Whatever Happened to Billy Parks

I’ve emptied the glass on the other bar stool, so I turn towards the bar and wordlessly call for another. And another. Fair play, Alan treats me well at The Anchor.

Any questions?

The same questions I’ve been asked a thousand times. I don’t mind.

Who was the best player you ever played against?

I sip my drink as the question’s asked, then I answer as the alcohol surges down my throat and loosens the connection between my tongue and my mind and my memory. They expect it.

‘The best player – that’s easy,’ I tell them. ‘Georgie Best.’ Hushed respectful tones and thin lips when talking about Georgie; the best player ever to grace a football pitch, bar none. God rest his mad Irish soul.

Who was the hardest opponent?

‘Paul Reaney – Reaney the Meanie of Dirty Leeds. The others would try to kick you, but he was the only one who was fast enough to catch you –’ I pause ‘– then he’d kick you.’ They laugh. Oh, yes, Paul Reaney, dirty, hard, fast bastard. I smile at the thought of being kicked by a good honest pro. ‘Good bloke,’ I add quietly, because I mean that. And that’s what good honest pros did – a kick, then a handshake and a few beers in the players’ lounge bar after the match. None of the nonsense you get with footballers these days, with their fancy cars and their fancy agents and their one hundred and ten fucking grand a week.

Not that I blame them.

I’ve answered these questions thousands of times. I’ve emptied a thousand glasses. I’ve smiled on thousands of fans. This is easy money, money for my memories and a few minutes of adulation to remind me that I’m still alive.

I’m getting warmed up now. The crowd is a good one, suitably boisterously pissed and attentive to all my best stories. I’ve become good at this.

My eyes wander towards the back of the pub, and there, standing close to the blessed Coronation Street fruit machine, stands a man in a tan sheepskin coat and trilby. There’s something familiar about him, something about the thick furious grey eyebrows that explode across a forehead that’s creased and serious. I know I’ve seen those eyebrows before, but where?

I catch him watching me intently, his face a humourless shade of thunderbolt grey. For a second I meet his stare, just a second. Where the bloody hell have I seen him before?

I turn away just as the man’s voice cuts through the muggy atmosphere of the pub to ask a question.

‘What would you give to turn the clock back and put a few things right?’ he asks.

God, not that old chestnut. I try to stifle the furrowing of my brow. There’s something about the way in which he asks the question though; it lacks the smiling compassion that usually accompanies my inquisitors. There’s a cold, understated masculine aggression to it. Perhaps he is one of the nutters that I sometimes get. Sad, bitter, twisted old bastards – back in the day, they’d want to fight me; now, occasionally, they want to humiliate me.

I pour more of the cheap neat whisky into my mouth. I can deal with it – I’ve heard this type of question a thousand times before:

If you could change anything, what would it be?

Do you have any regrets?

Where did it all go wrong?

I know exactly how I will answer it. I know that my mouth will form itself into a quick smile before opening and allowing meaningless soft words to tumble out like little balls of cotton wool harmlessly falling on to a bouncy mattress. Puff.

I put on my most sincere voice and answer, as the man in the sheepskin coat stares: ‘Football has given me a very lovely life and great memories,’ I tell him. ‘I wouldn’t change a second of anything. I’ve been very lucky.’ I pause, then smile. ‘And so have hundreds of birds and everyone in north and east London that was lucky enough to see me play.’

I grin, some of the audience chuckle, but the man’s expression doesn’t change, which gives me a sharp pang of discomfort, as though I was being chastised by an old and respected uncle. Well, sod that. I glance towards the bar, where the barmaid, Leanne, a rather hefty girl who obviously likes a bit of artificial tanning, stands bored, cradling her chin in her hands. Thirty years ago we might have been up for a bit of fun later – but not now.

It’s time to finish.

I turn again to the audience and ignore the bloke in the sheepskin coat.

‘Right, gentlemen, thank you very much, you’ve been lovely.’

The crowd applaud. Not Anfield, not Stamford Bridge, not Wembley Stadium or the San Siro, not the deep, pure, momentary masculine love of an adulating crowd roaring after the ball has ripped into the net, but smiling faces and clapping hands and a muted sincere cheer.

‘Thank you very much, fellas,’ I repeat. ‘I’ll tell you what, if any of you want to ask any more questions, I’m happy to oblige over by the bar.’

I always do this. I know that a little coterie of drinkers will surround me, try to get closer to me, close enough to breathe my air and buy me drinks and talk to me as if I’m one of the lads, one of them: ‘So, what do you think about the Hammers, eh? It’s a fucking disgrace.’

I’m not one of the lads. But I will be for a drink. They expect it.

‘You havin’ a drink with us, Parksy?’

‘Thank you very much, mate – I’ll have the same again. Yes, the Hammers – fucking terrible, I’ve not been down there for a while.’

After about an hour the crowd leaves: happy, drunk sportsmen. I’m alone. Alan, the landlord, a large man who wears brown short-sleeved shirts and steel-rimmed glasses, comes over.

‘You alright to get home, Billy?’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘You sure?’

He looks carefully at me. ‘Did you know that your pupils have gone yellow? You should watch that.’

Yellow? What does he mean yellow? The daft bastard.

‘It must be something you’re putting in your scotch to water it down with,’ I say, and he grins at me with concerned eyes.

‘Here you go, son,’ he says, handing me a brown envelope. ‘Forty quid, I’ve taken out the twenty you owe for your tab, alright?’

I nod. I’m not going to quibble over a few quid.

I leave the safety of The Anchor, stepping out into the late afternoon. The pub door shuts behind me and the south London air stings my eyes. I hate that, I hate that moment when the pub door shuts and the moroseness hits you. The devastating lonely feeling of insignificance. My past means nothing under the massive spitting sky. Cars whip by creating movement and noise in the gloom. They ignore me. They don’t know who I am. But if they did, if they had seen me …

I stumble, then grab hold of the railings by the side of the road. Better take myself to The Marquis close to the park. Yes, there would be friendly faces there, friendly faces and the same conversations and the same drink: people to tell me how worthwhile my life has been, people to love me. Perhaps Maureen, the landlady, will be there and I might find solace in her comfortable body.

I start to walk; my knees hurt, the result of Paul bloody Reaney no doubt, him and the hundreds of others without an ounce of talent who’d been told to kick me as hard as they fucking-well could. I feel tired. I rub my eyes and start to cross the road.

‘You didn’t answer my question, Billy?’

I turn around abruptly, drunkenly, to see the man in the sheepskin coat and trilby walking towards me. My eyes narrow as I try to focus on the man’s face. Where the bloody hell do I know him from? There was something familiar about him.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘I should hope so,’ he says, and he smiles slowly and mechanically at me.

I stagger slightly and move my head back trying to get a better look at him, to picture him, put a name to the face, put an age to the face.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember. You’ll have to remind me.’