. When someone does that pause, and stares off into space. And you look at where they’re looking. Even though you know they’re not actually looking at anything. I looked where he was looking, then turned back to him, and he stares at me as if I’ve done something weird. And I say What , and he says Oh . Just that. Oh . And he says, for a second I thought you saw him too.

— Oh my God.

— So then he just tells me that he sees ghosts. Or people. People I suppose. He assumes they’re ghosts. Or, no. Hang on. He sees some people who aren’t dead. But he sees previous versions of them. Including himself.

— This is not getting better.

— He sees, like, himself as a kid. Or he sees his mother as a young woman. Or his grandfather as a teenager. And he recognizes those people. He sees loads of people he doesn’t recognize. He assumes they’re the ghosts.

— And you stayed?

Hawthorn shrugged.

— Do they speak to him?

— No. He says that used to drive him mad. That he’d endlessly try to get them to talk to him. But they never do. And now he’s used to it.

— How can he be a referee?

— He’s completely sane. Except for this thing. It’s like all his weirdness is contained in this. In you or me weirdness is spread out over everything. Half an inch of weirdness. Over everything. With him, it’s just this one thing that’s weird. Two foot deep.

— There’s nothing weird about me.

— He doesn’t drink. He is very fit. He’s clear-headed. Seems very smart, intelligent. Do they make a lot of money?

— No. Referees? They’re amateurs mate.

— They are not.

— Well. They get fees and that. I don’t know really. I think most of them are schoolteachers or cops or something. There’s that sergeant in Enfield is a Championship ref.

— Because he seems loaded. His place. His things. He likes nice things. He has about three computers. Art. Kitchen stuff. He has one of those high-tech kitchens. Takes about half an hour and seven different machines to make a cup of fucking coffee.

— This guy is not for you.

— He likes all the anti-referee stuff too. Seems to love the fact that he’s hated. Likes travelling on his own. Hotel rooms. Driving up and down the country. Likes no one talking to him. Likes to show up and be really professional and eat on his own in the hotel and move on. He has languages. You know. Smart guy.

— Sees ghosts.

— Sees ghosts.

— I was doing a game in France. In Marseilles. Early round UEFA Cup match. This was a couple of years ago. It was the first time it happened. Second half. There was a stupid free-for-all in the centre circle after a bad tackle. Something like that happens, when there’s shoulders charging in and a couple of mimsy head-butts, you stand back and watch. You let the captains sort it out, and you make a mental note of anyone who does any serious damage. So I’m standing back watching. I see one guy connect with a head. He’s going. I see another guy spit. He spits but misses. He’ll get a yellow. I see a lot of shouting and milling about and it’s all just dumb and it calms down and eventually they all get the message because they see me standing there saying nothing. I call over the assistants to see if they’ve seen anything I’ve missed. And sure enough one of them has the head-butted guy bang to rights for an elbow which started the whole thing. So. That’s fine. I call the captains over. I read them the riot act, I point out the three players I want, I red card the elbow and the head-butt, one from each team, that’s fine, and I yellow card the spitter and he smiles at me and then I think I’m going to have to yellow card him again and send him off because he’s taken his shirt off and I’ve only noticed and I don’t have his number, and then the assistant and one of the captains are asking me to clarify who the yellow is for, and I’m saying that guy there, and then I realize, ’cos he’s just smiling at me, that they can’t see who the fuck I’m talking about, and that’s it, first time. I’ve got one on the pitch.

— There’s some people on the pitch. They think it’s all over.

He didn’t laugh. He put his hand to Hawthorn’s throat.

— We need to move on, he said.

Johnson. Sheets. Rafsan.

— What is this?