Body and Soul, by Roger Sims

Well,---- there it is!" said George Ollerenshaw bitterly.

Jack Prout had just returned to Witherington for the first time in six years. Now he stared through the windscreen of his new Skoda at a notice announcing the forthcoming opening of the MAKEPIECE MAMMOTH SUPERSTORE. Where once had stood the cosy ground of Witherington United Football Club, a hideous green and yellow warehouse now dominated the outskirts of the small West Yorkshire town.

"Bloody Hell, they've even painted the damn thing in Withie's colours!" said Jack, genuine anger edging his voice.

"Aye", said an ironic George. "That was 'Arry Makepieces' idea, as a gesture o' sympathy after killin' the club."

When Jack left Witherington he had known the football club was struggling on the verge of financial collapse. During his absence, Harry Makepiece, the local business tycoon, had taken control. Within three years, suspected financial chicanery and deliberate bad management had finally pushed them into oblivion. Makepiece was left with the freehold on the land, which just happened to lie between two derelict sites he owned. It was the perfect location for his retail hyperstore, less than two miles from the M1 motorway.

Unopposed planning permission was rushed through the local council, and building work began within six months. Nobody could say Harry Makepiece wasn't a fully paid up member of Mrs Thatcher's enterprise culture.

For George the destruction of the club by his one time best friend had been devastating.

"Wasn't he a good mate of yours once?" asked Jack.

"Aye, that he was, before the war" said George wistfully.

"We used to stand be'ind the 'Uddersfield Road goal most matches when we was lads, never missed an 'ome game if we could 'elp it. We were both there when they nearly stuffed Arsenal in the cup."

He paused to emphasise the point.

"One nil they was leadin' wi' less than a minute to go, against the best bloody team in the country" sighing deeply he continued. "Then Arsenal was awarded a dodgy penalty, and we lost the replay at 'Ighbury, five nil."

Jack had heard stories of the glory years many times since moving to the town in 1949. In the thirties the Withies had been one of the best non league clubs in England. Twice Amateur Cup winners, seven Yorkshire Cup wins and five times Northern League champions. Everything had been set for an assault on the Football League when Hitler intervened. Witherington United never managed to regain the glory of their golden decade and gradually faded into obscurity.

For a long moment George was silent, his thoughts drifting back to the Huddersfield Road terrace on a brilliant January afternoon in 1938. Unconsciously he began to recite the names of those who had so nearly gained immortality against footballs undisputed monarchs.

"Protheroe keeper - - - "

It was fifteen minutes into the second half with no score.

"Gambling two, Oldacre three, - - - "

George and Harry were in the crush behind the goal, a sea of expectant faces that ebbed and flowed with each changing nuance of the game.

"Aycliffe four, Monkton five, McCormack six, - - - "

At the far end, yet another Arsenal assault was repulsed by the Withies defence, the ball gathered safely by the goalkeeper.

"Henderson seven, Boyle eight, Taylor nine, - - - "

Protheroe saw an opening and threw a short ball to Gambling to the left of the penalty area.

"Deane ten, and Lockett number eleven."

Gambling paused to measure the range as Henderson, Taylor and Lockett raced upfield. A long curving pass from Gambling bisected the field dropping five yards inside the Arsenal half, and without breaking stride Lockett's powerful right foot connected with the ball. His shot streaked across forty five yards of turf before the Arsenal keeper had even recognised the danger. With lethal accuracy, a Lockett Rocket had pierced the mighty Gunners armour, and again George savoured those twenty nine minutes of pure ecstasy before Arsenal's late equaliser.

"D'ya know" he said at last "I can still 'ear the roar when Lockett scored. There were over TWENTY THREE THOUSAND packed in that day. They reckoned you could 'ear it in 'Uddersfield."

Blinking back tears, the old man shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"C'mon George," said Jack sympathetically. "Let's get away from 'ere, I s'pose they 'av'nt knocked down the Ram yet. I'll buy you a pint."

