The Harp

By Cosmo Harding

In the early 1970s life seemed to be going somewhere, dreams were about to come true. Charlie had a dream, playing for the Harp was his way to live the dream. Football had always been his passion, his way out. The Harp is a story of how the dream became a nightmare and everything he believed in was a lie. Charlie is a young man lost in his own time and unable to escape his past. Growing up in a football-mad city

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cosmo Harding
• Release date: Dec 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370423255

Book preview

Nineteen Seventy three

The Big Man took a drink of the whisky, it felt good. He didn’t usually drink, but tonight it had all gotten on top of him. The warm feeling in the back of his throat didn’t lock out the dilemma he faced. He closed his eyes tilted his head back and swallowed some more. The problem didn’t go away. He sank into the chair lost in his own thoughts. Remorse, stupidity; he felt sick. The taste of the whisky came back up in his throat.

The telephone rang. The sound filled the office. This was the Big Man’s personal space, his trophy room, where he planned his greatest victories. The press called it the war room. This is where he felt at his strongest. The walls gave him armour, and this room held many good memories for him, the unanswered phone kept ringing. The portraits hung on the wall, names from the past, individuals who together made up a team, created history. The walls of the room told stories, the phone kept ringing and with every ring of the telephone, he felt invaded.

Nineteen Eighty Eight

Charlie’s clothes felt cold to the touch, the room sealed by condensation was unhealthy. Putting on his clothes made him feel colder. The hard material of his jeans pushed against the skin of his legs like poor insulation around a pipe. His breath moistened, releasing a cloud of mist in the room. He coughed to clear his throat before inhaling the nicotine deep into his chest. His head felt heavier than it should. He found it hard to hold his head up.

The mornings were the worst, when he awoke, he felt like he was moving from one body state to another. The mornings always arrived heavy, the weight of waking up. His head felt groggy, his mouth dry, a legacy of the night before. Charlie exhaled the blue cigarette smoke out of his lungs into the empty, lonely room.

This morning he didn't bother shaving. He usually avoided himself in the mirror anyway; he always used an electric shaver. He never checked himself out in the mirror before leaving the house. He knew it made a painful viewing. His underweight frame weighed him down.

Nineteen Seventy Three

The Big Man pulled on his jacket, the phone had stopped ringing. The cold from outside had penetrated into the room. The wool coat protected him from the cold but still he felt chilled, vulnerable. He was immortal, so they said, but this was different, this would outlive him, he felt it in his gut. He knew secrets don’t stay secret forever. The final drop of whisky washed down the heart pills. He must be getting old, he thought to himself as the chill reached inside him. He took one last look around and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Crossing the Rubicon

The Big Man had somehow managed to cross