THE SILENT STRIKER Read online

  ‘Marcus Adenuga, are you reflecting on the error of your ways?’ boomed Mr Chips, suddenly right next to him.

  He had been, Marcus thought, until Mr Chips had disturbed him. ‘Yes Sir.’

  ‘And have you gained any insight by that reflection?’

  ‘Yes Sir.’

  ‘And would you like to share that insight with us?’

  Everyone was looking at him. Marcus imagined even the mould spores that had to be circling in the damp detention room air had stopped and were waiting for his answer.

  ‘No Sir,’ he said.

  Mr Chips’ brow plunged, his hawk eyes zoomed down on Marcus. Then a miracle happened, he relented, and moved on to torment someone else in detention class:

  ‘Is someone humming? Humming, whistling, singing and all variations on the acoustic spectrum is not silence!’

  Marcus’s mind wandered to his dad’s singing. He could still remember calling out, ‘That’s my Daddy!’ when his dad had taken to the stage of some pub in a silver suit and burst into Blue Suede Shoes. He’d been ‘Tony the Black Elvis’ back then. Marcus must have been about four, he thought. It was a time B. T. S: Before The Sister. Leah was a complete nuisance, even though he couldn’t imagine life without her now. When she cried at night Mum sometimes put her in his bed and then she’d wriggle and crawl and he never got to sleep till late and was dog-tired the next day, didn’t pay attention in class and ended up in here, in detention, watching imaginary spores floating in the air.

  Mr Chips finally called an end to their boredom. ‘You may leave the room. Single file please, starting from the front.’

  There was a mass scraping of chairs and everyone rushed for the door. Fifteen minutes of my life wasted, Marcus muttered to himself. Fifteen minutes of football practice thrown away. It was plain stupidness. School sucked.

  FRIDAY AGAIN

  Friday was Marcus’s least favourite day and geography was his least favourite lesson. He trooped in to the classroom along with everyone else and sat down at his desk and the class quickly settled down to study. Jamil was soon sleeping. He was like those batteries that gave off mega-watts until they suddenly and completely expired. Late afternoon, no matter how many energy drinks he’d had for lunch, Jamil would be found with his arms over his head, sleeping in class, especially on a Friday. Marcus could do with a snooze himself. In the morning he’d had to feed Leah instead of ironing his uniform. Leah had flicked the egg yolk at him and he was sure there was still some in his hair. He moved his compass around the exercise paper. The teacher occasionally looked across at him, but mainly, she was marking. Horse sat in front of Marcus and Marcus shifted to hide himself from the teacher behind Horse’s frame. Horse smiled without looking up, knowing what he was doing. Horse had a big back, broad legs and feet that turned outwards. When he walked he owned the pavement, he bowled along. He had skin the colour of sunflower seeds, short eyebrows and steady, almond eyes that were warm and unafraid and somehow saw deep into people. Marcus nudged Jamil awake; Miss was looking over at them again. Things went okay and Marcus kept his head down, but towards the end of the lesson Miss Podborsky picked him out.

  ‘Marcus Adenuga you’ve been very quiet today. Come to the front of the classroom.’

  Marcus shoved his chair back and dragged himself to the front of the class. Everybody had stopped work to watch. Nobody had been called out to the front of class by Miss Podborsky before.

  ‘Let’s see how much you have learned so far, Marcus. Explain to the class the meaning of precipitation. Big loud voice, please.’

  ‘I was off ill that week,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Excuses. You’ve had plenty of time to catch up. Come on.’

  Miss Podborsky circled him as she waited. ‘Look at you, Marcus. Odd socks. Trousers … crumpled.’

  Marcus held his breath. He hardly heard Miss Podborsky anymore; he just concentrated on remaining calm during the shaming.

  ‘Have you … brought up or dragged up? And don’t tell me your family can’t afford an iron. As the clothes, so the boy. Precipitation. Meaning. Please.’

  Marcus went to open his mouth but no words were supplied to his tongue by his brain.

  ‘Well? We are waiting,’ said Miss Podborsky.

  ‘Water in the air, Miss?’ Marcus managed.

