Kong

Jif tapped his pen onto the crossword puzzle in front of him and stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Oh, what’s his name?’

‘What’s whose name?’ said Price, standing up a few feet from Jif and rotating his hips.

‘King ... King ... King ... What is it?’

Just then Lambert, with consummate dexterity, leant across Jif and snatched the book from his hands.

‘Oi! Lammo!’

‘The New McKenzie Easy-Peasy Book of Crossword Puzzles,’ said Lambert, reading the front cover and grinning. ‘This is real heavy substance, Jif.’

Jif stood up, scowled at Lambert and grabbed the book back before resuming his seat.

‘What you stuck on, Jif?’ said Greening, stretching his calves.

‘Two down, Shakespeare play, four letters, King something. I know it. It’s on the tip of my?’

‘Kong,’ said Kelly, without looking up from his iPhone.

‘What?’ said Jif, screwing his face up at Kelly.

‘Kong. King Kong.’

‘Don’t be a clump for your whole existence, Kelly,’ said Jif, shaking his head.

Kelly looked up for one second, and then went back to the game he was playing on his phone. ‘What’s wrong – it fits, dunnit?’

‘Yes, it fits, but it’s not right!’

‘How do you know?’

Jif tutted. ‘Cos King Kong’s a giant ape, you clump! Shakespeare wrote about real kings.’

‘Well? King Kong was a real king.’

Jif put the book down next to him on the wooden bench, looked up at the ceiling and sighed deeply. ‘How was King Kong a real king?’

Kelly gave a sneaky, sideways glance at Jif and the side of his mouth turned up. ‘He was king of the apes, that boy. No-one messed with the Kong!’

‘He’s right there,’ said Jones, massaging his left thigh. ‘He was a beast, that Kong.’

‘Yeah, you gotta admit, Jif,’ said Taggart. ‘That Kong was a big ‘un.’

Jif shook his head again. ‘Fuck’s sake!’

Another man walked into the room, his boots in his hands. ‘Hey, skipper,’ said Lambert, ‘Jif’s stuck on something. Shakespeare play, four letters, King something.’

‘Lear,’ said the skipper, casually, and took his place on the bench.

‘Lear!’ said Jif, and clapped his hands together. ‘That’s the boy! Cheers, skip.’ Jif wrote the word Lear into the four squares and smiled. ‘See? That’s why he’s skipper and you’re not, Kez!’

‘It’s not as good as Kong, though,’ said Kelly.

Jif tutted. ‘Shut up, Kelly.’

‘He’s got a point there, Jif,’ said Bellini.

‘How as he got a point, Bells? Kong’s wrong, Lear’s right. End of dialogue.’

‘I think Jif’s right, as well,’ said Lambert.

‘Me too,’ said the skipper.

‘What? How can you think he’s right, cap? You just told me the answer! The right answer!’

‘Well, Lear’s right in the conventional sense, I agree.’

‘It’s right in every sense. It’s the right answer.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said the skipper.

‘What d’you mean, not necessarily?’

‘Well,’ continued the skipper, tapping the soles of his boots together, ‘there are many ways to look at the world.’

‘Too true, capo,’ said Bellini.

‘Yeah, you don’t have to conform to anyone’s world view,’ said Greening.

‘That’s right,’ said Lambert, ‘you make them conform to your plan. That’s the way to get on in this world.’

‘What is this, a fucking conspiracy?’ said Jif. ‘Something’s either right or it’s wrong.’

‘Ah, if only it were so black and white,’ said the skipper, shaking his head.

‘It is that black and white, for fuck’s sake!’ said Jif. He reached into his hold-all and pulled out a banana. He held the banana out in front of him, for all to see, and began to peel it. ‘Look – this is a banana, right? I am peeling a banana and now I am eating a banana.’ He took a very large bite from the banana (in hindsight, too large), stood up and said: ‘It’s not a fucking apple!’ Actually, what he said was almost unintelligible – muffled, as it was, by the huge amount of mashed fruit swilling about his mouth.

‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Dumanovsky, looking at a small piece of banana that Jif, in his fury, had accidentally spat onto the floor.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Price. ‘I don’t think they do, either.’

‘Look,’ said Greening, ‘it’s simple. I’m with you all the way on this, Kelly. Basically what he’s saying is this: who would win in a dust-up – Kong or this Liam geezer?’

‘It’s Lear!’ said Jif. ‘And what’s fighting got to do with it? You don’t become king by being the hardest – you inherit it.’

‘Ah, that’s where the system’s all wrong,’ said Kelly. ‘It should be about who’s hardest. That’s how it used to be. Them old kings used to scrap it out for the right to be top dog. Richard the Lionheart and all that. They weren’t scared of a brawl back then.’

‘Spot on, Kelly,’ said Greening. ‘Look, Jif – if you were going into battle, which king would you rather have leading you: Kong or Liam?’

‘It’s Lear, you clump!’

‘Yeah, well I know who I’d have,’ said Kelly.

‘Me too,’ said Greening.

‘I totally agree,’ said the skipper. ‘You play your own game in life, Jif. That’s the way to live.’

Jif rubbed his head. ‘You lot are taking the piss out of me. It is a conspiracy.’

‘Well, if it is a conspiracy, then I’m not in on it,’ said Lambert.

‘Me neither,’ said Greening.

‘Ditto,’ said Price. ‘In fact, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.’

‘Simple, Pricey,’ said the skipper, putting on his boots. ‘It’s just a different way of looking at things.’

