A Lincoln Imp Story

Warning: This story contains swearing, transphobic and sexist language, descriptions of violence and gore , accounts of bullying and references to suicide. It is not suitable for readers under 18.

         ‘Well, Sarah, while Paudie O’Connor receives some attention on the edge of the penalty area, it gives us a chance to take stock of what’s been happening so far…’

         ‘Catch our breath more like, Steve…Lincoln have been relentless. Three-nil up and still thirty-five minutes left. It’s exhausting just watching them.’

         ‘I agree, Sarah, and it’s not as if Bristol have been poor. They’ve had their chances…’

         ‘Too right they have but Lukas Jensen in the City goal has played a blinder. Three exceptional saves…I mean the one he tipped over the bar…’

         ‘Unbelievable; it looked a dead cert…But back to the game. The medics are just returning to the dug-out and the ref is about to get us started again. Let’s hope for more of the same, Sarah.’

         ‘I’d take that, Steve…’

‘So, it’s Alex Mitchell with a short pass to Teddy Bishop who has space to turn and play it out to Lasse Sørensen on the wing. Sørensen gathers it and plays a quick one-two with Ethan Erhahon…which takes him past the Rovers’ number 6…and suddenly he’s free with Tommy Naylor darting to his right…’

         ‘Go on, play it now…’

‘…and he does, Naylor gathering the ball in his stride with only the keeper to beat…a little chip over Ward’s despairing arm and Naylor has bagged his third goal of the game! And he’s off to the far corner, punching the air, to receive the applause of the crowd.’

‘A well-deserved hat-trick for a player in a rich vein of form, Steve.’

‘That’s certainly true, Sarah…and there’s already some fans at the advertising hoardings including City’s mascot, Poacher the Imp, who looks determined to share a high-five with the young striker.’

‘You have got to admire his enthusiasm.’

‘Absolutely, Sarah, and now Tommy’s City team-mates have joined in the celebrations, toppling him to the floor in their excitement and forming a pyramid of bodies on top of him.’

‘Let’s hope they don’t squash him, Steve. I mean, he’s the not the biggest, is he?’

‘Looks like the ref and linesman have come to his rescue…Yes, allowing Alex Mitchell and Sean Roughan to drag Tommy free so that he can catch a breath of fresh air.’

‘Looks like it’s none too soon, Steve.’

‘Do you think he might have fainted?’

‘Hard to say. Mind you, he does look floppy. Like a rag doll. His head’s lolling on Alex Mitchell’s chest.’

‘What’s happening now? I’m sorry, listeners, it appears that we might have a medical emergency on our hands. There’s a lot of furious waving from players and fans and some screams which you might be hearing…Both lots of medics are sprinting across the field as the ref continues to cradle Tommy Naylor’s head in his lap…Some of the players have dropped to their knees, hands in front of their faces…And staff carrying screens are rushing across the pitch, and there’s someone with a stretcher…I think, listeners, we might need to take a break…We’ll get back to you as soon as we have all of the facts at our disposal. So, for the moment, here’s Lincolnshire’s very own Ella Henderson with ‘Ghost’…’

The gulping and gurgling had finally stopped. Blood was everywhere, from the pool on the grass, soaking the shorts of referee, Alan Thompson, to the red handprints on the players’ shirts.

‘Do something…You must be able to do something. Anything. What about oxygen…He needs oxygen…’

But it only took a brief glance down to discover that Tommy Naylor was already beyond any kind of help. Beneath the blood-smeared cheeks and lips, a froth of deep pink bubbles was slowly receding at the edges of the purple gash which had been sliced into his throat.

Ashen-faced, the medic at Tommy’s side slowly shook his head.

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do…This is a matter for the police.’

Leaning forward, he closed the eyes of the corpse with the fingers of his blue-gloved hand before bowing his head. And in that moment of stillness, the sheer horror of what had happened finally dawned on the faces gathered above him. Agonised cries and groans rang out as stewards in orange tabards shouted into walkie-talkies.

‘We need more screens. We need them urgently.’

Fans and players were pushed back as two uniformed policemen and a police woman were ushered into the clearing where sports coats and jackets were already being laid carefully upon the lifeless form on the ground.

