The ‘hooded hooligan’

 

Jack was hungry. The food they served in the hostel was unpleasant, to put it politely, and they never gave you enough to fill you up even if your taste buds were numb enough to stomach it.

He eyed the man in the Armani jacket thoughtfully. How much cash would a man like that have on him? Perhaps none; after all, most people paid by card these days. But Jack had a feeling that this man may be an exception. An Armani leather jacket means that you’re really flash, flash enough to have a couple of hundred quid handy just in case you’re entertaining a date perhaps, and (just on a whim) fancy a bottle of the finest Don Perignon champagne.

He was clad in stonewash Diesel jeans, an open-necked designer shirt, and sleek brown loafers. His windswept Tony and Guy hair was adorned by a pair of stylish sunglasses, which he probably only wore indoors at exclusive soirees. In fact he was barely a man at all. He was the anonymous face of the city.

The man strolled casually towards a busy level-crossing, with Jack shuffling 10 yards behind. How easy it would be to pick this man’s pocket amidst the crush of bodies when the traffic stopped. And how little he’d miss the money. Probably the inconvenience of cancelling his cards would be a greater concern to him. Instead of champagne Jack would buy the first decent meal he’d had for months, with plenty of change to spare. He’d probably buy some booze as well, he reflected, who’d expect anything else of a hobo?

Had he listened to reason alone, the wallet would be as good as his already, but it was at this point that Jack was pricked by the voice of his conscience for the first time in a long time. It took him back to that fateful day 5 years ago.

 

Jack had been 14 years old. His parents were young, his father 35 and his mother just 30. His mother was a pleasant woman who always put Jack before herself. He knew that she hated her job in the chip shop, but he also knew that it was necessary that his mother worked to top up the irregular income brought home by his father, who was often out of work. Even at his young age, he appreciated the sacrifices that she’d made for him.

Today was another day that his father found himself without a job. He’d been sacked two months previously from his post as a security guard for drinking on the job. Drinking was the only thing his father did with any sort of reliability. When he was working he’d say he drank because he hated his job, when he was between jobs he claimed it was because he had nothing better to do, and he seemed unable to find a job he didn’t hate.

Jack had just got home from school and was idly flicking through the TV channels as he waited for his mother to put the dinner on. He was dimly aware of the sound of a key being inserted into the front door, but paid little attention to it as he switched on the news, which happened to be showing the football highlights. The sound continued however, as whoever was outside fumbled clumsily with the key. ‘It must be dad,’ thought Jack disinterestedly, ‘probably too drunk to be able to put the key in the lock.’ But it was early for his father to come home; usually he’d be drinking way past teatime.

Finally the door opened. His father stumbled through the living room door noisily.

“Where’s your mother, boy?” he demanded gruffly. He’d clearly had a few. His eyes were tinged with a shade of red and they kept wandering away from Jack as he stood there. His chin was matted with 2 day old stubble, and he swayed like a tree in a stiff breeze, eventually grasping the door handle for support.

“She’s in the kitchen,” replied Jack, without looking at him, “doing the dishes.” He staggered back out of the room. Jack was not surprised; it was not the first time he’d seen his father drunk, nor would it be the last.

He was a little more surprised when he heard shouting coming from the kitchen. Although his father did get angry when he was drunk, his mother was so submissive that he rarely shouted at her, usually sparing his wrath for Jack himself. The voices got louder and louder.

“So if it’s bull&$$ then how come it’s all round the pub, you cheap #!&#&?” His father sounded furious.

“How dare you even ask me a question like that?” his mother retorted, “the amount of crap I have to put up with from you and YOU have the cheek to accuse ME of cheating?”

Jack’s ears perked up, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his mother shout. The father’s voice reverted to an ugly sneer, “well, I suppose a little tramp like you doesn’t deserve any better than a grease ball like Lucas anyway.” Lucas was the boss at the chip shop.

What happened next happened very quickly. There was the sharp sound of a slap, followed by a cry of ‘you #*@^%i’ then the sound of something smashing. A scream followed, and finally the slam of the front door.

Jack was frightened. It was a long time before he summoned the courage to approach the kitchen, and the sounds of his mother’s sobbing only slowed his footsteps still further.

When he did finally peak his head around the door, he was confronted by a horrible sight. His mother sat slumped against the cupboard, holding a crimson rag to her face. On the floor next to her was a broken pint glass, the jagged edges coated in scarlet. She was sobbing incoherently. “Jesus,” she repeated over again, “Jesus”.

