THE SILENT STRIKER Page 4

  Some boys from another funeral gathered round him. Their funeral had been delayed as well and there was nothing else to do. It was summer. They were wowed by his skills. When Marcus finally sat down with them on the bubbling car park tarmac, sweat poured off his brow, and his white shirt stuck to him like a wet flag of Brazil.

  ‘C’mon, what’s your secret?’ they asked him. ‘How did yer do that?’

  Marcus shrugged and said in his best London twang. ‘Just practice, innit? 24 7 12. Practice. Practice. Practice.’

  ‘So that’s all it is?’ someone asked.

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Yeah, like. Practice, you know, practice, practice, practice.’

  Then the funeral was back on. Everyone lined up by the big hole with the mound of earth behind it. Marcus’s mum gave him a whack, for standing at the coffin with his ball in his hand. The ball dropped out of his hands. It bounced off the mound of earth and into the hole that had been dug for the coffin. Marcus tried to scramble down to get it out again, it was his favourite ball. Mum fainted. Everyone tugged Marcus back. The wailing got worse. The priest chanted above it all and the box got lowered. Now Marcus’s Uncle Simon was buried with what had been Marcus’s favourite ball underneath him. Even now, even though he had his ATC, a part of Marcus resented that. Why hadn’t they let him get it? What did his dead Uncle need his ball for? Sometimes he felt like going back down to that London graveyard and digging it out from under him.

  Marcus shifted in his bed. A smile crept onto his face, as he remembered the match again. When it came to football, Marcus was good. Here, in his bed, there was no need for him to be humble about it. Now they were first in the league table, with Bowker Vale two points behind them. For the first time ever, Ducie looked set to win the league. Marcus reached out an arm and brought his ATC close so it pressed into his cheek. He fell asleep practicing Cryuff Turns in his head.

  SPICY ABDUL’S

  CAPPUCCINO BURGER

  CAFE BAR

  It was Saturday. Marcus looked at his tiny ‘Single Party Cheeseburger’ and his gloopy ‘Mango Heaven Milkshake’ and sighed. Adele was late. His legs were caked with mud from football. He’d raced off without showering so he could be here on time. He followed a fly that danced around from the display board to the motionless kebab spit before it keeled over and dropped into the fat catcher below the spit.

  Adele had texted him saying they had to meet up because she needed to tell him something important. He had agreed out of boredom more than anything, he’d convinced himself, though that did not explain why his heart was racing.

  The owner (presumably his name was Abdul, Marcus thought, though he had blonde hair and looked more like a Dave) was standing over him with a ‘would-you-like-to-order-anything-else-sir’ look. There were no other customers so what did it matter if he was sat here? He smiled a ‘no thanks’ to Abdul. Abdul sloped off.

  When Adele arrived she had two big brown shopping bags and a bundle of excuses.

  ‘It took me two buses to get here,’ she said, collapsing into the chair next to him.

  ‘What do you want to order?’ said Abdul, from the till.

  ‘A frothy-soya-mocha-with-cream top with chocolate sprinkles and vanilla syrup!’ Adele said, like a film star.

  ‘I’m not sure they do that here,’ Marcus whispered.

  ‘One frothy-soya-mocha-cream-top-chocolate sprinkles-vanilla syrup coming up!’ said Abdul.

  Abdul served the fancy coffee to Adele and went back to his stool by the till.

  Adele sipped the coffee froth.

  ‘What school do you go to?’ Marcus asked. It was the only thing he could think of saying.

  ‘St Elizabeth’s.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Marcus. St Elizabeth’s was the poshest school in the area.

  ‘My Talented Brother goes to an even posher one. Bowker Vale,’ Adele added.

  ‘I know. “My Talented Brother”. Is that your name for Anthony?’

  ‘Yes. MTB for short. According to the whole world, MTB is good-at-everything. And I am such-a-disappointment.’

  Marcus smiled. ‘I bet you have some talent.’

  ‘Shoplifting.’ Adele reached inside her shopping bag and pulled out a silver necklace on a pad. ‘Do you like this style? You can have it if you want.’

  Marcus looked at the necklace. It was on a proper display pad. They didn’t normally give buyers the pad when they bought things. Did they?