As lifeless, in fact, as the Lincoln Imp costume which had been discarded in one of the cubicles in the Co-op Stand toilets. Damp with blood and sweat and smelling like an unwashed duvet, the body suit of red striped shirt, black shorts and red socks had been flung to the floor. The giant red head with its white trim, horns and smiling mouth had been perched on top of the cistern.

         Nigel Underwood closed the cubicle door behind him. Now stripped down to a purple singlet, shorts and plimsolls, he left the ground through Gate 21 and began to run along Sincil Bank. Pausing on Scorer Street, ostensibly to catch his breath, he dropped the cut-throat razor into Sincil Dike before continuing on his way to the High Street.

Propping himself against the metal fence beside the zebra crossing, he was just in time to see two police cars and a police van roar around the corner, blue lights flashing and sirens howling, leaving in their wake a strong smell of burning rubber and exhaust fumes. Startled, he began to run again. But run where? He looked ahead of him, up onto the higher ground in the distance and the three towered edifice which dominated the skyline. Yes, that was where he would go, the cathedral.

         But as he ran, his mind reeled. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. In fact, it was the complete opposite of what he had planned. He should be the one lying in a pool of blood, not Tommy Naylor. The cut-throat razor had been meant for him.

The plan had been to occupy the centre circle at the end of the game. Of all of the places that were important to him in his life, this one was the most sacred. If Lincoln had won, he would have danced in celebration; if they had lost, he would have waved the fans a cheery goodbye. Once the crowd had dispersed and the players had left the field, he would have been able to sit on the centre spot, slit his wrists with his dad’s cut-throat razor and slowly leave this world.

         He had come to his decision on New Year’s Day although he had been thinking about it seriously ever since his dad had died last July, a month after his mum’s funeral. Not that it had been a surprise. Both had been senile and virtually immobile, their bodies wracked by years of manual factory work. With his parents dead, he continued to live on his own in the terraced family home on Union Road. But everything had changed. The house, which had once seemed so stuffy and noisy, was now as cold and silent as a morgue. He even missed the tobacco smoke.

         Everywhere in the house there were memories of his childhood chipped into its very fabric. Sometimes at breakfast, he would find himself gazing at the ghostly pencil mark on the kitchen door frame which announced his height of 4 feet eleven inches on his ninth birthday forty-five years ago. If he glanced up, there in the ceiling was the dent made by the power ball he had won at his primary school’s annual summer fayre. He had received a beating for that. His dad had used the back of the clothes brush.

         With no brothers or sisters, he had been a lonely child. His parents worked long hours at the factory which meant that he was forced to spend his early years with his granny. She would cook his tea, even patch up his clothes when he had been in a scrape. There were lots of those. He was bullied most days. It was mostly name-calling and shoving but occasionally it could get worse. One day, Kevin Williamson had whipped him with a bunch of nettles. Then thrown one of his shoes onto the garage roof.

         He had felt safest in his bedroom at home. At weekends, he would spend hours playing with his model aeroplanes or his army of miniature soldiers. In better weather, he would build dens at the back of the allotments in Liquorice Park and pretend to be a sniper. On good days, his kills could be in double figures.

         It was the football that saved him; not playing, watching. At secondary school, he found a friend, Simon Warren, another loner. Simon’s invitation to join him and his uncle at a home game at Sincil Bank changed his life. Suddenly, he was part of a group of like-minded people whose passion he shared. Saturday afternoons watching the game or listening for the score on the radio were the only times of the week when he was truly happy.

         Leaving school at the age of sixteen with a bunch of Grade 4 CSEs, he got a job with the county council as a gardener at Boultham Park, where he had been working now for thirty-eight years. There had been one change of routine during his mid-twenties when he met Emily. She had been two years younger than him. He had met her when she was working on the meat counter at Tescos. The relationship had lasted for six months. Rejected as unadventurous and frigid, he had smarted for years, his body aching every time he looked at the photo of them on the Ghost Train at Boston Fair. That was until football had saved him again. In his forties, much to his amazement, he was offered the job of mascot at Lincoln City Football Club, the person who would wear the Lincoln Imp costume at home and away games and spend Saturday afternoons, not as Nigel but as Poacher.

