Golden Goal (8 page)

 

 

Jamie lifted the crisp packet above his mouth and tipped what was left down his throat. Some of the crumbs missed and found new homes either on his chin or his jumper.

He wiped the back of his hand across his chin and licked it. Then he licked his fingers clean.

That was the only benefit from the fact that his career was over – he could eat whatever he wanted. He'd put on a load of weight, but it didn't matter. He had nothing to be fit for and no one to look good for.

He looked at his watch: 11.04 p.m. He knew he should probably go to bed or at least have a shower to clean himself up but instead he flicked through all the TV channels again. Then he got up to see what else was in the fridge.

 

Jamie had been home for five months. Coming back had been the weirdest feeling Jamie had ever experienced. Everything was exactly the same – his room had not been touched since the day he'd left for Foxborough. Nothing at all had changed. Except that everything had changed – for Jamie.

He'd left this house with hope and expectation – his whole future as a footballer was ahead of him. And yet he'd returned with nothing.

The moment that car had ripped into Jamie's fragile body, his whole world had exploded.

Just after midnight, Jamie finally turned off the TV. Even he couldn't watch any more; he was starting to go cross-eyed. He traipsed up the stairs and got undressed.

He examined the scars on his left leg. It was strange to think that his bones were being held in place by a set of screws. What would happen if they went rusty? And would he set off the security checks at airports for the rest of his life?

Jamie lay in his bed, looking at the old Hawkstone United posters on his bedroom wall. He could still remember putting them all up. He'd dreamed that one day he'd play for the Hawks, just like Mike had.

Jamie turned over. Now, when he was actually
in
bed, he wasn't tired at all; his eyes were wide open.

All he wanted was for sleep to come and rescue him, transport him to some other place.

But, ever since he'd got back home, his dreams had been a dark forest, haunted by evil shapes and images.

Almost every night, Jamie would dream that he was back in the hospital on the day that Steve Brooker had told him the news. Steve looked like a policeman in a TV soap who is just about to tell someone that a member of their family has died.

“We're going to let you go, Jamie,” he'd confessed.

“What?! But I can make it back, Steve. I promise you. I'll be able to walk again in two months and then, when I start jog—”

“It's out of my hands, Jamie. Look, by the time you get out of plaster, all the muscle tissue in your legs will have wasted away. We can't keep you on in that state. It could be months before you could even kick a ball again.”

“But Steve, you know me, you know I never give up—”

“Look, if you do make some miraculous recovery, you can always call me. You know where I am.”

“Steve, I'm begging you … don't do this!”

“I'm sorry, Jamie. I really am. It's such bad luck – you know how much I rated you… But you have to accept that it's over.”

Sometimes, Jamie woke up shouting Steve's name. For a second, he'd hope that the last few months had all been some terrible nightmare and that he was really back at Mrs Luscombe's house with Xabi and Bolt…

But it wasn't a nightmare. It was worse than that. This was real.

 

 

Jamie dialled the number again.

It must have been the hundredth time he'd dialled it since the accident. For the first couple of days, when he'd tried to call from the hospital, Jamie's dad's phone had just rung out. Jamie thought his dad would be worried about him, not knowing where he was.

But, after a week or so, when the message changed to “The number you called has not been recognized. Please check the number and try again,” Jamie started to understand what was really happening.

With each passing day, Jamie could feel his rage starting to bubble over. But Jamie was even more angry with himself than with his dad. How could he have allowed himself to be fooled so easily? He had been an idiot to believe that his dad had actually cared about
him
and not just the money.

Never again, Jamie pledged to himself. Never again.

Wednesday 20 January

Jamie had to flick through practically all of the satellite channels on his TV to find it. And even when he did, the picture quality was terrible. It looked as though the match was being played on another planet, not just another continent.

“Welcome to Angola for the opening match in the African Nations Cup, as the hosts take on Ghana,” said the commentator.

Jamie could easily tell that the commentator was actually sitting in a studio somewhere in Europe watching the game on TV, just like everyone else.

The reason that Jamie was so keen to watch this game was that Ghana had called up a sixteen-year-old striker to make his international debut. He was six foot two and as fast as lightning. And his nickname was Bolt.

Jamie got a big bag of popcorn and settled down to watch the game. It was the first match he'd watched since the accident.

“Go on! Give it to Bolt!” Jamie roared, pelting popcorn at the screen. “He's a goal machine!”

