The November wind nipped cold against his cheeks. Du An ran fast, and in less than two minutes, the sign for the Stanley pub came into view.
A thick crowd had already gathered outside, three layers deep.
Furious shouts rose from every direction.
Two police cars were parked by the curb, their flashing lights dizzying to behold. The officers had already brought the scene under control and were leading someone toward a cruiser.
Du An squeezed his way to the edge of the crowd, listening to the chatter around him, gradually piecing together what had happened.
A few drunkards from out of town had been drinking in the pub that morning. Having had one too many, their mouths had run reckless, and they had started making insulting jokes about the Hillsborough disaster, crudely sneering about "ninety-six idiots getting crushed to death on the terraces without even knowing how to run."
The words had barely left his lips before a local man at the neighboring table, Tony, snapped.
Tony had charged forward and thrown a punch, leaving the loudmouth with a face full of blood. People were saying his nasal bone had shattered—a serious injury.
The drunkard's companions rushed in to back him up, but the other Liverpool supporters drinking in the pub stood right up as well. Both sides tangled in a wild brawl, overturning several tables and chairs.
It was Tony himself who had called the police, and he hadn't tried to flee.
By the time Du An reached the front, he saw an officer slipping handcuffs onto Tony's wrists.
The man was in his forties, wearing faded work overalls. He had a few bruises on his face, but he stood ramrod straight, not flinching in the slightest.
He spoke a single sentence to the crowd around him, his voice carrying clearly into everyone's ears: "Some things aren't meant to be joked about. But I'm a father—I can't run away. I'll take whatever punishment comes my way. I'm the one who hit him!"
Soon after, the foul-mouthed drunkard was led out by an officer, half his face smeared with blood, head drooping so low he could barely keep his footing.
The surrounding crowd instantly erupted in a chorus of boos. Someone spat on the pavement, others muttered curses that he had gotten what he deserved, their eyes brimming with contempt.
Yet when Tony was led out in custody, cheers broke out among the onlookers.
Someone shouted at the top of their lungs, "Good on you, Tony!"
A man standing on the steps hollered at the top of his voice, "If they dare lock you up, we'll blow the bloody prison open!"
The people around him shouted in agreement, their emotions running high.
Standing in the crowd, Du An felt an indescribable stir in his chest.
Rationally, he knew that resorting to violence was wrong, a violation of the law that inevitably brought punishment.
Yet the moment he heard about that vulgar insult aimed at Hillsborough, his own fists had clenched involuntarily, and a fierce urge to fight had surged through him.
He understood the feeling all too well.
That wasn't an ordinary joke. It was pouring salt straight into Liverpool's unhealed wound.
He couldn't blame Tony for being impulsive; deep down, he even harbored a quiet, unstoppable sense of satisfaction. He thought of his grandfather and his uncles, of his grandmother lying in her hospital bed, of those letters sent to heaven that had nowhere to be delivered.
Some lines simply could never be crossed.
He had wanted to hit the man himself.
Lost in thought, he spotted Dunn and Jack pushing their way forward from the front of the crowd.
Catching sight of Du An standing near the edge, Dunn waved at him. "Du An, head back to the shop first. Everything's under control here. Jack and I are going down to the police station to give statements for Tony and put him in touch with a lawyer we know. He stood up for Hillsborough; we can't leave him to carry it alone."
Jack nodded to him as well, his expression somber, saying nothing more.
"All right," Du An answered, turning to head back.
The wind brushed his face.
A heavy weight lingered in his chest, refusing to lift.
Back at the shop, Sarah was wiping down a picture frame. She looked up as he walked through the door. "How was it? Nothing too serious, I hope?"
Du An recounted the incident from beginning to end, from the drunkard's joke to Tony's surrender, right down to the shouts from the crowd.
Sarah showed no surprise. Her hand paused on the frame, and she looked at him, half-joking, half-serious. "So you'd better eat well and train hard from now on. Grow big and tall. You're still too scrawny. Next time you run into someone with a mouth like that, you step up and punch him too. Don't worry—the people of Liverpool will always have your back."
Du An said nothing, giving a silent nod.
He took it to heart.
He cast his eyes down at his hands. Fighting was something he had always been good at.
Back at Bishop John Catholic School, he had thrown hands plenty of times.
After arriving in Kirkby, he had reined in that feral edge, pouring all his energy into football.
Yet deep inside, he knew some hurdles could never be smoothed over, and some lines, once crossed, demanded a price.
After lunch, quiet settled over the shop once more.
Du An sat behind the counter, letting the time tick by at an easy pace. His gaze wandered across the walls, memorizing each face hanging there one by one.
Suddenly, the brass bell clanged sharply with a loud chime.
Du An straightened at once and looked toward the door.
Four or five middle-aged supporters wrapped in heavy coats strode in, grim-faced and radiating barely contained fury, cursing as they walked.
"Bloody ridiculous! The board actually caved and let the Dubai lot look at the books! Are they dead set on selling the club?" The man leading the group looked thoroughly incensed.
"Moores wants to dump his entire fifty-one percent stake," the man beside him sneered. "The new owners talk a big game—valuing the club at a hundred and seventy million, planning a two-hundred-and-fifty-million new stadium, taking on eighty million in debt, patching together four hundred and fifty million in total. Put bluntly, they're just picking over a bargain while the club is strapped for cash. Whether a single penny of that actually materializes is anyone's guess."
"A few years back, talks with Steve Morgan fell apart, and things didn't work out with Thaksin from Thailand either. I thought Moores would hold the line, but in the end he's still selling out to foreigners." Another sighed. "Chelsea, Portsmouth, West Ham—now it's our turn. What difference will there be between Liverpool and those clubs propped up by foreign cash? A century of tradition, tossed aside just like that."
"What's most infuriating is the deal won't wrap up before January, so Benitez won't get a single penny in transfer funds for the winter window," another snarled through gritted teeth. "The squad is thin enough as it is this season. If this drags on, finishing in the top four will be a stretch, let alone the Champions League."
Cursing under their breath, they walked over to the display shelves.
They picked out a few new red scarves at random, gathered two Hillsborough memorial badges, and brought them to the counter to pay.
As Du An looked down to count out their change, the man who had spoken first looked him over. A faint, teasing chuckle slipped out. "Hey, kid, once the club actually gets bought out, you might be out of a job."
Du An looked up, puzzled. "Why?"
"Foreign owners don't care about little community shops like this," the man said, shrugging. "All they care about is money. When the time comes, every club crest and piece of merchandise will carry a licensing fee. Selling club-related gear on your own like this? They might even slap you with fines. They won't give a damn whether you're remembering Hillsborough or doing charity. Making money always comes first."
Chapter 50