         How happy and proud he had been. Of course, there had been some ribbing from the fans, particularly the opposition, but it was only to be expected. Most of it had been kindly meant. Gradually he felt himself become an important part of the Sincil Bank establishment, as emblematic of the football club as Mickey Mouse was of Disneyland.

         But last year things had changed, first with the death of his parents, and then with the arrival of Tommy Naylor in September, on loan from Coventry City.

At first the insults had been bearable. 

         ‘Do we have to have him in the changing room? He’s stinking the place out. A smelly old man in a smelly old monkey suit or whatever he’s supposed to be.’

         ‘Lay off him, Tommy. That’s Nige in there. You’ll hurt his feelings.’

         ‘O, yeah, sure…’

         ‘He’s Poacher, the Lincoln Imp. The kids love him.’

         ‘Yeah, and I bet he loves the kids back, if you get my drift.’

         ‘Don’t be so mean. He does a great job for the club and he doesn’t need the likes of you slagging him off.’

         ‘Sorry I spoke.’

         Then the insults became cruel and salacious.

         ‘How do we know he’s not wearing a bra and panties under there?’

         Or

         ‘Maybe he’s not wearing anything.’

         Or

         ‘No, I know, he’s wearing a nappy so he can relieve himself without having to use the zips or Velcro.’

         At first, Tommy’s comments were condemned but gradually, the more outrageous they became, the more they were likely to elicit a suppressed titter or hidden guffaw. And it wasn’t just the players who found it hard to contain their laughter, it was the backroom staff as well, including the groundsmen and stewards.

         ‘You know what I reckon…I reckon that suit has got a false arm. It means Nige can have a good fiddle with himself without any of us knowing.’

         Humiliated, he burned with embarrassment inside the costume and found himself incapable of containing the tears. When he was told not to take any notice of Tommy’s remarks, it did little to stop a growing feeling of worthlessness and the gradual descent into despair.

         And it was out of this despair that bitter hatred had slowly begun to burn within him, too deep to stir into an act of retaliation until this afternoon when Tommy Naylor had insulted him in front of all those fans.

         ‘You can fuck off, sweaty lard-arse.’

Blinded by rage, he had ripped off his right glove, tugged the cut-throat razor from the pocket of his shorts and bull-dozed his way to within inches of Tommy’s face.  

‘Still here, kiddy-fiddler?’

Shielded by his bulky costume, he had grabbed hold of Tommy’s shoulder with his left hand, flicked open the blade with his right and slashed. There had been just enough time to see the throat part like a finely sliced fillet steak and a thick line of blood gather at the edges of the flesh before he was pulled back and Tommy Naylor had disappeared forever.

         But in that split second when he had felt his hand tremble against the muscle, oh how much he had enjoyed it.

Up on the gantry, Steve Diamond watched as his co-presenter, Sarah Whitchurch, settled herself back into her seat.

‘What’s the news?’

 ‘Plenty, Steve. What do you want, the official version or the real one?’

‘The real one, of course.’

‘Poor sod’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Had his throat cut.’

‘As in murdered?’

‘Looks that way.’

There was a pause while Steve Diamond tried to digest what he had just been told.

‘So, if he was murdered, who did it?’

‘Hard to say. They found the Lincoln Imp costume bundled up in the men’s loos…’

‘You can’t mean Nigel Underwood?’

‘Vanished.’

‘Nigel Underwood? He’s so gentle, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Well, he’s the chief suspect.’

‘Haven’t they got it on camera?’

‘They’re analysing the footage as we speak.’

‘So, has the ground finally been cleared?’

‘Yeah, the police had to let everyone go in the end. I mean, you can’t keep nine thousand odd people locked in a ground indefinitely.’

‘Let alone search all of them.’

‘True.’

‘So, what do we do now?’

‘You read out the official statement for the listeners at home.’

‘O.K.’

Flicking a couple of switches on the console and with his hand on the slider, Steve Diamond spoke into the microphone.