  ‘“Water in the air”. How very precise,’ Miss Podborsky mocked. The class all tittered. ‘You will have to do better than that if you want to sit down again.’

  Miss Podborsky was standing beside him, mocking the way he was biting his lower lip. She said, ‘I’ll give you a clue. Falling water.’

  Marcus thought. Still nothing came to his mind. Miss Podborsky issued another ‘Well?’

  One of the girls put her hand up. ‘Please Miss, he’s crying, Miss.’

  Marcus felt his face. There were wet streaks on his cheeks.

  The class went quiet.

  ‘Go and sit down, Marcus,’ Miss Podborsky said quickly. ‘And concentrate better next time. French children are so much better behaved.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Marcus thought, as he walked back to his seat. His whole face had heated up.

  ‘What did you say?’ Miss Podborsky shouted across to him.

  So he hadn’t just thought it, Marcus realised. He had actually said it.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied to Miss Podborsky. He didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to get away. Every second spent in this class was a waste of his life.

  Afterwards, nobody mentioned what happened. Marcus splashed water on his face in the toilets then leaned on a radiator and stared out of the toilet window at the clouds. Friday was football training. At least there was that.

  Training went well. He liked the shooting exercises, the dribbling and the fitness drills. Running around lifted his spirits. They did an hour then the coach and most of the squad drifted back to the changing room.

  Horse stayed behind with Marcus on the field so he could work on a new move he’d been trying. It was called the ‘Cryuff Turn’. He had been practicing it on the pitch, if you could describe the small patch of tarmac in the park near his house as a pitch. Every morning for a week he had tried the move without success. Horse gamely ran at him like a defender while Marcus twisted one way but turned the other with the ball.

  ‘You okay? You must hate Podborsky,’ Horse said.

  ‘I’m fine, let’s keep at this. Close me down faster.’

  Horse ran at him again and again. After two hours, Marcus finally nailed it. Horse slapped him on the back. ‘Massive, Marky, like a magician!’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s still not right.’

  Marcus insisted they did it a few more times. By then it was pitch dark. They ran back to the changing room. When they were finally back in their uniforms, Marcus checked his phone and saw his mum had left five messages. The last one said she was about to call the police. He had no credit on his phone, neither had Horse. They ran home together, splitting when they reached the housing estate.

  He let himself in. His mum ranted and raved as he ate his dinner in the living room with the TV turned down low.

  ‘I almost called the police!’ she said, whacking a spoonful of jollof rice onto his plate. ‘And now I have to see the Head.’ She headed back into the kitchen.

  ‘What?’ said Marcus, shocked.

  She came back out with a piece of chicken. ‘The Head rang, left a message. I have to go see her, with you, first thing, Monday.’

  ‘They only call parents in if they’re expelling someone,’ Marcus said.

  That really set his mum off. ‘What the blazes have you been up to at school?’ She chucked a chicken piece onto his plate with a spoon.

  ‘I— ’ began Marcus.

  ‘Don’t bother telling me. Getting expelled, that’s what! Eat your tea and go straight to bed. As if I don’t have enough problems! A sick baby. My asthma flaring. A witless husband. And now this!’ His mum stormed back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

  It had to b
e Miss Podborsky, Marcus decided. If he had a voodoo doll he’d imagine it was Miss Podborsky then stick pins in it till it was a mass of broken threads. Marcus hated her so much he noticed he clenched his teeth whenever he thought of her. He held onto his ATC ball under his pillow. At least the football training had gone well. The Cryuff Turn. It was all in the hips. He still didn’t think he was doing it as well as Cryuff himself. He’d seen the Cryuff videos on YouTube.

  The next morning Marcus got out of bed early and made himself some sandwiches. He stayed out all day on the pitch, practising. When he played football he forgot all about his troubles. The longer he played, the more he forgot. At lunchtime he bought chips and gravy from the chippy, then went back to the pitch and played on. He texted his mum to let her know where he was, so she wouldn’t call the police. Only when it got so dark he couldn’t see the goal wall, did he go back home. He kicked off his shoes at the door. Leah’s buggy wasn’t in the room so Dad must have taken her out. He called out. ‘Mum, I’m home, what’s to eat?’