‘Exactly!’ said Kelly, standing up. ‘You’ve whacked it on the skull there, captain! Look, Jif, I’m not saying I’m right and you’re wrong – all I’m saying is I’m right. What you think is up to you. There’s a big, big world out there, and most people just see a small percentage of it. There are endless possibilities, I’m telling ya!’ He pointed at Jif. ‘Be a leader, Jif – not a follower.’

‘Spot on again, Kellz!’ said Greening.

Jif sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Look, please somebody – anybody – agree with me: Shakespeare wrote King Lear, not King fucking Kong!’

There was silence.

‘What is this stuff you talk about?’ said Alvarado, frowning.

‘Look, Jif,’ said Greening, ‘when we were kids my elder brother had a Rubik’s Cube, right? Now he was a demon on the thing. He could make those sides all the same colour in no time. But me? I could be there all day, turning that fucking thing and getting nowhere.’

‘What’s this got to do with anything?’ said Jif.

‘I’m coming to that,’ said Greening. ‘Well, one day – when my brother was out with his mates – I had an idea. I took some of the stickers off the cube and carefully rearranged them so that, eventually, all the sides had matching colours. Genius, eh? Mind you, it looked pretty shit, I have to admit. I had to use Pritt Stick for a start, to stick those bastards down, and even then I couldn’t get them all properly flush to the squares. Yeah, bit of a mess, thinking back.’ He laughed to himself. ‘And my brother had a fit when he saw it. But, but that’s not the point – I used my initiative. I saw an alternative way of achieving something.’ Greening looked at Jif. ‘Well?’

‘What d’you mean, “well?”’ said Jif, his frustration now reaching a critical point. ‘What the fuck does this have to do with King Lear?’

‘Don’t you see, Jif,’ said the skipper. ‘Greening couldn’t operate the cube in the conventional way, so he used his own methods. He didn’t conform. He got the cube to obey by his rules.’

‘Yeah, by cheating!’ said Jif.

The skipper shrugged. ‘Call it what you will. He got results.’

‘Exactly,’ said Kelly, who had sat down again and resumed his game playing. ‘And that’s just what I got. I don’t conform to anyone. King Kong’s the answer, Jif – not King Liam.’

‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ said Jif, shaking his head and looking at the ceiling.

‘Look,’ said Price, ‘can’t you just agree to disagree? This is doing my ‘ead in.’

‘No, I’m not gonna agree to disagree!’ said Jif, angrily. ‘If someone said to you: “It’s a beautiful, sunny day outside, Pricey” when really it was pissing down with rain, would you say: “Okay, old chum – let’s agree to disagree on what the weather’s doing?” Would you? Eh? Of course not!’

‘You’re missing the point,’ said the skipper.

‘Am I captain, am I?’ said Jif. ‘And what, exactly, is the point?’

‘The point,’ said Kelly, ‘is that?’

‘Shhh ... the gaffer’s coming,’ said Lambert.

‘Phone away, Kelly.’

A stocky, middle-aged man with short-cropped, grey hair walked in. He was wearing a grey suit and was wiping his hands on a towel. He was followed by another, slightly younger man, who was wearing a blue tracksuit.

‘Right, lads,’ said the suited man, ‘I’m not gonna criticise any of you individually, ‘cos you’re all playing yer hearts out, and it was a flukey goal. Vicious deflection. Sinful. Nothing you could do about that, Pricey, just one of those things.’ Price nodded sadly. ‘But I will say this: stop trying to fit in with their plan. You don’t need to do that. You’re better than that. You’re better than them. They’ve got no Plan B, this lot – I told you that before the game. They’re a one dimensional bunch, like all Robinson’s teams, and you’re showing ‘em far, far too much respect. Play your own game – that’s what you’re best at. Make them conform to your plan. If you carry on playing their game they’ll beat us, simple as that. Play your game and we can win this, I know we can. You’re more talented than them, you’ve got more heart than them, you’ve got more soul than them and ... we’re just a better team than these lame, witless hoofers!’ He paused. ‘All right?’

‘Yeah,’ said the other men, in unison.

‘I said “all right?”’ said the gaffer, much louder.

‘Yeah!’ said the other men, much louder and more enthusiastic in return.

‘Good. Now come on – let’s make some sweet soul music!’

The men shouted and clapped their hands and followed the gaffer in a line, like kids after the pied piper. The boss always seemed to say something practical – but at the same time inspirational – at half-time, whether they were winning, losing or drawing. He had an uncanny knack of uniting his troops, and now they were pumped up and ready for part two.

‘Hang on, boss!’ said Jif, holding an arm up. He was roughly in the middle of the line.

The gaffer stopped and turned his head, and then everyone else – those that were in front of Jif, that is – stopped and turned their heads.

‘There’s something I’ve got to do,’ Jif continued. ‘It’s vitally important, boss.’

The gaffer stared intently at Jif, and then looked at his assistant coach, and finally at the skipper. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘Boss,’ said the skipper, ‘I think what Jif is about to do could have a massive influence on the game.’

‘Really?’

The skipper nodded.

The gaffer looked again at his assistant coach, who shrugged.

‘Do it,’ said the gaffer.

With a smile of resignation Jif broke from the line, walked back to his bench, picked up his crossword book and, with thick, bold lettering, inserted the word KONG into the squares over the word LEAR. On completing his correction he slammed the pen onto the book and looked at his manager and teammates with a renewed and passionate intensity.

‘Now come on!’ he said, punching the air as he retook his place in the line. ‘Let’s mash those bastards!’

The players cheered and clapped again. The gaffer smiled and led his troops from the dressing room and into the players’ tunnel.

The second half was going to be different.