  ‘No thanks. It’s a girl’s,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Oops. So what have you been up to?’ Adele asked. ‘Anything exciting?’

  ‘Football. Talking to my mates at the bus stop,’ Marcus said. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Who are your mates, then?’ Adele asked.

  Marcus thought about it. ‘Jamil, Horse, Ira—’

  ‘Why’s he called Horse?’ Adele interrupted.

  ‘Why’s he doing what?’

  ‘Horse. You said Horse. Why’s he called that?’

  ‘Dunno. He’s always been called Horse.’

  ‘What are they like?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno.’ Marcus thought. How could he describe them? ‘Jamil is gangly and walks like he has springs in every bone of his body. He can back-flip off a wall all day and never get tired.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Sanjay has big, soft hands, two big feet, a face that’s perfectly round, like a clock, and he’s the fastest at running backwards and the best arm wrestler. Andrew is like … he strolls. Even when he’s running, he looks like he’s strolling.’

  As he was talking Marcus could tell Adele wasn’t really listening. She was nodding in the wrong places and looking into his eyes like she was giving him an eyesight test. He didn’t really mind. Even he wasn’t listening to himself much either, his mouth was moving but he was considering how he liked the curious little mark below her bottom lip on the right hand side. And her eyes were a sparkly green like the Westfield swimming pool tiles. He found himself drowning in them and his whole body went hot.

  Abdul was stood over them again. ‘Last of the big spenders you two, eh?’ he said.

  Marcus bought another coffee and another coffee milkshake. That was his bus fare gone.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked her.

  ‘Roeville. We have a mansion by the river.’

  She said it in an off-hand way, like it meant nothing.

  ‘And a flash car,’ Marcus added. ‘You’re loaded, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s all appearances,’ Adele said.

  What did that mean? Marcus thought. But he let it go. ‘What’s this secret you had to tell me about then?’ he asked.

  She gave him her sideways glance. ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘You won’t tell My Talented Brother?’

  ‘I never see him unless it’s a match.’

  ‘The lift they gave you, didn’t you think it was a bit strange?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘They’re trying to discover your secret. You know what I mean? How you can play so good.’

  ‘He can come practice with us if he wants.’ That was it? Marcus thought. All this rushing, just for that?

  ‘Dad reckons that if they can stop you playing, they’ll win the league. That was why they picked you up, to find out how to stop you.’

  Marcus pulled a face. He didn’t believe her.

  ‘He said something else,’ Adele continued.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ she said, gathering her bags. ‘I’ve got to run. My girls will be waiting for me. Text me and we’ll meet up again. If you want,’ she said.

  Marcus shrugged.

  Adele stood, moved to go, and turned around again.

  ‘One last thing,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You need a shower!’ She stuck her tongue out at him. Then she dashed off, trailing bags.

  Marcus watched her leave. She’d insulted him about needing a shower, so why
was he grinning?

  THE DOG THING

  It was Sunday afternoon. Nobody was in. Marcus flung his boots bag on the sofa, slapped together a peanut butter sandwich then went out and practiced cushioned volleys in the alley. When the volleys were bang on, he decided to try half volleys. The first one he tried, he almost landed it. The ball flew up along the alley and landed in the corner house neighbour’s back yard.

  ‘To rass,’ he muttered to himself, then ‘just my flippin luck.’

  This neighbour kept a Rottweiler on a long chain in the yard. Marcus knew the dog well. It had the deepest bark Marcus had ever heard, and came charging to the back gate in a vicious snarl when anyone passed. Now it had his Adidas Teamfeist Capitano. The owner refused to return anything. Everyone in the neighbourhood called it the football graveyard. But it was not going to be his football’s graveyard. Besides the half volleys, curls and layoffs he still had to practice, no way was he giving up his ATC.

  Marcus ran back along the alley and ducked into his own yard. The kitchen door was still open. He found what he was looking for on the top shelf of the fridge then hurried out again.