  His mum appeared at the kitchen door with a measuring tape in one hand and a pencil in her other. She stared at him and sighed. ‘Marcus, the greatest magic I ever did was making you.’

  What had got into his mum? Marcus thought. Yesterday she had been shouting at him, now she was like this. Even though he knew there was nobody else in the room, he looked around. ‘Hush, Mum, you’re embarrassing me.’

  ‘I don’t care. You can grow as many moustache hairs as you like, you’ll always be my baby. The most beautiful boy in the world and I pushed him out into the world.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘I love my son! Did everybody hear that? I love my son!’ his mum shouted at the top of her voice.

  ‘Right. Tell the whole street.’

  As he brushed passed her into the kitchen she tickled him in the ribs till he laughed. His mum was always happier at weekends. Maybe she felt bad about shouting at him so much yesterday.

  Monday morning came round and Marcus sat with his mum in the taxi to school. Mum’s mood was not good and neither was his own. He thought about what had happened. Yes, he shouldn’t have sworn at Miss Podborsky and yes, he had not handed in two of her homework assignments. Still, there was no way he had been so bad that he had to be expelled. When they caught that boy on the playground CCTV scratching up the history teacher’s car, he hadn’t been expelled. When Leonard had slammed the art tutor’s door so hard an oil painting had fallen off the wall and shattered, he was only placed on report. When two Year 10 girls had fought at dinner break and one had ended up with a black eye and the other with a clump of hair missing from the back of her head, they had been placed in isolation for one week, nothing more. So why was he the one to be expelled?

  They entered the school building and the school administrator showed them along a corridor to the Head’s office. The administrator said that the Head would not be long and to sit on the chairs outside.

  Marcus watched his mum drumming on her chair with her fingers. Rap-a-tap. Rap-a-tap. Rap. Her breathing was wheezy again. She was trying to smile confidently but every so often she shot him an angry glance. She had hardly spoken to him in the taxi. Leah had puked a little on her work blouse. His mum had dabbed the puke off but the stain still showed in a hexagonal patch.

  The Head appeared from behind her door. Ropey Face was all smiles. The happy executioner. ‘Mrs Adenuga? Marcus? Come in please.’

  Marcus walked in behind his mum, dragging his feet. Mr Wrexham, the head of year was in the room too. Ropey Face and Ozone together. This was serious. Marcus wondered if Burnage Academy would have him. But which school took rejects from Ducie High?

  Everyone sat down. The Head offered a glass of water to his mum, which she declined.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ said the Head. ‘By all reports Marcus is a very bright pupil, but we have had some concern about his progress this term.’

  Here we go, thought Marcus.

  ‘I’ve told him to sort himself out,’ his mum said quickly, ‘if he doesn’t knuckle down, he’ll be grounded for a month and he’s on hoovering duty and making up the baby food as well, as extra punishment.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Marcus, to himself.

  ‘I’m glad you share our concerns, Mrs Adenuga’, said Ropey Face.

  ‘He’s very sorry. I’ve never known him so sorry. You’re so sorry, aren’t you, Marcus?’

  Marcus nodded and did his sorry face. In these circumstances his mum was a force of nature not to be messed with.

  ‘Give him another chance, please, before you expel him.’

  The Head looked surprised. ‘Expel him? He’s one of our most promising pupils. Nothing could be further from our thoughts.’

  Marcus’s mum looked to Marcus. Marcus looked back at her, as puzzled as she was.

  Ozone weighed in. ‘His maths results are exceptional. Maybe there has been some confusion. This is not about expulsion, Mrs Adenuga, this meeting is about helping Marcus.’

  Ozone was looking at Marcus encouragingly, shaking his spiky hair in a happy clappy way. Marcus was not convinced.

  Ropey Face continued. ‘Mrs Adenuga, we have a system in place that allows us to monitor pupils’ behaviour in all their classes.’ She tapped a computer print-out. ‘It’s a new system from France. It tries to notice patterns and spot problems that may not be apparent to any one class teacher. We’re the only school in our area that has this.’

  ‘Isn’t that fantastic, Marcus?’ said Marcus’s mum. Marcus could tell from her voice she had no idea what the Head was talking about.

