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the small, adjacent bus station. It seemed the buses never managed to take people far enough away, always brought them mournfully back. On the low wall outside the toilets was a gathering of career alcoholics, crack-and smack-heads, a meeting place for the dispossessed.
    The only thing Larkin recognized was the old church, but even that had changed. Its doors looked as if they were hardly opened, its graveyard now a home to weeds, lichen and discarded hypos. The hope of any salvation long since gone.
    The town was now a patched-up thing, dead, just not lying down yet. A town with no industry or future. Post-strike. Post-industrial. Post everything.
    Tony nodded thoughtfully.
    â€˜Do I get paid for this?’ asked Tony.
    Larkin shrugged. ‘I don’t have an advance for this yet. But if and when I get paid, although it’s not normal practice, I’ll make sure some comes to you for contributing.’
    â€˜To the Centre.’
    â€˜Whatever,’ replied Larkin.
    Tony thought again. ‘OK,’ he said at length. ‘You’ve got a deal.’
    Larkin found that on first impressions he liked Tony Woodhouse. Most of the footballers and ex-footballers Larkin had met had been arrogant, ignorant bores. Tony seemed different. Articulate, intelligent, instinctively wary, he seemed to Larkin like a decent bloke. Larkin noticed the pronounced limp when he walked. He would get round to asking about that eventually.
    They talked a while longer, formalizing the agreement. Tony agreed to virtually everything Larkin had proposed.
    â€˜What made you pick Coldwell, then?’ Tony asked.
    â€˜I was here during the miners’ strike in ’84. I saw what happened.’
    Tony snapped his fingers. ‘That’s where I know you from. Why your name was so familiar. You’ve got a sister called Louise, haven’t you?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜I used to go out with her.’ He shrugged, smiled. ‘Years ago.’
    Larkin smiled, nodded. Memory cracked.
    â€˜That’s right. We met once, didn’t we?’
    â€˜Briefly, I think.’ Tony’s expression changed. Larkin couldn’t read it. ‘Louise … She’s married now. How is she?’
    â€˜Fine, I think. Haven’t seen her for a while. We’re not close.’
    â€˜Oh, well.’ Sadness in the voice. ‘If you see her, tell her I said hello.’
    â€˜I will.’
    Tony nodded, got painfully to his feet, made his way over to the window. ‘So what d’you think?’ he said loudly. ‘Coldwell’s changed a bit, wouldn’t you say?’
    â€˜You could say that.’
    â€˜You were here during the miners’ strike, eh? Good sense of community then. Everyone pulling together.’
    Larkin nodded.
    â€˜You see down there? That lot down there?’
    Larkin looked. Tony was pointing at the drinkers and druggies sitting outside the bus station toilets. He nodded.
    â€˜They’re there virtually every day, the same faces. Always greet each other, always looked pleased to see one another. They talk, they laugh.’ He sighed. ‘I sometimes think that’s the only community we’ve got left in this town.’
    Larkin nodded in reluctant admission. They fell into silence, watching the town square. Eventually, Larkin said: ‘You’ve got a football team too, haven’t you?’
    Tony turned, eyes suddenly alive. ‘Yeah. Great idea. Good therapy – gets the clients to focus on something other than their own problems. Gives them—’ he smiled ‘—something to play for.’
    â€˜When’s the next match?’
    â€˜Sunday. Big bash. Charity affair.’ Tony smiled. ‘Bring your boots.’
    â€˜Oh, no,’ said Larkin, arms out in front of him. ‘I’m the world’s best spectator but the world’s worst player. Sorry, I couldn’t.’
    â€˜D’you want this interview?’