  Scrambling up onto the back wall of the Rottweiler’s yard was no problem. Marcus tried to hold his balance there, but the top of the wall was old and crumbly. The bricks shifted under his trainers. There was a furious rumble of dog and chain as the Rottweiler leapt for him, its teeth glinting, and its mouth full of slobber. As it leapt, Marcus threw it a piece of cooked sausage. The dog twisted mid-leap to snap at the sausage. It missed first time, but turned, adjusted in mid-air, snapped again and caught it, chopping it in two. The Rottweiler landed on the ground with his chain flailing, and it gobbled the last bit of sausage. It liked it. It hunched low, coiled. Marcus readied for the dog to attack once more, but it didn’t. Its barking stopped. Marcus watched. The dog’s tail wagged. And its ears were pricked high. Suddenly he understood. The dog was waiting for the next piece of sausage. ‘Sit!’ Marcus commanded. The dog sat. Its wide slobbering mouth panted.

  Despite its size, it was a skinny thing, Marcus noticed; the owner probably wasn’t feeding it right. He spotted his ATC by the drainpipe under the kitchen window. Five other balls lay in the yard, burst and muddy with age. The dog was still sitting. It scratched the earth with its paws, wriggled on its bum then raised itself off its haunches in anticipation of more sausage.

  ‘Sit!’ Marcus said again. The dog settled once more.

  Slowly Marcus lowered himself into the yard. The dog stood. Marcus threw the sausage into a far corner. The dog hurtled round and followed it. Marcus dashed across and grabbed his ball. He turned to climb the wall again. Too late. The dog was done with the sausage and had cut him off. Marcus put his hand in his pocket. There was no more sausage, but the dog did not know that, he thought.

  ‘Sit!’ he ordered once more, keeping his hand in his pocket.

  The dog sat.

  He had read somewhere that dogs could smell fear. Marcus threw back his head, stuck out his chest and walked past the Rottweiller like he owned the yard. The dog lowered its head as he passed, and sniffed him. Calmly, Marcus hauled himself up the wall. When he turned back, the dog was still sitting, whining pleadingly.

  ‘Good boy,’ Marcus said, ‘I’ll be back.’

  He jumped down into the alley, dashed back to his kitchen, raided the fridge again, ran out and climbed the wall. The dog did not bark this time. It was already sitting, its tail wagging. Marcus threw it another piece of sausage. It gobbled up the meat, turned and sat again.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Marcus.

  He threw another morsel and jumped into the yard as the dog chewed it. Marcus rescued four of the other balls, even though they were all badly mangled. He left one ball, the most chewed one, for the dog to play with.

  He went up to the dog, and felt its collar and found the silver disc that dangled there. It was engraved with one word. Nero.

  ‘Nero?’ he said.

  The dog looked up at him, still chomping on sausage.

  ‘Good boy, Nero.’

  Nero stopped chewing. His ears pricked up and his head swung round towards his house.

  Suddenly the back door opened and the owner was out in the backyard with them.

  ‘What are you doing in my yard?’ the owner shouted at Marcus. He was tall and had wild hair, scruffy trousers and what looked like newspaper stuffed into the sleeves of his woolly grey jumper.

  The dog was between them.

  ‘Sorry, I came for my ball,’ Marcus said.

  ‘That dog’ll rip you to pieces and it’ll be your own fault!’ the owner said, sawing the air with his hands as he said it.

  Nero growled. More at the owner than at Marcus though, Marcus thought.

  ‘Sorry,’ Marcus said. ‘I’ll go now.’

  He leaped onto the wall, leaped off it into the alleyway and ran back home. Later that night, his mum moaned about him eating too much, that they couldn’t afford it, and she’d have to put a lock on the fridge door if it carried on. She was on the computer as she said this, searching for websites of rival double-glazing companies. His dad grunted a hello. He had taken the photograph of Marcus’s grandfather off the wall and was staring at it. ‘He was a chief you know,’ Marcus’s dad said to him, as Marcus headed to his room.

  ‘I know, Dad,’ Marcus sighed. ‘You’ve told me enough times.’

  ACTIONS HAVE

  CONSEQUENCES

  There were four chairs outside the head of year’s office. One of the chairs had a dead beetle on it. Two of them were wet from a roof leak. He sat on the fourth. He had been hauled out of Monday form class by a teaching assistant and escorted here. He waited. Eventually the teaching assistant emerged from the office and waved him in, before scuttling away down the corridor.