And, very quickly, Jamie was proved right. Bolt didn't just score one goal. He scored a hat-trick – two bullet headers and a bicycle kick. Not bad for a sixteen-year-old!

As he watched Bolt being carried off the pitch by the Ghana fans, who'd draped their striker in the national flag, Jamie felt so proud of his old room-mate.

For once, his body felt as if it had some energy. Jamie stood up and picked up his old sponge football. Then he tossed it into the air.

He managed to do four kick-ups before he lost control and smashed his foot into the table. It was seriously painful. But what hurt more than the physical pain was the fact that Jamie had only been able to do four kick-ups.

His record was three hundred and eighty-four.

 

 

It was a Friday night and Jamie was sitting at home, bored.

His mum and Jeremy had gone out for their anniversary dinner, but Jamie didn't see why they should be the only ones to get a treat. He decided to go down to the shop to get himself some ice cream.

He got some money together – he was rapidly running out, soon he'd have to ask his mum if he could borrow some more – and chucked on his hoodie.

When he got to the shop, Jamie headed straight for the ice-cream freezer. He was just choosing which flavour to get when he sensed that two girls standing by the till were talking about him. They were whispering and smirking.

Jamie felt his body tighten. It always made him nervous when he thought people were talking about him.

Then the embarrassing sound of the ringtone on Jamie's phone seemed to bellow out of his pocket. It was a song that had been in the charts ages ago. It made Jamie look way out of date.

He quickly got his phone out and switched it to silent. It was only Mike, anyway. Jamie would call him back tomorrow.

Jamie gave it a couple more minutes. Then he walked up to the cash register and plonked his tub of ice cream down on the counter.

“Excuse me,” said one of the girls, sliding over to him. “You used to be Jamie Johnson, yeah?”

Jamie laughed and slipped his hood off.

“Yeah,” he said. “I still am!”

He was happy. He hadn't been recognized in ages. He picked up the pen on the counter ready to sign some autographs.

“What's happened to you?” said the girl closest to him. Her face was covered with disgust.

“Yeah,” said the other girl. “You used to be fit. Sort yourself out, mate!”

Jamie couldn't even respond. He was shocked. And seriously embarrassed.

As he watched the girls leave the store, he pulled his hood back up and tugged it as far over his face as he could.

“Is that everything?” said the store assistant, beeping the ice cream through.

“What?” said Jamie. “Oh. Yeah. That's all.”

 

 

It was one in the afternoon and Jamie was still in bed. He was deciding whether or not to watch the Hawkstone game on TV.

Hawkstone were right near the bottom of the table. There was a serious danger they could get relegated this season. But, even though it was a huge match for them, Jamie still wasn't sure whether he could be bothered to watch it.

He was just channel-hopping when Jeremy barged into his room without knocking.

He looked at the state of Jamie's floor, covered in dirty clothes, crisp wrappers and old newspapers.

“This place is an absolute tip, clean it up!” he demanded. “And what's this about you asking your mum for more money? What's happened to your savings?”

That really annoyed Jamie. Why did his mum have to discuss
everything
with Jeremy? It was as if, since they'd got married, she'd lost the ability to have her own opinion about anything.

As always, Jamie would have to fight the battle on his own.

“What do you think's happened to it?” he snapped back. “I spent it, didn't I?”

“Can I ask you a question, Jamie?” said Jeremy, standing over Jamie's bed, his face reddening with anger. “School starts in September, right? Do you plan to spend the next eight months watching TV or are you actually going to get off your backside and do something?”

“I'll do what I want!” barked Jamie. “You've got no idea about me or my life. Do you even understand how good I was? You don't know anything!”

The phone was ringing in the other room but neither of them answered it. They just kept on shouting at each other. Until they heard Jamie's mum scream.

 

Mike Johnson had had a massive heart attack.

His neighbour had found him on the kitchen floor while, in the other room, the Hawkstone game was still blaring on the TV.

Mike had been rushed to hospital but, by the time he'd got there, it was too late. The only good thing, the doctors had said, was that it was all so quick that Mike wouldn't have suffered too much pain.

The next few hours were a blur of misery. The only person who was able to hold it together was Jeremy. He was the one who made all the calls, who did all the organizing, who made sure Jamie and his mum had something to eat.

Jamie was completely numb. His brain couldn't process what had happened. It wasn't true. It couldn't have been. Mike had called him only yesterday. Twenty-four hours ago...

Mike had been the one person who'd been there for Jamie. Always.

And now he was gone.