A silver Bentley approached the gates, unseen by the occupants of the Skoda. The driver impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while Jack reversed to turn into the road. As he completed the manoeuvre both drivers eyes met briefly, Jack experiencing a flash of recognition. Turning to his companion for confirmation he was stunned momentarily by George's stony glare.

"It's Makepiece in't it?" he asked, returning his attention to the road.

"Yeh, that's 'im" said George coldly as the Skoda turned into the Huddersfield Road. Harry Makepiece watched the receding car for a few seconds before muttering, "silly old beggar," as the Bentley purred through the gates.

* * * * *

Makepiece stood alone inside his warehouse at the Huddersfield Road end, studying the underside of a partly finished mezzanine floor.

"Why can't Ollerenshaw realise this'll do more good for the town than the Withies ever did," he thought. "I'm creatin' over 300 damn jobs here!"

Progress had been getting slower at this end of the warehouse for some time. Then suddenly that morning the entire workforce had walked out over a petty grievance. Vague claims of an oppressive atmosphere had been made, and now Makepiece stood silently gauging the feel of the place.

Gradually a cold sensation built in the pit of his stomach and a familiar tightness spread across his chest. Sharp pains stabbed down both arms while he fumbled for his heart pills.

"Dammit!" he hissed through teeth clenched by pain. His heart pounded wildly as panic took grip, the pills had been left in the Bentley. He could feel the floor slipping away from under him, a pulsating roar filled his head and the very substance of the building began to dissolve.

Gradually the pain eased and the roar became a sound he recognised but could not place. The panic was replaced by euphoric expectancy, now he knew what the sound meant. A rhythmic chanting surrounded him, he was part of it, flowing with the emotion.

"UNITED, UNITED, UNITED."

He was in the crowd at the Huddersfield Road end, beside him stood an adolescent George Ollerenshaw, urging the Withies to come forward. At the far end Stan Protheroe smothered a shot from an attacking player, hugging the ball to his chest before passing to Joe Gamble on his left. A beautiful upfield pass was instantly converted by Danny Lockett into a deadly missile than cannoned viciously into the back of the net, ARSENAL'S NET!!

"WE'VE SCORED, WE'VE BLOODY SCORED!" he yelled, swept up in an explosion of sound and emotion that erupted with hurricane force. Scarves, caps, rosettes and rubbish cascaded into the air as the whole ground joined in the mounting crescendo. He caught a brief glimpse of the Arsenal keeper staring in disbelief at the ball, before everything again merged into a blur.

The noise and emotion faded and he was alone on the Huddersfield Road Terrace. In all directions ranks of concrete steps faded into a uniform greyness, so dense surely nothing could exist beyond.

A sense of despair had found substance in an enveloping cocoon, with a weight that crushed his soul. There was no sound, no movement, no colour or distance, only a feeling of utter desolation.

After a period that could have been a second or a millennium, for time had no meaning, he became aware of a presence.

"I'm dead aren't I?"

"Yes Harry," Danny Lockett stood beside him.

"Why am I here?"

"But Harry, this is what you wanted. You once boasted you owned the Withies body and soul. You destroyed the body, now it's only fair that you should take the soul. Didn't you know a place can soak up emotions experienced in it, that it becomes aware of it's own existence? How do you think the ground reacted after you destroyed the club, when it FELT itself being ravaged? It reached down into it's memories for something to express it's despair, and found this. Don't you recognise it?"

"Aye I do, it's how we all felt when Arsenal equalised."

Looks of comprehension and sympathy were exchanged as Danny began to fade, "It's all yours now Harry, body AND soul."

He was alone again.

* * * * *

"It were a rum do about 'Arry Makepiece," said Jack over his pint. "We must've been the last people to see 'im, just before it 'appened."

"Aye," said George supping thoughtfully, "and yesterday afternoon were fifty years to the day since the Arsenal game."