  Marcus entered and looked around. He’d been here a few times before. The same certificates in frames on the wall behind the desk, the same bag of golf clubs in a corner, the same ‘You-Don’t-Have-To-Be-Crazy-To Work-Here-But-It-Helps’ mug on his table by the keyboard. That same ‘shame-on-you’ look on the head of year’s face.

  ‘I’ll keep this short, Marcus,’ Ozone said. ‘Actions have consequences. Walking out of Miss Podborsky’s class has to be punished.’

  Ozone’s hairspray afro shook with sternness. Yet something in his tone told Marcus that the head of year himself was not fully committed to what he was saying.

  ‘But why, Sir?’

  ‘Cause and effect. Understand?’

  ‘No, Sir.’ Marcus imagined the gold Buddha that his mum kept on her bedroom mantelpiece. ‘Calm. Be calm,’ he thought.

  ‘For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. You know that. Marcus. Year 8 Physics. So the consequences are these. I’m suspending you from the school football team.’

  ‘What?! Sir?! That’s nuts.’

  Marcus suddenly remembered Mr Davies’s heated conversation on the touchline with Ozone. So this was what it was about.

  ‘I’m not going to argue about it,’ said Ozone. ‘My decision is made.’

  ‘But that’s crazy, Sir. That’s the stupidest thing I can imagine. What has football got to do with geography, Sir?’

  ‘Don’t dig yourself another hole, Marcus. Watch your lip.’

  ‘Stuff you,’ he thought, ‘and stuff the football team!’ Marcus stormed off. He heard Ozone calling him back. He slammed Ozone’s door on him. He’d had enough. He wanted to destroy something. He walked along corridor after corridor. Bells rang, people pushed past him. Someone even slapped him on the back. None of it meant anything to him. In his mind was the burning injustice of what had happened. To take away from him the one thing that he loved, the one thing that made the rest of school bearable, it was like they were trying to kill him.

  Going home was useless. Mum would only be mad at him for getting in trouble at school again then she would be too busy breastfeeding Leah, worrying about Leah’s cold and puzzling why the radiator in Leah’s room didn’t work pro
perly. His dad, if he was home, would be lost in a dream world, gargling his larynx-strengthening brews, writing headlines in his warped imagination:

  EXCLUSIVE! THE PART-TIME POSTMAN WHO TOOK THE POP WORLD BY STORM!

  EXCLUSIVE! PART-TIME POSTIE WITH THE GOLDEN TONSILS GOES GLOBAL!

  He hated school and everyone in it. Why could they not put him on report like every other kid who misbehaved? They’d invented a punishment just for him.

  Someone made a grab for his ATC. He pushed him away. Someone else jumped into his face and laughed. Others were smiling as they chatted on their way to their next class. They didn’t know what he knew, he thought, which was that this school was a tyranny. Suddenly Leonard was in his face. ‘What’s up, Marcus?’, he said, all glee, ‘had some bad news?’ Marcus remembered how Leonard had been sneaking around on the touchline when Ozone was quarrelling with the coach. It dawned on him that Leonard had known all along this was going to happen. And hadn’t warned him. Marcus lunged for Leonard. Leonard shot into a classroom and held the door fast. Marcus struck the glass with his fist. His fist bounced off the glass. All the school glass was toughened now. Behind the glass, Leonard grinned inanely at him. ‘Calm. Be calm’, Marcus told himself. He gave up on Leonard. For now.

  He sat down in a stairwell. Tears blocked his eyes and he fought to blink them back. How could he deserve this? He had not sworn at Miss Podborsky. He had not thrown anything at her. He had simply walked out. Nobody wanted to hear his side of the story. No one wanted to know that Miss Podborsky was picking on him, and she kept doing it.

  His eyes were burning. He saw a fire exit. He ran to it, whacked the fire exit bar down so the steel doors swung open, and stepped out. The air felt good: cold and fresh. The school gates were a hundred metres away.

  The playground was empty. He saw the tarmac exit road that snagged past the car park. The school’s high iron gates were swung fully back. He knew that the CCTV would cover the gates, and he’d be suspended from school for truancy, but it didn’t matter now. The wet tarmac shimmered. He looked up at the sky then he ran. The wind scooped him up and propelled him along the tarmac, past the car park. He was about to burst through the gates, to freedom, when he heard a shout at his shoulder.