The Devil's in the Detail. Matthew S Wilson

      O’Connor nodded over to a tattooed giant feeding coins into the fruit machine in the corner. He was wearing an England shirt with the name “Nuttsy” on the back.

      ‘The last bloke to drink Nuttsy’s pint is still picking fucking shards of glass out of his eyes. You don’t want that, do you?’

      David most certainly did not. He returned the glass to the bar. Mike shook the cider bottle in front of him.

      ‘Go on.’

      If David didn’t take the bottle, it would come off he was scared of Mike, which of course he was. But he was almost positive that Mike’s new found warmth towards him was simply because he’d probably pissed into the bottle. He was between a rock, a hard place and a 200 pound guy named Nuttsy.

      David reluctantly took the bottle, pursed his lips and took a small sip. He was ready to spit it out and run to the bathroom, when Mike snatched the bottle back.

      ‘Jesus, you drink like a girl, Shepherd.’

      Mike took a long pull on the bottle and gasped for air when he’d eventually drank the last drop. David just looked at him in awe.

      ‘Righto, where are we going to get our next drink from then?’ asked Mike. The two boys weaseled into the crowd, all who were still transfixed by the match. Suddenly, they were squashed by the bellies of the men behind them into the fat arses of the guys in front of them.

      ‘Get him!’ screamed the skin-head.

      The boys caught a glimpse of one of the Argentinean players dashing down the right-hand wing of the pitch on the television.

      ‘Tackle the bastard!’ spat the bartender.

      David saw that it was Maradona again. The Argentine evaded Beardsley, then Reid, then Butcher (for a second time!) before streaming down the wing and darting past Fenwick. Peter Shilton left the goalmouth and all of a sudden, time seemed to slow down.

      The spittle from the fat bastard behind David floated through the air. The coins from Nuttsy’s pay-out of £17.25 trickled out from the machine with the word “Jackpot” lighting up. A pint glass flew through the air toward the television.

      Diego Maradona edged the ball subtly to his right as Shilton dived towards him. Seconds, if not minutes, seemed to pass as the diminutive Argentinean sent the ball rolling past the outstretched keeper and finally into the back of the goal. The net rippled and time suddenly caught up. Fast.

      The spittle splashed on the swastika on the back of the skin-head’s head, prompting him to turn around glaring. Nuttsy let out a massive bellow of ‘Get in!’ while collecting his coins, prompting the entire pub to presume he was actually an Argentinean fan. And the pint glass slammed into the television, showering the people at the front at the pub in glass and beer. Mike grabbed David by the back of his neck.

      ‘Run.’

      Punches started to fly. The skin-head punched the fat guy deep in the belly, upending the gradual digestion of three pies and a pounds-worth of chips. His fat comrades then dived onto the skin-head, calling him a German prick, despite the fact he was from Wapping. A group of blokes who were either too young or dumb not to heed the rule “Never question a bloke named Nuttsy” soon had their heads swiftly introduced by the newly-rich Nuttsy. And the rest of the room started belting the bloke who’d thrown the pint glass, despite the fact he was actually the landlord and therefore the rightful owner of the television in the first place.

      Mike and David weaved through the punches, kicks and vomit and burst into the comparatively fresh air of Highbury.

      ‘Jesus,’ said Mike, catching his breath while also grabbing his smokes from the back-pocket of his jeans. ‘You ok?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Mike lit two cigarettes and offered the second to David. He didn’t actually smoke, but it seemed rude to decline the offer - even if it was from Mike O’Connor. The crashing of tables and glasses became quieter as the boys walked up the hill smoking their cigarettes. Mike broke the silence.

      ‘Still in school?’

      ‘Yeah. You?’

      ‘Yeah. Mum moved us back to Liverpool. Just came down for the weekend to see Dad.’

      David felt sick in his stomach. Had he caused Mike’s parents to split up? Worried that Mike might suddenly make the same connection, he hurried the conversation along.

      ‘Where does your Dad live?’

      ‘Pentonville.’

      Prison? What do you say to something like that? Luckily Mike just shrugged.

      ‘I prefer it in Liverpool anyway. At least we have proper football teams up north.’

      Both boys grinned. And that was that. No more conversations of bullying in the school yard, false accusations, divorces or prison. As the two boys walked through Highbury Fields they were oblivious to everything around them. The girls sun bathing in their bikinis. The dogs crapping on the pavement. The lager louts vomiting in the bushes. Life was so much easier smoking cigarettes and giving each other’s football teams a bollocking. They eventually got to David’s street.

      ‘This is me down here.’

      Mike checked his watch.

      ‘I’d better get over to Euston and get the train back. My Mum is going to shit it when she finds out I came down here.’

      David couldn’t help but smile. Mike was almost the rebel he’d always wanted to be.

      ‘You coming down again?’

      ‘I think we’re playing your boys soon.’

      ‘Cool.’

      David turned into his street, a smile on his lips.

      ‘Shepherd.’

      David turned around.

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘How are things with your old man?’

      The smile slipped off David’s lips – replaced with an embarrassed squint.

      ‘Better.’

      ‘Yeah? I wish my old man had got better. Maybe my mum wouldn’t have gone to the bizzies and I wouldn’t have to come down to fucking London to see him.’

      ‘Bizzies?’ queried David.

      ‘Jesus, you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed are you mate? Bizzies. As in, too busy to help. You follow?’

      David didn’t.

      ‘The bizzies. Old bill?’

      Mike laughed, presumably at just how dense David could be.

      ‘The police for christsake.’

      Mike shrugged his laugh off.

      ‘My dad would’ve fucking killed her if she hadn’t gone to the police.’

      David’s eyes flicked to the ground and without another word walked towards his house.

      ‘See you around, Shepherd.’

      And that was that. David wasn’t sure if it was the shared bond of an abusive father, or whether it was the shared bottle of cider, but somehow Mike O’Connor and he had become mates. He walked down his street, eerily silent, no doubt from the fact that everyone was still in shock from the football. It must be getting close to full-time now. He didn’t feel like watching the last part. He unlocked his door and trudged up the stairs.

      ‘Mum?’

      He could hear the sound of running water in the kitchen. Walking in, he found his mother with her back to him at the sink washing her hands.

      ‘You should have seen it, Mum. Bloody cheating Argie bastards. They punched the bloody ball through the goal.’

      He