‘That was ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ by Elton John and Kiki Dee and this is Steve Diamond on City Radio speaking to you from the LNER Stadium. I’ve just been handed the official statement from Lincoln City Football Club which I’d like to read to you: ‘It is with great sadness that we report the tragic death of Tommy Naylor this afternoon which occurred while he was playing for this club against Bristol Rovers. Having just scored his hat-trick goal, Tommy suffered a fatal injury on the pitch. At first, it was believed that Tommy had died from a heart attack but with the discovery of fresh evidence the police are now following a new line of enquiry. As part of this ongoing investigation, the police are now keen to speak to Nigel Underwood of Union Road, Lincoln. That is all that we have to report so far but the club would like to take this opportunity to pass on our sincere condolences to all of Tommy’s family, friends and the countless supporters of Lincoln City Football Club at this very sad time. Tommy’s tragic loss will be sorely felt throughout the county and beyond.’ If or when we learn of any further news, we will, of course, bring it to you straight away. For the moment, however, we will return to the music. Over to you, Sarah.’

‘Thanks, Steve. Such a sad occasion demands some sad music. This next one’s dedicated to Tommy Naylor. It’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion.’

Nigel was huffing and puffing past The Cardinal’s Hat at the top of the High Street when he happened to glance into the window. There on the big screen on the back wall was a photograph of him in the Lincoln Imp costume followed immediately by another one of him in his gardener’s overalls with a trowel in his hand. He couldn’t read the caption at the bottom of the screen but he could guess what it said. Lowering his head, he quickened his pace, first, onto the cobbles past the The Jew’s House and, then, onto the path which led all of the way up Steep Hill. 

         Wheezing to a standstill within the first thirty yards of the ascent, Nigel could feel his heart thudding inside his chest. As he leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees, he watched, drip by drip, the sweat stream from his chin and splash onto the path.

         ‘I should get the bus next time, mate. There’s a free one, you know.’        Acknowledging the friendly banter with a desultory wave above his head, he waited for his wheezing to subside before attempting the next thirty yards. In this manner, he gradually managed to jog and then march his way past the shops and bars on Bailgate and through Exchequer Gate into Minster Yard where he was suddenly faced with the glorious West Front of the cathedral.

         And that was when he suddenly knew what had drawn him there. Comfort, certainly, but it was more than that. He had come to make his confession.

Timing his entry into the Nave to coincide with a queue at the ticket desk, he walked casually across to the South Aisle. With his back to the wall of St. Hugh’s Tower, he shivered, rubbing his shoulders and arms, before urging himself on again. As he hurried from pillar to pillar, he was aware of the beams of colour which burst from the stain-glass windows onto the flagstones and, occasionally, swept across his arms and his legs. Such rich greens, blues and yellows made the cathedral dazzle with life. He suddenly found himself in the Transept facing the Bishop’s Eye Rose Window, with its dominating splashes of red high above him. Magnificent and awe-inspiring. The colour of blood.

         Shaking himself from his trance, he pressed on through the South Choir Aisle, past the Presbytery Porch into the Angel Choir. He paused and let out a long sigh. In front of him, a single candle burned in a silver candle stick on the shrine of St. Hugh. Looking up to the top of the pillar on his left, he could see the stone figure of the Lincoln Imp. With an evil grin on its face, the grotesque figure squatted, its right leg resting casually on its left knee, its hands spread out upon the horizontal calf.

         Glancing all around him, Nigel was pleased to see that he was entirely alone. He walked forward until he was directly under the grinning imp.

         ‘I know we haven’t got much time but I just wanted to introduce myself. My name’s Nigel Underwood and I feel that we have a lot in common. You probably know it already but I…er…well, I… er…murdered someone this afternoon.’

         The imp on top of the pillar remained impassive.

         ‘I’ve come to make my confession. It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. It was supposed to be me, you see, not Tommy Naylor. Suicide instead of murder. I promise, I never planned to kill him…’

         A stony grin and a stony silence.

         ‘But now that it’s happened, I have to confess that I’ve never felt so alive. The moment that cut-throat razor sliced through Tommy Naylor’s throat was the most thrilling moment of my life.’

         This time there was a slight movement at the top of the pillar. The stone imp winked at him. Simultaneously, a gust of air rushed through the Choir, extinguished the candle flame and left in its place a coiling column of smoke which drifted upwards into the darkness. Nigel gasped. And then he began to laugh. And, yes, he could sense that the imp was laughing with him. High-pitched, totally abandoned laughter which echoed into every corner and crevice of the building, bouncing off the walls and statues and soaring into the vaulted ceilings above them.