  ‘It was introduced by our Head of Innovation, Mrs Podborsky.’ The Head’s chin rose with pride. ‘And what this system is telling us,’ said the Head, patting the pile of printouts on her desk, ‘is that Marcus may have a slight problem with his hearing.’

  Marcus frowned. This was rubbish. Typical Miss Podborsky, messing with him.

  ‘Okay, carry on,’ said his mum, suddenly upbeat. ‘He was at the doctors only recently with flu and they checked his ears for wax then. But that’s what this … system says?’

  Marcus listened to his mum, suddenly talking to the Head as though she was close to completing a deal to sell the Head some double-glazing. It made Marcus laugh silently.

  ‘Yes, and we would like to propose a couple of things as suggested by the software.’ She patted the print-out again. ‘Firstly, if he’s already been checked for wax, then we’d want to book him an appointment for a hearing test at the local clinic. It’s a simple thing to arrange if you consent.’

  ‘By all means, I’m sure it’s a waste of …’ his mum said, but did not finish.

  Ropey Face’s phone was ringing. Ozone picked it up, spoke briefly then put it back down.

  ‘And in the meantime,’ the Head resumed, ‘we’d like to have Marcus sit closer to his teachers, at the front of the class instead of at the back where he usually is.’ Ropey Face smiled at Marcus at this point. Marcus smiled back through tight lips. The Head spoke to him directly for the first time: ‘You do understand, Marcus, moving you towards the front of the class is not a punishment. It’s a temporary measure that may help you until you have had your ears checked. It’s just a precaution.’

  ‘So I can move back afterwards?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the Head, ‘once we have eliminated this as a possibility. That’s a promise.’

  The Head’s phone was ringing again. ‘Are we all agreed then?’ she smiled.

  Marcus’s mum nodded. The Head looked at him. Marcus nodded too.

  ‘Okay Marcus, we will inform the teachers and make the arrangements.’ She stood up and shook Marcus’s mum’s hand. Ozone ushered them out.

  ‘All that over a bit of wax,’ laughed his mum when they were outside on the street.

  Marcus felt relieved and troubled at the same time. He dreaded having to sit at the front of class. It was where all the goody two-shoes sat. And he didn’t want to be split up from Jamil either. They sat together i
n class always, and Jamil never sat at the front, he needed his sleep too much.

  TWO STROMS AND A HAT TRICK

  The day after the meeting with the Head, Marcus gobbled up his beans on toast and headed for school. His mum had calmed down and gave him a hug before he set off. There was just this nonsense about where he was going to be sitting at school to get through.

  At the bus stop, he did keepy-uppy with his ATC. A small crowd watched him. He didn’t mind. The thing was, it was his last chance to practice before two hours of lessons. Some kid tried to take the ball off him but he dribbled around him four times till the kid sat down and crossed his legs, defeated. Marcus switched to headers. He rattled off thirty-six on the trot when the crowd started pointing and shouting. He nestled the ball between his shoulders and looked. A big black 4 by 4 with tinted windows had pulled over. Marcus recognised it. It went past most mornings. The passenger window had rolled down and someone was leaning out. ‘Marcus … if …?’ they shouted. He didn’t catch the ‘…’ but he thought he recognised the figure in the passenger seat. He flicked the ball into his hands and walked to the car. ‘Hi Anthony, wassup?’

  Anthony was the captain of Bowker Vale. Last year Bowker had done the double: won the league and Cup. He’d met Anthony at the Gifted & Talented Summer Football School soon after. The first day of summer school, he’d been paired with him. They had got on fine, but when lunchtime arrived, Marcus realised he had forgotten to bring his sandwiches and drink. Anthony had refused to share his own sandwiches with him and instead pointed him to the vending machine even though he knew Marcus had no money. Marcus had shrugged it off.

  ‘It’s all good,’ Anthony replied, a toothy smile on his face. Marcus nodded to Anthony’s dad at the driving wheel. He had a sunbed tan and a Beckham haircut. He was wearing a pinstripe suit. It was the first time Marcus had seen someone wearing one in person and not on TV. He looked like a big boss.

  ‘Get in, we’ll drop you at your school,’ Anthony said.