Jack felt strangely empty inside. He would have expected to feel anger, or sympathy, but he simply couldn’t believe what had happened. He was on autopilot as he made his way to the phone and dialled 999. 10 minutes for an ambulance, the operator said coldly.

Jack began to walk back towards the kitchen, then he stopped. He simply couldn’t bear to look at his mother in that state again, not yet anyway. He turned on his heels and walked out of the door, feeling no emotion as he left his mother alone.

At first he trod aimlessly, drifting he knew not where, kicking rocks on the street and trying not to think. But eventually he headed towards the only place apart from home where he felt at home, the park.

As he’d expected, a few of his friends were there playing football with some boys he didn’t know. Some older kids were hanging around on the park benches, drinking cider, but he barely registered them.

“Alright Jack, you’ve got a face like a smacked arse, what’s up?” The boy who spoke was Ben, one of Jack’s best friends; he had an older brother and always seemed to be picking up some new obscenity or other from him.

“Nothing,” replied Jack bluntly, “bad day.”

“Well get yourself on the pitch then, we’re a man short and we should be beating these fools.”

Jack stepped mechanically into the football cage and took up a position at the back. He played lethargically, unable to concentrate on anything; not the football, and not his mother either. He took a few sloppy touches.

“What you playing at Ronaldo?” scolded Ben, “get your mind on the game, we’re 4-3 down.”

As Jack ran around and worked up a sweat he was able to find his focus a little. He was a decent football player, and the lads he was up against weren’t very good; it was not long before he was making the difference. He played Ben in with a nice through ball, which led to the equaliser, and a couple of minutes later took out a big burly kid with the drop of a shoulder and drilled the ball into the bottom right corner to make it 5-4 to his team.

“That’s more like it,” said Ben approvingly, “stick it to ‘em.”

“Look at the gay boys hugging each other,” retorted the burly boy, “didn’t know gays could play football.”

“Shut up,” responded Ben, “if you’re getting beaten by gays what does that make you?” He had a habit of talking himself into trouble.

“You’d better watch it pal.”

“Let’s just get on with the game.” Jack was indifferent to the goings on around him.

The game continued. The opponents grabbed another goal and they decided to play next goal the winner. The burly boy picked up the ball on the halfway line and carried it towards Jack. He feinted left then turned right, but too slowly to fool Jack, who stuck in a foot. He got the ball, but the boy was sent flying by the challenge.

“Foul!” he screamed indignantly, “bloody penalty!”

“Shut up,” said Jack, bubbling with adrenaline in spite of himself, “I got the damn ball! You’re a cheater.”

“Yeah, so’s your mum, or so I heard.”

“You what?” said Jack.

“Yeah, you heard me, what you gonna do about it?” the boy approached Jack boldly, confident in his height and weight advantage.

Jack stared blurredly at the boy’s large chest as he approached, a throbbing had started up inside his head, and his face felt like it was on fire. Without warning he fired a lightning punch at the boy’s nose. There was a loud cracking sound, and the boy stumbled back, stunned. Blood spurted angrily from a cavity at the bridge of his nose. With an angry grunt, he rushed at Jack, but again, Jack was too quick, darting to one side and tripping the boy, and sending him sprawling. Before he knew what was happening Jack was on top of him, straddling his opponent as he lay beaten on the floor.

Only it was no longer the boy. It was his father, complete with blurry eyes and sour breath, and he was sneering at him in his inability to cause him any real harm as he rained down blow after blow. Finally he was pulled away by friends, and he was disconsolate with tears.

 

The burly boy spent the next six months in hospital; Jack spent the next 3 years in a juvenile detention centre. Some so-called experts tell you that if you go to a place like that you are destined to spend the rest of your life as a criminal. That’s not true. What is true is that you are surrounded by plenty of people who will, and that if you don’t abide by their rules they will make your life hard.

Jack’s life was hard. But experiences forced him to grow up rather than turn malicious. He knew that he was not like these other boys; he was not a bad person, and although he regretted the actions that had put him there, he’d really only done what had come naturally to him at the time.

He was out at 17 and his mother refused to see him. He didn’t know what had become of his father. He was unqualified, and had little prospect of a job after the media had made him known to the nation as the ‘hooded hooligan’,

And now here he was, standing 5 feet away from a glamorous man and contemplating stealing his wallet. His conscience had pricked him, but what he was really wondering was whether he really owed society anything after the way it had treated him.

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