Totally exhausted, Nigel Underwood sank to the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks. Which is how he was found at five seventeen precisely by the squad of armed police officers who, controversially, with the permission of the Dean, had stormed the cathedral, having been alerted to Nigel’s presence in the cathedral by Trudi Stones, one of the guides on duty that afternoon.

When Steve Diamond got in from the pub that evening, he was just in time to catch the late update on the regional news. His wife was already in bed so he lowered the volume to 8 on the hand-set and leaned forward on the sofa. The reporter on the screen was standing in front of the Lincoln City Club Store at the back of the Selenity Stand. You could just make out the LNER Stadium sign above and to the right of her head.

         ‘Yes, Martin, we’ve just received the latest press release from the club confirming what we already know. That is, we are still awaiting the coroner’s report which is likely to be with us at the earliest on Monday morning. It is only then that the body of Tommy Naylor can be released into the care of his family. That is all for the moment. So, Martin, back to you in the studio. This is Molly Draper for Look North at the LNER Stadium, Lincoln.’

         Back in the studio, Martin Dempster faced another screen and began talking to Patrick Leavis who was standing outside a terraced house on Union Road. Behind him, a crowd had gathered including two teenagers in hoodies performing wheelies on their bikes.

         ‘Yes, Martin, I’m standing in front of the house on Union Road just below Lincoln Castle where Nigel Underwood has lived for the whole of his life. I can now confirm that this fifty-four-year-old corporation gardener and Lincoln City mascot, considered mild mannered and retiring by his neighbours, has just been charged with the murder of Thomas Francis Naylor, late of Hinkley in the county of Leicestershire, and, up until the tragic events of his afternoon, a member of the professional playing staff at Lincoln City Football Club. I will, of course, keep you posted of any further developments in this case when they are released to us by Lincolnshire Police. So, it’s back to you in the studio, Martin. This is Patrick Leavis for Look North at Union Road, Lincoln.’

         Steve Diamond switched off the television, shaking his head as he tossed the remote behind him.

         ‘Nigel Underwood? How crazy is that?’

At Lincoln Police Station, Nigel confessed to the murder immediately and apologised for any inconvenience his actions had caused the police and the football club. Of more concern to him, however, were three things which had been worrying him ever since his arrest. First of all, what was going to happen to his house and who would feed the cat? And, if they did find someone to feed the cat, he was at pains to point out that Mister Chips would only eat Whiskas if it was the gravy variety and not the jelly. Secondly, he needed reassuring that they would be able to get the blood out of the Lincoln Imp costume. He was keen to impress upon the officer who had taken his statement that there could be a problem sometimes with dry-cleaning. And, as for washing, even on a cold wash, ‘Don’t’ is all he could say. Finally, and this was what worried him the most, what would happen to his rose beds at Boultham Park now that Spring was just around the corner? And, more importantly, who would they get to replace him? The teenagers they employed these days didn’t know their Rosa Floribunda from their Rosa Grandiflora.

         Having just been moved back to his cell, Nigel was attempting to scoop up the peas onto his plastic spoon from the plate which was balanced on his knee. Achieving a mouthful each time was an awkward affair. Still, the problem wasn’t insurmountable and he had to admit that the fish pie was pretty good, in fact far better than any of the micro-wave meals he was used to eating at home.

         When he had finished eating, he placed his plate next to him on the bench, leaned back and stared at the opposite wall. Time passed. He heard a door slam in the distance and a plastic plate clatter onto the corridor floor outside his cell. Very slowly, he crossed his right leg over his left before placing his hands on first the calf and then the ankle which rested on his knee. Immobile, he continued to stare. The inspection hatch was lowered and eyes peered in briefly before the hatch was clanged shut again. Even when the ceiling light was dimmed, he remained motionless. As still as the grotesque statue squatting at the top of the pillar in the Angel Choir.

         Suddenly, a car braked sharply in the car park outside and, for a split second, red light lit up his cell. His eyes grew wider and his lips parted into a malicious grin. He began to growl.

         ‘Hear it again. The faint hiss of the razor. The tremor in the hand. The gulp in the throat. The gargle of blood.’

He could smell candle smoke. His lips curled, his mouth gaped wider and his laughter rang in echoes around his cell.

The End